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  Big Ray peered over Patricia's head, shouted, "What's going on over there?"

  Malealani was already at the scene. Big fat guy, but fleetfooted. His big, booming voice rang out, "Too much to drink, pal?"

  "Fuck you—"

  "Let me help you to the bathroom."

  "I said—"

  "Better yet, let me help you through the back door."

  "Get your fuckin'—"

  "Yeah, yeah!" Malealani started dragging some loudmouthed jerk in a red shirt across the floor. Opened the back door and away he flew.

  Big Ray laughed. "They never learn." To Patricia, he said, "I gotta go mind shop."

  He turned and lumbered away. Malealani came back a moment later, wiped his hands on his pants. "You want a refresher on that club soda, Patty?"

  "No, I'm okay." Patricia slipped her notebook into her purse. "Actually, I think I'd better head back to the station. Write all this up before I forget."

  "So I'll pick you up tomorrow at seven. I hope that's not too early. We gotta fit dinner in between my gigs." He waited a beat. "I'm off on Sunday. We can have a longer dinner then. There's this great Thai place about an hour out of the city. You never tasted anything so good."

  Patricia said, "Uh, let's see how tomorrow goes."

  Malealani scratched his head. "I'm being pushy. Sorry. Don't mean anything by it. I just get so tired of desperate people. Especially women. So many desperate women in this city. I guess you see that in your work as much as I do." He licked his lips. "All I'm saying is you really seem to have your act together."

  Patricia wanted to scream, Who? Me? Instead, she chuckled, politely thanking him.

  Maintain the image, maintain the pretext.

  Because that's what Vegas was all about.

  ELEVEN

  LOOKING MORE like a radio tower than a casino, the Needle in the Sky was started in the late eighties, completed in the nineties. It was the tallest building in Las Vegas, but it was lonely at the top. In the middle of nowhere, it sat in an isolated pocket between the glamour of the Strip and the light fantastic of downtown renovation. What could be said about it? The view was panoramic and the Sunday brunch couldn't be beat. The interior sang paeans to the god of gaming future. But outside were the trenches. Behind the Needle sat a vacant lot of partial construction and piles of rubble. Dubbed Naked City by the locals, it had the dubious honor of hosting L.V.'s leanest and meanest.

  Cab drivers were wary of people headed there at night. Knowing that, Poe always tipped big. He had left his own car in the Bureau's lot. No way he was going to drive his baby, park it on the street, leaving it prey for any jive turkey car thief desperate for a fix.

  Poe detested the place, carrying a weapon and knowing there was a chance that he'd have to use it. Shoot-'em-ups were for the uniforms, for SWAT or special teams. Not for gumshoe homicide detectives trying to trace a hooker's last steps. Still, he'd cleaned the gun this afternoon. Sucker that he was, why hadn't he given Steve this assignment?

  The taxi let him off in front of the Needle, picked up another fare, then got the hell out.

  Poe started walking. Turned up the collar on his coat and stuck his hands in his pocket, feeling the bulge of his holster through the coat material. Wearing his gun on his belt because it made for easier access than his shoulder harness. Past the Union 76 sign, past the block-long General Store and Toon Town toy store. Into the bowels of the bleak.

  A weeknight, but there was still some action. So many crack runners the dealers could have hosted a marathon. At the bottom rung of the ladder, the runners took all the chances, walked away with nothing. They ferried dope from the dealers to buyers in their cars, breaking off bits of the buyer's rock to feed their habits. The girls had it better than the boys. On slow nights, the girls could hook for extra cash. The boys had to resort to petty thievery.

  If he squinted, Poe could make them out, scurrying and scattering like roaches in a Manhattan tenement. He found a dark vantage point, looked and waited. A Honda Accord with darkened windows slowed, pulled curbside.

  Immediately, they came to service it. The winner was a greenhaired girl in short shorts, fishnets, and leather brassiere. She came over to the open window, nodded. Glancing over her shoulders, feral eyes in the moonlight. Reaching into her black bra, she pulled out what Poe assumed to be a rock crystal of cocaine.

  And that was it.

  Transaction finished: the car went on its way. She darted back, her loose breasts flapping like water balloons. Disappearing under a pile of construction.

  Another car.

  Another transaction.

  The scene was repeated over and over.

  Sometimes the cops roared in and swept the place. More often, they let them be. Besides, more than one detective had a stoolie who worked the area.

  No one daring to make eye contact, Poe knew he'd have to take action. Go out and turn over a rock. He spied a young white girl taking orders from an older black man.

  Poe could barely make out his features before he withdrew into the shadows. Poe made his move, pulling out a fifty, showing it to the girl.

  She stepped forward a few feet, then stopped. Over here, buyers came by way of cars; no one was used to walk-ins. But Poe was patient, knew that eventually the fifty would prove to be the needed lure to catch the young girl.

