Vegas Moon

3.

Phyllis Willis is thirty-eight years old and lives in a six-year-old, 4,600 square foot home on a small piece of Henderson real estate, a few miles south-east of Vegas. The house is one-and-a-half stories, with three bedrooms and four baths. The two-car garage faces the street, and has an iron gate that closes to make a concrete courtyard. There’s not much yard to maintain, but her lawn service does a good job. Personally, I think $260.00 a week is too much to pay for what she’s getting. Then again, it’s less than a botox treatment.

The troubled economy has hit Phyllis’s neighborhood hard. One out of every three houses is vacant, including the one to her right, which gives me a clear path to entry. You get a good feel for these things over time, so I know before breaking in that her house is empty. I did a walk-through anyway, before going through her desk and filing cabinet, where I found all the details about her house I told you about. In case you care, it set her back a cool seven-fifty. I wonder why a woman with no kids or husband would want such a large house.

I glance at her desktop. There’s an art to piecing together a person’s life by going through their personal effects. The bills stacked neatly on the left of her desk pad, ballpoint on the right, tells me she’s right-handed. There’s a small hand sanitizer with an orange top, and a colorful foam coaster beside it that appears to have been painted by a child. To the untrained eye, this probably means nothing.

I call Callie. When she answers, I say, “I’m in her house, but Phyllis isn’t here.”

“So?”

“She’s having an affair with a Las Vegas gambler named Jim “Lucky” Peters. Ever hear of him?”

“Of course. He’s like the most famous gambler in the world.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Does he win a lot?”

“Are you kidding me? He wins a million dollars a week, if the press can be trusted. He’s got an army of weirdoes all over the country who phone in data to him twenty-four-seven.”

“What kind of weirdoes?”

“He claims he gets information from autistic savants, ball boys, drug dealers, steroid pushers, memorabilia salespeople, fitness trainers, hookers—you name it. And everyone in town, from the gamblers to the casinos to the mob—wants to know who these people are and how Lucky Peters analyzes their data to beat the spread.”

“Maybe we should find out.”

“Maybe we should. How do you know about the affair?”

“On her desktop there’s a hand sanitizer and a colorful foam coaster that appears to have been painted by a child.”

“Wow, you’re truly amazing!”

“I know. It’s called deductive reasoning.”

“Uh huh. So you opened her computer, read her emails, and found out about her affair.”

“Sounds so trivial when you put it that way. But yeah, lots of emails. Mostly sexual.”

“Read me one.”

“They’re not impressive.”

“Read one anyway. It’s so intrusive! Makes me feel like we’re doing something wrong.”

“Unlike breaking and entering.”

“You broke and entered. I’m just sitting here, living vicariously.”

I click open her email account. “Okay, this one from last week is from Lucky. It says, ‘I wish you’d come to Jamaica with me. I’d love to see you in a grass skirt.’ And she says, ‘they wear grass skirts in Hawaii, not Jamaica.’ They argue about that a bit, then he says, “We could hit that famous nude beach. I bet the natives have never seen an orange beaver before.’ And she says, ‘especially with your initials on it!’”

Callie says, “Okay, I’ve heard enough.”

“I tried to warn you.”

We’re silent a minute.

“I can’t get it out of my mind,” she says. “Orange beaver? His initials?”

“Me either.”

“She’s supposed to be a doctor.”

“I know.”

“I keep picturing it,” she says.

“Me too.”

“You think she put all three initials, or just the two?” Callie says. “And if it’s two, would it be JP or LP? And are the initials in hair? Or shaved out of it?”

“I’ll ask her, if I get the chance.”

“Please do,” Callie says.

“I also found a small gift-wrapped box on her kitchen counter.”

“Please tell me you opened it.”

“Of course.”

“Let me guess: a present for Lucky?”

“Cufflinks. An L and a P.”

“Lucky Peters!” Callie says.

“Think about it,” I say.

She’s quiet a few seconds, then says, “Ah! Clever! Lucky and Phyllis!”

“He could wear them and his wife would never know.”

“And is there a note?”

I smile. “There is.”

“Please read it with passion in your voice.”

“Your turn to get lucky!”

Callie laughs. “This is fun. Which tells you how sad my life is.”

“Glad I could cheer you up.”

“Is she cute?”

“Who, Phyllis? She’s average.” I think about it a few seconds, then say, “Above average.”

“You think she went to Jamaica with him?”

“No. She sent an email telling him she hopes he’s feeling better, and saying how awful to feel badly on vacation.”

“What else have you learned?”

“You really want to know?”

“My choices are yes, or watch Celebrity Apprentice.”

“Phyllis works all the time and she’s lonely.”

“Lonely? How do you know?”

“On her desktop there’s a hand sanitizer and—”

“Move along, Donovan. It’s getting old.”

“She has only a couple of photographs on display. One is with her sister, the other with her parents. No messages on her answering machine.”

“What’s on her walls?”

“Art, mostly silk-screen.”

“Of?”

“Faces.”

“Famous ones?”

“Sad ones.”

“You’re breaking my heart,” Callie says.

“What heart?”

“Good point. Don’t forget to check her closet.”

“Yes, Sensei.”

“Women love to hide things in their closets.”

“Right.”

“And also in their underwear drawer.”

“I’ll be sure to check that one carefully.”

“I’ve no doubt.”

I end the call, walk down the hallway, enter the master bedroom. Phyllis’s king-size platform bed sits low and has a single mattress on a wood base, with no box spring. The bed is unmade on the right side, which tells me she slept alone last night. On the night stand are two prescription bottles: a statin drug and sleeping pills. After checking the date, I dump them out on the nightstand and count nineteen of each. If she started taking them on the fill date, there should be twenty. It’s a fair assumption she’s not coming home tonight, which works for me, since I need a place to stay.

According to her website, Phyllis’s office opens at nine. I’ll sleep on the left side of her bed tonight, shower, get up early, and break into her office at dawn. That’ll give me time to search the place for anything that looks like a lethal, brain-melting device. Ideally, Phyllis will be the first to arrive, and we can settle this business without involving her staff.

In the nightstand drawer, behind a stack of People and US magazines, I find two boxes of condoms. One has been opened, and there are two packets missing, which tells me Lucky appears to have gotten lucky at least twice.

The bedroom also has a chest of drawers and a small sitting area that faces a stucco fireplace that’s never been used. The chest has five drawers, including a narrow one at the top, where she keeps her jewelry. I look through it and find nothing of significant value. I move from there to the bottom. The fifth drawer is pajamas, all bright colors, all cotton. Fourth drawer is socks in every size and color, and stockings. Third drawer is bras only. I count an even dozen, in various colors. Five are Ibex, Body by Victoria, 34-B, padded. She’s also got a couple of jog bras in there.

Second drawer is filled with panties. I remove a few, and note they’re all medium. Most are basic, but one is downright obscene. It has a circular hole cut out of the crotch. With red lips around it! I toss them back in the drawer, then think, no one has this many panties. I move my hands through them until I feel something.

It’s my opinion that all women hide something special beneath their panties. But Dr. Phyllis Willis is hiding something lethal beneath hers.