The Dead Don't Speak (14 page)

Simon smiled. For the first time Pushkin saw the star-quality of the man.

"Sorry to take up your time," Pushkin said. He tossed his drink back in a single swallow.

"No problem. Doing your job. Hope you find the guys who did it."

Pushkin nodded, "Me, too. Thanks for the drink."

"Any time."

The detective closed the door softly when he left. He rode the elevator to the ground floor thinking about the conversation with Simon. Two things stood out in Pushkin's mind. First, Simon had called Sarah "it", "Too bad. Young girl, wasn't it?" Second was when he said, "I hope you find the guys who did it." Guys who did it. Who said it was men? And who said there was more than one?

Pushkin stopped by Lenny Murdock's office on his way out. The door was locked; he knocked loudly. No answer. He took a step back and looked under the door. The lights were off.

The detective scribbled a note on the back of his business card and slid it under the door. The note read, "Need security footage from 11th floor - 4 days ago - Call me."

Lenny Murdock placed a call to Daphne Carter on his drive home.

"Daphne, Lenny here. Wanted to let you know the detective investigating Sarah's accident was just here. He wanted to speak with Simon Simmons."

"Simmons, huh? What's the detective's name?"

"Leon Pushkin."

"That's right. Maybe I need to look into Simmons more thoroughly. I did some background research on him while trying to get him to Versailles. He likes the ladies and isn't very discriminating. Makes me wonder. Maybe I'll give Cassandra's dad a call, see if she was acting funny before she disappeared."

"Not a bad idea. May want to find what you can about his manager, also. Hell, we know nothing about the guy. I'd bet he's the brains of the two."

"I'll see what I can find. Talk to you soon, Lenny. If you get a chance, could you have a look around Simmons' place?"

"Will do. Take care, Daphne."

*****

"Your show will open in a month or so," Dylan Tovak told Zach.

"That seems soon. Why so fast?"

"We want to get your name out there as soon as we can. What happened at the Simon Simmons show is still getting some attention; we need to capitalize on that. Put you front and center before people forget who you are."

"A month," Zach repeated to himself. It was just Tovak and he sitting in the entertainment director's office.

"What do you think?"

"I can start whenever. I thought it would take longer. Am I still doing two shows a week?"

Dylan grinned and brought a thick stack of papers from his desk.

"This is your contract. It's just like I outlined for you and your dad a couple days ago. I did add one stipulation; I want you to have private tutors instead of attending school. You'll see that he's already signed it."

"What about a show for Cayte?" Zach asked.

"Blue Room Bar, Sundays and Tuesdays. If she does well we will consider putting her in there on busier nights."

"Is she being paid?"

"I've worked the details out with Margaret. I can't give you any information because you are not a party to the contract." Dylan was beginning to notice that speaking with Zach was not much different from speaking with an adult. The kid was sharp.

"What happens if I'm not happy doing the shows?" Zach asked.

"If you choose not to fulfill your contract your family will have to vacate the company housing. You won't earn the full value of the contract and getting another show in town would be difficult because you would have a reputation. Don't worry, I'm confident we can keep you happy. We deal with the whims of performers all the time.  Plus, you are a down to earth guy. I don't foresee a problem."

Zach liked that Mr. Tovak spoke to him as if they were equals.

"Where do I need to sign?"

Tovak flipped through the pages until he reached the proper one. He pointed the line out and Zach signed his name.

"If you need anything, Julian will be the one you go to. I've decided to give him a shot. He's proven to be a wise investment so far and it's nice to not have to work with people you're not used to."

"Yeah. I like Julian."

"He told me you played a little trick on him and Cayte after our meeting."

"I cold read him," Zach said.

"It's interesting to me, the whole thing. He said after you put on your little show you broke down how you did it."

"Anyone can do it with practice. Julian and Cayte are my friends, I wanted them to know about it."

"Why?" Tovak asked.

"Because I don't want them to fall for it."

"It really surprised Julian. He was in my office not long after telling me he thought you were some kind of genius. Are you some kind of genius?"

Zach shrugged, "I don't know. I've never been tested."

"Would you like to be?"

"It would look good in print," Zach said. "The genius boy psychic of Versailles."

"You catch on quick."

Daphne Carter didn't like hospitals. The smells, the noises, the people bustling around; it was all too sterile and impersonal. Sarah was here, though, so Daphne would make it work. She scanned the Las Vegas Herald headlines looking for details about Cassandra but finding none. She flipped to the entertainment section and her eyes were drawn to the word Versailles. She read the caption under the headshot of a good looking boy.

It read, "Zach Hepson, known for humiliating Simon Simmons on stage, will begin his own show at the Versailles Hotel and Casino."

Daphne threw the newspaper. It opened it mid-air, the pages separated, fanned out, and floated to soft landings all around the floor.

Heat rose in Daphne's cheeks. She took out her cell phone and called Dylan Tovak.

"What the hell do you think you're doing!" Daphne boomed when he answered.

"What do you mean?" Tovak's voice was the epitome of innocence.

