Stride and Serena continued to the front door and rang the bell. Humphrey answered immediately, as if he had been waiting for them. His eyes were hooded with suspicion. Stride explained who they were and that they wanted to talk to him about an old case, but his granite expression didn’t change.
“Amira Luz,” Stride added.
“Yeah, I thought as much,” Humphrey said. With a shrug, he let them in.
Humphrey had a shock-white crewcut and a goatee. He was bulky for his age, and when he shook their hands, his grip was crushing. He wore jeans and slippers, but no shirt, and a green terry robe tied loosely at his waist. He led them into a small living room, trailing an aroma of Bengay.
“You guys want a beer? If anyone asks, I can just say it was bottled water.” They declined, and he didn’t seem surprised. He added, “That’s okay. No one would believe I kept bottled water in the house anyway.”
His living room had the look of a bachelor’s house, messy and unorganized. Prescription pill bottles and beer cans were strewn across a coffee table, its wooden veneer scratched and dotted with water rings. Books and newspapers sat in stacks on the floor. Stride took a seat on a sofa and heard its sagging frame squeak through the cushions. Stuffing spilled out through the ripped floral fabric on the arms.
Stride saw an old baseball rolling around on the coffee table. He picked it up and noticed the ball was autographed in a faded blue scrawl. Willie Mays.
“This must be worth a lot,” Stride said.
“Yeah, so what, I’m not allowed to have some nice things?”
“I never said that.”
Humphrey snorted. “I’m a collector.” He took a seat in an old leather recliner across from them. “So I hear Sawhill is in charge of homicide now.”
“That’s right,” Serena said.
“Bunch of Mormons running Sin City,” Humphrey said, curling his lip. “Ain’t that a fucking joke? But I suppose you got the Indians raking in the gambling bucks everywhere else. Take your pick.”
“Did you work with Sawhill?” Serena asked.
“Sure. Ambitious but smart. Politics first, God second. I hear he’s got his eyes on the sheriff’s campaign next year.”
Serena nodded. “But the word is that the sheriff will endorse someone else.”
“Don’t be so sure. He’s going to feel a lot of heat. Sawhill’s got a brother who’s a top aide to the governor, and he’s got a sister who does political ads and worked on the mayor’s last campaign. And the old man, Michael Sawhill, is a big-shot casino banker. The whole family’s connected.”
“You didn’t sound surprised that we were here about Amira Luz,” Stride said.
“I saw the article in LV,” Humphrey retorted bitterly. “That little snot Terrell all but accused me of being on the take. I called a lawyer who told me there wasn’t much I could do. Too bad. A libel suit would pay for a few upgrades around here.”
“A lot of people back then seemed to think Walker Lane was involved in the murder,’ Serena said.
Humphrey shrugged. ‘There was no evidence he was involved, and there was plenty of evidence that this guy in L.A. did it.”
“ Walker was in Las Vegas that night,” Stride said.
“Hell, I know that. It was that goddamn article that said we were clueless about it. But I had six people who told me that Walker Lane left town before the second performance of the show. He drove back to L. A.”
“Could they have been lying to you?” Serena asked. “Sure they could, but if they were, they got their stories straight.”
“Did you talk directly to Boni Fisso about what happened that night?” Stride asked.
Humphrey shifted uncomfortably and tugged at his groin. “Boni talk to the cops? Fat chance. I dealt with Leo Rucci. He was the fixer, Boni’s boss on the casino floor. Everything went through Leo. Meanest asshole I’ve ever met.”
“We heard Leo Rucci was involved in breaking up a fight in the middle of the night on the night of the murder. Did you investigate that?”
“Fight? I never heard a word about it. Rucci never mentioned it. His alibi was he was balling one of the dancers, and she confirmed it. Besides, Rucci didn’t usually break up fights-he caused them.”
“How about a lifeguard named Mickey? He was the one who called Rucci. Did you talk to him?”
“Nah. Pretty boys by the pool were a dime a dozen.” Humphrey pushed himself out of his chair. “I got to take a leak,” he said. “Prostate. What a bitch. Bet mine’s the size of a fucking orange by now.”
He left the room, and Stride got up from the sofa, shaking his head. “It’s hell getting old,” he said.
“So you tell me,” Serena said with an impish grin.
He did think about it sometimes, the age difference of almost a decade between them. He worried about a day when she might wake up and ask herself what she was doing with an old man. He didn’t feel any older or younger than his years, but he wasn’t a superman. He was in his midforties, and some of the original equipment was a little worn. He felt better physically away from the Minnesota cold, suffering from fewer of the bone-deep pains that the frigid lake winds brought.
Serena, by contrast, was physically in her prime, at least in his eyes. It was her soul that felt older, and that was what held them together. It was as if she had started bruising and weathering it at a young age. He only wished she would tell him more about it. She had begun to offer him little glimpses, like opening the windows in an Advent calendar, but there was still a lot he didn’t know about her.
He studied Humphrey’s living room, looking for clues to the man. There were sports sections littering the floor near his recliner, not just from the Las Vegas paper but also from Los Angeles, Chicago, and New York. Sports book, Stride thought. Humphrey probably spent a lot of time trying to beat the spread.
The recliner itself reeked of menthol. The whole house was dank, as if the windows had been closed for too long. He also picked up a remnant of Cajun smells in the air, as if someone had been spicing up a pot of jambalaya.
“Look at this,” Serena called to him.
She was looking at several framed photographs on the wall. They were publicity shots of old Vegas stars, similar to the ones that Stride had seen at Battista’s. He recognized Dean Martin, Elvis, and Marilyn Monroe.
“All of these are autographed,” Serena said.
Stride shrugged. “So he collects memorabilia. He told us as much.”
“No, they’re autographed to him,” Serena said.
Stride joined her at the wall and realized she was right. Each photograph bore Nick’s name and a personal message in addition to the star’s signature. “Helen said he did private security gigs,” Stride said.
“Yeah, but look at Marilyn’s message,” Serena told him.
Stride leaned closer to the smiling photograph of the platinum blonde. Across one bare shoulder, in black marker, a feminine hand had written: Nicky-What a night. I needed you, and you were there. Love and kisses, MM.
“She was a hell of a girl,” Humphrey said as he reentered the living room behind them. He held a lowball glass with a large shot of what looked like whiskey.
“Come on, Nick,” Stride told him. “Maybe you could get by with Willie Mays and Dean Martin, but not Marilyn. I’m not buying it.”
Humphrey was smug. He put down his whiskey and rummaged through a pile of paperbacks on an end table. He pulled one out and tossed it across the room to Stride. It was a biography of Marilyn Monroe.