CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

The Mercury Resort and Casino was one of the newest hotels on the Strip, a sprawling, thirty-three floor behemoth. It boasted five different restaurants, a nightclub, forty high-end shops, a full-service day spa, and the world’s longest waterslide—the Quicksilver, a long, knotted tube that stretched from the eighteenth floor of the hotel down to an amoeba-shaped pool below. It was a pleasure dome that would likely have disappointed S.T. Coleridge but was right in the wheelhouse of a Baton Rouge dermatologist with money to burn.

Veronica stood for a moment outside her $300-per-night room. A few feet away, a small black table held a towering ikebana arrangement, a cluster of plum branches and irises arcing out at surreal angles. She glanced around, then carefully set a tiny wireless nanny cam just behind the vase. It was synced to her phone, and showed a clear shot of her own door.

Then she went into the room and dialed Isabella’s number. She got the girl’s voice mail. “Hi, this is Isabella. Do leave me a message.”

“Um, hi. I’m at the Mercury, room 347. It’s Veronica.”

Congratulations, Veronica. You’ve just ordered your first call girl.

Then she settled in to wait.

No one could accuse the Mercury of blandness. Thick amethyst carpet covered the floor of her room. The walls were papered in an elaborate gray filigree, the curtains and bedspread shiny white. But there was a tiny tear along the base of the velvet armchair, exposing just a centimeter of yellowed foam cushion beneath. In Vegas, the veneer of glamor was bright but thin. You didn’t have to look that hard to see the darker realities that lurked beneath the surface.

Isabella hadn’t specified a time for their meeting, and Veronica hadn’t thought to ask. An hour ticked by, then another. Every time she heard footsteps she whipped out her phone and checked the camera. The only people she saw were other tourists heading back to their rooms.

She thought about calling the agency again, but if their phone call was any indication, Isabella wasn’t the kind of person who’d respond well to being hounded. So Veronica kept waiting, too on edge to turn on the TV or open the New Yorker she’d brought to read on the plane.

Maybe she got cold feet. Or maybe someone stopped her from coming. The thought sent a stab of cold through Veronica’s stomach. She’d gleaned from her research that a lot of escort agencies were scarcely better than pimps, bullying and manipulating the girls in their employ. What if someone had decided to silence her?

When a soft knock came at the door she jumped and looked down at her phone. The screen was black. Someone outside the door had turned the nanny cam facedown.

She stood on her toes and stared through the peephole. There, in front of her door, was Isabella. Unlike the escorts in other cities, the Vegas girls tended to show their faces on their websites; both Isabella and Madelyn Chase had been fully visible when Veronica looked them up. Isabella was abundantly curvy; she bore a passing resemblance to a young Monica Bellucci, if Monica had the word “goddess” tattooed along the curve of one full breast.

Veronica opened the door.

“Isabella…” She stopped as an enormous man shouldered around from behind the door and into the room. Isabella stepped in behind him and quickly shut the door.

“…and friend,” Veronica finished lamely. The man was at least six-five, cleanly bald, and unsmiling. A black sports coat strained to contain his bulk. His head was massive, his features broad and stony, as if he’d been rough-chiseled from a boulder. Gold hoops glinted from his ears. Veronica took a few steps back as he advanced into the room. She bumped into the bed and lost her balance. Suddenly, the man’s brawny arm shot around her shoulder. She tensed for a moment, then she realized he’d reached out to keep her from falling.

“Careful there.” His voice was a bass rumble. Her breath came back to her all at once, a sharp stab in her lungs. She gently detached herself from his arm.

“I didn’t know to expect an entourage. I would have ordered us a cheese platter. Some Bellinis. Maybe some hookers. Make a party of it,” Veronica said, looking from Isabella to the giant.

“Oh, funny. She’s funny, Sweet Pea.” Isabella leaned against the wall, a cool, haughty tilt to her chin. She reached into her purse and pulled out an engraved cigarette case.

“I think this is a non-smoking room,” Veronica said.

Isabella lit her cigarette and exhaled a long stream of smoke in Veronica’s direction. “Guess they might hit you with a $200 upcharge then. They’re thieves.”

Veronica wondered, fleetingly, if she’d been somehow set up. If the plan had been to rob her, or worse. She thought about the gun in the holster at the small of her back. It didn’t seem the right time to go for it, though—not yet. She forced an expression of calm as Sweet Pea walked quickly to the bathroom, turned on the light, and looked around. Then he came back into the bedroom.

