Skin Deep

Chapter One

          I hadn’t seen Captain Ross in nearly a month. He had traded in his glasses for contacts but his brown eyes still held their conviction that life came in two shades. Black and white. The gray in his cropped dark hair had suspiciously vanished and a goatee hugged his pointed chin. It was a vain attempt to hold on to his youth, which we both knew had long since passed.
          Next to him, wearing a white-embroidered lab coat, Dr. Ma, Chief Medical Examiner, sat motionlessly in his chair. His black hair was parted and swept to the left side of his round head. Ma was short with a pudgy face and soft abdomen. Since one leg was two inches shorter than the other, he always walked with a slight limp. On his lap, a folder balanced precariously over his right thigh.
          “Thanks for seeing us, Ace,” Ross said.
          “I didn’t recognize your tone on the telephone.” I smirked. “You almost sounded urgent.”           “Urgency has never been an emotion to which I’ve succumbed but over the last several weeks, there are things, which once foreign to me, now seem routine.” Ross uncrossed his legs and shifted uncomfortably in the chair. “I’ve never mastered the delicate art of explaining medical findings, so I solicited the help of Dr. Ma.”
          I nodded turned to Ma. “Is it just me Ma, or do you smell like formaldehyde?”
          Ma sighed with contempt. “You find some inner pleasure in that remark each time we meet and I find it neither humorous nor necessary.” A thin accent still betrayed his speech. “And when you address me, please use the title of Doctor. I believe graduating at the top of my class at John’s Hopkins affords me that right.”
          “Well, once you slap on a rubber glove and check the size of my colon, I’ll call you anything you like,” I said.
          “Enough,” Ross demanded. “Both of you.”
          Ross abruptly left his chair and walked over to the window. The late afternoon sun was setting behind the bay but a few defiant rays escaped the influence of the horizon and darted across the calm ocean. In the distance, a few fishing boats were scattered along the water.
          From his profile, I could see small folds of skin tug at his eyes. It looked like he was succumbing to more than just a sense of urgency. A thin white outline of a wedding band could be seen on his weathered hand.
          “Are you still doing surveillance work for Stuart Davis at the Tropicana?” He asked without his eyes leaving the ocean.
          “Yes,” I replied. “Should be wrapping it up soon, though.”
          He leaned his shoulder against the frame of the window so that he could see the ocean and still see us. “In that folder are pictures of three girls,” he stated. “In the last two weeks, have you seen any of them hanging around there?”
          I reached across my desk and grabbed the folder he dropped there when he came into my office. The folder contained autopsy photos. Thankfully, he kept the headshots on top and spared me the task of having to sort through the large stack of photos in the folder.
          All three girls were probably in their late twenties or early thirties. Two had brown hair, one had blonde. There were no bruises or abrasions on their faces and if wasn’t for the fact that I knew I was staring at autopsy photos, I’d almost mistake them for sleeping. I didn’t recognize either of the girls with brown hair, however, the blonde seemed familiar.
          I put the photos down and walked over to the counter that runs along the wall of the office. Ross and Ma declined a cup of coffee so I poured myself a cup and returned to my desk still not knowing where I had seen the girl before. As I took a sip of the coffee, it clicked. The woman in the blue dress.
          “I saw her three nights ago, on Wednesday, at the Mitre Box." I held up her picture to Ross. “She worked the room twice before settling on some guy at the bar.”
          “She left with somebody?” He bit his lower lip.
          “Yeah, tall guy. Maybe late forties, early fifties. Salt and pepper hair. Well-dressed.”
          “The bartender told my men she left alone,” he growled.
          “Can’t blame him,” I said. “Sometimes the promises of a pretty woman can convince any man to leave a generous tip.”
          I could see he didn’t understand.
          “It’s a con,” I said. “She flirts with the guy and maybe promises to go back to his room or to a motel. He gets excited and tries to impress her with how much money he has by leaving a large tip. She ditches him and—“
          “She and the bartender split the tip,” he said.
          “Yep.” I smiled.
