Sin City Homicide

7

Stanton found Marty near the entrance of police headquarters, sipping a Coke and reading a magazine about car repair.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey, are you done?” Marty asked.

“Yeah. Mind giving me a lift back to the hotel?”

“The car is yours.” He pulled out the keys and handed them to Stanton. “It’s a rental.”

“Thanks. Marty, I need the file on the Steed murders. Any way you could get that to me without having to go through Jay and Javier?”

“No way. Parr would have my ass. They’re the assigned detectives, so no one looks at the file without their permission.”

“I could get it for you,” a voice behind him said.

Stanton turned to see a young woman in a police uniform, with straight red hair that came down to her shoulders.

“Hi,” she said, holding out her hand. “I’m Mindi Morgan. I’m the assistant assigned to you.”

“I thought Marty was.”

“He is. I guess I meant I’m also your assistant. Sheriff Hall thought you might need both of us, since Marty isn’t in top form nowadays.”

Marty looked at the ground and was quiet a moment before saying, “I’m a little slow, Jon. I forget things sometimes.”

“I don’t find you slow at all.” He turned to Mindi. “Tell the Sheriff I’m fine with Marty.”

Marty perked up, a grin on his face. Stanton thanked Mindi again for her offer, then left the building with Marty.

“Marty, I need that file. I know Jay and Javier are your friends, but-”

“They’re not my friends. My mom used to say you don’t know what people really think of you until you hear them behind your back. I heard them once. They’re not my friends. I’ll see if I can get you that file.”

“Thanks, Marty. I’m over at the Mirage.” He took out one of his cards and wrote his cell number on it. “Call me when you find anything out.”

“Okay.” Stanton turned to leave.

“Jon, thanks,” Marty blurted out.

“It’s okay, Marty. Just get me that file.”

Stanton used the valet at the Mirage. Since he’d been there last, the casino had set up a new street display for the throngs of tourists going past. It was something about volcanoes. Surrounded by lush vegetation, it appeared like an oasis among the crowded streets of the Vegas strip.

He walked through the lobby and over a small bridge connecting the hotel to the casino. The smell of liquor and smoke was strong, and there were no windows or clocks. This was to trick the gamblers so that they wouldn’t know the time and would gamble freely without worrying about anything outside the casino.

During his time as a graduate student of psychology, Stanton had researched the tactics used by casinos to optimize gambling for a class on limbic system manipulation in marketing. The goal of the casino was to literally recreate the womb, a place of comfort on a primitive level. The colors of the room were always red or soft orange, and mild music was always on a continuous loop, rather than individual songs, to maintain the constant rhythm. During the ’80s and ’90s, casinos released pheromones through the air conditioning systems to encourage aggressive gambling. When a group of Brigham Young University sociology students discovered the tactic, the casinos stopped it immediately and denied ever doing it.

Stanton found the elevator and headed to the nineteenth floor. His room was halfway down the hall. The curtains were open, revealing a view of the strip below. He kicked off his shoes, turned off his cell phone, and collapsed onto the bed. He was asleep before he could even think about the video that he’d been running through his mind all the way there.

When Stanton awoke, it was to the sound of airplanes flying overhead. He looked at the clock: 3:36 pm. He went to the window and looked down at the strip. He was surprised how many families were down there, pushing strollers and hauling shopping bags. As the economy soured and fewer people came to gamble, the tourism board was attempting to remake the city into a family-friendly destination by focusing on the shows and the shopping.

Stanton showered and brushed his teeth then soaked in the tub for twenty minutes before getting out and dressing. As he was putting on his shirt, there was a knock at his door. He finished buttoning and answered. Mindi stood there, a thick file in hand.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hey.”

“Can I come in?”

“Sure.”

She entered and looked around. “Nice pad. This is one of the nicer hotels here.”

“I’ve always liked it. What can I do for you, Mindi?”

“I have the file you want.” She put it down on a table and sat down on a sofa near the windows.

“I asked Marty to get it for me.”

“Have I done something to offend you or something?”

“I didn’t appreciate how you treated Marty.”

“It was the truth.”

“It was humiliating.” Stanton sat on the edge of the bed. “What happened to him?”

“He used to ride a motorcycle everywhere, a nice Harley he’d saved for, like, five years to get. When his wife left him, you couldn’t get him off that thing. ’Bout six years ago, he was out on the freeway, and his bike flipped over. He landed square on his head. His helmet saved his life, but it… well, you’ve seen him. It was totally random. They think he hit a rock or something, but they’re not sure. Sometimes, life just takes you where it wants to, I guess.”

“He’s high-functioning and a nice guy. He doesn’t deserve to be treated like that.”

She sighed. “Fine, I promise you, I will not speak to him that way again.”

“That was quick. Out of curiosity, why do you care what I think? I’m not your boss.”

“Because this is the biggest case in the state right now, and I think you can solve it.”

“And you want to be there when I do. Is that it?”

“Girl’s gotta have ambitions. Do you know how hard it is for a female to rise in a police department? Any police department, much less the locker room of Vegas Metro? I need any advantage I can get. When I heard Orson was bringing you in, I asked to be assigned to you.”

“Why? I can’t do anything differently than Jay or Javier.”

“That’s bullshit, and we both know it. I looked you up. I’d actually looked you up before this case. Orson talks about you more than you know. He thinks you’re psychic.”

“Well, I’m not.”

“It doesn’t matter. What matters is that he thinks you are, and he’s throwing everything he has at you to solve this.” She pointed to the file. “That guy was one of the richest men in Nevada. His allies in the legislature, the mayor, and even the governor have called us, asking about the case. They’ve lost out on a big donor, and the estate’s been handed over to his son, who’s not doling out anything until the murderer’s caught. Like it or not, this is gonna be as high-profile as it gets.”

“I’ve never cared about that. That’s not why I’m here. And I don’t need your help.”

“Yes, you do. You just don’t know it.” She stood up. “I have connections that Marty doesn’t have-that even Orson doesn’t have. You’re gonna need ’em. Let me know when you’re ready.” As she walked out, she spun to look at him. “Sorry to hear about your divorce.”

“Thanks.”

After she was gone, Stanton turned to the file on the table. Inside it was the sum total of two lives that had been extinguished in mere minutes. Stanton would have to comprehend that madness in a way that made him sick; he would recreate what the killer had done and feel what he’d felt. When working cases, he had insomnia at best and outright manifestations of physical ailments at worst. He had thrown up blood, been constipated, ran fevers of over one hundred degrees… each case took a piece of him that he never got back.

He was going to know this madness, but first, he would have to know Daniel and Emily Steed.