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  Like now.

  Tourism had been especially light the past couple of weeks. April blues. With Mr. IRS Man waiting in the wings, disposable cash was suddenly scarce. Poe had yet to file himself. This year, as in the years past, over half his income had come from gaming wins. Blackjack. He'd been kicked out of most of the big casinos. But there were always ways to work around it.

  Poe loved the pits, loved to play. It provided him with a place to sit, cards to hold, and a set of rules to follow. It prescribed his life for a couple of hours, warding off urges to bounce off walls. Just like the job, cards kept him occupied.

  Driving past the Stardust, the Mirage, and Treasure Island—the brainchild of the Golden Nugget's onetime wunderkind Steven Wynn. On warm summer nights, the sidewalks were jammed with gawkers watching buccaneers battle on grounded galleons. Others piled up to stare at a fifty-four-foot fiery volcano complete with spewing lava. Once, Poe happened to be in one of the hotel rooms overlooking the smoking mountain. Peering into the bowels of the man-made Vesuvius…seeing all those gas jets and pipes…

  Past the Hilton, past Bellagio, Monte Carlo, Caesars, MGM, Excalibur, the Luxor…to the last few dirt lots before McCarren International.

  Havana had recently been constructed as a joint venture by two major hotel moguls. Its grounds were densely planted with coco palms and hundreds of tropical fruit trees and banana bushes. During the summer, the landscape was kept lush and green by a zillion different sprinkler and spray systems. The place was low-rise for the city, and catered to high rollers who wanted old-time decadence and privacy.

  The main lobby and hotel emulated a Cuban plantation—a four-story building of vanilla stucco, with green-and-white-striped awnings and red roof tile. Lots of balconies and verandas—unusual because most Vegas hotel fronts were pressed as flat as asphalt. Behind the main structure lay the more expensive—and very personal—bungalows. The rock pool was actually a series of man-made lakes, streams, and waterfalls rimmed with rain forest housing an imported parrot population. But the lodging's biggest draw was the smoke shop. Though Cuban cigars were illegal to buy and sell on Uncle Sam's turf, Havana boasted its own line of smokes made from Cuban-stock tobacco. Apparently the leaves were grown on the hotel's own private land down South. No one had ever verified if the fields really did exist, but word of mouth had been sufficient. The inn's humidifier was as big as Phileas Fogg's ballroom.

  Pulling into the multilane circular driveway, Poe drove up to the entrance. A valet peered inside the window of the Honda and opened the car door, pausing a nanosecond before giving him a laser-light smile. Poe knew the foot-boy was sizing up his tip. Poe's straight black hair, large, almond-shaped dark eyes, and café-au-lait complexion coupled with the cheap car suggested a Southern Paiute Native American—a lowly cigarette-hawking Digger who'd probably stiff him. On the other hand, the straight black hair, dark eyes, and dark complexion could mean Italian and therefore "connected." Actually, Poe's lineage held both bloodlines plus pinches from other nationalities. He was a true mongrel. Flashing his badge, he smiled, then tipped generously, told him to keep the Honda out front.

  Havana's lobby was three stories tall and held a half-dozen atria of exotic birds and squawking wildlife, including macaques, which were Asian, not Central American, monkeys. But so far, few if any demanded absolute authenticity. Animal rights activists had tried to stop the construction, but the hotel had preempted them by bringing in the Las Vegas Zoo and designing the cages to simulate natural animal habitats. Poe admired the hotel's ingenuity.

  He had to walk through the Cuban-themed casino—through the flashing lights and an aural assault of bells, whistles, and bongs—to get to the check-in desk. The dealers wore white double-breasted suits and linen shirts, white loafers on their feet and broad-brimmed Panamas on their heads. Cocktail waitresses were garbed in ruffly midriff blouses and multicolored sarongs, flowers tucked in their coifs. When business was hot, they often wore fruit hats à la Carmen Miranda. Poe followed the floral carpet walkway past seas of slots dinging out monotone mantras as coins were absently dropped into ever-hungry mouths. They held no interest for him, no magic allure. Just money down the toilet.

  The pits were a different story—the crap games, the wheel games, regular poker, pai gow poker, and blackjack. If a halfshredded face hadn't been torturing his soul, Poe might have stopped. Instead, he moved on, leaving behind the hushed and genteel action of baccarat. Roped-off area. Very high stakes. There the dealers wore white tailcoats. At three in the morning, there were a half-dozen tables to service a lone player, the ladderman hovering about his charge like a mother hen.

  Finally making his way up to the front desk. A long walk. Not too many people could resist the urge to drop a quarter. And once you were hooked…

  The receptionist wore a white skirt suit and a blouse fabricked with pink and purple hibiscus against a yellow-and-green jungle backdrop. She was under thirty with creamy skin and blond hair pulled back into a braid. But there was something hard about her face—steely eyes that appraised unsparingly. She gave him a practiced smile, asked how she could be of service. He pulled out his badge, and she frowned, her eyes turning gray.

