Vegas Moon

4.

Phyllis keeps a single-action Smith and Wesson .22 automatic with three ten-round clips in her panty drawer, next to a small sex toy called a Pocket Rocket. I wouldn’t pin high hopes on killing an intruder with a .22, but she’s probably comfortable with the recoil and figures the sound would be enough to scare a guy away. Once he’s gone, she probably breaks out the Pocket Rocket to celebrate.

I look at it a moment, then flip the switch and feel it buzz in my hand. Noting briefly that the buzz is more pleasant than the one in my head, I think about where the device has been. I toss it back in the drawer, march into her bathroom, and thoroughly wash my hands before getting back to business.

The clothes hanging in Phyllis’s closet tell me she’s a size eight. She has an abundance of cocktail dresses and business suits, which makes sense for a plastic surgeon who has to attend fund raisers and cocktail parties and hobnob with the rich and famous. For the most part, her clothes, shoes and handbags are basic, tasteful, and functional, and I find nothing extravagant here. I check through the sweaters, the hat boxes and other items on her shelves. I stand there, looking around the closet, wondering if I’m missing anything. I think about the Pocket Rocket again, and call Doc Howard.

“What about a Pocket Rocket?”

“Donovan, check your watch.”

I do. “So?”

“So I’m in Virginia. Remember?”

“Well, I’ve never met Virginia. But if you’re in her, I’m sure she’s special.”

“Funny.”

“This controller thing you mentioned. Would it fit in a Pocket Rocket?”

“What’s a pocket rocket?”

“A woman’s vibrator. A sex toy.”

“Donovan, I’m an old man. Maybe you should just shoot me and get it over with.”

“Maybe I will.”

He sighs. “I don’t know the dimensions of your sex toy or the controller device. I don’t even know if there is a controller device. Why don’t you take the thing apart and see?”

“I’ve got sort of a germ thing if I don’t know the person.”

“Can I go back to bed now?”

I hang up. Five minutes later, the Pocket Rocket is in pieces on Phyllis’s bathroom counter. I’m not sure what I’m looking for, but there doesn’t seem to be anything on the counter that could liquefy my brains. After three attempts, I give up trying to put it back together. I take the pieces back to her pajama drawer and toss them in. Then I go to Phyllis’s computer, call Lou Kelly, and give him access to Phyllis’s computer so his geeks can make a remote copy of everything that’s on it. That done, I tell Lou to run an exhaustive search on Jim “Lucky” Peters. Then I remove the hard drive and put it on the kitchen counter so I won’t forget to take it with me in the morning.

After inspecting Phyllis’s house and garage from top to bottom, I check her refrigerator and pantry for something to cook. She’s poorly stocked, but I find some Kalamata olive halves, walnuts, bow tie pasta, and parmesan cheese. While the salted water for the pasta heats up, I stir-fry the olives and walnuts in olive oil, grind some pepper into it, and let it simmer on low. When the water reaches a boil, I pour in the pasta, stir it, then put a lid on the pan and remove it from the heat for 11 minutes, like the package says. Then I drain it, put it back in the pan, and stir in the olive mixture, and grate some parmesan cheese over it.

I could have done something fancier, but this hit the spot, and anyway, I’ve got an early day tomorrow.

Just before falling asleep in Phyllis’s bed, I think about everything I’ve seen and found in her house. And that gives me an idea. I don’t know why this seems like a good idea, but something in my head tells me what I’m about to do could come in handy.

I get up and remove a single condom from Phyllis’s condom drawer, and put it in the little box with the cufflinks she planned to give Lucky. Then I re-wrap the present, and put it on the kitchen counter next to the hard drive.