Diva Las Vegas (11 page)

“So he knows I’m here?”

“Um, yeah, Detective Cushing knows you’re here. Just have a seat.”

There was a row of multicolored plastic seats with metal legs, the kind you see in a lot of government buildings. Jakes picked out an orange one and sat down to wait.

After twenty minutes, he was about to approach the sergeant again when a dark-haired woman wearing an expensively tailored suit and high heels approached him. She was in her thirties, attractive in a stern sort of way—if you liked that type.

“Detective Jakes?”

He stood up.

“That’s right. I’m waiting for Detective Cushing. Is there a prob—”

“No problem, sir,” she said. “I’m Detective Cushing.” She extended her hand. He went to shake it, but she pulled it back. “Can I see your ID?”

Oh, boy, he thought.

He produced his badge and ID and handed them to the lady detective. Jakes was not a chauvinist. He had worked with many women in the LAPD. He was just surprised that no one—not the sheriff or the desk sergeant—had indicated that Detective Cushing was a woman. Probably their idea of being funny.

Detective Cushing gave Jakes his ID back.

“How can I help you, Detective?”

“Is there somewhere we can talk?” he asked. “Your office? Your desk?”

“I have a better idea,” she said, “if you don’t mind. I’d like to get out of the building.”

“Sure.”

“Do you have a problem if we take my car?” she asked.

“No, not at all.”

“Good.”

She led the way out the front door. Jakes took a quick look behind him and saw the sergeant talking with a couple of men in uniform. They were laughing.

At that point, he felt like the butt of the joke—only he didn’t know what it was yet.

“Wait a minute,” I said, staring at him across the table. “Back up.”

He took a sip of his café au lait. “How far?”

“Back to the part where Detective Cushing is a lady.”

“Oh, that far.”

“You said she was attractive in kind of a stern way?” I asked.

“Well, yeah, you know,” he said, “the way some businesswomen are when they’re dressed for work.”

“You mean like your ex-captain?”

“Yeah, kind of like her.”

“Jakes, are you playing her down a bit?” I asked.

“Why would I do that?”

“Maybe because you think you need to?” I asked. “Maybe you think I would be jealous?”

“Would you?”

“No,” I said. “Okay, never mind. This isn’t even the important part.” Annoyed with myself for having brought it up, I took a bite of triple-layer chocolate cake and said, “Just go ahead with your story.”

“Okay . . .”

 

Detective Cushing drove them in her Toyota Prius to the Venetian, where they valet parked and then walked up to the Grand Canal Shoppes.

“Why here?” he asked.

“I like it here,” she said.

There were shops on both sides of the canal. Gondolas floated by.

“Why don’t you tell me what you need while we walk?” she suggested.

He told her about Shana’s murder and the medicines they found that led them to the doctor in Las Vegas.

“When we called your department to check on the doctor, we didn’t get much cooperation.”

“Well . . . whenever you LA boys come to town you, uh, usually have an attitude.”

“I hope I’m not projecting any attitude now,” Jakes said. “I really need your help—detective to detective.”

“Actually, we’re not,” she said.

“So you’re not a detective?”

“No, no, I am, but it’s a little different in Vegas than in LA. See, here detective is an assignment, not a rank. If tomorrow they wanted to stick me on traffic duty, I’d just be a police officer. Get it?”

“Yes, I do. So what was the joke back at your HQ?”

“What do you mean?”

“They were laughing as we left.”

“Yes, well . . . they think I’m a joke there, so they assigned me to Community Relations.”

Community Relations was an assignment usually given to someone good with people but not very good with real police work.

“I see.” Jakes understood the situation now.

“I can help you, though,” she said. “You want to go and check out this doctor?”

“Yeah, I do. Home and office.”

“Fine,” she said. “Let’s do it. Maybe they think I’m a joke back there—the men, I mean—but that doesn’t mean I am.”

“No, of course not.”

“Let me have the doctor’s name and his addresses,” she said, putting her left hand out. He noticed there was no ring on her finger.

“Would you like a cup of coffee first?” he asked.

 

“So you noticed she wasn’t wearing a ring, and you bought her coffee,” I said, finishing up my own cup.

“I’m a detective,” he said. “I notice things. And the truth is, I wanted some coffee. It would have been rude not to offer.”

“Of course,” I said. Jakes suddenly saw something.

“Isn’t that your mother and Sarah?”

I nearly dropped my coffee cup. Sure enough, walking by the entrance of Olives were my mom and Sarah. I guess Sarah had gone stir-crazy in the room and needed to explore. They stopped there briefly as Sarah pointed to the fountains in front of the hotel and then continued on their way.

“Let’s go say hello.”

“No! Jakes, no.”

“Why not? Because your mother doesn’t know I’m here. Does she?” Jakes looked a little hurt.

“I just wanted to save myself some grief, you know? My mom isn’t too thrilled about the whole criminal-investigation thing.”

“And not too thrilled with your being involved with me, either. I know.”

“It’s not personal, Jakes. If she really knew you, I know she’d love you.”

“So, what’s stopping her from knowing me?” He reached over the table and held my hand. “Alex, I understand your need to protect Sarah. I really do. But I think it’s time we came out of the closet, so to speak. I want to know your family.” He pulled me closer to him and kissed me softly on the lips.

“Well. That’s something we can talk about when we get back to LA, right?”

“No time like the present, Alex.” He just stared at me, waiting for an answer. So I gave him the only one I had.

“I can’t do this right now. We’re in Vegas. I’m working. When we get home, we’ll come up with a strategy. Okay?”

“Okay, I’m not going to push. For now.” He tossed some bills on top of the check and got up. “Want to come over and check out my fantastic digs? I’ll tell you what happened the rest of my day.”

