15

We leave our rental out front and Cross drives. The ride is quiet, and I use the down time to take in my surroundings. I can’t really experience Vegas, not this trip, but I can look at it from afar, as a visitor if not a tourist. We drive out of the station and along Las Vegas Boulevard until Cross jumps a few lanes and lands us on the I-515. We get off at the airport exit, and after a left and then a right, Cross pulls up in front of a small brick house in what seems like a very nice neighborhood, more family orientated than trendy. A red PT Cruiser sits in the driveway.

“Whose car?” I ask.

Cross switches the engine off. “Janice’s.”

Darren gets out of the car and looks at the Cruiser. “Nice wheels.”

The garden is sparse, but well-maintained. No weeds, several shrubs that are just starting to sprout spring buds, and about ten rosebushes evenly spaced along the front of the house. The entrance is enclosed by a small porch, just the width of the door, and crime-scene tape stretches across the porch’s outer posts. Cross unsticks one side and takes out a key from a small plastic money bag that’s labeled “Dust: 275 Calliope Drive.” The door is dark wood with only one lock. Obviously the girls weren’t too security conscious, although it’s probably also reflective of the wholesome neighborhood they chose. It makes me wonder if the traffic-light system I use for my apartment is paranoid rather than cautious.

We enter the house and I can see instantly that it’s a home not a house. I find it difficult to understand how any cop believed Janice ODed. The home is about as far removed as you can imagine from a typical heroin addict’s house. One look tells you that Cindy and Janice took pride in their surroundings and had a well-developed nesting instinct. They’d worked hard to create the right atmosphere, and unless dancers get paid a helluva lot more than I think, most of their money went into their home, not hits of heroin for Janice.

The doorway opens into a large living room and to the left is the kitchen. The living-room carpet is worn in spots, but the girls have added three plush rugs. Two new-looking leather sofas adorn the back and right-hand walls, and in between them is a glass coffee table. Near the doorway is a modern, large-screen television, at least a couple of grand’s worth.

I put on a pair of latex gloves—every good investigator carries at least a couple of pairs in their bag—and move toward the photos adorning the walls. Most of them feature Cindy and Janice, and it’s obvious they were very close. They worked together, lived together and socialized together. A few of the photos have other people in them, and some of the photos are of the girls in costume.

“You know who all these people are?” I ask Cross.

“Yeah. They’re mostly from the show. Cindy had been in Vegas for five years, since she left the Yucca. She worked as a waitress in Circus Circus for two years, then in Caesar’s for a year, before she got the dancing gig. She spent her first three years auditioning, with no luck until Femme.”

I nod. “Janice is a bit older.” The age difference tells me that either Cindy was mature for her age or Janice was immature.

“Yup. Cindy was twenty-one, Janice was twenty-six. Everyone down at Hugo’s says they were inseparable.”

Darren also peers at the photos. “Not many men in their lives.”

“We wondered about that, too.”

“You think they were lovers?” From the way Cindy poses in the photos and the clothes she wears when not working, it would surprise me. Everything about her cries out for male attention. She wears the same cheeky grin in all the photos, pushes out her boobs ever so slightly, and seems to go for short skirts and plunging necklines. She wouldn’t need to try so hard to catch the attention of another woman.

“We looked into it, but everyone we spoke to said no way. Both girls had casual male partners, but no one special.”

I nod and move into the kitchen. Darren goes the other way, presumably toward the bedrooms. Cross seems unsure which way to go, but in the end he follows me. The kitchen is larger than it looked in the photos. In one corner is a dining-room table, the table Janice was sitting at. She was sitting on the chair nearest the door but it’s now back in its place, rather than toppled over on the floor.

“We think she was sitting down when she took the hit.” Cross, now also with gloves on, puts his hand on the back of the chair nearest the door. “She slumped to the side and fell to the ground.” He uses his toe to point to the place where Janice’s body lay.

“Have the lab techs been back?” I ask, knowing they wouldn’t have dusted for prints or looked for other trace evidence in the original overdose investigation.

“Yeah. They’ve got everything they need for the moment.”

“Good.” That means I don’t have to be quite so careful with the crime scene. I sit down in the chair. “So, let’s say the perp made his or her way in here under false pretences. Janice sits at the table…why?”

“Maybe she had a drink with him.”

