Faye Kellerman - Moon Music

Her name tag pegged her as Noel Goddard. Poe said, “Night manager around, Ms. Goddard?”

His using her name threw off her rhythm. She stammered, said, “Can I ask what this is all about?”

“Routine investigation.”

“About what?”

“Could you call the manager for me please, miss?”

Noel paused. “Casino manager or hotel?”

A smile. “Whoever’s around.”

She hesitated, then disappeared behind a secreted door in the back of the desk area. Five minutes later, she came out with a can of muscle wearing a white linen suit over a peacock-blue Hawaiian shirt. He was in his mid-fifties, bald, with biceps as big as wrecking balls. No name tag, but Poe had known Peter Delatorre for years.

Poe gave him a smile; Delatorre returned it with a glare. He muttered a thank-you to Noel, then crooked a sausage finger to Poe. Noel opened a swing door and Poe followed Delatorre into a series of backroom mazes. Several minutes later, the manager unlocked the door to a hidden niche.

The room was done up plush in a tropical color scheme. Thick teal carpeting, soft multicolored sofas and slouch chairs, a wet bar with cut crystal holding lots of rum and scotch. A ceiling fan buzzed overhead. In the corner stood a small caned desk with a phone and a fax. The quarters were apparently a suite, because Poe noticed a connecting bedroom. Delatorre shut the common door and pointed to a chair.

Poe rocked on his feet, looked around. No outside windows, but plenty of one-way mirrors. A video camera was mounted in one of the corners. “How’s it going, Pete?”

Delatorre paced. “What the hell you doing, Rom? Flashing muscle like that?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Cramming your badge down that poor girl’s throat—”

“I didn’t cram anything. I showed her ID. I’m a police officer. We identify ourselves. It’s not only procedure, it’s polite.”

Delatorre sneered. “Sit down.” A beat. He stopped pacing. “Or don’t sit. Do I even want you around?”

Poe said, “When did you start working here?”

“Six months ago.”

“What happened to Potetsky?”

“You don’t want to know.” Delatorre waved him off. “So what good cheer do you bring me tonight, Rom?”

“I’m looking into a dancer named Brittany Newel. Heard she worked the floor show at the Copa Room here.”

“Wanted as a suspect, or is she your latest corpse?”

“In the morgue as we speak.”

“Jesus!” Delatorre made a face. “Does this mean I gotta get the keys to the records room?”

“I’d sincerely appreciate it, Pete.”

“You stay outta my pits, I’ll make the effort.”

“I’ll stay out of your pits in any case.”

“Yeah, yeah. Why don’t I believe you?”

“Because I’m untrustworthy.”

“Yeah. I forget. You’re part Digger.”

“I’m part dago, too. It’s three-twenty in the morning. Can we get this show on the road?”

“I thought you were a night owl.”

“Age is catching up with me.”

“Yeah, you look pretty bad.” Delatorre started pacing again. “And you’re only what? Thirty?”

“Thirty-five.” A pause. “I can’t look that bad if you thought I was thirty.”

“I must need glasses.”

“Thanks. I needed a boost.”

Delatorre raised his eyebrows. “You want a boost, I can get you a real boost.”

“’Fraid I’ll have to pass.”

“Just trying to keep the good boys at Metro happy.”

“Thank you. We’re very happy. The keys?”

Delatorre laughed. Again the beckoning finger. “C’mon.”

They exited through a back door, went through a hallway dimly lit and stone silent. Their footsteps were muffled by the thick carpeting. Poe had no idea where they were going, but Delatorre navigated the twists and turns like a conditioned rat. An old-timer, Pete had worked his way up from mopping floors at the Flamingo, to dealing at the Stardust for Lefty Rosenthal, and finally to pit boss at the Riviera and Tropicana. Apparently he finally passed muster and became casino manager at Havana. A big step up in pay and prestige. Well deserved. Delatorre knew gambling. More important, he knew gamblers.

When they reached his destination, Delatorre pulled out an employee identification card, stopped in front of a red panel light, then held the card up to a scanner. Moments later, the panel light turned green. Then he punched a code into a number panel. He turned to Poe.

“Smile at the birdie, Rom.”

“Where?”

Delatorre turned him ninety degrees. “Look up.”

A video camera. Poe gave a little wave. “You’d think you were taking me into the counting room.”

“I trust no one. Especially the police.” Delatorre then pulled out a ring of keys, pushed two of them into the corresponding keyholes, and finally opened an electric security door. “You aren’t packing, are you? Don’t want you to set off any bells.”

“I don’t even have my keys. I left them with the valet.”

“Go ahead. You first.”

Poe walked into a plain room stacked with hundreds of file cabinets. Enough to hold tens of thousands of Pendaflex folders. In the center stood several computer terminals and keyboards atop a bolted-down round metal table. Three bolted-down chairs were positioned around the table.

Delatorre followed, shut the door. A pneumatic seal locked out air and brought on a fan. He explained, “Ever since Wynn’s daughter was kidnapped, management’s been squirrelly, you know. Everything’s nailed down so you can’t use it as a weapon. More security codes than the Pentagon.”

He put a key into one of the monitors and turned it on.

“Not that it does crap if you’re dealing with pros. Hey, they want you, you’re dead meat. But it’s a deterrent. What’s her name again?”

“Brittany Newel.” Poe spelled it.

Delatorre clicked the computer keys. “Got a picture of her?”

“No.”

“Not even a postmortem?”

“She wasn’t pretty, Joe.”

Delatorre grimaced as he punched in words and the computer spit back her name, rank, and serial number. “Yeah, she worked here for about a year. Looks like she was terminated about two months ago.”

“Why was she fired?”

“Uh … let’s see … number fifteen dash four two A. Nowadays everything is coded and double-coded.”

“Keeps you all honest.”

“Nah, just makes smarter thieves. Uh … here we go. She was canned for missing performances. How many?” He shrugged. “Havana’s policy: if you miss two workdays without explanation, you’re out.”

“Anything else of interest on her record?”

Delatorre scanned the file. “Nope … nothing.”

“Can I see her initial employment paperwork?”

“Not policy.” Delatorre looked up. “Confidentiality.”

“Pete, she’s dead.”

He pointed a stubby index finger in Poe’s direction. “Good point.” He scanned the computer, looked up the corresponding file number, wrote it down on a slip of paper, then walked over to a file cabinet. A couple of minutes later, he pulled out Newel’s file, scanned through it.

Poe said, “May I?”

“First I gotta scan it for black marks … see if anything in it concerns our current employees—’cause that could be construed as breaking confidentiality. Gotta keep it kosher.”

“Is there a picture of her?”

“Several.” Delatorre pulled one out, eyed it for a moment. Just enough time for Poe to see another photo of Brittany resting in the file.

“Cute little thing,” the manager pronounced. “Here you go.”

A full-color portfolio head shot. Draping honey-blond hair nestled around soft, nude shoulders, crystal-blue eyes full of wonder, pouty lips daring to be kissed. A graceful neck and the smooth skin of youth. Very beautiful. And very nondescript. Typical L.V. dance fare. Completely unoriginal.