Diva Las Vegas (19 page)

“You already said that.”

“I know. I thought you should hear it again.”

He was quiet for a second.

“I missed you, too,” he said. “Bye.”

 

I finished my scenes earlier than I thought and was going through my bag when I found the business card from the Whitney Institute. Hmmm. Should I? Oh, why not. I called upstairs.

“Hey, George. Can you have someone cover for you and take off early?”

“Why?”

“Are you in the mood to do a little sleuthing?”

“Does this have to do with Shana’s murder?”

“Yes, it does.”

“Um, one second.” I heard him talking to someone in the room. They went back and forth for a while. Finally, George came back on the line. “Let’s go, Nancy Drew.”

“What are we doing in Bev Hills?” George asked as I craned my neck to see the addresses.

“I want to check out this Whitney Institute. It’s supposed to be on Canon Drive. Ooh. There it is.”

Turns out I didn’t need the address. The building was midblock and stood out like the clichéd sore thumb. The architecture was modern, all white concrete and metal beams. Out in front was a large bronze sign on a slab of white concrete that said THE WHITNEY INSTITUTE. Underneath it, in smaller letters, FORLONG-LIFE RESEARCH.

We drove around the block again, looking for the impossible: a parking space. Just when I thought I might have to valet at a nearby restaurant, one opened up. I eased my car in and put it in park. And there we sat.

“What now?” George asked. “Why are we here?”

“I’m not really sure, Georgie. Let’s go in and snoop around.”

“Wait. Don’t you want to brief me? What should I say? Do I need another identity?”

“Don’t get carried away. I just want to see if I can get some info on this doctor that Shana knew.”

I reached for the handle to get out, then pulled back my hand. I knew Jakes would be mad at me for this, but we were already there, right?

 

The lobby was glass and marble. Sitting behind a marble partition at what was probably a very expensive desk was a woman who looked to be the double of the girl Jakes told me he had talked to at Dr. Reynolds’s office in Las Vegas. She was probably twenty-five, with pale, perfect skin, clear blue eyes and delicately arched eyebrows. In front of her, in a half dozen little holders, were business cards of all the doctors who apparently had offices in the building. All white with embossed gold lettering, just like the one I had in my purse.

“Yes?” she asked. She seemed surprised that we were even standing in front of her. “May I help you?”

I looked from George to her, and I was stumped for a moment. What should I say I was there for? I wasn’t even really sure what the Whitney Institute did. So I just threw it out there.

“I’d like to see Dr. Reynolds.”

“Who?”

“Dr. Eugene Reynolds.”

She looked puzzled. In an over-the-top, bad-acting kind of way.

“I don’t think we have a Dr. Reynolds here,” she said, indicating the collection of business cards in front of her. George didn’t believe her, either. He covertly reached out and pinched my thigh.

“Ow! Oh, really?” I tried to cover my pain by bending down and getting a closer look at the cards. Kettering, Fischman, Cohen, Lyman, Sloan and Galloway. No Dr. Reynolds.

“See?” she said smugly.

I opened my purse, took out the business card Jakes had found in Reynolds’s house, held it in front of her face and said, “See?”

She stared at it, and her eyebrows arched a little bit higher. She looked legitimately surprised.

“Oh,” she said. “One moment.”

She picked up the phone and dialed a number; she waited while it must have rung a half dozen times.

“Mr. Bennett? It’s Julie, at reception. There’s a woman and gentleman here asking for Dr. Reynolds.” She listened for a moment, then lowered her voice and said, “I
did
, but she has his
card
.”

She listened again, then said, “All right,” and hung up.

“Mr. Bennett will be right with you.”

“Mr. Bennett?”

“He’s the administrator of this facility,” she said, as if speaking to a child.

“Oh, doesn’t that sound so very important,” I said, before I could stop myself.

George pulled me away from her desk to wait—and to stop me from slapping her. He knew me too well.

