the city to turn a trick?'
Her upper lip curling back over tiny white teeth, she gave him the finger. 'Sit and spin.'
Exasperated, he started for the door. Turning around, he said, 'That john, at the hotel? Here's how serious this is: he got murdered, shortly after you left him.'
Her face changed but she said nothing. She took a few little drags on the cigarette, like she was trying to make it last.
Brass said, 'Hey, I know you didn't kill him. I just want to ask you about the time you spent with him.'
'I don't know anything.'
He started to turn away again, but her voice stopped him.
'Listen-he was nice to me. Seemed like a nice enough guy.'
Brass went over to her-not rushing. He got out a small notebook and a pen. 'Did you know him? Was he a regular?'
She shook her shimmering blonde head and plopped onto the chair in front of the mirror. 'Charlene sent me. I'd never seen the guy before.'
'What can you tell me about him?'
She shrugged. 'He was clean and that's about as nice as tricks get.'
'Anything else? Did he talk about his business or anything?'
She shook her head.
'Did he seem nervous or overwrought?'
Another head shake.
'Walk me through the night.'
She sighed, thought back. 'I went up about eight. We had some champagne. I gave him a blowjob, he came real fast. He'd paid for a full evening, so I helped him get it up again and we did it again. You're not gonna find any DNA, though.'
'Oh?'
'We used rubbers both times.'
How little they knew. 'Go on,' he said.
'He showered, got dressed, and said he was going out. He said I could stay in the room for a while, order room service, take a shower or a nap. He didn't care. He just said that I had to be out before he got back and he said that would be around five in the morning.'
Brass jotted notes, then asked, 'Can you think of anything else?'
'That's it. I kind of liked him. It's too bad.'
'Yeah.'
'Well, I gave him a good time before he went.'
'Twice,' Brass said, nodded at her, thanked her, and went out into the hall.
He found Madam Charlene inside a small wood-paneled office off the lobby. She sat at a metal desk with a telephone and several small piles of what looked like bills; Post-it's were all over the place. A computer on the desk symbolized how far prostitution had come.
Knocking on the doorjamb, still being polite, Brass asked, 'Charlene-could I talk to you? Won't take long.'
She stopped in the middle of writing a check and looked up at him with large green eyes. 'Anything else I can do for you, Sugar?' she asked, the southern lilt back in her voice.
He mimicked the drawl back at her. 'Why didn't you tell me you set up Connie's date at the Beachcomber- Sugar?'
Again the Southern lilt wilted. 'I provide rides out here, for guys who wanna get laid.'
'You don't provide an . . . out-reach service?'
'I don't risk it-I leave that to the escort services in Vegas. Not my gig.'
'So Ms. Ho is lying-she booked this client herself, against your wishes.'
She sighed, leaned forward. 'Look-I just didn't think it was important. You said you wanted to talk to her. Have I cooperated?'
He nodded. 'Yeah-and I do appreciate it. Now I'm asking you to cooperate a little more-what about setting up that date? You did set it up?'
'I did, but . . .' Madam Charlene gave him an elaborate shrug. 'It was just another date.'
Shaking his head, he said, 'I don't think so. If it was a normal date, you would have told the guy to come out here. Let him find his way, or send your limo service. So why'd you send Connie into the city? You said it yourself: it's a risk; not your gig.'
She shrugged again.
'Look, Charlene, I don't want to sit at the county line and bust any of your girls that enter Clark County, but I will.'
'. . . Close the door.'
He did.
'If I tell you what I know, you'll leave me and my girls outa this?'
'If I possibly can.'
'You promise?'
'Boy Scout oath.'
She sighed heavily, found a pack of Camels on her desk, and lit up a cigarette.
She took a long drag, then blew it out. 'You know who the guy is?'
'Lawyer named Philip Dingelmann.'
Her forehead frowned; her mouth smiled. 'And that doesn't mean anything to you?'
Brass shrugged. 'Such as?'
'Dingelmann is the lawyer for, among other illustrious clients, a fine citizen name of Charlie Stark.'
That hit Brass like a punch. 'As in Charlie 'The Tuna' Stark?'
Stark was high up in the Chicago outfit-a mobster with a rap sheet going back to the days of Giancana and Accardo. Sinatra had sung at Stark's daughter's prom.
'Maybe it's some other Charlie Stark,' she said dryly. 'And maybe I did this favor for Dingelmann 'cause he represents little old ladies in whiplash cases.'
'A mobbed-up lawyer,' Brass said to himself.
'You will keep me out of it?'
'Do my best,' Brass said, 'do my best.'
And he stumbled out of the brothel into the sunshine, at first shellshocked, and then a smile began to form.
He had said, from first whiff, that this was a mob hit; and Grissom had, typically, pooh-poohed it. Evidence was Grissom's religion; but Brass had known that his twenty-two years in the field, as an investigator, counted for something.
Jim Brass headed back to Vegas.
6
AFTER THREE-AND-A-HALF HOURS' SLEEP, A SHOWER, AND some fresh clothes, Catherine found herself back in the office again. She grabbed a cup of the coffee from the break room and forced herself to drink some of it. Not so bad-a little like motor oil laced with rat poison. She found Nick in her office, camped in front of the computer monitor.
'I don't get out of bed in the middle of the day for just any man,' she told him.
'Glad to hear it.' He cast one of those dazzling smiles her way, and pointed to the screen. 'Check this one out.'
Catherine peered over his shoulder. 'Fortunato, Malachy? How 'fortunate' was Malachy?'
'Not very,' Nick said, referring to the file on screen. 'Disappeared from his home fifteen years ago, leaving a bloodstain in the carport, on the gravel driveway-no sign of Malachy since. The original investigators let the case