          He nodded and turned back to the window. I could see him thinking about how much he wanted to divulge. His eyes scanned the shoreline as if it held the answer. He nodded to himself several times and once he was satisfied with his decision, he turned to face me. He ran his hand over his goatee and seemed surprised at its presence.
          “I’ve been a cop for almost thirty years and I think I can finally say, I’ve seen it all.” He shifted his weight against the window. “The woman you identified was named Gilda Robertson. She was murdered in her apartment early Thursday morning. She’s the third girl to be murdered in what some people are calling a ritualistic killing. I don’t share their opinion but I will concede there is something bizarre going on.” He rubbed his eyes. “I’ll let Dr. Ma take it from here.”
          Ma delicately removed a pair of glasses from his lab coat and slid them up the bridge of his nose. Once the folder was open across his lap, he licked his thumb and began sifting through some of the papers until he found the one he wanted.
          He cleared his throat. “There were no signs of a struggle or forced entry. The window was open and the assumption that the killer gained entry to the apartment through the window using the fire escape seems the most plausible. There’s no corroborating evidence to support this conclusion but the only other entrance, in this case the front door, was locked from the inside with the chain in place.” He shuffled the paper to the back of the stack and focused on the next sheet. “The cause of death was a single stab wound to the heart. The angle and direction of the wound suggests the killer stood directly above the victim. A bloody knife, recovered from the scene, matched the wound and has been identified as the murder weapon. There were no prints on the weapon. We also found Nonoxynol 9, a spermicide typically used in condoms, present in the pubic shavings found in the bed but no signs of semen or vaginal secretion.”
          “He had sex with them and then shaved them?” I asked weakly.
          Ma nodded. “We’ve determined both acts were post mortem.”
          I looked at Ross.
          “Oh, it gets better.” He said from the window.
          “In all three murders, portions of their reproductive system were removed but not recovered at the scene,” Ma continued. “We found no traces of blood in areas that would seem likely for disposal so we are assuming he either took it with him or disposed of it somewhere outside the apartment. Subsequent searches haven’t produced any results.”
          “Wait.” I held up my hand. “He removed the what?”
          “Portions of their reproductive system.” Ma replied. “It’s a women’s—“
          “I know what it is.” My eyes narrowed. “I just didn’t know it could be removed.”
          “It’s easier than you think,” he said. “The surgical procedure is called a hysterectomy. Only in this case there lacked any surgical precision and the killer removed the vagina and other parts of the reproductive system that would not be removed or altered during a hysterectomy. In Ms. Robertson’s case, the fundus, or upper half of the uterus, was still attached as were the fallopian tubes and ovaries. My best guess is the killer cut back on a forty-five degree angle on both sides of the vagina until the cuts crossed near the pubic bone. He then he carved out the skin and surrounding tissue.” His pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “It would be like coring half an apple.”
          “Colorful analogy.”
          Ma ignored me and continued. “All three victims were killed in the same manner. A stab wound to the heart. Since there exists no sign of a struggle and their tox results are negative, I believe the victims were asleep at the time of the attack.” He removed his glasses and looked up. “People don’t realize the jeopardy they put themselves or their family in by leaving their windows or doors open or unlocked during the summer.”
          “Thank you, Doctor.” Ross said in a dismissing tone.
          Ma recognized the hint and closed his folder. “I have to get back. If we find anything, Captain, we’ll let you know.”
          “So, what’s with the new look?” I joked once Ma left. “Did those five gay guys stop by and give you a makeover?”
          “Thought I’d try something different.” He didn’t sound convincing.
          “You want to tell me about?” I asked.
          “No,” he said quickly. “At least not now. I still haven’t been able to process it yet myself.”
          “Fair enough,” I surrendered. “You know where to find me, if you change your mind.”
          “Thanks.”
          Ross walked over to the counter and poured himself a cup of coffee. He slung himself in the chair and took a sip.
          “We’ve managed to keep these murders out of the press and the commissioner intends to keep it that way,” he said. “I don’t know if you are aware but last evening the contestants for this year’s Miss America pageant arrived. And as you know this is the final year for the pageant in Atlantic City.”
          “And no one wants that overshadowed by a serial killer that’s loose on the streets.”