"You signed a psychic! The same one who made my prospect look like an asshole at his own show. You've killed any chance of bringing Simmons in." Daphne wasn't going to bring Simmons to Versailles, for obvious reasons, but she was never one to take kindly to being undermined.

"Daphne, the board wouldn't have gone for it. You offered the guy too much. They'd have killed your deal before it was done."

"So you took it upon yourself to save them the trouble?"

"I did what is in the best interest of Versailles. We got this kid for a fraction of what you offered Simmons. And wait 'til you meet him. I've never seen a kid like this in my life."

"The Board should have had the opportunity to hear my proposal."

"The Board hasn't gone anywhere," Dylan said. "You can propose whatever you like to them."

"NOT ANYMORE!"
Daphne shouted into her cell. She quieted herself, remembering she was in a hospital. "When I get back you and I are going to have a very long talk."

"I look forward to it," Dylan said and hung up.

A nurse came into the room, "What's the commotion?"

"I'm sorry, bad news from work. I lost it for a minute."

"Please, try to keep it down," the nurse said.

"I will. I'm sorry."

"And please pick this up," the nurse said, looking at the newspaper pages scattered on the floor.

"No problem," Daphne said and went to work cleaning up her mess.

*****

Simon missed his next show. He spent the time passed out drunk on his leather sofa. Later that night Jimmy Spinner, director of entertainment at Camelot, paid a visit to the suite.

Jimmy knocked loudly on the door, "Mr. Simmons?"

There was no answer. He knocked louder, using the heel of his palm, hitting the door so hard it rattled in its frame.

"Mr. Simmons!"

No answer.

Angry now, Jimmy put his back to the door and repeatedly slammed his foot against it.

Still no answer.

Jimmy pulled out the master keycard and opened the door. The suite was a mess. Furniture was turned over, there was broken glass on the floor, curtains were torn off, and Simmons lay on the only upright piece of furniture in the suite.

Jimmy looked for the suite's phone, he found it behind the bar on the floor, and dialed Lenny Murdock's direct line.

"Lenny Murdock," he answered.

"Lenny, this is Jimmy Spinner. I'm in Simon Simmons’s suite to check on him because he missed a show tonight. The guy is passed out drunk and his suite is trashed. I want him out of here. Can you please send up a couple guys to escort Mr. Simmons off the property?"

"Will do, give them five minutes."

"Thank you, Mr. Murdock."

"You're welcome."

Security arrived three minutes later, much to Jimmy's delight. Simmons was still out cold so the men lifted him off the couch and carried him to the elevator. They carried him through a series of hallways near the back of the building, so as to not disturb the hotel or casino guests, to the alley where there was a cab waiting. The security men instructed the cabbie to take him to Chris's home.

Thirty minutes later the cabbie knocked on Chris's front door. It took a couple minutes but Chris finally came to the door, eyes blurry and red.

"Yeah?"

"I've got Simon Simmons in my cab. He's passed out, smells like a whiskey barrel."

Chris sighed, "Hang on a sec. I’ll help you bring him in."

Chris came outside a moment later in slippers, pajama pants, and a tee shirt. He helped the cab driver get Simon out of the back seat. The driver scurried around his vehicle, hopped in, and sped away-- he had already been paid by Camelot.

"Real nice," Chris said aloud. He dragged Simon into the house and closed the door.

It was a few minutes before Simon woke up.

"W-where am I?"

"At my place, you dick," Chris said.

"Chris?"

"Yes," Chris hated being around drunk people when he was sober. "They kicked you out of your suite. I'd ask where the hell you were tonight but that's obvious."

"They gave that..." Simon gagged.

"Don't puke on my floor!"

Chris took a bucket from under his kitchen sink and slid it in front of Simon. It was a good thing he did because Simon let fly six-straight-hours-of-drinking's worth of putrid vomit. The smell was such that Chris opened a few windows and went back to bed with his door closed.

In the morning Chris found Simon asleep on the floor. He had made the decision the night before but seeing Simon again sealed it. It was time to cut ties and run.

Chris gave Simon a vicious kick in the ribs. He rolled toward the couch, his back up against it, and groaned.

"Get up," Chris said.

"My head..."

"Will be splattered on my floor soon if you don't get up."

Simon used the couch to push himself into a sitting position on the floor. He kept his eyes closed, the morning sun hurt too much. He belched.

"Look at you," Chris said. "You've fallen so far, so fast. But it's all right. We can start over. Remember when we talked about splitting town?"

Simon nodded and then stopped. The slightest movement threatened to rip his skull in two.

"Well, it's time. Today you're going to go back to your suite. They have to hold your stuff for a few days. Talk to the security guy; he should let you pack some things. Get your safe deposit box key, we'll need the money. You can stash it in my floor safe and stay here until it's time for us to leave. I'll be heading to Florida this afternoon to get us a couple new ID's, just in case."

"A detective..." Simon trailed off.

"What?"

"A detective came to see me."