  Really young.

  Behind a mask of makeup was a child of maybe fifteen. One of her eyes was swollen, and she had cigarette-burn marks on her arms and legs. Painfully thin, with pink hair and red lips that were cracked at the corners. She wore a torn black halter and a miniskirt with no underwear. She had to be freezing. It broke Poe's heart. He actually debated running her in, just to get her off the streets for a night. But without her hourly fix, she'd turn monstrous. LVMPD wasn't set up to do detox.

  Poe waved the fifty in the air.

  Still, she was hesitant.

  Then he spoke. "More where this came from. And you can keep the shit. All I want is informa—"

  She darted away.

  Smooth one, Poe.

  God, how he hated this place.

  A moment later, the girl returned with her dealer. Around thirty, with a thin face and a goatee. He wore jeans and a leather bomber jacket. His fingers were encased in leather gloves with the fingertips cut off. Beckoned Poe onto his turf with a bent index digit.

  Heart beating, Poe came forward, stopped short of being nose to nose. The dealer had a good four inches of height on him. He also pointed a snub-nose Special in Poe's face. His voice was surprisingly high. "You be a cop?"

  Poe nodded.

  "Lemme see some ID."

  "Put away your piece. Then I'll show you ID."

  "Why would I be doing that?"

  "Because I reach into my pocket, you shoot, saying it

  was self-defense. C'mon, sport. I'm obviously not from Narc."

  "Whatchu want?"

  "Information about a girl."

  "How much you be payin' for it?"

  "Depends on what you tell me."

  Slowly, the dealer lowered his pistol. "Talk."

  "I got a picture in my pocket," Poe said. "I'm gonna show it to you." He brought out Brittany's photo. "She ever work for you?"

  The dealer looked at the photograph. His face soured. "That be Brittany."

  Poe rocked on his feet, restraining himself from snapping his fingers. "Yes. She was one of yours, then?"

  The dealer smiled a mouth of ivories. "She didn't be no runner, but she be my bitch for a month. A good ho. Do anything I tole her to do. Got lots of money from her legs. But I see her again, I cut a smile in her throat. The bitch stole from me."

  "Ah," Poe said. "So she hasn't been around lately."

  The dealer shook his head. "She come in here again, she don't leave breathin'. No patience for that kinda shit. You see the bitch and she axes for me, you tell her what I said."

  Poe said, "She isn't going to be asking for anyone. She's dead."

  The dealer didn't bl
ink. "Don't surprise me. You be stealin' from people, they got a right to take action."

  Did you take action, buddy?

  Poe held out the fifty. The dealer snapped it into his fingertips. Then he pointed to the teenager with the cracked lips and bruised eye. "I let you poke her for only twenty bucks. But you be wanting some crack…that be standard price."

  The thought of sex with that child made Poe's stomach turn. "Thanks, but I'll pass."

  Without a further word, the dealer disappeared.

  Poe's eyes hunted around. It took him a moment to find the waifish pink-haired girl. She was hiding behind a pile of broken concrete. A flick of fire from a match illuminated her ravaged face. She brought the match into the wire-mesh bowl of her crack pipe. Sucked on the bit and inhaled deeply. Throwing back her head. Then it dropped forward, her chin plowing into her chest. Slowly, she found the strength to bring her head up as it lolled from side to side. She wiped her nose, her eyes gazing out to nowhere. Viewing a world out of focus.

  From dealer to buyer, from buyer to dealer. Nicking off bits of crack to stave off the dragon. Her life disintegrating into the netherworld.

  Hell had nothing over Naked City.

  As the hour approached midnight, the urge got stronger. Not as strong as last night, but Alison knew she was powerless. It was better to prepare for it than to be caught off-guard. Last night had been bad because the urge had caught her off-guard. And she had tried to resist.

  Never resist.

  Never, ever resist.

  Had her mother resisted? Is that what had driven her over that edge?

  Or maybe the urges had driven her to take off on those long disappearances—the fugue states which were anything but musical. Had she felt the urge as strongly as Alison? Had the urge compelled her to run, to leave her earthly body and ascend to a higher place?

  Well, if that had been the case—and often Alison had figured that so—well, then Alison did have pity on her mother. But Alison could afford pity, because she was a lot stronger.

  To wit: her body. Just look at her body.

  Because the sensations had started.

  Once they started, she knew she had very little time left.

  The boys had been asleep for over two hours. Steve was away. The opportunity was perfect.

  No excuse for not listening to the urge.

  Breathing hard as she felt her forearms and biceps widening…hardening. Her thighs and calves…a metamorphosis into something steely and superhuman.

  At these moments, she knew she defied logic.

  That or she was just plain crazy.

  She really didn't know anymore. Nor did she care.

  The urge.

  Her body demanding compliance.