It’s possible, but at some point he must have been behind her to take out a syringe, prepare it and then catch her by surprise and inject her. All without her putting up a fight. She must have been preoccupied by something, something engrossing enough that her attention was diverted.

“What if he had something for her to look at? Like a catalogue.” I grab the profile from my bag and put it on the table, leaning over it as if I was reading.

Cross plays along. “He’s watching her, maybe every now and again pointing something out to her.” He leans across me from behind, pointing to a line of the profile. “When she’s sufficiently occupied, he prepares the syringe. He quickly grabs her arm from behind and sticks the syringe into her vein.” Cross grabs my arm and simulates the interaction.

“It’s pretty risky. We must be talking about a very confident killer. She could have taken a swipe at him, he could have missed the vein.”

Cross obliges and replays the arm grab. This time I sit up and take a pretend swipe at him with my right hand, but he manages to duck and keep hold of my arm.

“If he was strong—” Cross says, coming in from underneath my outstretched right arm and taking another shot at my vein “—he had her right where he wanted her. If something went wrong with the heroin, I’m sure he had a backup plan. It’s a real professional job.”

I think about Cross’s argument. I’ve been trained to fight, trained to defend myself, but most women haven’t. Back in my Tiger and Crane kung fu classes in Melbourne, I’d been one of only a handful of girls in the class. In fact, sometimes I was the sole representative of my sex. This isn’t about what I’d do, it’s about what Janice would do…how she’d react. Janice might have been too shocked to even think about trying to hit him. Or maybe she was just too slow—the killer was prepared for a response, just like Cross was. I could have taken a second go at Cross then and got him. Hell, I don’t train a couple of hours a day for nothing. But this is about Janice. She wouldn’t have been ready. Cross is right.

“I like it. It rings true with the boldness of coming to her house.”

Cross wanders back into the living room and leaves me to snoop around the kitchen for a bit, but nothing holds my interest or is particularly helpful. I close my eyes and try to focus on Janice and what happened in this room. But I’m too distracted by the sound of Cross only a few meters away. If he came back in, it would look pretty strange me standing in the middle of the kitchen with my eyes closed and taking deep breaths.

I move through the living room on my way to the bedrooms. I meet Darren and Cross on the way. “Anything?” I ask.

Darren shakes his head. “Maybe you will have some luck.” He puts a very slight emphasis on you and I get the hint. He’ll keep Cross occupied for me.

“Okay,” I say.

Cross doesn’t seem to notice the hidden meaning in the exchange.

“Cindy’s is the first room.” Darren points up the hallway.

“Thanks,” I say, hiding a grimace. “Janice died in the kitchen. Cross can show you how we think it went down.”

I continue down the hallway into Cindy’s room, and I’m immediately hit by the central piece of furniture, a large four-poster. I shake my head at the irony. But unlike the one in my dreams and waking visions, this one is modern. Made with wrought iron, the posts stretch straight up and are connected to one another by curves of iron. The artistic work also makes a heart on the headboard. Again, the symbolism hits me: Cindy slept under a love heart and she died with one painted on her chest. The bedclothes are simple, plain light blue, with four large pillows at the head of the bed. Two metal-and-glass bedside tables take up a small space on either side of the bed and a large chest of drawers is against the wall, next to the door. The far wall has a built-in closet, overflowing with shoes and clothes. I flick through the mostly designer labels, all skimpy and size four.

I sigh and look back at her bed. My stomach clenches. I should be trying to induce a vision, but I’m afraid of what I’ll see and feel.

I think about the Jacksons. Justice. My job’s about justice. It’s too late for Malcolm, Cindy and Janice, but their families will want justice. I have to at least try.

Even though I’m confident Darren will keep Cross busy, I still close Cindy’s door so I’ve got some privacy. Sitting on the edge of Cindy’s bed, I roll my shoulders back trying to relax them, and then move my head from side to side. My shoulders and neck are tense from lugging my heavy briefcase around, but the small movements loosen them somewhat. I take a deep breath in and focus on a point on the wall. I think about the pure whiteness of that point. A constant stream of thoughts flow into my already crowded mind, from the serious to the mundane. A tug of war goes on for a few minutes before finally my mind is quiet. Once the canvas is blank, I bring an image of Cindy into my mind and concentrate on her. Nothing happens at first, but then finally, after a wave of dizziness, it comes. But it’s not what I was expecting or hoping for.

