Authors: Teri Riggs
“How did you happen to come across it?”
“I was taking the trash out. I like to keep the trash bags light when I’m alone so I make frequent trips out to the bin. You know what I mean?” She lit a cigarette.
“On account of I’m so short, I stepped up on the wood crate I use and reached for the lid. I tossed in my bag and when I looked down, there she was. Poor woman. I could tell right away she was dead. You know what I mean? Then I ran inside and called 911.”
She took a long pull on her cigarette.
“Did you see anyone in the alley while you were there?”
“No. Well, afterwards, through the back window, I saw several people milling around. Gawkers and such. But I stayed inside.”
“When you were outside, did you touch anything other than the dumpster?” “Oh no. I’ve seen enough cop shows to know better.”
“Did you hear any unusual noise prior to finding the body?”
“No. But to be honest with you, my hearing isn’t exactly what it used to be. You know what I mean?”
“Have you noticed anyone hanging around for unusually long periods of time in the last few days?”
“I’m afraid not.”
Wilder and Kennedy shared a rueful glance as they stood.
“Thank you Miss Trixy for taking the time to speak with us. We’ll need you to come to Metro sometime tomorrow and sign a formal statement. We can have a car pick you up whenever it’s convenient.”
She took a few more drags and snuffed out the butt. “I’d be happy to help. I hope you find whoever did this to that poor woman. You know what I mean?” “Yes, I do know what you mean, and we’ll find the person responsible.” Wilder added his thanks and turned to Monty. “Stay with Miss Trixy until things quiet down.”
Monty stood, put down his cup. “Yes, sir.” He nodded. “Detective O’Brien.”
“T
hat
woman was a pistol, wasn’t she?”
“I thought so.” Wilder grinned. “You know what I mean?”
They made one more pass over the scene as the sun was starting to peek up over the buildings. The heat was stifling, even in the early morning hours.
Sweat rolled down Kennedy’s back and her hair had gone limp by the time the hazy, gray twilight of dawn eased into the brilliant burst of an inflamed pink-orange sunrise. After accepting a bottle of water from one of the uniformed officers, she sucked it down and tossed the empty container into a bag of noncrime scene trash.
Wilder wasn’t looking exactly shower fresh himself. He’d removed his jacket, loosened his tie and rolled up his shirt sleeves. Perspiration stains spread under each arm and down the center of his back. He used his handkerchief frequently to wipe at the sweat on his neck.
“Let’s call it, Wilder.”
He checked his watch. “Yeah, there’s still uniforms out there knocking on doors, but I think we’ve got this covered. I wouldn’t mind grabbing a quick shower at home.”
She downed another bottle of water in several long gulps then tossed him a full one.
He drank it quickly. “Thanks. That hit the spot.”
“It’s hotter than hell out here. What kind of moron thought of building a city in the middle of a fucking desert?”
Smiling, Wilder shook his head. “An evil bastard, no doubt.” “No doubt.”
“I’m going to head home. We can pick this up in a few hours, Kenny. It’ll give CSU time to organize their initial findings.”
She gave him a quick smile back. “Sounds like a plan.” “Damn straight.”
They slipped beneath the yellow crime scene tape that blocked off the alley from onlookers and walked toward the department-issue Crown Vic. Kennedy dug around in her purse and pulled out a piece of melted grape taffy. Tearing off the wrapper, she popped it into her mouth as she got into the car. Chewing slowly, she savored the tart-sweet flavor of the candy. Her mouth watered with the sour taste of it and her eyes squinted.
Swallowing the gooey treat, Kennedy said, “Drop me off at Metro so I can get
my car. I’ll touch base with the Lieutenant and fill him in on what we’ve got so
far.”
Wilder started the car’s engine, turned the air-conditioner on full blast, and put the car in drive. “That works for me.”
Kennedy leaned back in the seat and relaxed as the hot air blasting from the vents cooled.
