Diva Las Vegas (17 page)

“Well, yeah,” he said, shrugging. “What’s the matter? You don’t like my answers?”

“Your answers were very . . . sweet,” I said. “I don’t think I like the questions.”

“Oh, Alex,” Jakes said. “She was just making conversation in the car, the way partners do.”

I stared at him again.

“What?” he asked, truly puzzled.

“You’re such a man,” I said. “Continue.”

 

Jakes had decided to go visit Barry Stern, Shana’s ex-husband, without Cushing. He wasn’t sure how he was going to play it, and didn’t want to have to consider Cushing if he decided to play bad cop with the ex. He didn’t need a good cop along.

Barry Stern lived in a condo that was located right across the street from the Rio hotel, on West Flamingo Road, just a couple of blocks off the strip. The doorman told Jakes he wouldn’t find Mr. Stern at home that time of day.

“Where would I find him, then?” Jakes asked, showing his badge. “I know he’s not in LA, working on his show.”

“At this time, try the Rio,” the man said. “You might catch him before he moves onto the Strip.”

“And what would I find him playing?” Jakes asked. “Poker?”

“Naw,” the man said. “He ain’t got caught up in all that. He plays blackjack.”

Jakes thanked the man, got in his car and drove across the street.

 

The Rio was decorated in a Mardi Gras motif. If Jakes had gone into the back section, he would have seen tracks in the ceiling for the Masquerade Show in the Sky. But he didn’t have to go that far to find the blackjack tables.

When Shana had been killed and Jakes found out she had been married to an actor from
The Bare and the Brazen
, he had gone to his computer and looked him up on IMDB. Sure enough, a couple of recent photos had been posted. So when he checked the blackjack tables at the Rio, it was easy to find Stern sitting at the last one, seat three. Seats one, two and four were empty.

Jakes came up alongside him just as he busted out of a hand by drawing a fourth card.

“Take a break,” he said.

Stern looked at him.

“You kiddin’? I’m just about to get hot.”

“It’ll have to wait.”

“Who says?”

Jakes showed his badge.

“You’re not in your backyard, Detective.”

“I’m branching out.”

The dealer, an old guy who looked like maybe he’d dealt Billy the Kid a hand or two, was waiting.

“Deal,” Stern said.

“Don’t,” Jakes said. He looked at Stern. “Let’s talk.”

Stern’s matinee-idol face—peppered with lines that made an actor distinguished and an actress desperate—scrunched up into a look of distaste.

“Is that the only way I’m going to get to play?”

“Looks like it.”

He slid a twenty-dollar chip over to the dealer.

“Keep my seat warm,” he said.

He slid off his stool and started to walk with Jakes.

“Where are we goin’?” Stern asked.

“This is your turf,” Jakes said. “Aim for the bar.”

“This way.”

 

When they were sitting at the bar with coffee in front of Jakes and a beer in front of Stern, Jakes said, “I’m here about your ex-wife.”

“I talked to the police about that already,” Stern said. “That was . . . a shame. Shana wasn’t a bad person, just . . . a little hard to live with.”

“You talked to my partner,” Jakes said. “But since I was here in Vegas, I felt we should talk face-to-face.”

“Well,” Stern said, “that’s okay, except I don’t know what I can tell you.”

“You can tell me about Dr. Eugene Reynolds.”

“Gene? What about him?”

“Shana was a patient of his, right?”

“Well, yeah, that’s right.”

“Do you know the doctor?”

“I met him when Shana decided to go to him. We became kind of close, me and Shana, him and his wife, Janet.”

“What, exactly, did Shana go to him for?” Jakes asked.

“Well, she wasn’t getting any younger, so she decided to, you know, get some help.” He held his hands out in front of his chest.

“You went along with it?”

“Hey, I loved her.”

“Loved?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Things went bad after that.”

“Because of Reynolds?”

“Yeah, but not for the reason you’d think. After he did her breasts, she wanted more. I didn’t want her to become addicted to the surgery, but she wouldn’t listen. Later, she needed painkillers more and more. I didn’t know why she needed them, but I helped her get them. When I realized she was getting hooked on them, I kept them from her. That’s when we . . . parted.”

Jakes figured that was why Alex had found so many bottles in Barry’s dressing room.

“Amicably?”

“I tried to keep it friendly, but she was . . . changing. She was angry all the time, and nervous. She didn’t want me around. I guess I should have tried harder. Maybe she’d still be alive. I’m sorry she’s dead. I took some time off from work to kind of get over it.”

“In a casino?”

Stern had the good grace to look embarrassed.

“This is what I do when I’m not working,” Stern said. “Keeps my mind off . . . other things.”

“Other things?”

“You know,” Stern said. “Problems. Uh, everyday things. You know.”

“I know,” Jakes said. “The kinds of things we all have to deal with . . . in our own way.”

“That’s right.”

“Well,” Jakes said, stepping down from his stool, “I’ve kept you from your game long enough.”

“Oh, that’s okay,” Stern said. “Do you, uh, have any leads on who killed Shana?”

“One or two,” Jakes said. “We’ll follow them up and see where they take us.”

“Will you be heading back to LA?”

“Yep,” Jakes lied. “Probably in the morning. Thank you for your time, Mr. Stern.”

Jakes put out his hand and Barry Stern shook it.

“What about you?” he asked. “Going back to work soon?”

“Oh yeah,” Stern said, “later this week. Wouldn’t want them writing me off the show.”

“No,” Jakes said, “you sure wouldn’t.”

“Doesn’t seem to me you got very much out of him,” I said, when Jake finished his story.

“No,” he said. “I’m sure there was something he wasn’t telling me.”