We exited the restaurant, making sure the coast was clear of moms, kids and fans, and headed out the rear exit of the hotel to his car.

We pulled into the parking lot of a motel away from the strip and casinos. I started to open the car door, but Jakes put his hand out and stopped me.

“Give me five minutes. Okay?” Then he pointed. “Room 23, right over there.”

“Okay.” I was intrigued.

He jumped out and opened the door to his room. I looked around the exterior of the motel, wondering how many hookers had come and gone through those rooms over the course of the past thirty years. Boy, I thought, I bet this place had seen some action. I felt so bad that Jakes was staying here while I was in a palace. And I wondered if I could get him a room at the Bellagio. But would he take it if I could?

I checked my voice mail. Connie had called, of course. I called her back.

“Hey, Al! I’m glad you decided to go.” Connie said in her trademark gravelly voice. “Doesn’t hurt to stay on the producers’ good sides. These days, especially. Be grateful you have a gig. So, how’s it goin’ in Vegas?”

“It’s good, Connie. Pretty typical fan event.” I decided what she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.

“Like I said, it’s just terrific you went. The town is dead. As a doornail. Nothing’s going on with the actors’ strike looming. Take the money and run, Al. Take the money and run.”

“Sure thing, Connie. Thanks. I gotta go. I’ll talk to you next week.” I hung up before she could think of something embarrassing I should audition for.

The dash clock said five minutes had passed, so I got out and headed toward the door. It was slightly ajar. When I walked in, I couldn’t believe my eyes.

“It’s not the Bellagio,” he said, “but it’s all I’ve got.” He closed the door behind me.

The room was quite dark with the shades drawn and the door closed. Jakes had done an incredible job of changing the ambience of the seedy motel room. On every surface were lit candles. A bottle of champagne was chilling in a plastic ice bucket. Through the open bathroom door I could see a tub, brimming with steam and bubbles. The water was still running.

“Jakes! What are you doing?”

“I wanted Vegas to be romantic. This is the best I could come up with under the circumstances.”

“It’s amazing. Thank you.”

I didn’t care where we were at this point. I put my arms around him and hugged him. We kissed slowly and deeply.

“You are so sweet, so sweet,” I murmured as he kissed my neck and slowly removed my blouse. He kissed my breasts lovingly, then undid my skirt. It dropped to the floor. I fumbled with his zipper—jeans and hot weather don’t make for easy removal—and tried to slip out of my thong. Finally, we were just skin to skin. I swear that man made me feel like a teenager. But something was different. I pulled away and looked him in the eyes.

“What’s going on with you? Are you okay?” I asked.

“I’m better than okay,” he said in that sexy, husky voice. He pulled me to him and we made love.

 

Jakes had always been an amazing lover, but this time there was an intensity about him that really took my breath away. Like he couldn’t get enough of me. On top of that, I just hadn’t expected him to be so romantic. It both surprised and delighted me.

Before long, we were in the tub, warm, soapy bubbles all around us. It was one of those skinny tubs from the sixties, so I sat inside his spread legs, my back against his chest. We sipped champagne from plastic cups, and he rubbed my neck, worked some kinks out of my back, then slid his hands around to brush against my breasts.

“Hey, hey, tiger,” I said, “you never finished telling me about your day.” I put my hands over his to stop them from moving. “How about giving me the rest of the story?”

“Not yet,” he said. “Let’s dry off and get comfortable.”

We got out of the bath and started drying each other with the hotel’s threadbare towels. But it didn’t matter. It couldn’t have been nicer or sexier if we had the fluffiest towels.

Jakes got down on his knees and lovingly dried my legs and thighs. When he was done, he planted a kiss on each knee and stood up. Then he offered me his robe or a dry towel to wrap myself in. I could have wrapped the robe around me twice, so I took the towel.

We left the bathroom and went to the bed.

“Where was I . . . ?” he said, as we lay down and spooned.

Jakes and Cushing got into her car after they had coffee and she drove to the doctor’s office. Jakes knew the address, but he said he wouldn’t have been able to find it himself. He and Cushing were talking along the way, comparing notes on their departments and jobs. Actually, he said she was grilling him about working Homicide.

“That’s really what I want to do, but it’s not going to be easy in this department.”

“Are you from here?” he asked.

“Born and bred.”

“So it’d be hard for you to leave and try to join some other department?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I’d be leaving home. . . .”

“Married?” he asked. “Kids?”

“No husband, no kids. I live alone. Don’t even have a cat. Nevertheless, Vegas is home.”

“Would you miss the gambling?”

“Gambling’s for pros and tourists,” she said. “I’ve never felt the urge.”

The doctor’s office was in a two-story brick building just on the outskirts of Lake Las Vegas. She parked and they got out, walked up the walk and entered the building. There was a directory in the lobby that led them to the office on the second floor.

“Looks like he has a pretty classy clientele,” she said.

“Well,” Jakes said, “we know one of them was a
Playboy
centerfold.”

“I guess that puts the word
classy
in doubt,” she said.

Jakes thought that a bit mean-spirited of Cushing. He wondered whether she’d have said the same thing about a showgirl.

They entered the doctor’s office and found themselves in an empty waiting room. Cushing made a show of checking her watch.

“Kind of early to be this empty,” she said.

“Maybe his office hours are later today.”

There was a woman seated behind a desk out in the open, not behind the typical sliding-glass window. She was in her mid-twenties, makeup expertly applied, just the kind of receptionist you’d expect to find in a plastic surgeon’s office. She was wearing a business suit with a skirt. It was obvious the jacket was hiding some impressive—and expensive—assets.