She wouldn’t go home right away. Instead, she’d put in another hour or two at her neatly ordered desk in the detective’s bull pen. She’d make a list of leads to find and follow. And after she started a new murder book, she’d organize a murder board with the pictures the crime scene techs would deliver and her own notes. Then she’d stop by and update the Lieutenant on what they had so far.
And so far what they had was fucking nothing.
CHAPTER THREE
WHAT A RUSH.
A mind-blowing, fucking awesome rush. And the sex. His dick had never been that hard. It was like magic. If his magic dick got any harder, he’d have to register it as a lethal weapon. He smiled at the thought. It was a lethal weapon and only the hooker got to enjoy it—right up until the end, anyway.
He’d done it. Pulled off killing her just the way he’d planned. It all went as he’d expected with only one exception. He had really, really enjoyed killing her. The disgust and guilt he’d expected to feel over taking a life never materialized. Instead, a deep, mind-gripping buzz had overtaken his body. It was a powerful feeling to know that he had held the fate of a woman’s life in his hands. He had chosen to end it. The prostitute had been sacrificed for the greater good of... well, the greater good of exactly what?
Him? Yes, for him, and what better cause could there possibly be? Maybe he should feel some guilt. But she was a whore. That basically made her a throw-away person, didn’t it? If he got a little bit of enjoyment from wrapping his hands around her neck and squeezing the life slowly out of her—for a good cause, of course—well, that was an unexpected perk.
He’d done the world a favor by getting rid of one more social and moral burden. Once the word was out about his good deeds, smart people would be thanking him. Sure, after achieving his goal, he’d disappear, people would forget about him, but in the meantime, what harm was there if he enjoyed himself?
Just thinking about the prostitute’s death made him grow hard again. He’d have to think about it later, when there was more time to enjoy the reminiscing. Right now, he needed to get to the business of executing the next phase of his plan.
First, he had the hooker’s purse—a fine souvenir indeed—to hide. Of course he’d take his money back
fir
st
.
And there was the digital photo that still had to be printed and delivered to LVTVS before the noon news broadcast.
And, most importantly, there was another prostitute to be chosen.
T
he
LVTVS newsroom buzzed with a consistent, loud blend of frenzied voices intermingled with the sound of printers spitting out wire updates and bulletins at a steady pace, and the chorus of continuously ringing phones. The noise level in the room would have given most people the queen-mother-of-all headaches. Ed
Hershey loved every noisy, busy minute of it. He thrived on the chaos around him and had for ten years.
Hershey was every bit the quintessential news anchor he’d worked so hard to become. He colored his dark brown hair, leaving just enough gray mixed in to give him that knowledge-with-age look all men in his profession craved. He practiced his sparkling, bleached-white, orthodontic-straightened, newscaster smile in front of the mirror until it was perfected. He was particularly proud of the worry lines etched around his eyes that gave his look just the right amount of compassion.
He always dressed perfectly, in a crisply-pressed, long-sleeved shirt and tie, no matter the weather, and he always looked cool. Best of all, he’d perfected the ability to stare straight into the camera and make his audience feel he was talking directly to them.
Andy Kerrigan, one of LVTVS’s special segment reporters, approached Ed’s desk carrying a hard copy of the fresh-off-the-wire news updates. “How’s it hanging, Mr. Hershey?”
Ed frowned. He hated the ‘how’s it hanging?’ question. It made Andy sound like a high-school kid. It made Ed feel old. But he’d humor Andy. You never knew when someone might come in handy.
“I’m okay, Andy. How about you? Your new baby doing okay?”
“He’s got his days and nights mixed up. Keeps my wife up all night.”
“I hear that happens sometimes. Anything interesting over the wire or Metro’s morning news release?”
Andy skimmed the sheets, running a finger slowly down both. “Nah, just more of the same old crap. National news, three more US troops killed in an Iraq roadside bomb. A few more major bank closings. Not much else.
