The Eyes Die Last (22 page)

On the next block over a huge man, one she’d guess was at least a three hundred pounder, hung out of a second story window yelling at a group of teenagers mingling below. 

“Turn down the fuckin’ music, you dickheads!  I’m tryin’ to get some goddamned sleep up here!” 

A skinny red-headed boy with a face full of ready-to-explode pimples yelled back, “Fuck you, old man.  You don’t own this street.  Fucking pervert.” 

Another one of the teens chimed in.  “Hey, man, close the fucking window if you don’t want to hear the tunes.” 

Kennedy listened with amusement as the rest of the teens added their own one-liners and the man in the window tossed back a few more colorful barbs.  Middle fingers danced in synchronized movements as F-bombs were dropped in quantity.  Their voices faded as she drove further away. 

Kennedy found the building she was looking for, parked in front, and flagged her car.  She took a quick look around.  It didn’t take long to spot a six-footer strutting out of a nearby pawn shop.  She motioned him over. 

She stiffened her stance, put on her bad-ass face and said, “Hey, big guy, I got a job for you.” 

Big guy flipped her off and walked past her, never saying a word. 

He flipped me off?”  Wrong answer, asshole.”  Grabbing his shirt, she spun him around, snatched her badge off her belt, and held it inches from his face. 

“Here’s the deal.  This car’s cop radio is worth, maybe, 50 bucks.  The tires might get you 20, the wheels another 20, and the battery 10.  I’d be pissed if I came back and found pieces of it gone.  So I’m going to give you a twenty and in return you’re going to keep my car looking as good as it does now while I step into that apartment for about twenty minutes.”  She let go of his collar, dug into her pants pocket and waved a twenty in front of his face.  “Got that?” 

He took a step back and grunted at her.  “Me?  I don’t work for the Five-O.”  He looked her up and down.  “Not even a hot one like you.” 

She added another twenty.  “You do now.” 

Cocking his head sideways, he reached for the money. 

Kennedy snapped it back and growled.  In her best cop voice, she said, “I keep the cash until I come back and see what a nice job you’ve done keeping the riff-raff away from my wheels.”  She moved in close again, her voice barely a whisper.  “Comprende?” 

“Yeah, yeah, I get it.  Hurry up, Lady Five-O, I got things to do.” 

Kennedy found Phoebe’s apartment and knocked lightly on the door.  Her eyes scanned the hallway.  It was a real hell hole, not safe for a woman, much less for one with kids.  The door flew open and a raven-haired woman with red-rimmed, swollen eyes greeted her. 

“Can I help you?”  The woman’s voice was hoarse. 

Kennedy flashed her badge.  “I’m Detective O’Brien, Metro Homicide.  I called earlier about Ms.  Mixer.  May I come in?” 

“Come in, Detective.”  The woman held the door open while Kennedy stepped inside the hot apartment. 

“I just got the kids down for a nap.  Can you tell me where Phoebe’s children are?” 

“Social services placed them with a foster family until their aunt gets in town to pick them up.”  Kennedy ran a hand across the back of her neck, her eyes scanning the room.  How could anyone sleep in this oven? 

“I know what you’re thinking.  The bedroom has a window air-conditioner.  They’ll be fine.”  Plump tears plopped down her cheeks.  “Phoebe’s poor babies.  What will they do without her?  It’s all so sad.”  Waving her hand, she pointed to a kitchen chair for Kennedy to sit in. 

The small apartment was clean and tidy, looking out of place in the dirty, rundown building that housed it.  Three pairs of high heeled, thigh-high hooker boots were lined up underneath a sofa table and a wig teased to the max was sitting neatly on top.  Next to the wig sat an ornate bowl holding a mix of gaudy costume jewelry. 

A small television with an array of children’s videos stacked on top sat across from a well-used couch.  Behind the couch, the wall had several pictures of Phoebe’s two kids at various stages of childhood craziness. 

“I heard they’ll be living with an aunt in Wisconsin.  I’m sure she’ll take good care of them.”  Kennedy pushed a box of tissues closer to the woman.  She wished Wilder was here, he was so much better at handling the criers.  Quickly, she distanced herself from the woman’s sorrow and slipped into the cop-zone, pulling out her small notebook and a pen. 

