The Eyes Die Last (15 page)

“My, oh my.  Aren’t you the chauvinistic little sweetheart today?” 

“Eat your heart out, I’m already taken.  You’ll just have to find your own male chauvinist pig to marry and let him treat you like gold.” 

“Why would I marry a chauvinist pig when I already have one for a partner?  That’s one too many already.” 

Wilder laughed, punching numbers into his phone.  “Hi, Sally.  I’ve got plans for us tonight...” 

Wilder loved his wife, even after all these years.  Kennedy wondered what it’d be like if she ever let her guard down long enough to fall in love someday.  Not today, but someday.  Hell, even Vegas Vic and Vegas Vicky found true love.  And they’re damned neon signs! 

Kennedy returned to studying the computer screen.  She pulled the file on Nicolas Campenelli and clicked on his photo. 

“Good God, he’s gorgeous,” she whispered when the image blew up to full size.  She glanced at her partner, hoping he hadn’t heard.  He was still chattering away.  “Are you a cold-blooded killer?” 

She focused on the screen.  Nicolas Campenelli had dark, thick hair with a bit of curl resting on his shirt collar.  Hard lines and a chiseled jaw gave his face character.  His eyes were a rich, dark, chocolate brown with little flecks of yellow and green that gave him a flavor of pure mischief. 

The man’s lips were full and smiling with small crescent shaped dimples on each side of his mouth.  Kennedy bet those lips could give a woman’s lips, not to mention the rest of her body, a damn good workout.  She noticed a small scar under his left eye.  She could easily be persuaded to kiss it and make it all better. 

Christ, what am I doing?  I’m acting like I’ve never seen a handsome man before.  I’m a grown woman for God’s sake.  Still, fifteen minutes alone with him, hmmm. 

Fifteen minutes alone with any man sounded foreign to her right now.  It’d been a while since she’d dated anyone seriously.  Maybe a decade ago.  Maybe back in college.  Hell, maybe even high school.  No, Kennedy hadn’t dated in high school.  She’d been too tall.  That was the funny thing about teenage boys.  They preferred their dates to be shorter than themselves. 

That’d been one luxury Kennedy never had.  She’d entered the ninth grade measuring in at five feet, nine inches, flat footed.  But she’d been a great volleyball and basketball player.  The guys cheered for her at games.  They just didn’t want to date her. 

Things changed in college.  Guys, it seemed, grew at least a foot or two somewhere between leaving their families’ driveways for college and the time they arrived at the freshmen dorms.  Her height wasn’t an issue anymore.  Unfortunately, even then, Kennedy preferred to avoid commitments. 

At the Academy, she’d dated one guy for a couple of months before deciding that dating was a distraction.  He was a nice guy, and not too broken up when she called it off.  After that, she concentrated on graduating top of her class, which she did. 

The job came next, a new priority.  She’d spent a while proving she wasn’t just a piece of fluff.  Eleven years later, she could safely say “Mission accomplished.”

Kennedy had decided a long time ago that she wouldn’t date co-workers.  Cops carry too much stress around with them.  They had a tendency to have strong personalities and occasional melt downs.  One stressed out person in a relationship was more than enough.  Two cops together would be a stress bomb waiting to blow. 

Unfortunately, when she did make an effort to socialize, she hung out with friends from the department, typically at cop bars.  How could she find a non-cop man when she only visited cop hangouts? 

Kennedy rubbed the spot on her nose between her eyes and glanced back at the computer screen. 

Nick Campenelli wasn’t a cop. 

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

ALTHOUGH I DON’T PERSONALLY SUPPORT PROSTITUTION, I DO RECOGNIZE AND RESPECT THE FACT THAT IT IS A LEGALIZED BUSINESS IN TEN OUT OF SEVENTEEN NEVADA COUNTIES.”

As inoffensively as possible, he made it clear he was in favor of legalizing prostitution in Clark County and why.

“It’s time for the voters to decide if they’re ready for legalized prostitution.  If you elect me as your next mayor, I’m the man who will get it done.  As it stands now, too many women are involved in the unsafe practice of illegal prostitution.  They’d be much safer if prostitution is legalized.  Health checks would be mandatory.  We could keep a better watch out for the underage working girls and hopefully give them alternatives to working the streets.