Moments later, a man came walking down a winding staircase to the lobby. He was actually gliding more than walking, and wore a very expensive suit. I’d bet good money it was high, high-end custom and not off-the-rack. He had the same smooth young skin that the girl had. He looked to be about forty, and his dark, close-cut hair was peppered with gray.

“I want some of whatever he’s having.” George said under his breath. “We’re not in Kansas anymore.”

“May I help you?” he asked. His face didn’t actually move when he talked. It was disturbing.

“I hope so,” I said, assuming a haughty pose. “Your receptionist doesn’t seem to know the names of the doctors you have on staff.”

“And you were looking for . . . ?”

“Dr. Eugene Reynolds.” I held the business card up in front of his face so he could read it, and then pulled it away before he could grab it from me. As it was, Jakes was going to be furious with me, even more so if I managed to lose the card.

“Ah, actually, Dr. Reynolds is not on staff here,” Bennett said.

“Then why does he have a card?”

“Well, you see, we’re a research facility,” he explained. “Our doctors do not see patients.”

“So then, why does he have a card? Why do these other doctors have cards?” I pointed out.

“Well, our physicians still need to identify themselves to other physicians, other researchers. May I ask where you got that card?”

I acted impatient. “Where do you
think
I got this card?”

He looked at me as if I was boring him to death. “Dr. Reynolds sits on our board of directors. He is very rarely even in this building, unless there’s a meeting in progress.”

“I see.”

“Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“Yes,” I said. “Just what kind of research do you do here?”

“Well, it’s rather involved, but in layman’s terms, I guess you’d say . . . antiaging.”

“Antiaging? What kind of antiaging?” George felt compelled to ask.

Bennett looked at George as if he had just been bored to death a second time. “If you’ll give me your names, I’ll tell the doctor you were here looking for him.”

“No, no,” I said, “you’ve done quite enough. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a card. He handed it to me, saying, “In case I can be of further assistance.”

He didn’t offer to see us out, didn’t even wait for us to leave. He just turned on his heels and went back up the stairs.

“Excuse me?” It was Julie.

“Yes?” I answered, as I put the card back in my purse.

She crooked her finger at me, looking very contrite. I pulled George over to her desk.

“Yes?” I repeated.

“I’m sorry I was so rude, but I just realized . . . aren’t you Alexis Peterson, from
The Bare and the Brazen
?”

“Yes, she is. And you
were
extremely rude to both of us. What makes you think you can treat people that way? Shame on you.” George’s bullshit meter had apparently topped off.

She lowered her voice. “I am so sorry. They train us to act a certain way with people. It’s actually a job requirement.” She looked truly embarrassed. And well she should be.

“That’s okay,” I said, hoping I could get her to talk more. “So, tell me, they don’t see patients here at all?”

“No, not patients,” Julie said. “But they use people in trial runs for certain formulas.”

“Have you been worked on?”

“Well, I can’t really say, but . . . oh, my God, are you considering being a subject? You will love the treatment here.” She stroked the skin of her face and neck. “They can take
years
off. It’s amazing. Not that you need it.” She took a closer look at me. “Oh, well, you probably could use a little work.”

“Can’t we all, sugar? Can’t we all? Well, except for you and your boss.” George was getting slightly annoyed by her attitude. I needed to keep us on track.

“So, you’ve had the treatments?”

“Oh yes.”

I leaned in and lowered my voice.

“May I ask how old you are?”

“I’m thirty-five.” And proud.

I stood back.

“You don’t look a day over twenty-five.”

She smiled and said, “I know!”

 

“Okay, so they look good. If you like that
Stepford, Vampire Lestat
kind of thing,” George was saying as I pulled away from the curb. “I really wanted to tickle that doctor and see if he would crack.”

“Something’s weird about that place, and it’s got nothing to do with the receptionist. I know BOTOX when I see it, and that’s all she’s had.”

“She obviously thinks you’re considering joining one of their trials,” George said. “Maybe she was just trying to help you decide. She seems to be a fan.”