Cindy walks through a tunnel, a long tunnel, carrying some lug-gage. She climbs a ladder, struggling with the bag. Then a man’s hand reaches down and pulls her up to the surface. She’s surrounded by sand, the desert.

She’s dead, lying near the Dumpster with a love heart drawn on her chest.

Then she’s standing in the desert. She looks at me. “Help me!” she mouths, but no sound comes out. She’s naked and a large red heart covers her chest. Her hair is blown in all directions and the sand whips around her ankles, pounding her body.

In the back of the car, I stare out the window and chew furiously on my lip. I can’t get the image of Cindy in the desert pleading for help out of my head. I keep recycling it, over and over again. What the hell was that? Why did I see her like that?

I’m shaken out of my dark thoughts when the car comes to a halt. I look up and realize we’re at the main entrance of Hugo’s. We pile out and Cross flashes his badge to the parking attendant. Focus. The case.

Within seconds of the badge making its appearance, a woman in a business suit hurries our way. She’s a tall, lanky woman, the kind who could probably eat a cow—and fries—for dinner every night without gaining an ounce of weight. Her suit is navy, and a perfect fit—tailored, unless her measurements happen to correspond exactly to a shop size. A white shirt pokes its way over the lapel of her jacket. She was obviously waiting for us; no doubt to ensure the badge is pocketed as quickly as possible, away from the prying eyes of tourists and guests who may spend less money in her complex if they think something is amiss.

“Detective Cross?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Beverley Vander, Hugo’s entertainment manager. If you’d like to come this way.”

Cross puts his badge away, but doesn’t even have time to introduce Carter or me. Instead we all have to hightail it to keep up with Ms. Vander’s long strides as she takes us across the casino floor. I don’t mind the pace, because it’s a sure fire way to avoid thinking about the vision of Cindy. Instead I absorb my surroundings. We pass card tables, a couple of roulette wheels, craps tables, and then come to a huge section of slot machines. The casino’s guests cover the full spec-trum—from retirees to families to young couples. It takes us several minutes to navigate through the gaming area and into another foyer.

Finally, Ms. Vander slows down and turns back to us. “I’ll take you backstage.”

Cross uses the opportunity to talk. “Ms. Vander, this is Detective Carter from Tucson Homicide and Special Agent Anderson from the FBI.”

She nods and gives us both a quick handshake before moving down a corridor that leads backstage. She continues her frenetic pace until she reaches a door with Chorus written on it. “This is where the girls get ready.” She opens the door. On the back corner of the room is a long clothes rack, overflowing with costumes. The two side walls are covered in stage mirrors and desks, five on either side. The narrow bench is cluttered with makeup and some of the mirrors have photos stuck to their corners.

“Which are their stations?” I ask, but my voice sounds slightly dreamy, even to me. Darren shoots me a questioning look but I ignore it.

“Umm.” For the first time, Ms. Vander is not the picture of authority. “The stage manager will know.”

Cross walks along the mirrors and points to a photo of Janice and Cindy. He peers at it more closely. “This must be one of their areas.”

I look at the photo over Cross’s shoulder, but I don’t see Cindy smiling for the camera. Instead I remember how she looked standing in the desert, dead. What did I actually see? It’s not the past or the present or the future. Are we talking…are we talking a ghost here? Is Cindy trying to give me a message?

I’m brought back by Cross’s voice and I focus on him, on where I am right now. I don’t want to think about the desert.

“Where’s the stage manager?” Cross asks Vander.

“I’ve got the whole team assembled in the theater, waiting for you.”

Cross moves to the doorway. “Let’s talk to them first, then we’ll come back here.”

Vander nods and leads the way. As soon as I’m clear of the stage curtains I see about twenty people gathered in the front-row seats. An older man hoists himself onto the stage.

“Rodney will give you everything you need, but please, don’t hesitate to call me if there’s anything I can help you with.” Vander fishes a business card out of her suit pocket and hands it to Cross. Now she’s covering her ass. She wants to come across as cooperative. She moves closer to Cross and lowers her voice, but I can just make out what she says. “Please, Detective, we’d appreciate it if you could keep this incident as quiet as possible. We at Hugo’s don’t want any negative press.”

