“So why’d you leave?” Amanda asked.
He hesitated, wondering how much to say, and then realized he was still doing it. Being a Minnesotan, locking everything away. “I began to realize it was a cold place. Minnesotans are hard to get to know. They don’t let you inside. You won’t find nicer people any where, but you can live with them for decades and never really know them on the inside, where it counts. They don’t open up.”
“That sounds a lot like Serena,” Amanda said.
Stride shook his head. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m that way, too. And yeah, that’s Serena. But we’ve been able to get to each other in a way that no one else did. I found out I liked it. So to me, that was worth moving for.”
“But you miss Minnesota,” Amanda said.
“Sure I do.”
“What about Vegas? If it’s too strange for me, I can’t imagine what you think of it.”
Stride let his eyes wander around the restaurant. Terrell was right. This was Vegas in all its kitschy, bitchy glory. He thought about Walker calling the city immoral and about executives like Gerard Plante at the Oasis calmly manipulating his guests. But then there were the mountains and the blue waters of Lake Mead. And Serena. And something irresistible and terrible about all of it together.
He looked up, and fortunately, he didn’t have to answer.
Rex Terrell was waving at them as he crossed the restaurant, his other arm draped around the back of the maftre d’. He wore a lime green shirt, untucked, over expensive black silk slacks. His blond hair was gelled, sticking up in jagged spikes, and he wore narrow black sunglasses. He was about thirty years old, of medium height, and muscular. He carried a lowball glass with a coppery drink that sloshed over the side as he approached.
“Rex Terrell,” he said, jutting out his hand. “And you’re detectives? What a trip. A real murder investigation. This is so CSI.”
Stride shook his hand, which was moist, and introduced himself. Amanda did the same.
“Amanda Gillen?” Rex stripped off his sunglasses and leaned into her face. “Oh my gawd, I know you. What delicious headlines. ‘Metro Sexuaclass="underline" Pre-Op Cop Says Her ‘Equipment’ Is No Big Deal.’” He giggled, spilling more of his drink. “Remember that one?”
“Fuck off,” Amanda said.
Terrell sat down and picked up a fork. He plucked a mouthful of pasta from Amanda’s bowl. “Oh, no, no, I loved it! Your lawsuit? I was with you all the way. I cheered when you won. And look at you, you are so hot! Tranny is definitely the new gay.”
Stride saw the ice in Amanda’s eyes. She was holding a glass of water with such force that he thought the glass would shatter in her hand. “You’re poking the bear, Rex,” he told him.
Terrell blathered on. “Listen, honey, how about an article in LV? We could do a photo spread with it. I don’t mean chicks with dicks, not that kind of thing, although wouldn’t that drive up our numbers! But very tasteful, very erotic, cleavage, maybe a bulge in the right place. I’m talking artistic here.”
Amanda grabbed Terrell’s jaw and clenched it until he shut up. She yanked his face toward her. “Focus, Rex. Listen carefully. I am not a freak show. I am not a circus performer. I’m Amanda. I may be a little different from most people, but all I want to do is lead an ordinary life. What I don’t want is people invading my privacy. So leave me alone, or the operation that I chose not to get, I’m going to give to you right now with a butter knife. Got it?”
She pushed Terrell away, and he rubbed his jaw. “Ow, ow, ow.” He looked at Stride. “She’s a pistol. But I like that, I really do:’
“Maybe we can get down to business,” Stride said.
“Oh, absolutely. I smell a story here. MJ murdered? I want the dirt.”
Stride shook his head. “No story, Rex. This is off, off, off the record, and the conversation goes one way. You tell us what you know about MJ.”
“Start by telling us where you were on Saturday night,” Amanda added.
“You think I killed him? How exciting. But no. David and I got to Gipsy at ten, and we were there, like, all night.” He winked at Amanda. “You can call David and check if you’d like, but not your partner here, because David has a teensy weakness for the strong, silent type.”
“MJ,” Stride repeated.
“Well, what can I tell you?”
“How did you meet?” Stride asked.
“He called me after the story appeared. Very upset. But who can blame him for that, right? I mean, if it was my father?”
“What story?” Amanda asked.
Terrell clapped a hand to his heart. “Best thing I’ve published in LV. I was sure I was going to get death threats, but not a one. I’m disappointed. But I named names, and no one else did. Two big names in particular. Walker Lane and Boni Fisso.”
Stride remembered. There was an issue of LV magazine on MJ’s nightstand, underneath the newspaper story about the implosion.
“What was the story about?” Stride asked.
“It was called ‘The Dirty Secret of the Sheherezade.’ Does that give you a clue?”
“MJ called his father a murderer” Stride said. “Is that what you said in your story?”
“He is. Scandalous, isn’t it?”
“We talked to Walker Lane. He says you were putting ideas in MJ’s head.”
“You talked to Walker? And he mentioned me! Oh, now that is too much. I wondered if he would hear about it. Walker Lane telling people about Rex Terrell. God, David is going to flip over this.”
Stride and Amanda shared an exasperated glance.
“Tell us about the story,” Stride said. ‘The short version, please.”
Terrell nodded. His drink was empty, and he waved the glass in his hand at a waitress.
“The Sheherezade was Boni Fisso’s first big place,” he said. “Now, that was Vegas. The real stuff. Like Battista’s here. Authentic. I mean, look around most bars in town now, it’s all fake. You got your celebrity photos there, sure, but its all Tara Reid and Lindsay Lohan, and ten years from now, people will look at them and go, ‘Who’s that?’ Sinatra, he was authentic. Alan King. Rose Marie.”
“Rex,” Stride said, through gritted teeth.
“I mean, I’m a Vegas baby,” Terrell continued. “How rare is that? Born and raised. I’m authentic. These days, everyone is from California.”
Amanda picked up a butter knife and began slapping it against her hand. Terrell blanched.
“All right, all right. For you, I’ll leave out the good parts. Back in 1967, the Sheherezade was the hot place in the city. Right up there with the Sands. Part of the buzz on the joint was its showroom, see? They had an amazing dancer. Amira Luz. Spanish beauty, dark hair, spitfire. Absolutely a sex machine, and I am not lying. She did a nude dance that filled the seats, SRO every night. I mean, in those days, there were plenty of boobies jiggling onstage, but it was all chorus line stuff, deathly dull. Amira did a flamenco number and stripped down like a thousand-dollar call girl. H-o-t.”
“So?” Stride asked.
Terrell leaned forward and whispered, “So one hot July night, they found Amira at the bottom of the pool in the high roller’s suite on the roof of the Sheherezade. Someone had bashed her skull in.”
“And you think it was Walker Lane?”
“Absolutely. Everyone knew back then, but no one was going to say a word, not in those days.” Terrell twisted his index and middle fingers together. “Boni Fisso and Walker Lane were like this. Walker was Boni’s whale. He was there at the casino every weekend. Staying in that very same high roller’s suite where Amira was killed. He was a party boy, couldn’t get enough of Vegas, liked rubbing shoulders with the mob.”