“Locally, heat warnings are out—again. A hundred and seventeen in the shade predicted. Another old lady without air-conditioning found dead from heatstroke, bringing the death toll to thirteen.” Andy looked over the printout again. Sarcasm laced his next words. “Here’s a biggie. A prostitute found dead in Hooker Haven.”
Ed nodded. “I saw that one when I got in this morning.”
“We’ve got a cameraman at the murder scene doing a show and tell. No interviewer or reporting. We’ll use an anchor voice over if the boss decides to run it.”
“No interview or report? Andy, I know what a damn show and tell is.”
“Sorry, I guess you do. Anyway, Mr. Curtis says the story is at the end of the running order. It’ll only air if there’s some dead space that needs to be filled during tonight’s newscast.”
“Well, you never know how the day will shake out.”
Ed looked back down at his monitor. A subtle hint that he was ready for Andy to move on. Ed sighed when Andy didn’t take the hint. Chalk up one more little reason to call him Andy Poor-Form.
“Hookers are a dime a dozen in Vegas. Like the boss says, the story will probably never hit the screen.”
“Thanks for the insight, Andy.” Ed rolled his eyes.
“No problem, Mr. Hershey.” He handed Ed the printout. “Here, you keep this copy. There’s nothing in there I need. I’m working on a special segment about the watering ban. I’m going to interview the head of the Clark County Public Works Department this afternoon. I’m finally going to get to use some of the B-roll footage I’ve been storing up.”
This time, Ed couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of his voice. “Sounds real exciting. Yes, I can definitely see how a city-wide watering ban would trump a murder. Especially since our victim was just a prostitute.”
Andy left, and Ed went back to his research on last night’s prostitute murder. According to Metro’s press release, the only notable detail to the murder story was an envelope tucked neatly into her halter top. That little tidbit was only made available because early gawkers got a look before the yellow crime scene tape went up and blocked the public’s view. No one knew for sure what was in the envelope. At least no one but the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department, and Metro wasn’t likely to share any more information than necessary, especially with the news media.
The current heat wave was the big story and had been over the last two weeks, with day-time temperatures consistently rising above normal. Three of the last fourteen days had seen temperatures soar to 120 degrees or higher. Even for Vegas, that was a record.
Barring any major world disasters, the weather would be the lead-in story for the midday and evening broadcasts. Following the heat wave story would be a piece about the close race between two childhood friends running for mayor. The mayoral race had heated up along with the weather, causing frequent public disagreements between the two candidates.
The hot topic this election was, coincidentally, whether or not to legalize prostitution within the city limits of Las Vegas. Most people living outside Clark County assumed prostitution was legal in Vegas. In reality, legal prostitution was available on the Nye County side of Washington Street, but not the Clark County/Las Vegas side of the street.
The two top candidates agreed that crime rates in the areas where prostitutes worked illegally were steadily climbing. They disagreed, however, on the cause of the increased crime rates and how to go about solving the escalating problem.
Ed was scanning the printout and tossing around an idea when he saw his news director and immediate boss, Frank Curtis. Frank was a couple desks away visiting—make that flirting—with a curvy, blonde from the mailroom.
Ed raised his voice. “Hey, Frankie, can I have a minute of your time? I’ve got an idea to run past you for tonight’s broadcast.”
The fifty-plus, thrice-divorced Frank, who everyone knew thought he was God’s gift to women, vacillated before answering. “Sure, Hersh. What have you got?” Excusing himself from the blonde, Frank moved over to Ed’s desk at the back of the newsroom and settled himself in the seat across the desk.
Ed held up the printout. “What do you think about using this prostitute’s murder to stir up debate on the city’s race for mayor? Prostitution’s the hot issue of the moment in local politics, and you and I both know the candidate who scores the most points will be the new mayor. We could tie the two stories together and work it into an ongoing feature. Maybe cause a little more friction between Campenelli and Louis
St. Louis
. It might be fun to screw with the two leading hopefuls.”