  Throwing off her nightgown…standing naked and strong.

  She dashed out the back door into the cold, clear, windless night, beating her bare breast. Her skin had turned icy, was studded with goose bumps. Her face had become something strange and foreign.

  Running into the garage, lifting up the heavy trunk and twirling it about. Singing songs to God and the moon. Such wonderful newfound power.

  She set the case down onto the floor, then began to root through it. Steve's old clothes. Never did get around to taking them to the Cancer Society. Tossing and throwing the vestments into the air, the cloth billowing down like sails in the wind.

  So what would it be tonight?

  Which shirt?

  Which pair of pants?

  Which pair of shoes? (That was easy. Steve's shoes still didn't fit her feet.) She'd have to settle for her own shoes.

  Dressing quickly.

  She observed her visage in a cracked mirror.

  Veddy, veddy good. Urbane and suave.

  The height of sophistication.

  Now all she needed was a hat.

  TWELVE

  THE COMPULSION to play was overwhelming. But Poe was known at the Needle, so he had to settle for a beer and a smoke at the bar. Something to unwind. His head hurt, he was tired, and he was dog-lonely. A quickie wasn't going to cut it. He needed companionship, needed to hear the music of feminine speech. He cursed himself for not making arrangements to meet Rukmani, but took solace in being noble. She needed her sleep.

  Sipping suds, glancing at the pit, feeling very antsy. He rocked on the barstool, tapped his toes without rhythm along the foot railing. Scanning the crowds, he blinked, picked up his beer, and moved a dozen seats down.

  Y glanced up, returned his eyes to his poker machine. A cigarette dangled from his mouth, a long tip of ashes just waiting to be flicked into a tray. Poe removed the smoke from the old man's mouth, dumped the discharge in a glass bowl, then placed it back between Y's lips.

  The old man's brown face was creased with concentration. As usual, he wore a sand-colored leather shirt, a string tie with a turquoise pendant, and jeans. On his feet were Nike running shoes. His black hair was pulled back into a braid. With a touch of his hand, he discarded the eight of hearts. The machine replaced it with a two of diamonds. Again he crapped out.

  Poe said, "Why'd you go for the three of a kind instead of the straight?"

  "Odds are better."

  "The idea is to beat the odds."

  Y dropped another quarter into the machine. "The idea is to lose all my money, then pass out from too much alcohol."

  "Ah…" Poe licked foam off his lips, stubbed out his cigarette. "To aid you with your goal, I'll buy you a beer."

  Y didn't answer, steeped in indecision. He regarded the cards dealt to him on the monitor. Maybe Poe was right. Try to beat the odds. He'd try for the full house.

  Poe frowned. "Go for the flush."

  "Stop kibbitzing."

  "I'm offering you sage advice."

  Again, Y crapped out. He was about to drop in another quarter. Poe put his hand over the slot. The old man looked up. "What?"

  "As long as I found you—"

  "Found me? I was never lost."

  "Can I ask you a question?"

  "I can hear and play at the same time."

  "What do you remember about the Bogeyman case?"

  "Move your hand."

  Poe took his hand away. Y dropped two bits into the machine. He said, "What specifically?"

  "Everything."

  Y tried for a flush. He wound up with a pair of aces. Still, it beat the machine's queen high. He said, "Everything's a tall order."

  Poe sipped his beer. "How about this for starters. I remember rumors that the guy had taken trophies from his victim—"

  "Victims. There were two of them."

  Poe said, "Yeah, that was question number two. Why do I only remember one victim?"

  "Because you were a kid and the second one wasn't publicized. A drifter girl. No roots here. The police were able to keep it quiet. They needed to keep it quiet. 'Cause the first one caused such a storm."

  "Tell me about her…the first one."

  "A local high school teacher with local ties. The papers got wind of it, turned it into a circus. The shit really hit the fan."

  "How'd they tie the first and second victim to the same murderer?"

  "How should I know? Do your homework. Go back and look in the police archives."

  Y fished out another quarter. Poe put his hand around Y's bony fingers. "Could you stop one second?"

  Y grunted, waited.

  Poe said, "Do you recall something about…well, body parts?"

  "You mean the eyes?"

  "So the Bogeyman had removed her eyes."

  Y didn't talk.

  Poe said, "Yes? No?"

  "You didn't ask me a question."

  "Do you remember something about the Bogeyman removing the victim…victims' eyes?"

  "There was talk."

  "Do you know if it was true?"

  Y stared at the younger man. "Why are you asking about the Bogeyman?"

  "Similarities between it and this case I'm working on."

  "So go back and check the records."
/>   Poe nodded. "Did the Bogeyman ever have a name?"

  "As far as I know, he was never caught."

  "Did he have anything to do with the murder of Alison's mother?"

  Y's eyes locked with Poe's. "Where'd you hear that?"