Temptation Town (4 page)

In fact,
however, she was a crass golddigger at her core, but I don't think they ever
outwardly discussed this on the show. I was sure Cassandra never saw beneath Charlotte's
sugary veneer, rather, she probably considered herself a similar sweet-angel
type.

"Mine
too," I said. "She just has a certain, I don't know, way about
her."

Cassandra
beamed. "Wow! Doesn't she, though? She can make those other girls jealous
in a hurry!" She kicked her spiked heels off onto the floor, as she moved
her voice into cooing-hooker tone. "Speaking of hurry, don't you want to
hurry up and get on with our party?"

I wasn't
sure if I should tell her yet the real reason for her being there. As my
thoughts stumbled around, the knock at the door signaled the arrival of the
drinks.

I paid
the tab, then brought them over by the bed. Cassandra lifted hers, saying,
"Here's to a good time." She turned toward me, leaning forward a
little, showing a lot of promising cleavage.

I touched
my glass to hers. "Here's to success, love, and hope that we can find it
all just like Charlotte did."

"Yeah!"
She smiled as we drank.

"My
name's Jack, and I just got in town from Los Angeles."

"Oh?
What do you do down there, Jack?" I was surprised at how interested she
sounded. But of course, she'd had a lot of practice.

I put my
drink down on the table, then sat down next to her on the bed, taking her free
hand in mine.

"Cassandra,
that's why you're here. I'm a private investigator."

She
quickly pulled her hand away, leaping from the bed all at once, while spilling
a little of her cosmopolitan on Bellagio's expensive woven carpeting.

"What
the hell are you, some kind of cop? What is this? A bust?" She rapidly
scanned the room. "You got cameras in here or something? C'mon! Who are
you?"

I
remained calm, still sitting on the bed. "No. I'm no cop. And there's no
camera. I'm here because I need your help. Can you help me? Please?"

"You
got two minutes to explain yourself. And it better be good." She stood
stiff, her eyes showing lots of apprehension, looking like she might bolt well
before the two minutes were up.

I said
softly, "Cassandra, listen. You've got the money. I don't want sex. This
is not a setup. I'm all alone here. I just want information. Will you please
hear me out?"

"Go
on." She took another sip of her colorful drink, trying to settle herself
down.

"I
need to find the girl they call Stormy."

Her anger
faded at the mention of the name. I could see her wilt. "Oh, God! What do
you know about her? Do you know where she is?"

"No,
but I need to find her." Then I added for good measure, "I want to
help her. That's all. Just to find her and to help her."

She set
the drink down on the floor. Her head took a soft turn toward the window.
Outside, southbound traffic backed up on the interstate. Beyond that, the city
lay still in the winter chill.

She said,
"How do I know that?"

"You
don't. Her family wants to find her. They want to know that she's safe."

She ran a
hand through her hair, then she came back to the bed. Her body language was
more relaxed, as she sat next to me. She picked her drink up, but didn't take
any of it.

"We're
best friends." Her voice quickly moved to the edge of tears. "We used
to see each other nearly every night. You know, after we got done with our
dates. We'd go out for a drink, play a few slots, that kind of thing. We were
even neighbors over on Sierra Vista. Before she moved out."

"And
so?"

"It
was a few days ago. I called her cell and she didn't answer. I left one
message, then two, then a whole bunch, and … and … she never called me
back." The first tears showed themselves. I gave her a handkerchief.

"What
happened to her?"

"I
asked around. Nobody wanted to talk about it. But I kept asking."

"Did
you find out anything?"

"I
heard through the grapevine that one of her dates was, like, a senator or
congressman or something. Some kind of big shot. He saw her about once a week.
Right here at Bellagio, as a matter of fact. Then they had this big blow-up. I
don't know how it started, but Stormy told me she, like, threatened to tell his
wife. She even said she might go to the media, and tell them all about this
self-righteous son of a bitch. She even had a videotape of the two of them
together.

"A
videotape?"

"Right.
From one of those new mini-recorder things. She had a big purse and the camera
was inside it. She put the purse on a table across the room, then set it on its
side so the opening was facing the bed. The thing was deep in her purse so you
couldn't really see it. She turned the TV on to cover up the noise. He never
suspected a thing."

"Why
would she make that tape?"

"I
think she was planning on blackmailing him. She could be pretty conniving when
she wanted to be. Always looking for a way to put money in her pocket."

"Blackmail's
a pretty risky game."

"You
got that right. But apparently, this guy's a real hypocrite. You know, standing
up for family values and Christian beliefs, while keeping a paid mistress on
the side. One from an escort service, no less. He was into real kinky shit,
too, you know?"

She
sniffled a little, then put her drink down again to blow her nose. Then, she
picked up the drink and polished it off in one swallow.

"Where's
the videotape now?"

"She
gave it to me so no one would ever find it in her possession."

I had to
admit, Emily was one sharp cookie.

"So
what happened then?"

"I
don't know. That's when I … when I … lost touch with her."

"Does
Sonny know where she is?"

She shook
her head. "He asked me if I knew. He's looking for her, too. He really
wants to find her."

"Well,
what do you think happened?"

She blew
her nose again.

"I
don't know for sure, but if that politician told Sonny about it, there's no
telling what could've happened. Sonny's a … a … " Her face contorted into
crying position. A few more tears, then: "He slaps us around all the time.
He's capable of anything. Anything!" She finally went into a good cry.

I took
her in my arms, giving her my shoulder. She stayed there for a while. Then she
finally looked up at me to say through her sobs, "Do you really want to
help her? Really?"