“Instead of being caught in a cycle of abusive pimps, women in this profession could become tax-paying citizens who would deserve all the privileges allotted to any other tax-paying woman.”

The part of his speech that got him the longest round of applause was his somewhat cheesy, but heartfelt closing.  Nick was sure his audience knew he sincerely meant every word he said.

“Women must be supportive of one another no matter how they’ve chosen to live their lives.  Whether it’s as a stay-at-home mom, working in retail or food service, working in one of Las Vegas’ many fine casinos, or working as prostitutes, you must be here for your sisters.  We must provide safe working environments.”

All six feet, three inches of Nicolas Campenelli stood before the League of Women Voters, satisfied that he’d just given what he believed to be one of the best speeches of his campaign.  There’d been positive oohs and aahs throughout his twenty minute speech, and he’d received a standing ovation at the end.

Nick
answered questions, shook what seemed like hundreds of hands, and had his picture taken with many of the women before sitting down to a dinner of the usual, forgettable, banquet-style food.

He enjoyed the company of the women seated at his table.  On his left was a well respected member of the Vegas Casino Board.  On his right side, the president of the League of Women Voters.  She was charming, and he was impressed with her vast knowledge of local and national politics. 

Nick was aware of the local news presence, television cameras rolling; the Vegas newspapers were represented, as well as a few local magazines.  The media, for the most part, stayed at a respectful distance and only asked questions at the appointed times—with the exception of Ed Hershey from LVTVS. 

Ed, for one reason or another, had seemed hell bent on trying to agitate Nick since the beginning of the campaign.  Nick’s press secretary, Jeff Harrison, thought Ed Hershey was upset because Nick had refused Hershey an exclusive interview.  And of course, there was the small matter of Ed’s ex-wife’s obsession with Nick.  They’d gone out on a couple of dates.  When the relationship didn’t click for him, Nick broke things off.  Vivian had been separated from Ed at the time.  There shouldn’t have been any hard feelings, but it sometimes seemed Ed spent most of his waking moments trying to annoy Nick, and did a damn good job of it some days.  Today was one of those days. 

Nick was taking a drink of his iced tea when Ed shoved a microphone in his face.  “Mr.  Campenelli, do you still support legalized prostitution after the two recent murders of local prostitutes?  Hookers are obviously causing big problems for the city.  The dollars and manpower needed to solve their murders could cost Vegas a small fortune. 

“Don’t you think legalizing prostitution will cause an increase in crime as more and more sex workers do business on our streets?  And exactly how do you justify your support if you do?” 

“No comment,” Nick said. 

“Do you think your wealth will buy you votes?  Are people swayed in your favor because of it?” 

Nick’s jaw tightened.  “If you would excuse me, Mr.  Hershey, I’m having dinner right now and would like to enjoy the company of my companions.  I’ve already concluded the question and answer part of the evening.” 

“You didn’t answer my questions.  Are you trying to avoid the issues that our viewers are interested in?  Aren’t you interested in what the public wants?” 

N
ick shoved the microphone away from his face.  “Please leave now, Mr.  Hershey.”  He stood up and motioned to security.  “You’ve pushed your luck, sir.  Now, if you’d just follow the gentlemen over there, they can escort you out.” 

Ed and his crew reluctantly moved away through the large archway to the lobby area, but they still had a good view of the dining room. 

Nick dismissed them from his thoughts. 

At
the end of the dinner, Ed Hershey was still there.  Nick sighed.  Didn’t the guy ever give up? 

He watched with interest as Hershey pointed to the door and one of the crew walked over and met a young woman.  The man pointed in turn to Nick and whispered in her ear. 

The young woman nodded and then maneuvered her way past the stragglers as they were leaving until she stood in front of Nick.  When he rose, his napkin still in hand, she slapped him in the face with the strength of a Vegas boxer. 

“Who the hell do you think you are?  I have a legal right to sell my body if I want.  Don’t you dare assume you can tell me what I can and can’t do with my body or my life.” 