  Her name tag pegged her as Noel Goddard. Poe said, "Night manager around, Ms. Goddard?"

  His using her name threw off her rhythm. She stammered, said, "Can I ask what this is all about?"

  "Routine investigation."

  "About what?"

  "Could you call the manager for me please, miss?"

  Noel paused. "Casino manager or hotel?"

  A smile. "Whoever's around."

  She hesitated, then disappeared behind a secreted door in the back of the desk area. Five minutes later, she came out with a can of muscle wearing a white linen suit over a peacock-blue Hawaiian shirt. He was in his mid-fifties, bald, with biceps as big as wrecking balls. No name tag, but Poe had known Peter Delatorre for years.

  Poe gave him a smile; Delatorre returned it with a glare. He muttered a thank-you to Noel, then crooked a sausage finger to Poe. Noel opened a swing door and Poe followed Delatorre into a series of backroom mazes. Several minutes later, the manager unlocked the door to a hidden niche.

  The room was done up plush in a tropical color scheme. Thick teal carpeting, soft multicolored sofas and slouch chairs, a wet bar with cut crystal holding lots of rum and scotch. A ceiling fan buzzed overhead. In the corner stood a small caned desk with a phone and a fax. The quarters were apparently a suite, because Poe noticed a connecting bedroom. Delatorre shut the common door and pointed to a chair.

  Poe rocked on his feet, looked around. No outside windows, but plenty of one-way mirrors. A video camera was mounted in one of the corners. "How's it going, Pete?"

  Delatorre paced. "What the hell you doing, Rom? Flashing muscle like that?"

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Cramming your badge down that poor girl's throat—"

  "I didn't cram anything. I showed her ID. I'm a police officer. We identify ourselves. It's not only procedure, it's polite."

  Delatorre sneered. "Sit down." A beat. He stopped pacing. "Or don't sit. Do I even want you around?"

  Poe said, "When did you start working here?"

  "Six months ago."

  "What happened to Potetsky?"

  "You don't want to know." Delatorre waved him off. "So what good cheer do you bring me tonight, Rom?"

  "I'm looking into a dancer named Brittany Newel. Heard she worked the floor show at the Copa Room here."

  "Wanted as a suspect, or is she your latest corpse?"

  "In the morgue as we speak."

  "Jesus!" Delatorre made a face. "Does this mean I gotta get the keys to the records room?"

  "I'd sincerely appreciate it, Pete."

  "You stay outta my pits, I'll make the effort."

  "I'll stay out of your pits in any case."

  "Yeah, yeah. Why don't I believe you?"

  "Because I'm untrustworthy."

  "Yeah. I
forget. You're part Digger."

  "I'm part dago, too. It's three-twenty in the morning. Can we get this show on the road?"

  "I thought you were a night owl."

  "Age is catching up with me."

  "Yeah, you look pretty bad." Delatorre started pacing again. "And you're only what? Thirty?"

  "Thirty-five." A pause. "I can't look that bad if you thought I was thirty."

  "I must need glasses."

  "Thanks. I needed a boost."

  Delatorre raised his eyebrows. "You want a boost, I can get you a real boost."

  "'Fraid I'll have to pass."

  "Just trying to keep the good boys at Metro happy."

  "Thank you. We're very happy. The keys?"

  Delatorre laughed. Again the beckoning finger. "C'mon."

  They exited through a back door, went through a hallway dimly lit and stone silent. Their footsteps were muffled by the thick carpeting. Poe had no idea where they were going, but Delatorre navigated the twists and turns like a conditioned rat. An old-timer, Pete had worked his way up from mopping floors at the Flamingo, to dealing at the Stardust for Lefty Rosenthal, and finally to pit boss at the Riviera and Tropicana. Apparently he finally passed muster and became casino manager at Havana. A big step up in pay and prestige. Well deserved. Delatorre knew gambling. More important, he knew gamblers.

  When they reached his destination, Delatorre pulled out an employee identification card, stopped in front of a red panel light, then held the card up to a scanner. Moments later, the panel light turned green. Then he punched a code into a number panel. He turned to Poe.

  "Smile at the birdie, Rom."

  "Where?"

  Delatorre turned him ninety degrees. "Look up."

  A video camera. Poe gave a little wave. "You'd think you were taking me into the counting room."

  "I trust no one. Especially the police." Delatorre then pulled out a ring of keys, pushed two of them into the corresponding keyholes, and finally opened an electric security door. "You aren't packing, are you? Don't want you to set off any bells."

  "I don't even have my keys. I left them with the valet."

  "Go ahead. You first."

  Poe walked into a plain room stacked with hundreds of file cabinets. Enough to hold tens of thousands of Pendaflex folders. In the center stood several computer terminals and keyboards atop a bolted-down round metal table. Three bolted-down chairs were positioned around the table.

  Delatorre followed, shut the door. A pneumatic seal locked out air and brought on a fan. He explained, "Ever since Wynn's daughter was kidnapped, management's been squirrelly, you know. Everything's nailed down so you can't use it as a weapon. More security codes than the Pentagon."

