'I miss Pearl the Wonder Dog.
She'd act like I was terrific if she were here. She'd think I was the balls.'
'Sure,' Hawk said, 'me too.'
After breakfast I said goodbye to Hawk and went to talk with my new friends in Vegas Homicide.
Romero was drinking coffee in his cubicle in the Homicide squad room.
'After you called us,' he said, 'Cooper went over to the Grand. Talked with Mickey Holmes, the security guy over there. Used to work here. Bernard J. Fortunate checked out last night. There was no Martin Anaheim registered. Mickey says guy answering his description was with Bernard J. Fortunate yesterday when he checked out and no one's seen him since. Julius Ventura and party flew out on Delta at eight-fifteen this morning. To Boston, via DFW. So far we got no flight record on Anthony Meeker.
We're still checking. He coulda paid cash, used another name.
We're checking cash ticket purchases. Car rentals too.'
'Would have had to use a card for a car.'
'So I've heard,' Romero said.
'You got anything new on Shirley Ventura?'
'Nothing that matters. Still raped and strangled. M.E. says she was slapped around some before she was killed.'
'Any of her belongings show up?'
'No.'
'You release the body?'
'Yep. Local funeral parlor is shipping it to Boston for them.'
'What do you know about Bernard J. Fortunate?' I said.
'Never heard of him,' Romero said.
'He's in the phone book, no address. We'll get one from the phone company and check him out.'
'He had a gun.'
'I'll check him from that end too,' Romero said.
'You want to call me in a couple days, I'll let you know what I know.'
'I'll probably go to Boston tomorrow,' I said.
'Any problem?'
'No. I can find you if I need you.'
'You talk to LAPD about Bibi Anaheim?'
'Yeah. They never heard of her,' Romero said.
'Neither has anybody in Oregon. They do they'll let us know. You know anything about her? Maiden name? Where she grew up?'
I remembered the wry reference to marrying Marty after high school. Fairhaven High, 1977.
'No,' I said and wasn't even sure exactly why I lied.
'Grand, just like everything else in the fucking case nowhere to look and nothing to do.'
Romero got up and got some more coffee from the coffeemaker in the squad room. He looked at me. I shook my head. He came back in with the coffee and sat back down at his desk and put one foot up on his open bottom drawer and tilted his chair back a little.
'Talked to a homicide guy in L.A. named Samuelson.' He blew on the black surface of the coffee for a moment and then took a sip.
'Says he knows you. Says hello.'
'I screwed up a case with him once too,' I said.
Romero shrugged and grinned at me.
'Shit happens,' he said.
'Yeah,' I said.
'Quite often.'
CHAPTER 30
I was in my office with my feet up studying the way my name looked backwards through the frosted glass window of my office door. The office had been shut up since I left for Vegas, and I opened the Berkeley Street window to dilute the accumulated closeness. Then I started studying the door again. The mail had been routine and easily disposed of. There were no phone calls.
Maybe SPENSER ought to be in script. A nice flowing script might make me seem lovable, and could contrast nicely with INVESTIGATIONS, which would be in a bold, no-nonsense sans serif. Maybe some sort of motto would be good. WE DON'T SOLVE ANYTHING BUT WE