          “No,” he said. “Over the last several years this event has come under severe scrutiny. With the hotel union strike the other year and the hurricane last year, the last thing we want to be remembered for are these killings. And if the city ever has aspirations of hosting it again, they really don’t need this used as a wedge to prevent it.”
          “Other than what Ma said, what do you have?” I asked finishing the coffee.
          “Not much,” he admitted. “The only connection between the three girls was that they worked the South Side.”
          “That’s alot of real estate.”
          “Yeah,” he sighed. “All the way from Hilton to Caesar’s.”
          “You think it could be a fight for territory?”
          “Highly unlikely,” he replied. “If it were, these girls would have been killed and dumped on the street as a message to their pimp. And they wouldn’t have been killed in this manner.” He shook his head. “There’s something personal about it.” He took a sip of the coffee.
          “I agree.” I walked over to the counter and poured another cup of coffee. “Other than the girls working the South Side, what have you got?”
          “Nothing,” he replied. “In each case the killer wiped down the scene. We’ve discovered that he brings the knife with him and leaves it at the scene, which would normally be an advantage, but the knives are ordinary and can be purchased anywhere.” He sipped the coffee. “Since these girls are known to work the casinos, we’re checking surveillance video of the casinos on the South Side around the times of the murders.”
          “That’s a hell of a stretch,” I said. “Besides, you know how long it will take to look at the surveillance tape from six casinos?”
          “I know,” he sighed. “But at the moment, it’s all we have to go on.”
          “What about the girls’ pimp?” I asked.
          “According to him, these girls were big earners. So he had no reason to kill them. Besides, he has an alibi for two of the killings.”
          “Don’t they always.”
          He nodded.
          “What is the time of death for Gilda?” I asked.
          “Around 5 a.m.”
          “I saw her leave around midnight, maybe a little after,” I said. “The guy she left with looked like the type that could afford an hour, maybe more. So, she probably got back to her apartment at let’s say around two.
          “That leaves about three hours unaccounted for.”
          “A lot can happen in this town in three hours.”
          “Yeah, I know,” he sighed.
          We sat in the room listening to the sounds of the ocean drift in through the windows. The sun was well below the horizon and the lights that lined the boardwalk leaked into the room.
          “Ace, I need your help.”
          “What do you want me to do?” I asked.
          “I don’t have the manpower,” he confessed. “With the men I’ve committed to the security of the pageant, I only have a few left to stake out the casinos in the South Side and run down any leads that may develop as a result. Since I can’t even get the employees of the casino to tell me that she left with someone, I was hoping that you since you’re already there, you could keep an eye out.” He smiled. “And run down the lead on the possible john that left with Gilda.”
          “What about my employer?” I asked.
          “Commissioner said that he would put a word in with Davis.”
          “The commissioner doesn’t like me.”
          “No, he doesn’t,” Ross laughed. “But the relationship between the mayor and the commissioner are strained. And the commissioner likes his job and would stand on a stepladder to kiss the ass of an elephant to keep it. That includes putting up with you.”


Chapter Two

          Ever since the third grade when I was called into the principal’s office or even as an adult when I was summoned to the office of a superior, I knew I was in trouble. You were never called in to be commended on a job well done or asked your opinion on important matters, it was because you did something wrong and were being held accountable. I’ve never had a problem with accountability but sitting in Stuart Davis’ office made me think of what I was being held accountable for.
          Stuart Davis’ office is paneled in oak with a large matching desk that is angled near the two walls, which are lined with patterned glass. Austere lighting conceals the pictures of the city’s history that adorn the dark walls. The antiseptic room is intimidating against the backdrop of the dark ocean that runs along the front wall. It was like staring into an abyss.
          “Are you sure you haven’t found anything?” He asked standing akimbo in front of the window.
          From my chair, I could see Davis’ pale reflection in the window. His skin was still tight around his jaw and his narrow eyes had a flicker of resolute and conviction. A paisley tie hung slightly askew around his neck that matched his tailored pin stripe suit.
          “In the last four weeks, he hasn’t displayed any behavior that would indicate that he isn’t right for the job.” I said.