Cross nods. “We’ll do our best.”

I doubt Cross cares about the press, but like Vander, he’s covering his ass and smoothing the waters. If we need the press for the case, Cross won’t hesitate to use them.

“Thank you, Detective.” She gives Darren and me a quick nod and within a few strides she’s out of view.

Rodney brings our focus back to the group. “I still can’t believe it. Both Janice and Cindy.”

The distress in his voice is obvious. To Ms. Vander, Cindy and Janice were names on a list, employee numbers, but to Rodney and everyone else here they were colleagues at the very least, and possibly friends.

I turn to Rodney. “It’s a terrible tragedy.” My voice is full of emotion, still having a strong visual of Cindy’s dead body. Too much emotion for a straight investigator.

He welcomes the empathy by keeping his eyes on me as he shakes his head slowly. “Cindy murdered and Janice overdosing.”

Cross steps forward. “Actually, Mr…”

“It’s Rodney Sands, but just call me Rodney, everyone does.”

Cross continues. “Actually, Rodney, Janice’s death looks suspicious now. In light of Cindy’s murder.”

“I knew it! I knew Janice wouldn’t have gotten into heroin again.” He sighs. “We were close, Janice and I. I worked with her for four years on this show, and another year before that over at Caesar’s. I knew her when she was using. She got off—for good. I can’t imagine anything making her use again. And I mean anything.”

That’s two people close to Janice—her mother and Rodney—who vouch for her complete reform.

Cross nods. “Both her and Cindy…it is too coincidental.”

“Yes,” Rodney says. His eyes are still watery. “So what can we do to help?”

“We’ll start off by interviewing everyone. Are all these people in the show’s chorus?” Cross motions to the front row.

“No. That’s our whole crew. Chorus girls, feature artists and the stage crew.”

“I’ll interview the girls,” I say before Darren or Cross has time to beat me to it. Personally, I think I’ll be able to focus on the investigation more easily than a man could. At least I won’t be distracted by the skimpy costumes.

Cross seems a bit disappointed, but nods nonetheless. “I’ll take the stage crew,” he says to both Rodney and us, “and Carter, you get the feature artists, whatever that means.”

I take up my position in the back row, and keep myself occupied with the facts of the case, questioning my girls one by one.

Three hours later Cross, Darren and I leave the theater.

“Well?” Cross looks at us.

I go first. “Not much. A few of the girls commented that Cindy seemed a little bit excited, happier than usual.” I fidget with my ring, thinking of her distressed face in my desert vision.

“Really?” Darren raises an eyebrow.

“What’s the big deal?” Cross asks.

Darren turns to him. “One of Malcolm’s friends said the same thing. Apparently Malcolm hinted that when he came back from his vacation—” Darren makes air quotes “—he might have a bit of money.”

Cross makes an interested grunt.

“Her sister, Laurie, also visited her a little while back,” I say.

Both Darren and Cross nod, so obviously Laurie was mentioned to them too.

“How’d you guys do?” I ask.

“You got more than me,” Darren says. “All I got was that both girls seemed nice. No one saw or heard anything out of the ordinary. It seems that the feature artists don’t socialize much with the chorus.”

“Oh,” I say. “And one girl said that Gary, one of the stagehands, was sweet on Cindy.” I look at Cross.

“Yup. He told me himself. I don’t think there’s much in it, but I’ll still check out his movements over the past couple of weeks. Just to be on the safe side.”

We look at him, waiting for more.

“Rodney wasthemosthelpful,” Cross says. “He spent a lot of time with Janice and Cindy. He said he was suspicious of Cindy’s story about medical treatment. Said she was never a good liar. He thought maybe she was going back home. To try and mend things with her folks.”

“Did he say why it needed mending?”

“Yeah. Nasty business by the sounds of it.” He pauses. “She was raped by some family friend, Ronald, when she was sixteen. Rodney didn’t know the guy’s last name. Anyway, she didn’t tell anyone until she found out she was pregnant. Then she went to her folks, told them what happened.”

I shake my head, already getting the picture. My empathy for Cindy just shot through the roof and my hands clench into fists.

Cross continues, “They didn’t believe her. Told her she was a slut and ordered her out of the house. She came to Vegas, had an abortion and started work.” He shakes his head. “Tough start in life.”

“Tougher finish,” I say.