Now she was like MJ, eyes wide with shock and fright, trails of blood streaked on her face from the gaping bullet wound in her forehead. Dead in the foyer of Moose’s sprawling house, like Alice Ford in Reno, with no time to react or scream. Open the door, see the face of death, and bang. Her brain was gone before it had time to react. Instantaneous.
Amanda looked beyond the foyer into the mansion and realized that, even alive, Tierney would have looked out of place here. She was young, and this was a rich old man’s house. Moose had made it into a shrine to his past, with bookshelves filled with awards, decades-old posters advertising his shows, and dozens of photographs of Moose onstage. He was larger than life, and so was his estate, both of them gaudy and giantlike. The living room was decorated like a lavish casino, with tall Roman columns, gold trim, a grand piano, and-most impressive of all-a second-story indoor swimming pool with a translucent bottom, so visitors could look up and see the blue water. Moose had one of the prime locations in Lake Las Vegas, in the MiraBella development, hugging the golf course and the resort’s private man-made lake, with the moonscape of the desert hills stretched out in the distance.
No one would hesitate to open the door here, even to a stranger. Lake Las Vegas was located a few miles east of the city, over the mountains on the road to Lake Mead. There was only one narrow road into or out of MiraBella and the other south shore developments, with a guard station to keep out strangers and gawkers. If you made it in, you were safe.
But not this time.
Amanda wondered: How did the killer make it past the south shore gate?
“Where’s Moose?” she asked one of the uniforms on the scene. She saw the cop’s eyes cloud over with disgust and felt her hackles rise. Nothing ever changed.
“Guard at the gate said he left in the limo around eight,” he said. “I assume someone is tracking him down.”
“You assume?” Amanda retorted. The cop shrugged, and she added sharply, “Don’t assume. Find out, and let me know.”
“Yes, sir,” he replied acidly. Amanda felt her mood sour further as he left.
There was a large team on hand to work the murder. That was one advantage of getting killed in a place like Lake Las Vegas, which was usually immune to that kind of crime, unless it was a rich wife shooting a rich husband. A body out here got plenty of attention. The call had come in from a neighbor who heard the gunshot. He was a hunter and knew the difference between the report of a pistol and the crack of a target rifle, which wasn’t an uncommon sound in the desert hills. When he went to investigate, he found the door wide open and Tierney just inside.
Amanda’s cell phone rang. It was Stride.
“Where are you?” she asked.
“I’m parked outside, next to your car,” Stride said. “I thought you didn’t use the Spyder at crime scenes.”
Amanda was puzzled. “Usually I don’t, but I love to take it on the mountain roads. So what?”
“Come out here, okay?”
Amanda swallowed back acid and felt a pit of worry in her stomach. She slapped her phone shut and headed for the front door. As she passed two of the crime scene techs, she heard a whispered comment and a laugh behind her. She wheeled around but couldn’t tell who had spoken. She gave them a fierce glare, then bolted past Tierney’s body into the warm air outside. The curving driveway was being scoured for evidence. She took a circuitous route through the garden rocks and passed the cluster of patrol cars on the edge of the crime scene tape. Beyond the house was the deep darkness of the lake and sparkling lights from the resort hotel on the opposite shore.
Stride was leaning on his Bronco, next to her Spyder, about twenty yards away. He was standing under a streetlight. His arms were folded over his chest. When she joined him, he nodded at the driver’s door of her sports car. Amanda saw it and swore.
The car was desecrated. Someone had chiseled the word PERVERT into the door of the Spyder in large letters.
“I didn’t want you to find this alone,” Stride said.
Amanda felt her emotions battling between rage and humiliation. “Fuckers,” she muttered. “It never stops. Thanks for telling me.”
“I asked around,” Stride said. “No one admits seeing anything.”
“Big surprise.” Amanda ran her fingers over the ruts in the paint. In some ways, it was like being raped. As if that were what they would do, if they got her alone.
“Don’t take this shit lying down, Amanda,” Stride told her.
“I never have before.” Amanda wondered, though, how much more she could take. It didn’t matter how often she proved herself, they kept coming for her, trying to drive her away. She stared at the word again. Pervert. She could feel the hatred of whoever had written it. This wasn’t a mean joke, a taunt. It was primal and ugly.
“You okay?” Stride asked, watching her.
She shook her head. She wasn’t okay. “I could have caught the Green River Killer, and the headlines would have been about my cock. I mean, is it really such a big deal?”
Stride laughed.
Amanda realized what she’d said and laughed, too. Some of the tension drained out of her. “Okay, it is a big deal,” she said slyly. Then she added, “I know what people think. It just hurts to have it constantly thrown in your face.”
She spent another few seconds feeling sorry for herself. Stride waited, not pushing her, and she felt a surge of warmth for him. She remembered what Serena had told her-that Stride had swooped in out of nowhere and become a lifeline for her. Amanda felt a little like that herself-not in a romantic way, because she loved Bobby, and she knew Stride loved Serena, but it made her feel less alone on the force to have him there, as if she finally had an ally, a friend. That hadn’t happened, not since she was Jason. Her friends from back then had peeled away, one by one.
“Tell me something,” she said to Stride. “Why don’t you hate me, too?”
“Come on, Amanda. That question’s not worthy of you.”
“You’re right. It’s stupid. Someone else asked that, not me.”
Stride was all business again. “You said Tierney had a bodyguard, didn’t you? Where was he?”
“Who, the Samoan? I think he’s just rent-a-muscle. There was no one else in the house.”
“Shouldn’t there be a live-in staff at a palace like this?” Stride asked. “A butler, six maids, a few gardeners to water the rocks?”
“Not according to the neighbor who found the body. I talked to him. He says there’s day staff only. Apparently, Moose likes to walk around naked at night.”
“Thanks for putting that image in my mind,” Stride said.
“What I’m wondering is how the perp got in here. He sure as hell didn’t walk from the highway at night.”
“Is there a log of all the vehicles in and out?”
Amanda nodded. “I’ve got uniforms tracking down every car in the security log, starting with the cars that left after the time of the murder.”
“Did he leave the shell casing again?”
“Yes, a.357, just like with MJ. I’m betting if we can recover the bullet, we’ll get a ballistics match. Although I doubt we’ll even need it. He’s not trying to cover his tracks. I’m having them dust for prints to see if he left us another souvenir.”
“Three murders,” Stride said. “Four, if there’s a tie-in with Reno. He’s picking up the pace.”
Amanda saw headlights approaching down the lakeside avenue where Moose and a handful of other wealthy neighbors had their homes. As the vehicle passed under the first streetlight, she recognized the limo in which she had sat with Tierney Dargon. When Tierney was alive and young.
She pointed at the car. “Moose,” she said.