"I
really do," I replied. And I meant it. I said, "Can you find out what
happened to her? Is there any chance?"

"I
don't know," she said between sniffles. "I can try."

"Do
that, honey. Please." I got a pen from the desk, then wrote my cell phone
number on a piece of scratch paper. "And call me when you find out
anything, okay?"

She
nodded, as I helped her up off the bed.

I gave
her a big hug, then said, "You're a brave girl, you know that? And Emily —
that's Stormy's real name — would be proud of you for being such a good
friend to her, for trying to help her."

"Emily?
I never knew that." She finally broke a smile through red, tear-dimmed
eyes. "Mine's Patty." Now, she looked like she could live next door.

"All
right, Patty." I held her face with both hands, as our smiling eyes
connected. "First off, don't tell Sonny about any of this. About me, us
here today, nothing. If anyone asks, it was just another routine date.
Okay?"

"Okay.
I tell him nothing."

"And
call me when you hear anything about Emily. And I mean anything."

She
promised she would, and she left. I closed the door behind her, then collapsed
on the bed. Out on the freeway, the traffic had thinned out a little, the wind
whipping against the window. I picked up the phone and ordered two more
Scotches from room service, one for now, one for five minutes from now.

CONTRARY
to what I
had hoped, the whole thing didn't go away overnight. Late in the afternoon, my
cell phone rang, waking me from a particularly deep nap on my couch. I couldn't
open my eyes quite yet. I groped the coffee table, feeling for the phone.
Flipping it open, I mumbled a hello.

"Jack?
Jack? Is that you?"

I heard
desperation in that female voice. I snapped awake, rising up on one elbow.

"Yes.
Speaking. Who's this?"

"Jack,
it's Patty. I know where Emily is."

I sat
upright. "Where? What happened?"

"She
texted me a few minutes ago, asking if it was okay to talk, meaning is Sonny
around. I told her it was clear and she called my cell. I just now got off the
phone with her." She spoke in a quick cadence, urgency dripping from every
word.

I
struggled to get up off the couch, so I could move around the room, trying to
clear the cobwebs.

"Where
is she?"

"In
a rooming house up in North Las Vegas. She asked me to bring her some money.
I'm, like, how much do you need and she goes, whatever you can spare. Four or
five hundred, anyway. She wants to leave town."

I moved
into the kitchen, where I fished through a drawer for a pen.

"What's
the address?" She gave it to me. "Patty, don't —"

"I
know," she interrupted. "You don't want me to tell anyone. Don't
worry. I'm not crazy."

I threw
on some clothes and ran out the door. Yesterday's wind had died down, but it
was still cold, somewhere in the thirties. The sinking sun promised even lower
temperatures soon.

Just as I
was getting in my car, I paused. Turning around, I ran back inside, into my
bedroom. I yanked open the top drawer to my dresser, then reached in for my
.357. I pulled the holster around my shoulders, and grabbed two extra clips. As
a precaution against sticking, I lifted the weapon out of the holster a couple
of times, jacked a round into the chamber, then put it back in. Finally, I
threw on my jacket, hustled back to my car, then headed up to North Las Vegas.

The
rooming house stood in a decidedly blue-collar area, decorated with lots of
pickup trucks and boat trailers and old tires. Front yards around there were
either green-going-brown, or dirt and gravel, which, in Las Vegas-speak, is
"desert landscaping".

The house
was a one-story affair, formerly a single-family home, whose owners apparently
decided to rent out a room or two for a little extra cash. White stucco blended
with gray trim to render it completely nondescript. It fit right into the
neighborhood.

According
to Patty, Emily's room was around back.

Night had
fallen. I parked in the empty, garage-less driveway. With no trees anywhere on
the property, the house undoubtedly baked in the sun during high summer. I was
glad I didn't live there.

In the
back, I found a standard-issue screen door, aluminum-framed. I knocked. I
knocked again. Then I opened it and knocked a little harder on the white wooden
door inside. The knob wouldn't turn.

I backed
up to check the windows in the house's rear. All four had Venetian blinds. All
were shut. I knocked again without taking my eyes off the blinds. One of the
slats in the window closest to me moved just a little. I went over and rapped
on the window.

"Emily,"
I said without raising my voice. "Emily. I'm a friend. Cassandra told me
you were here. Please let me in. I'm here to help."

No
answer. I tapped the window again.

"Emily,
come on. I know you're there. Let me in." Still no response. No movement
of the blinds, either. "Okay, if you're afraid, call Cassandra and she'll
vouch for me. My name is Jack." I waited.

About two
minutes later, I heard the door unlatch. It opened a few inches. Frightened
eyes moved back, slipping away from the opening, as I stepped into the dark
room.

She was a
mess, a far cry from the sex-bomb photo in the magazine. Her hair, while still
sort of blonde, showed plenty of brown roots, and lay matted and tangled all
around her head. I guessed it was several days since she did anything with it.
She wore no makeup, while small dark circles attacked the undersides of her
eyes. Her small, thin mouth quivered as she looked me over. Natural beauty was
still somewhat visible, but I struggled to find it. She wore a gray hooded
sweatshirt that said UNLV in big red letters. Her jeans were torn in several
places. The holes were not a fashion statement.

Hardly
any light could make its way into this room, but what little there was crept in
around the edges of the blinds. The room was tiny and sparsely furnished, with
a single bed, a small wooden table, and chair. What looked to be one of those
flashy new iPods and connected earphones rested on the table. A bathroom sat
off to one side. In the darkness, I couldn't make out the color of the walls,
but they looked white. Body odor hung over everything.