“How well did you know Phoebe, Ms.  … Sorry, I didn’t catch your name.” 

“Oh, I forgot to introduce myself.  I’m Sandy.”  She shook hands with Kennedy.  “Phoebe and I took turns watching each other’s kids.  We saved lots of money trading off babysitting duty.  Phoebe lives across the hall.  We’ve been saving our money so we could move to a better neighborhood.  One where the kids could actually play outside.  We were going to get a place big enough for all of us to live together.” 

Sandy blew her nose into one of the tissues.  Kennedy handed her another one. 

“I’ve been friends with Phoebe for a little over two years.  She was a wonderful person, a good friend and an awesome mom.  For a while, she worked legal, at a brothel over in Pahrump.  But she hated being away from her kids for such long stretches so she went independent.  She gave up the bigger money and went out on her own.” 

“She worked at a licensed brothel, did a two or three week stretch, followed by a week off?” 

“Yes, that’s how it works.  Kinda tough for a woman with kids.”  “Did Ms.  Mixer have any enemies?” 

“Not that I know of.  She was too sweet.” 

“How about a boyfriend?”  Kennedy studied the woman’s face and body movements, looking for any signs of a lie.  No looking away.  No fidgeting.  Nothing. 

“She didn’t have one.  She spent all her spare time with the kids.  Phoebe always said she could have boyfriends later, but for now she wanted to enjoy her children while they were little.”  Sandy moaned.  “There won’t be any more laters for Phoebe, will there?” 

“I’m afraid not.”  Kennedy awkwardly patted Sandy’s hand, and felt like an idiot.  She withdrew it quickly. 

“Did you speak with Phoebe on the night she was killed?” 

“Sure.  When she dropped off her kids we had a few glasses of wine and talked about our jobs and whether or not we’d stay in the business much longer.  I mentioned one of the mayor candidates, if elected, planned on pushing a bill to make prostitution legal and we should wait and see how that panned out before making any decisions.” 

“She was into politics?” 

“No, not at all.  She really doesn’t follow the issues.”  Sandy twisted the tissue she held into small knots.  “Then I told her about the candidate that threatened to run us all out of business and some of the really bad things he said about sex workers.” 

“And that bothered her?” 

“A lot.  She said she was going to tell the man to his face what he could do with his threats.” 

“And did she?” 

“That’s who she thought was going to speak to at the dinner that night.”  “What do you mean?” 

“Later that night Phoebe called and told me on her way to work she’d seen a flyer that Mr.  Campenelli was speaking somewhere and she grabbed a cab and went to see him.” 

“Did Ms.  Mixer tell you any details about her encounter with Mr.  Campenelli?” 

“Just that she thought Mr.  Campenelli was the scumbag, but she was wrong, and she’d made a complete idiot out of herself.  Then she said she’d tell me all about it when she picked up her kids later.” 

“And you never talked to her again that night?” 

“Only for a second on her cell phone right after the eleven o’clock news.  I saw her give Mr.  Campenelli a good piece of her mind and slap the shit out of him.  It was a good hit, even if it was the wrong man.  Anyway, I had to call her and tell her she made the news and all.” 

“And she didn’t go into details about the blow up that time either?” 

“Only mentioned again about screwing up and needing to make another apology.  Then Phoebe said she had to go, she needed to make a phone call and she’d explain it all later.  That’s the last time I spoke to her.” 

“Do you have any idea why Phoebe thought Campenelli was the candidate against prostitutes?” 

“I imagine she just mixed up which man said what.  She was never good with remembering names.  I also think that night was the first time she’d ever heard anything about the candidates and it was too much information in too short a time.  Kind of like brain-overload.  And I’m sure the kids running around while we talked didn’t help much or the three glasses of wine she drank.” 

“I guess that makes sense.” 

“I bet that Mr.  Campenelli killed her.”  Sandy began sobbing again. 

“We don’t know who killed her yet.  Did Phoebe say who she was going to call?” 

“Somebody named John.  I didn’t catch the last name and didn’t bother to ask her to repeat it.  She sounded upset and was in a hurry to make her phone call.”  She shrugged one shoulder.  “I let her go so she could make it.” 