“Ya think?”

We drove in silence.

“Hey, Alex?” he said. “I think this whole thing with Shana got to me more than I realized at first.”

“You mean finding her body?” I turned to look at him.

“Her being dead. I mean, one minute she was there with us, being a total diva, and then the next she was gone. It really made me think about how short life is. And how we just never really know what’s going to happen. I think maybe I’m suffering from PTSD. I guess that’s why I gave you a hard time. I just needed my friend.”

“Oh, Georgie. I’m sorry if you thought I was blowing you off. I’ve been trying to figure out a lot of things lately.”

“Anything you want to talk about now?” George said, ever the good friend.

“You’re sweet.” I sighed. “Anything
you
want to talk about now?”

“I think I’ll save it for martinis and dinner later this week.” We were pulling back into the studio.

“Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow.” I hugged him.

“Be careful, crazy girl.”

“You betcha!” I smiled and watched him walk to his car.

“Hold on a second, Jakes.” I said. “Sarah’s asleep; I’m closing her door.” I made sure she was, and then sat down on the sofa with the phone and a glass of merlot.

“Go.”

“The other roommate also claimed not to be that friendly with the dead girl, Linda. Didn’t know who she was meeting or where.” I was waiting with baited breath, but he didn’t continue.

“And that’s it?” I asked.

“Well, there was something odd about her.”

“What?”

“Same as the other girl,” he said. “Wrinkles around her eyes. Both girls look older than they claim to be.”

“So either they were lying about their ages,” I said, “or there’s something going on.”

“Well,” Jakes said, “we know there’s something going on. We just have to find out what.”

That was when I said it.

“I think I have an idea.”

“About what?”

“The Whitney Institute.”

“I’m going to check it out tomorrow.”

“Well . . . I went there today.”

And that was when he said, “You did what?”

I grabbed my glass and went out onto the back deck, overlooking the canal.

“What were you thinking?” he asked urgently.

“To be fair,” I said, “I was careful. I took George along.”

“As a bodyguard? George? Are you kidding me?”

“That’s mean. And unnecessary.” The best defense is a good offense, after all.

“And you two lunatics went inside?”

“Well,” I said, “Of course. We were there, so . . .”

“Jesus, Alex, you may have just painted a target on your back.”

“I was just trying to help,” I said.

“I told you I’d be going there tomorrow.”

“Yes, but you have to show them your badge,” I said. “You wouldn’t have found out what I did.”

“What did you find out?”

I told him about my first conversation with the receptionist, then my talk with Mr. Bennett and, finally, my last conversation with the receptionist.

“So the girl looks younger than she is, and the institute is studying antiaging?”

“Right,” I said. “So maybe that’s what Shana was going to Reynolds about. And the dead girl in Vegas. And what about those two showgirls?”

“They look older than they are, not younger,” he pointed out.

“It’s still aging,” I said. “It’s still a connection, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, maybe,” he said.

“So what are you thinking?” I asked.

“I’m thinking I’ll still go to the institute tomorrow and ask around,” he said. “But meanwhile, I’d like to have the two MEs—LA and Vegas—have another look at the bodies.”

“For what?”

“Signs of aging—or antiaging. I don’t know. If this is what we’re dealing with, it’s all getting kind of . . . science fiction-like.”

“Antiaging is a big business,” I told him. “Infomercials are running all night long, and every woman over twenty-five is looking for help.”

“Well, you’re not.”

“I’m not getting any younger, Jakes,” I said. “And believe me, high-def doesn’t let you hide anything.”

“Are you telling me you use antiaging products?” he asked.

“Of course! I’ve even been known to have chemical peels on occasion.”

“Would you ever go to the extreme? A face-lift?”

“Not yet, but get back to me in five years. Getting older isn’t easy. Especially on TV, in front of the whole world.”

“I think you’re beautiful the way you are. Inside and out. High-def, low-def—whatever.”

“Thanks,” I said. I think I was blushing.