Isabella raised her cigarette to her lips again, exhaling in a long, cool stream overhead. “I read about you. After the Bonnie DeVille thing. You’re shorter than I expected.”

“Yeah? You’re more people than I expected,” Veronica said, glancing at Sweet Pea. “So neither of us got what we were counting on.”

Sweet Pea spoke. “Couldn’t be helped. You call us up out of the blue, asking about missing girls, I got to be involved.”

That got her attention. “Missing? Madelyn Chase is missing?”

Sweet Pea and Isabella exchanged a quick glance before he spoke again.

“Since December of last year.”

A sudden sick feeling came over Veronica. She stared at Sweet Pea, trying to see if this was some kind of con. His expression didn’t falter.

“You didn’t know that?” Isabella broke in. She sounded almost angry.

Veronica shook her head. “No, I…I don’t know anything about Madelyn. That’s why I’m here.”

Sweet Pea pulled a chair out from under the desk and offered it to Isabella. She shook her head impatiently, so he sat down himself.

“So what is it you do know?” he asked.

Veronica crossed her arms over her chest.

“I know the confidentiality issues in the PI business are probably similar to those in the escort business,” she said. “You know I can’t just tell you what I’m investigating.”

Isabella pushed off the wall, jabbing at the air with her cigarette. “You knew something happened to Maddy, and you’d better start talking, or I’m—”

“Hey.” Though Sweet Pea’s voice wasn’t loud, it filled the room. He gave Isabella a meaningful look. “Everyone in here wants information, okay?” He turned back to Veronica. “How about you tell us what you came out here to find, and we’ll see where it takes us?”

Veronica sat down slowly on the edge of the bed. I guess I can give them a version of the truth. Tit for tat. “A woman I know in Neptune was assaulted by a client in March. She’s an escort. I’m trying to help her prove it was a rape. I’m sure you know all the reasons why that’s tough to prove.” She glanced at Isabella, who was slouching back against the wall again. “I’m trying to find other victims. If I can show this is a pattern I can force the issue. The cops won’t be able to ignore it, then.”

Isabella gave an angry snort. Sweet Pea frowned.

“And what makes you think the same guy did something to Madelyn?” he asked.

She hesitated. Isabella, at the very least, had googled her. And something told her Sweet Pea was smarter than most in his line of work. If she said too much she’d risk them tracing the same set of clues she’d found. She didn’t know what they’d do with that information and she couldn’t afford a loose cannon.

“Can you tell me a little more about Madelyn’s disappearance?” she deflected. “Is anyone looking for her?”

“What do you think we’re doing?” Isabella went to the corner sink and filled a cup with water. She threw her cigarette in and placed it on the counter. When she turned back she seemed calmer.

“I meant the cops.”

“Oh, I talked to the cops,” Isabella interrupted. “They don’t give a shit. They have her picture in a file somewhere, but they’re not doing anything to find her.” She sat down on the edge of the bed, across from Veronica. Her eyes were dark, almost black—restless and sharp. “Maddy and I were friends. I want to know what happened to her.”

“When exactly did she go missing?”

“December sixth, 2012,” Isabella said promptly. “It was a Friday. We met for drinks at Emerald’s at around nine. I had a date at eleven at the Four Seasons. She wasn’t prebooked that night, and she was debating whether or not to go work the floors.”

“Work the floors?” Veronica asked.

“Yeah, sometimes we hang out at the casinos, talk up guys, see who’s spending money and who’s making money. It sucks, though, because you’re hoofing it all over the Strip, and a lot of times you strike out or waste a lot of time with a guy who turns out to be a cheapskate. We only do it if it’s been a slow couple weeks. She was thinking about heading home and taking a night off. But a few minutes before I took off, she got a call. A client.” Isabella smoothed out the tassels on one of the pillows, her brow crinkled. “She agreed to meet him at midnight. I left right after that. That was the last I ever saw her.”

“When did you try to contact her again?” Veronica asked. “And how long was it before you realized something was wrong?”

“I texted her the next morning. She never answered back. That was a little weird, but not raise-the-alarms kinda weird. Our schedules are so crazy, sometimes we’re not in contact for weeks at a time. But a few nights later she had a big client on the books—one of her regulars, a guy she’d never stand up without good reason—and she didn’t show. That’s when we knew something was up.”