“Why didn’t you pressure him?”

“If he does know something, I didn’t want to scare him off,” Jakes said. “I want him coming back to LA, where I have more authority.”

“So when he comes back to work . . .”

“I’ll press him.”

“Then why question him here in Vegas at all?”

“If I thought he was clean after talking to him, I’d leave him alone,” Jakes said. “But he’s not. So I’ll wait.”

“You’re pretty smart for a cop,” I said.

 

Dr. Eugene Reynolds lived in an area of the city called Lake Las Vegas, surprisingly close to his office. As upscale as Spanish Hills had been, Lake Las Vegas earned the word
ritzy
.

It wasn’t a gated community. It was
too
fancy for that. The homes were hidden behind high walls, and had their own wrought-iron gates out front.

“How the heck are you going to break into this place?” I asked, as Jakes pulled up alongside the wall.

“I scoped it out already,” he said. “We’re parked under this tree, so nobody can see us. It’s dark, but it’s even darker right here. I’m going to climb over that wall and make my way to the house.”

“What about alarms?”

“I’ll be careful.”

“And dogs?”

“I’ve got some ground round in my pocket.”

I turned my head and stared at him.

“For real?”

“For real.”

“I hope you lined your pocket with plastic first.”

He smiled at me.

“The meat’s in a Baggie, Alex. Don’t worry. I won’t ruin my jacket.”

He unscrewed the bulb from the dome light and then opened his door to get out. I put my hand on his arm to stop him.

“What?”

“Are you sure I can’t go with you?”

He closed the door.

“Can you scale that wall?”

“I probably could. I’ve done a lot of my own stunts.” Then I realized just how stupid that sounded, so I said, “Okay, so that doesn’t count. I’ve never tried to scale a
real
wall.”

“Well, this one’s ten feet high.”

“Then how are you going to get over it?”

“See that tree?” The huge tree we had parked under was outside the wall, not inside.

“Yes.”

“The trunk is close enough for me to use both of them,” he explained. “Don’t worry. I’ll get over it.”

“What about getting back over it?” she asked. “You don’t even know what’s on the other side.”

“I may have to find another spot,” he said, “but I will. You stay right here the whole time. You can see the front gate from here. Anybody shows up, you call my cell and then drive away.”

“What? Drive away? Why?”

“Because as soon as you call me you’ll have to get out of here before somebody sees you.”

“What about you?”

“Don’t worry; I’ll get out,” he said. “But the only person who might show up is the doctor himself. Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad, huh?”

“If he catches you in his house without a warrant—” I started, but he cut me off with a kiss—a long kiss.

“For luck,” he said, leaving me breathless. “I’ll see you soon.”

“You better.”

He zipped his dark Windbreaker up over his dark T-shirt, opened the door and got out, closing it quickly behind him. I moved over to the driver’s seat to be near the horn and to see better.

I had to admit that Jakes moved gracefully. His black jeans and running shoes completed his burglary uniform. He hurried to the tree, braced himself between the tree trunk and the wall—back against the wall, feet against the tree—and began to move up the wall. When he got high enough, he was able to use branches to get on top of the wall. He paused there, and then either dropped to the other side or fell.

I wouldn’t know which for a while.

Later Jakes told me that as soon as he touched down on the other side, he knew he was going to have to find another spot to get back over. But that would come later. He flexed his knees and ankles, found them unharmed by the drop, then started to make his way across the vast lawn to the house. Luckily, he made it without encountering any dogs.

When he reached the house, he made his way to the front door. A quick check revealed, to his experienced eye, that the house was indeed alarmed. He was going to have to find another way in—another door, or perhaps a window.

It had also been Jakes’s experience that wealthy people were cheap people. He’d known a lot of doctors and lawyers in LA who would alarm the first floor of their house, but not the second. It was stupid, and the alarm companies tried to tell them that, but there you go. They always thought the companies were just trying to hit them up for more money.

He hoped that a Las Vegas doctor would have the same attitude.

Dr. Reynolds’s house turned out to be a “cracker box”—one that’s easily opened. Jakes found a trellis in the back that led to a second-floor balcony. From there he was able to jimmy open a balcony door and enter the house.

He found himself in an upstairs library. Taking a small flashlight from his pocket, he began to search, moving on instinct. He’d know what he was looking for when he found it.

He quickly went through the room, which seemed to be strictly for show. Shelves were loaded with books, but there was nothing personal anywhere. Except for a box with some photos. He assumed they belonged to Dr. Reynolds. Photos with a dog. Dr. Reynolds in a lab coat—complete with name tag—surrounded by others in lab coats. Dr. Reynolds and another woman with Shana and Barry Stern. He wondered if that was because they were really friends, or if it was just the doc showing off his celebrity acquaintances. That one he put in his pocket.

From there he went into the hall and found the master bedroom. It was spotless, the bed made, bathroom towels dry. He went through the doctor’s medicine chest, but found nothing.

There were other bedrooms upstairs, but they all had the same look—cold and impersonal. The doctor apparently wasn’t much of a homebody.

He decided to go downstairs.

He took the stairs carefully, just in case the floor was alarmed. Leave it to a cheap doctor to save money upstairs, but go top-of-the-line downstairs.

As it turned out, he didn’t have to worry. There were no trip switches or infrared sensors on the first floor of the house.

He found the living room and dining room with no problem, but didn’t waste his time searching them. He just kept on going until he found the good doctor’s office. He checked his watch, saw that he had been in the house for more than a half hour. He worried that I had almost hit the horn several times already. After all, I was an amateur, but unlike most amateurs, he did not expect me to panic. He knew I had a natural talent for detective work.