Still, the move was celebrated by Homicide; the detectives loved their new surroundings. Their own place, putting miles of distance between them and the other departments as well as the scrutinizing eye of the brass. It was a quiet sanctuary, somewhere to think and work. Standing behind the Bureau lay the Crime Scene Analysis building. Just a short walk from the desk to the lab, making it easy to check up on physical evidence. With the two places in such close proximity, things rarely got lost.
Sitting at his desk, Jensen took a break from his notes and leaned back in his chair. It was ten to nine. Meaning the others should be here soon. Deluca and Poe were notoriously punctual. Taking a deep breath, letting it out slowly. He got up, walked to the coffee station, and started a pot of decaf.
More than mistresses, more than alcohol or a night out with the guys, being in this squad room, alone at night … that gave Jensen peace. The workspace was designed as one large, rectangular room. Completely open. No cubicles to block sound waves. Everyone could hear cases being discussed. Important details were often picked up in casual conversation. The walls were painted pastel blue, the floor was done in wall-to-wall deep blue carpet. Square panels of fluorescent light checkerboarded the ceiling. Currently, there were fifteen workstations lining the walls, each detective having his/her own desk, chair, computer, printer, phone, and java mug.
What more could anyone need?
A fridge and Mr. Coffee machine in one corner, a gun vault in the other. The unit’s vulture mascot was perched above the entrance door. During the day, the back windows gave a view of a parking lot. The appearance was definitely more like an office than a homicide bureau, but that was fine with Jensen.
He often watched the boob tube. One thing he could never figure out was how big-city TV cops worked in such chaos, trying to write reports with felons cursing, people shouting, women having babies. He guessed it made for good drama, though no one could think amid all that pandemonium. Here everything was low-key … quiet … like a small-town sheriff’s office. Which was fitting, because Vegas had originally been built as a Western saloon town. Now, with a population of over a million, Las Vegas owned big-city problems. Plus it had to cope with an enormous transient population. Outsiders often took their problems to the gambling mecca. And when things turned to shit, guess who cleaned up the mess?
Deluca walked through the door, threw her purse on her desk, and sat down. She ran stubby fingers through her freshly washed hair. Her face was flushed and open. “I got a lead.”
Jensen straightened in his chair, took in a whiff of air. “Are you wearing perfume?”
“Just a splash.” Patricia paused. “Did I overdo it?”
“No. Actually, it smells nice. What’s the occasion?”
“It has to do with my lead.” Patricia pulled out her notes. “I was questioning this bartender who kinda took a shine to me. His name is Nate—”
“Who’s Nate?” Poe asked, walking through the door.
“A bartender who has the hots for Patty.”
“That’s Fat Patty to you, bub.” Patricia winked at a blushing Jensen. “I know what you guys call me behind my back.” She turned to Poe. “I got a lead. A bartender who might have seen Brittany at Barry’s Place last night.”
She gave them the address.
Poe took out his notebook, wrote it down. Jensen said, “Never heard of the place.”
“It’s a native bar,” Patricia said.
“Native as in Native American?” Jensen asked.
“No, native as in native Las Vegan. Look at the address. Right in the heart of blue-collarville.”
Poe said, “Betcha Y would know the place.”
“I wouldn’t doubt it,” Jensen said. “Guy knows every bar in the city. How old is he, anyway? About eighty?”
“More like sixty-five, seventy,” Poe said. “His face is just weathered.”
“He looks like cured jerky,” Jensen remarked. “Is he related to you? Or don’t you readily admit to having Digger blood?”
“Of course I admit it. I’m proud of it.” Notebook still in hand, Poe plunked himself down, propped his feet on his desktop. “How’d you hook up with this bartender, Patricia? What’s his name, by the way?”
“Nathan Malealani.”
“Hawaiian?” Jensen asked.
“More like Samoan. By day, he tends the Oasis in Casablanca. The bar was on Weinberg’s hit list. Guess I got lucky.”
“Sounds like you made your own luck.” Poe turned to Jensen. “You find out anything we should know about?”
“Nothing radical.” Jensen picked up a list from his desk. “I got two, three … four bellmen who threw Newel some action. No one used her as a regular—too unreliable because of her chemical problem.”
“What was the split?” Poe asked.
“Fifty-fifty at first,” Jensen said. “When Brittany started losing her looks, it dropped to forty-sixty. Mostly she made calls to them on the weekends when things got busy.”
“Did she make enough money to carry her through the week?” Patricia asked.
“Depends on how much she made on weekends. Or maybe she simply hit Lewiston up for a loan.”
Poe stuck a wad of gum in his mouth. “He denied knowing her.”
The room went silent. Jensen broke it. “You actually talked to Parkerboy.”
“After two hours of getting the runaround, I became bored, started wandering through the casino. Lo and behold, Laredo done got itself a new pit boss.”
Patricia smiled. “You did well, sir?”
“Yes, ma’am!” Poe yanked his feet off the desk, stood up, and clapped his hands in glee. “Double-shoe decks. I fleeced the SOB. Serves Parkerboy right for keeping an officer of the law waiting.”
Jensen said, “Dealers there don’t believe in shuffling the cards?”
Poe laughed. “I had some lucky breaks. About an hour later, I get the familiar tap on the shoulder. I turn and smile and show Mr. Gil Lawson—probably né Guido Lombardi—my badge.”
“Way to go, Poe,” Jensen said.
Poe said, “Now the guy is stuck. He wants to kick me out, but I’m a cop. Doesn’t know what the hell to do. So I figure I’d help him out. I’d leave the table without making a scene if I could have a word with the boss. Ten minutes later, I get a call. How’s that for results?” He laughed, shook his head. “Guy’s a golf fanatic. His entire office is carpeted in sod so he can take practice shots.”
“Aw, c’mon,” Patricia said.
“I kid you not.”
Jensen said, “Doesn’t he own his own private course? The one off Sahara next to the Rancho Fiesta development. I played there once for some police benefit. It’s a good course.”
Patricia said, “He owns his own golf course?”
“Why not?” Jensen said. “Wynn owns the course at UNLV.”
“Yeah, but that one is open to the public, isn’t it?” Patricia said.
Poe shrugged. “Anyway, the upshot is that Lewiston