Unknown - 15_Cat_In_A_Neon_Nightmare

“Anyway, vice was no stranger and when he hit Vegas eight years ago he settled down to work his way up as a bellman. Since he’d been used to greasing his palms in Creole town, he fit right in. Real accommodating to anyone with green palms.”

“What have we got on him that we can use?” Molina rose and headed into the corridor for the interrogation rooms.

Alfonso’s grimace exaggerated his hangdog features as he caught up with her, huffing slightly. “Not much. He’s threatening to call a lawyer, but we keep telling him we’re just interested in his testimony as a witness. I have a feeling this guy is real scared, but I can’t tell of who.”

Molina quashed an urge to correct him. Whom, it was whom. She’d told Mariah that at least a couple hundred times.

“Alch and Su in?” she asked instead.

“Yeah, but Barrett and …”—maybe he had read her mind—“and I brought him in.”

“Still, I’d like you and Su to do the interrogation. Alch and Barrett and I can watch.”

“Me and Su? We’re not partners. We don’t know each other’s moves.”

“Exactly. I want to shake this clam up until he burps up a pearl or two. An edgier interrogation just might do it. And we’re investigating the death of a woman. Su might make him feel guilty, subconsciously at least.”

“Psychology, Lieutenant? Guys like this only know fists or rolls of cash.”

“Humor me,” she advised, not remotely sounding like anyone who knew a thing about humor.

Alfonso got the idea and shut up.

Barrett was holding up the wall outside one of thecramped interrogation rooms when they arrived. Molina sent him to round up Alch and Su while she and Alfonso slipped into the adjoining room with the two-way glass every suspect knew was there. It still came in handy. Observers could spot things interrogators might miss in the heat of the Q & A, and the sense of unseen hovering watchers unnerved all but the most hardened criminals.

When the three detectives arrived, Molina had to explain her thinking again. What she didn’t tell them was that detective teams could get like old married couples, if there was any such thing nowadays: so used to each other’s ways life was a sleepwalk. Complacent. Much as they all grumbled about the unusual pairing, Molina noticed Alfonso and Su sizing each other up as they went next door to meet Herbie Wolverton, boy bellman.

They made a Mutt and Jeff combo, no doubt, with gender and racial differences accenting the unlikely pairing. Wolverton would be distracted by the odd couple. A distracted witness was an unintentionally frank witness.

“You don’t make this guy for a killer?” Alch asked, turning a chair around and straddling it, his chin balanced on the plastic-shell back.

She understood his paternally protective attitude toward Su (much resented by Su but good for sharpening her edge). Differences, not similarities, made a detective team cook, Molina had discovered. And maybe marriages. You can’t learn anything from a clone of yourself.

She settled into her own uncomfortable chair, intrigued by the show she had set in motion. She realized that Herb could reveal facts that would lead to Matt Devine and ultimately to her. So be it. She wondered what would persuade a bellman to shut up so completely when all he had to do was describe the usual comings and goings on an ordinary bought-and-paid-for night shift in Las Vegas.

It was all up to Alfonso and Su, unlikely partners: unearth information, and maybe bury their lieutenant.

Herb Wolverton was already unhappy, an excellent sign.

He fidgeted on his own plastic hot seat, sitting at the plain table with the tape recorder its only accouterment.

Molina could have studied the rap sheet in the manila folder Barrett had given her, but she preferred to write her own scenario, then do a reality check.

He was around thirty-five, a well-used thirty-five. Over-muscled the way some short men will get, but still a boyish and jaunty carriage. Aye, aye, sir. Yes, ma’am. His freckled face was surfer tanned. Although not stupid, he had allowed youthful potential to decay into mere canniness.

His blue eyes darted doglike to Alfonso and Su, Su and Alfonso. The big sloppy man unnerved him. That kind of St. Bernard confidence had always escaped him. He’d had to be wiry and shipshape to get some respect. Su … oh, he’d seen a foreign port or two and he liked those delicate Asian ladies. Just his size. He could be a courtly fellow if he wasn’t feeling threatened.

“Ma’am,” was his first word, with a nod to Su. He almost rose from his chair, but Alfonso gestured him down. Down, boy.

The tension was already riveting. Herb ached to charm and disarm Su, the appealing toy Pekinese. He knew Alfonso could crush him if he wanted to, hardly knowing it. He didn’t know Su could too. But she would know it.

Fox terrier, yes. Aggressive but eager to please. Already conflicted and now … scared.

Molina could smell his fear through the two-way glass. Alch leaned forward. “Someone’s got to him good.”

“But who? This guy is combative, a scrapper.”

“Small potatoes,” Alch noted.

“Right,” Molina agreed. “He’s not used to a town like Las Vegas, running on major juice. You think a former client of Vassar’s, some big mojo guy, resented her profession? Tried to claim her?”

“Anything’s possible,” Alch said, “when you’re dealing with Sex in the City, especially this city. Mr. Big, is what you’re suggesting. Vassar was a prime piece of real estate. Wonder if Rothenberg has dealt with that before, having girls so classy the clients get possessive?”

“We’ll have to ask her,” Molina said, “but first our team needs to have a go at Herbie.”

Beat policemen often referred to suspects by childhood diminutives and Molina had adopted the habit. Infantalizing suspected perps reinforced their own shaky sense of control. Made the Bogey Man into Little Mikey. It was a self-deluding ploy, but must have served a purpose. The police were so often impotent when it came to the courts and defense attorneys. Only place to show muscle was on the streets.

“Mr. Wolverton.” Su sounded as demure as she looked. “I’ve gone over your rap sheet. It’s pretty minor. I’m guessing that you’d want to cooperate with the police in a capital murder case.”

“Capital murder?”

“Well, it’s possible that the victim was held against her will in the hotel room. That would be kidnapping.”

Wolverton’s frown aged him a decade. “I don’t think … Vassar, she was always a pretty savvy lady.”

“You knew the victim then?” Su inquired as if making chitchat at a garden party.

“Yeah, sure. She was a regular. Came and went all the time. Classy act from entrance to exit. But not my type,” he added, as if fearing admiration might be mistaken for obsession. “Too big.”

Alfonso weighed in lazily. “It wouldn’t take much strength to push a tall woman over that chickenshit balcony. Those stiletto heels she had on? Would have made her unstable. Tippy.”

“Look.” Wolverton licked his lips and eyed Su. “My job is to see people up to their rooms, drag in their luggage, turn on the air conditioner, get ice if they want it, show ‘em which way the faucets turn. Then I’m outta there.”

“Didn’t you forget something?” Su asked gently. Too gently.

“What? What’d I forget? It’s my job, for chrissakes, not yours. I know my job.”

“The tip.” Su brushed her middle finger over one of her exotically plucked brows. “You got good tips, didn’t you?”

“Yeah. Great tips. Everybody was happy with me. Why not? I am a happy guy.”

“Most Happy Fella,” Alfonso put in a like a genial un-cle. A little too like a genial uncle. Like a godfather.