  He put a key into one of the monitors and turned it on.

  "Not that it does crap if you're dealing with pros. Hey, they want you, you're dead meat. But it's a deterrent. What's her name again?"

  "Brittany Newel." Poe spelled it.

  Delatorre clicked the computer keys. "Got a picture of her?"

  "No."

  "Not even a postmortem?"

  "She wasn't pretty, Joe."

  Delatorre grimaced as he punched in words and the computer spit back her name, rank, and serial number. "Yeah, she worked here for about a year. Looks like she was terminated about two months ago."

  "Why was she fired?"

  "Uh…let's see…number fifteen dash four two A. Nowadays everything is coded and double-coded."

  "Keeps you all honest."

  "Nah, just makes smarter thieves. Uh…here we go. She was canned for missing performances. How many?" He shrugged. "Havana's policy: if you miss two workdays without explanation, you're out."

  "Anything else of interest on her record?"

  Delatorre scanned the file. "Nope…nothing."

  "Can I see her initial employment paperwork?"

  "Not policy." Delatorre looked up. "Confidentiality."

  "Pete, she's dead."

  He pointed a stubby index finger in Poe's direction. "Good point." He scanned the computer, looked up the corresponding file number, wrote it down on a slip of paper, then walked over to a file cabinet. A couple of minutes later, he pulled out Newel's file, scanned through it.

  Poe said, "May I?"

  "First I gotta scan it for black marks…see if anything in it concerns our current employees—'cause that could be construed as breaking confidentiality. Gotta keep it kosher."

  "Is there a picture of her?"

  "Several." Delatorre pulled one out, eyed it for a moment. Just enough time for Poe to see another photo of Brittany resting in the file.

  "Cute little thing," the manager pronounced. "Here you go."

  A full-color portfolio head shot. Draping honey-blond hair nestled around soft, nude shoulders, crystal-blue eyes full of wonder, pouty lips daring to be kissed. A graceful neck and the smooth skin of youth. Very beautiful. And very nondescript. Typical L. V. dance fare. Completely unoriginal.

  Completely Steve.

  A miracle how he'd snagged Alison.

  A pause.

  Not so, Rom old boy. Alison wanted to be snagged. Back then, she had wanted something mainstream…something very, very normal.

  Delatorre was still scanning the file.

  Cagily, Poe turned his back to the video camera, and with sleight of hand, slipped the photograph into his pants, moving it down until it sat between the upper part of his thigh and pants. Helped that he was wearing snug jeans.

  Delatorre was talking. "…can't see the rest of the file, Rom. Sorry. Confidential information in here that could affect others. You want to look at it, I'll need a subpoena."

  "S'all right." He pulled out a notepad and pen. "Can you give me her vital statistics?"

  "Uh…yeah, I suppose—" Delatorre's beeper went off. He looked at the pager, read the number. "Trouble, Sergeant. I gotta go."

  "Real quick job for me, Pete? You don't want another one of your girls to end up like she did."

  "She wasn't one of my girls."

  "She ended up a mess, Pete. It's bad for everyone if this isn't solved quickly."

  Delatorre muttered, but quickly scanned through her application.

  "Born in 'seventy-five, five-eight, one-ten, blond hair, blue eyes…seven years of dance training in L. A., worked as a secretary before taking this job. Recommendations from her dance teacher, her former boss, some friends, and some state senator in California. Bet she sucked him to the root to get that. Found out about the job through her boyfriend. It's local. You want the address?"

  Poe sighed inwardly. Guess where he was now headed at four in the morning. "Shoot."

  Delatorre gave him numbers, closed the chart. "Oh, I'll need that picture back."

  "I returned it to you."

  "No you didn't."

  "Open the file. It's the one where she's resting her head on her hand."

  Delatorre opened the folder. Sure enough, there was a picture of Brittany Newel leaning her head against an open palm. "I didn't give you this one. I gave you a head shot."

  "I don't have it, Pete." He held his arms out straight from his waist. "You want to frisk me, be my guest. I'm a captive audience."

  Delatorre studied Poe's face, closed the file, and put it back in the cabinet. Licking his lips and saying nothing, he punched some numbers on a wall panel and the door opened. He whispered, "After you."

  "Thanks."

  Delatorre led Poe back through the maze, back out to reception, walked with him halfway through the casino. Then he stopped. "I still think you owe me a picture, Rom."

  Poe grinned. "I promise I won't play in your pits."

  Delatorre stared at him. "Fucking Digger."

  Poe ignored the insult. "I'll keep in touch."

  "Fine," Delatorre said. "Only next time, use a phone."

  FOUR

  AT TWENTY-THREE, Brittany Newel had hit the skids—a bargain-basement whore whose rapid descent from high-priced showgirl/call girl to ten-buck-a-pop blow jo
bs had been made possible by Mr. Crack. Her address led Jensen to a seedy bungalow apartment complex in the north side of town. Brittany had lived with a roommate named Ria—a pale wisp of a woman also running on a fast track to nowhere.