"Nothing to worry about. On the other hand, a detective sniffing around is all the more reason to get this done. You take care of your end today. I'll leave you the combo for the safe. I’ll take care of my end over the next couple days. We'll be nothing but shadows on the Strip in under a week."

*****

Lenny Murdock took the opportunity of Simmons being gone to have a look around his suite. The place was trashed. Simmons would receive a bill for this. The problem with a mess like this was that tossing the place would take three times as long.

He began in the bedroom, going through drawers, flipping the mattress, searching the closet thoroughly, including the pockets of all pants, shirts, and jackets. The bedroom yielded an expired condom and what appeared to be a safe deposit box key. Lenny left both in the bedroom.

In the living room he sifted through the mess, looking for anything that didn't look right. After half an hour Lenny concluded that while Simmons lived like a pig he may not be a criminal. On his way toward the door something struck Lenny as funny; in all this upheaval one couch was left right-side up.

Lenny turned and walked back to the living area. He lifted the piece of furniture; there was nothing under it. He set it down and pulled the cushions off. There it was, nestled between the stuffed leather cushions, a little black and gold tube. Lenny used a cocktail napkin to pick it up. He recognized it as lipstick. It could have belonged to any woman in Las Vegas. Still, Lenny pulled out his cellphone and called Daphne Carter.

"Lenny, please tell me you had a chance to search the suite," Daphne answered.

"I am in it right now. I found a tube of lipstick in a sofa."

"Lipstick?"

"Yes. What do you think? I mean, it could belong to any woman Simmons has slept with. I would imagine the list is extensive. But, the thing is, I had a Detective Pushkin leave a note under my office door the other night. He wanted security footage from Simmons' floor from the night of Sarah's accident."

"What for?"

"I suppose he wanted to see if Simmons had any visitors-- which he did."

"He did?" Daphne half-shouted.

"Yes. Daphne, it was Cassie, Sarah's friend. She went into Simmons' suite that night. The video never shows her coming out, but it shows his manager Chris going in."

Daphne's mind was working overtime. "Not much chance she's still in there," she said.

"I can assure you she isn't. That means she left the suite, who knows in what condition, while the cameras were down."

"Mother fucker," Daphne rasped.

"Yeah..."

"I'll be by in half an hour or so to pick up the lipstick. I know where to bring it."

*****

Daphne's Mercedes eased to a halt in front of Humberto Hernandrez's house in Sunrise Manor. The house was decent looking, the paint appeared new. There was a stack of newspapers piled in front of the Hernandez’s door.

Daphne walked along the concrete driveway to the entrance. She stood beyond the pile of unread news and sales fliers to knock.

"Go away," a voice shouted from inside.

"Mr. Hernandez, I am Daphne Carter, Sarah's mother."

"I don't care. Go away!"

"My daughter was hit by a car the same night your girl went missing. The two things might be related. I'd like to talk to you for a few minutes if I could."

There was no answer, no noise either. Daphne stood by the door listening for signs of life inside the home for a solid minute before she spoke again.

"Mr. Hernandez, I am not leaving without speaking to you. Either you can let me in or I will let myself in, it's up to you."

"Go away!"

Daphne shoved the untouched newspapers aside with her foot. She reeled back and kicked the door with all her strength. It was solid, but so was Daphne Carter. It didn't open all the way but Daphne felt it give a little. She kicked again, as hard as she could; the door made a slight cracking sound. The third kick did it. To Daphne's surprise it was the hinges that pulled free. She'd expected the side with the knob to come loose, like on TV.

She went into the house. The place was dark and stunk of body odor and alcohol. Daphne found Humberto lying in a reclining chair, he was sweating and dirty. He looked much like she had days ago at the hospital. He looked at Daphne as if the woman had done the impossible, violating the sanctity of the dungeon he'd created for himself.

"Tell me what was going on with Cassandra before she disappeared," Daphne said.

Humberto let out a ten-minute blubbering diatribe about how his little girl had gotten mixed up in a world of white people with white problems. Much of the rant was in Spanish, of which Daphne understood little at any time and none at all at Humberto's break-neck speed.

"She came home with a black eye?" Daphne asked once the man had finished.

"Si... yes."

"When was that?"

"A week before she gone."

"How'd she get the black eye?"

"She won't tell me."

"One more question. If you ever found the person who took her, what would you do?"

Humberto Hernandez looked Daphne directly in the eye for the first time since she had arrived, "Kill the bastard."

Daphne smiled, "That's the right answer."

"What do you know?" Humberto asked, coming back to reality for the first time in five days.

Daphne brought the tube of lipstick, secure in a plastic sandwich bag, out of her pocket. "Does this look familiar?"

Humberto took the bag from Daphne and removed the lipstick. He turned the base, the makeup rose out of the tube.

"Where did you find it?" Humberto asked.

"A friend found it for me. It doesn't matter where."

"It was my Cassandra's. I buy it for her special, early graduation present. See the bottom?"

Daphne didn't realize you could have a makeup container personalized. On the bottom of the tube were the words, "Love, Daddy."

"Why is it in English?" Daphne asked.

"She like English better. I do it for her."