Once on the road, he dialed his brother’s house in Reno on his cell phone. No answer.
Strange.
The next logical step would be to call up Aunt Shirley. But the day was too nice to be wrecked. If it was bad news, it’d keep. Instead, he punched in Rukmani’s number. She picked up after the third ring; her voice was groggy. “’Lo.”
Poe said, “Are we on for tonight?”
“Yes.” Sounding furtive. “I’ll talk to you later.”
“Want to meet for breakfast?”
“Hold on.”
She sent him into an electronic void, clicked back on a moment later. She whispered, “It’ll take me about a half hour. I gotta clear house first.”
Oh. That!
From the beginning, Poe had known he wasn’t the only one, just the favorite one. His own fault. She had extended an offer last night. And he had refused. Well, work had refused for him.
He said, “I’ll be at Beeny Boy’s.”
“You’re doing your laundry?”
“What else?”
“I’ll see you in about thirty minutes.”
“I think it’s fair to warn you that I haven’t showered yet.”
She laughed. “Romulus, I’m sure compared to the folks I work on, you’ll smell like French perfume.”
Weinberg dug into his pastrami omelet, shoveled a forkful into his mouth. He studied the composite drawing made by the police artist. “Mr. Bland White Guy.”
Patricia said, “Young-looking, too. But Big Ray said his ID put him at thirty.”
“I’ve seen faces like this before,” Jensen said. “Guys with not much facial hair and kind of nondescript features. They age like old women. And they’re hard to pick out in a crowd.”
Patricia said, “At least we’ve got something to work with.”
“That’s true.” Weinberg put down the drawing. “You did good, Deluca.” He picked up a saltshaker, began to rain sodium onto his fat-laden omelet.
Jensen stared in wonderment. “How do you eat like that and not come down with a coronary?”
“My cholesterol is one-seventy. Read it and weep, Jensen.”
Poe knocked on the doors of the locked restaurant. Myra scurried over, let him in. “You’re a little late for eggs, but I can put some rye in the toaster.”
“Thanks, but I had breakfast.”
“Coffee?”
“You bet.” Poe sat with the others, lifted the composite off the table. “Good going, Deluca.”
She said, “I’m a credit to my profession.”
Poe pondered the sketch. “Guy looks familiar, but I can’t place him.”
Jensen said, “My first impression, too. But the harder I tried to finger him, the more he slipped away.”
“He’s got a common face,” Patricia said. “Not a bad-looking guy.”
Jensen said, “He looks … I don’t know … wimpy.”
“I wouldn’t call him wimpy—”
“Ordinary.” Poe ran his finger through wet black hair. “It’ll make him hard to find.”
Jensen added, “Why the hat?”
“What do you mean?” Poe said.
“No one these days wears a felt hat except as part of a costume. I did that once for a Halloween party. Only time I ever remember wearing a hat.”
Poe put the picture down. “But what if you were interested in either hiding or changing your appearance.”
Weinberg raised his eyebrow, readjusted his yarmulke on his bald head. “I like that, Poe. Our man doffs the hat, it throws off our entire perception.” Again, the lieutenant considered the face. “Know what I’m going to do? I’m going to have Mel redraw the guy without the hat. Also, I’ll have him draw our guy with a mustache, figuring that he likes disguises.”
The loo polished off his breakfast.
“Next step is legwork. Start showing the picture around the bars to see if we get any bites. Who’s doing what today?”
“I’ve got a court case at twelve,” Poe said. “After that, I’m back at the Laredo to see if Lewiston’s secretary found the file on Brittany Newel.”
Jensen said, “Parkerboy ain’t gonna give you anything.”
“Steve, he’s got to give me something. Her employment taxes show that she worked for him. He can’t explain them away.”
“It still doesn’t prove he knew her personally,” Weinberg said.
“But it does prove she worked for him, even for a short period,” Poe said. “After the Laredo, I’m free, Loo.”
“So this is what we’ll do,” Weinberg said. “Patricia, you take the casino bars. Jensen, you take it to the bellboys and any other pimps.” The lieutenant’s eyes zeroed in on Poe. “What the hell got into you last night?”
“Pardon?”
“You going to Naked City without proper backup. That’s not the way we operate around here.”
“It worked out all right.”
“Don’t do it again.” A beat. “You learn anything?”
“I located a pimp that Brittany once worked for. She stole from him. He said if he ever saw her again, he’d slit her throat.”
Weinberg sat back in his chair. “He resemble our friend?”
“Not in the least. For starters, he was black.”
“He could have hired out.”
Poe shrugged. “I doubt if he thought she’d be worth the effort. Guy must have a stable of a dozen female flaggers.”
Jensen said, “How much did Newel steal from him?”
“He didn’t say. I don’t even know if she took cash or rock. Just that she took something.”
Myra came over with a pot of coffee, poured a cup for Poe. “Mickey, did you remember to order the extra chairs?”
“R and R Rentals,” the lieutenant answered. “They assured me they’d be here by four.”
“What a doll!” Myra said. “I’ve got a hundred and fifty people coming in tonight. Sam Silverman’s eightieth birthday. For the last forty-five years, Sam’s been celebrating his birthday in Vegas. Last year, his son turned very religious and started keeping kosher. Sam was distraught, thinking that his son wouldn’t eat at his party. Then he discovered my place.”
Her voice dropped to a whisper.
“He’s paying me double what he paid the trayf place who hosted his party last year, that’s how happy Sam Silverman was. Thank God for the Jewish born-agains. They pay the rent. How about some refills?”
Patricia put out her cup. She just loved coffee. It not only hyped her up, but had zero calories. “Thanks, Myra.”
To Weinberg, Poe said, “You know, I’m going to be downtown anyway for court. Why don’t I stop by Freemont and scan some mug books? See