“Are you sure she wasn’t talking about a john, not a man named John?”  “I’m pretty sure she meant a man named John.” 

Kennedy stood and placed her notebook back in her purse.  “Thank you.  You’ve been a big help.”  She started to leave, and then turned back around.  “I’m sorry for your loss.” 

“Just get the man who killed her.  That Campenelli guy deserves to have his nuts cut off for taking Phoebe away from her babies.  I’ll be the first in line with a dull knife.  A really long, super dull knife.” 

Kennedy made a mental note not to ever piss this woman off.  “Mr.  Campenelli isn’t the only suspect at this time.” 

“But I saw them fighting.  Everyone in Vegas has seen it by now.” 

“You shouldn’t jump to conclusions just yet.  Let me do my job and make sure we get the right man.” 

“Sure, I can wait.  You just make sure you get the bastard.”  “That’s the plan.” 

While
waiting for her hands to adjust to the blistering heat of the sun-scorched steering wheel, Kennedy finished off the last few fries in the bottom of the burger joint bag.  The searing morning sun bore down on her as she drove her Mustang— minus any scratches or spit wads and well worth the money it had taken to keep it that way—to Louis
St. Louis
’ house. 

St. Louis
lived in a small ranch house on the outskirts of Vegas.  A couple of more inches North and he would have been outside the city limits.  On the way, she passed his campaign headquarters, located in an old rundown church building not too far from his home.  Surprise had her doing a double take at the building’s parking lot.  It was full of cars.  Who would support that man’s political beliefs, much less want to campaign for him? 

Kennedy parked on the street in front of
St. Louis
’ house.  Getting out of the car, she looked around at the middle class suburb.  “Won’t have to worry about what shape I’ll find my car in when I’m finished here.”  A contented grin stretched over her lips.  “Or wonder if it’ll even be here.” 

The adobe style ranch house was painted a pale pink, a popular color in the Las Vegas suburbs.  Two lawn chairs sat on the front porch, the cheap kind with the green webbing that never seemed to last more than a few months.  The yard had a large cacti garden, several of them blooming with brilliant bursts of yellow and bright pink flowers.  How could a plant survive, much less thrive, in this scorching heat? 

Too hot to ponder the question, Kennedy knocked on the front door, anxious to get inside.  After what seemed like hours, the front door slowly squeaked opened.  Louis
St. Louis
stuck his big, balding head out. 

“Detective O’Brien, Metro Homicide,” Kennedy said, introducing herself, and holding her badge up for his inspection. 

He looked confused.  “Nice to meet you...  I think.  Is there a problem, Officer?”  His skin glistened with perspiration, but still, he wore a tie with his shirt collar buttoned up tight.  He dabbed at his face with what looked like a wadded up paper towel. 

“Is there a problem, Mr. 
St. Louis
?”  Kennedy pulled the front door open a bit more, expecting a blast of air-conditioned air to come out at her. 

Nothing.  No nice cool air.  No breeze.  No Freon inspired gases blasting in her face. 

What the hell?  No air-conditioning? 

St. Louis
stepped back and threw up his hands.  “No, I’ve done nothing wrong.  Come in, Detective.  I’ll get you a glass of water.  You’re looking a bit overheated.” 

“Of course I’m overheated.  My car’s air-conditioning is on the fritz.  Your A/C too?” 

“No.  Last time I checked, my unit worked just fine.  I don’t like to run it.  Jesus and his disciples never had the advantage of air-conditioning, why should I indulge?  It’s an unnecessary luxury.  That’s the problem with our society today.  We’re weak and self-indulgent.” 

How many beers short of a six pack is this man?  “Are you fucking nuts?  It’s over a hundred and fifteen degrees out here.  It must be another fifteen or twenty hotter in your house.  And you choose not to use your air conditioner?” 

“You have no right to question my beliefs and I’d appreciate you not using foul language in my presence.  It’s the work of the devil.  Now, if you have something you need from me or if you’d like that glass of water, I would be happy to oblige.  If you’re just here to question me about my air-conditioner, you can leave.”