Donn Cortez - The Killing Jar

She didn’t have to.

Nick and Riley were supposed to interview Athena Jordanson-but the diva declined an invitation to come down to the police station, and so they went to talk to her at her hotel.

“Can you believe this?” Riley said a s they walked through the lobby. “I don’t care how many gold records she has, she isn’t above the law.”

Nick grinned. “This is Vegas, not Saint Louis. Town’s kind of like an archeological dig: lots of different layers. You’ve got old Vegas, built by mobsters; high-roller Vegas, where the rich and famous come to throw away money and get quickie weddings; family Vegas, with kid-friendly hotels and roller coasters; and post-crash Vegas, where everyone’s scrambling to make a buck and real estate values are dropping into the basement.”

“Guess it’s obvious which one Jordanson is.”

Nick nodded at the security guards-he played golf with one of them now and then-and they punched in the code for Jordanson’s private elevator. “Yeah, she’s Vegas royalty. That doesn’t mean she’s above the law, but it does mean she gets a certain level of respect. The mob may have built this town, but it was people like her who filled it. These days, anyone who can put butts in seats has clout, and in Vegas that doesn’t just trickle down-it gushes.”

The doors opened and they got in. “So she gets special treatment?”

“Hey, would you rather talk to her in a luxury apartment or a windowless interview room? I’ll bet her place smells better.”

Riley smiled. “ Okay, you got me there.”

When the doors opened, Riley took two steps, stopped, and blinked. “This isn’t an apartment,” she said. “It’s a theme park.”

Nick chuckled. “Come on, Alice. Time to step through the looking glass.”

He led the way down the path, calling out, “Hello? Las Vegas Crime Lab.”

“Over here,” called a voice.

Athena Jordanson was in a sunken hot tub, the edges lined with foam rubber that had been molded to resemble rocks. A steaming waterfall at one end of the irregular pool provided a steady trickle of white noise and hot water.

Jordanson herself was at the other end, her hair tied back with a length of scarlet cloth. There was an empty wine bottle at the edge of the tub, and she had a half-full one clutched in one hand.

“Ms. Jordanson,” said Nick, “we were hoping we could talk to you about Paul Fairwick.”

“All right,” she said. She sniffed back tears and gestured with the bottle. “Please, have a seat.”

Nick grabbed a wicker chair, while Riley stayed on her feet. “Can you tell us if anything strange happened involving Paul in the last few weeks?” asked Nick.

“All kinds of things. Paul was my man Friday; he handled all the strange little details of my life. I used to say his job description was ‘weirdness wrangler.’” She smi led, a full-on face-stretching beam that only emphasized the pain in her eyes. “People don’t understand what it’s like, living my kind of life. They think, Oh, she’s rich and famous-what does she have to complain about? But like a wise man once said, there’s trouble at every level of life.”

“Elvis Presley,” said Nick.

She nodded at him, her smile fading into sadness. “Yeah. People get sick, or die, or break your heart-all the money in the world doesn’t change that. And sometimes what you think is your strength turns out to be your greatest weakness. See, I counted on Paul for so many things. All the little necessary things, the food and the getting from place to place, getting stuff from the drugstore or going to the bank or-just the day-to-day things everyone does and takes for granted. And I haven’t done any of them for over twenty years… I was thinking about grilled cheese sandwiches today. I hardly eat them anymore, but I used to love them when I was a teenager. You know, I couldn’t remember how to make one. Isn’t that stupid? Simplest thing in the world, but I couldn’t remember it. If I lost all my money tomorrow, I’d probably starve to death.”

“I doubt that,” said Riley.

Jordanson leaned back, resting the base of her skull against the padded rim of the tub. “I know, I know. Someone who has as much as I do has no right to complain. One of the things money buys is f reedom, freedom from all those little jobs-poor me, now I’ll have to hire someone else to do them.” She closed her eyes. Tears leaked through them, sliding down her face to join the water she was immersed in. “But I’ll never be able to replace Paul. Losing him doesn’t feel like losing someone I loved-it feels like an amputation.”

Nick nodded. “I understand. He can’t be replaced-but we can bring the person who did this to justice. If you depended on Paul that much, I’m sure you would have noticed anything out of the ordinary.”

Jordanson took a long swig from the bottle of wine without opening her eyes. “I’ve always gotten threats; it’s just part of the business. But after your colleagues Captain Brass and Mr. Grissom came to see me, I talked to the hotel’s head of security, Stancroft, myself.” Her tone got angrier. “He told me that the number of crank letters I’d been getting had jumped in the last couple of weeks. I demanded to see them and he told me he’d given them to the police. I asked if Paul knew about them and he told me that wasn’t Paul’s job, it was his.”

“We’re studying those letters now,” said Riley. “While they do mention you, they seem more directed against the hotel itself. They also make a reference to ‘scurrying insects.’ Does that mean anything to you?”

Jordanson opened her eyes and glared at Riley. “Scurrying insects? No. Th at’s crazy.” She shook her head. “But it doesn’t matter. I’ve just about had it with this place. Stancroft should have done a better job; he should have told me what was going on. The Embassy Gold has been trying to lure me over there for years, and I’m seriously thinking about going. And if I do, I’ll make damn sure their security is better than this place’s.”

Riley frowned. “Forgive me for asking, but-how exactly are you going to do that?”

Jordanson sighed. “The only way I know how, honey. With lawyers, and lots and lots of money.”

“Okay,” said Brass. “So we bring in Vanderhoff and Quadros and sweat them. It’s got to be one or the other, right?”

Grissom shook his head. They were in Brass’s office, discussing the case and their next move. “It’s not that simple, Jim. Both of them are only here for the next few days; we can’t hold them long unless we charge them, and we simply don’t have the evidence to do that yet.”

“And if we don’t charge them soon, they’ll just go back to their respective countries.”

“Where the guilty party could simply disappear into the jungle, South Africa, or South America. Both men have years of field experience.”

Brass sighed. “So we’ve got what, seventy-two hours? To either come up with better cards or fold.”

“More or less.”

“Wonderful. Anything else?”

“I’m afraid so. It’s fairly likely that the killer has more attacks planned. The murders seemed to be planned to showcase his ingenuity-but the more complex t he scheme, the greater the chance he’ll make a mistake.”

“Any idea who he’ll go after next? So far, his victims haven’t had anything in common.”

Grissom rubbed his temples. “The victims are linked by the conceptual nature of the attacks, especially the secondary results. The Harribold case caused a riot, mimicking one anthill waging war against another. I believe Paul Fairwick was targeted because of his promixity to Athena Jordanson, the ‘queen’ of soul.”

“Why? What’s his death supposed to accomplish?”