Veronica furrowed her brow. “She went alone to meet this last-minute client, the one she knew nothing about?” She gave Sweet Pea a sidelong look. “Is that how it normally works in your agency?”

Sweet Pea’s expression didn’t falter. “We usually do send someone out with the girls, especially if they’re seeing someone new. Mad called in that night, asked for someone to come around, but we didn’t have no one free. She still wanted to take the job. Well, good luck telling one of these hos what to do, you know what I’m sayin’?” Isabella snorted again, but this time with more humor than anger. “I ain’t no pimp. The girls, they’re independent contractors. We just do booking and security. So she went ahead on her own.” His knuckles tightened almost reflexively. “But you’re right. It was a lapse. And I don’t like lapses.”

Somehow, his businesslike demeanor was even more terrifying than if he’d raged or snarled. Veronica suddenly had no doubt that this was a man who’d hurt people, methodically, dispassionately.

“Did you know anything about the client?” she asked. “Where he was staying, who he was?”

“He said his name was Mike and he was staying here, at the Mercury. She was supposed to text Sweet Pea the room number but she never did. She could be a flake like that,” Isabella said.

Veronica didn’t answer for a moment. It was all too easy to imagine Madelyn Chase arriving at Bellamy’s room, forgetting to check in before she knocked. Figuring she could text them from the bathroom once she got in and saw if the guy was okay or not. Never quite getting the chance—because Bellamy had learned to strike quickly if something set him off.

“Did you check her house, contact her family?”

“Maddy wasn’t in touch with her family,” Isabella said. “I got the feeling they were assholes. She grew up in West Texas but she told me she ran away when she was sixteen. And yeah, I went to her condo. I had a key—I used to take care of her cat when she was out of town. Anyway, she wasn’t there, but all her stuff was. There wasn’t any sign that she’d packed up and left. And Taffy was there—she loved that fucking cat. She wouldn’t have left her behind without arranging for someone to take care of her.”

“I’m assuming Madelyn Chase wasn’t her real name?”

Isabella shook her head. “Of course not. I’ve got no idea what her birth name was, though. The name on her condo was Molly Christensen, but that turned out to be a fake.” She rolled her eyes. “The cops got a lot more interested in finding her when they realized she’d committed identity fraud.”

“This guy you’re looking into. He hurt a lot of girls?” Sweet Pea asked in an almost offhanded way, like he was asking about the weather.

Veronica hesitated. “Three for sure. Four if I can prove he did something to Madelyn.”

He nodded slowly. “Gonna be straight with you, because you seem like you don’t mess around.” He crossed his large hands in his lap. “I think you know as well as we do that the cops ain’t gonna touch this guy. Let’s say you find a girl who’ll testify, which I wouldn’t put money on. That don’t mean you’ll find a cop who’ll take it seriously, or a lawyer, or a judge, or a jury. But there are other options.” The guy didn’t do anything ominous when he said it—didn’t crack his knuckles or punch his fist—but the words sent a chill down Veronica’s spine nonetheless.

“Options?”

He gave a little shrug. “You know. Maybe you give me this guy’s information. Then you head on back to your nice little ’burb on the beach, and I make sure the right people look into the matter.”

The air in the room became dense, weighted down by the silence. She could feel Isabella’s eyes on her, sharp and searching. She thought back to Dan Lamb’s sneering face when she’d taken the case to him. Would it make any difference if she found another victim—if she found a dozen victims? These girls lived in a world that only tenuously overlapped with society at large. The law offered them no protection. They were disposable.

Veronica took a deep breath.

“Thanks, Sweet Pea. But I’m going to keep doing this my way.”

His jaw tightened slightly, but he didn’t argue with her.

“Suit yourself,” he said. He stood up and went to the little writing desk, opened the top drawer. He took out a notepad and jotted something down. Then he ripped off the page and handed it to her.

“My cell,” he said. “In case you change your mind.”

For a moment she thought about protesting, handing it back, throwing it away. That’s not how I do things, she’d say. Dirty as this world is, I’ve got to stay clean.

But she didn’t. Instead, she folded the piece of paper and slid it in her purse.

“In case I change my mind,” she echoed.

Date: 2015-12-18; view: 578