Nick raised his hands placatingly.  “Ma’am, I ha
ve no idea what you’re talking
about.” 

Security had begun to move the moment she threw her punch, but Nick shook his head at them and they stopped, waiting. 

“You’re just another dirty politician thinking he can control me and what I do.  You think you can run me, and every other woman like me, out of Nevada.” 

Nick shook his head in amazement.  “You have the wrong guy, lady.  I’m the politician who wants to legalize prostitution, and make it safer for sex workers.” 

The woman looked like someone had just slapped her.  A red flush crept rapidly up her neck and spread to her face.  “Oh, my goodness.” 

“Oh, my goodness what...Miss?” 

“Mixer.  Phoebe Mixer.  I am so sorry.  I thought...I was told...  well, it doesn’t matter.  I was wrong.” 

“Exactly what did someone tell you?” 

She shook her head.  “Never mind.  I’m sorry.  I won’t bother you again.” 

Nick shook her hand and passed her a business card.  “If you ever need help or hear something you think might be damaging to you or your friends, I hope you’ll call John, my campaign manager.  Let him know and we’ll address it, I assure you.” 

Nick
got into the black limo that was waiting in front of the hotel.  He sighed and laid his head back against the seat.  “Where’s John?  It’s been a long night.  I’m looking forward to going home and crashing.” 

Jeff, Nick’s press secretary nodded at the driver to go on.  “He left.  Said he had a stomach bug.” 

“I hadn’t realized he was sick.” 

“He’ll be fine.  I think tonight was a good night for you.  You definitely won over the League of Women Voters.  I must say, Phoebe Mixer was definitely a lively way to end the evening.  What do you think that was all about?” 

“No clue, but I’m sure it had something to do with Ed Hershey and his crew.”  “She’s sure got spunk.” 

“That’s putting it mildly.  She’s definitely a feisty little thing.  I’m glad the place was pretty much empty when she showed up.  I wonder what will happen if she ever figures out it’s
St. Louis
who thinks prostitution should be stopped?” 

“Maybe we should warn him to be on the lookout for her.” 

Nick thought a moment.  “Nah, let’s just let him be surprised.” 

“I can’t think of a better surprise for your fine opponent.  I only wish we could figure out how to be around when it happens.  The fireworks will be awesome.” 

Nick laughed.  “Poor bastard.” 

ED climbed into the station’s on-scene news van.  “Gotcha, Campenelli.  Let’s see you get around this after I’m finished spinning my magic in the editing bay.” 

Ed checked his watched and turned to the driver.  “Let’s get this vehicle moving.  We need to hurry so I can get this film clip on the eleven o’clock news.” 

Definitely gotcha now. 

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

AFTER UPDATING HER HOME MURDER BOARD WITH PICTURES AND NOTES ON THE SECOND VICTIM, KENNEDY STUDIED IT FOR OVER AN HOUR BEFORE GIVING UP
.  Lounging lazily on her couch with a bag of salt and vinegar chips balanced on her stomach, she surfed TV channels before settling on a bad science fiction movie.  Television sucked when you couldn’t afford cable.

Watching four-headed aliens impregnate Earth women became boring after a while, and she began flipping through the channels again looking for the eleven o’clock news.  She shot past LVTVS and immediately bounced back.

A news story about the League of Women Voters having a dinner was airing.  The featured speaker and main attraction was Nicolas Campenelli.  Easy to see why they’d chosen him, one of the top candidates for mayor, to talk to the group.  He was not only articulate, he was handsome to boot.

Kennedy only half-listened to the cut and paste edit, liberally strewn with Hershey’s innuendos, as she examined the politician.

“Holy shit!”  She sat up and her dinner tumbled to the floor as she watched a film clip of a woman stomping into the banquet room like a storm trooper.  Anger was apparent with each measured step she took.  The little spitfire marched right up to Campenelli and slapped the ever-loving-shit out of him.  She screamed at the man while he stood looking as calm and remote as ever.  The woman was yelling so loudly Kennedy couldn’t understand a word she was saying.