          “No skeletons in the closet?” He asked. “Background clean?”
          “Well, you knew based on his casino license application that his background was clean.”
          “Of course I knew,” A trace of annoyance crept into his tone. “I’m talking about the things we don’t check.”
          “If you mean the dirty little secrets we all have, then no. Nothing out-of-the-ordinary.”
          He nodded to himself. “Then I’m satisfied.” He turned and sat in his chair. “You did a good job.”
          So much for my theory.
          “If you don’t mind me asking, why are you stepping down?” I asked.
          He smiled revealing a set of perfect white teeth. “I’m bored, Mr. Edwards,” he laughed. “I’m fifty-eight years old, been the CEO of this casino for nearly fifteen years, and I’m bored. I’m tired of spending fourteen hours a day in this office staring at that ocean when I could be sailing it.” He took some air in and let out an audible sigh. “To be lying on its beach reading something other than Casino Journal or The Wall Street Journal or Business Weekly might be as close to heaven as I might come to know.” He smiled. “I’ve spent a lifetime amassing wealth and it’s time I started enjoying it.”
          “Wife putting pressure on you?” I said with a wry grin.
          “Well, there’s that too,” he laughed again. “My wife is the driving force in my life and it’s time I fell in love with her all over again.”
          Davis walked over to the bar near the door and was nearly swallowed by the darkness of the room. He grabbed two glasses and filled them with ice. He poured the cognac from a crystal decanter and as the warm liquid washed over the ice cubes, the sound of cracking ice was the only audible sound in the room.
          “I have another job for you.” He said handing me the glass. “That is unless you have something else lined up?”
          I shook my head.
          “Good.” He took a sip from the glass. “Last night four of this year’s Miss America contestants arrived at the hotel. This year we have the privilege of hosting Miss Kentucky, Miss Oregon, Miss Vermont, and Miss Texas.”
          “You ever have any winners?” I asked.
          “Not since I’ve been the CEO,” he replied. “But Miss Texas is the favorite at 3-1. Anyway, it has come to my attention that a threat has been made against Miss Kentucky.”
          “How did it come to your attention?”
          He reached into his desk drawer and handed me a piece of paper. Typed in the center of the page was:
                    i have been below You circling near.
                    the feeling of anticipation of
                    knowing You are close. the thought is
                    strangling but i know it is
                    only a matter of
                    time before i am
                    there. our lives brought
                    together
                    by fate.
                    chance.
          I put the paper down on his desk. “Circling near? I don’t get it.”
          “I don’t either.”
          “And the word ‘you’,” I said. “Is the only word that is capitalized.”
          “What do you think it suggests?” He asked.
          “Could be alot of things, I suppose.”
          He nodded as though he might have agreed.
          “Who found the letter?” I asked.
          “Miss Kentucky, or that is, Naomi Hamilton found it in her bag.”
          “Who had access to her bag?”
          He shrugged. “A lot of people, I guess.” He drank some more cognac. “Her bags weren’t locked and were on the dolly for a few hours before they were brought to her room. Before the lobby area was renovated, there existed a coatroom just to the right of the main entrance. We kept the room but modified it so it acted as a storage facility for bags that were dropped off at valet. It was easier and less disruptive then having the bellmen go through the lobby and casino with the bags. In this case, we waited until all the girls’ luggage was collected before the bags were brought up to their rooms.”
          “Surveillance cameras?”
          “Not in the that location,” he admitted. “It’s one of the few places there isn’t a camera. There is one in the lobby that faces the door but the only people that entered and left the room around that time were the bellmen.”
          “So it was one of the bellmen?”
          “Well, doesn’t have to be,” he paused. “The room is maybe twenty feet past the main entrance to the hotel and is accessible from the street. We’ve had issues with employees leaving the door open and have caught non-casino employees in the room. Also, if the guest does not want to be seen, one of the staff can escort them to the service elevator that’s inside the room. This way they can come and go as they please without the interference of the public. It doesn’t require any special keys to operate so anyone on the remaining floors would have access to it.” He finished the cognac and carefully placed the glass on the desk. “And then there is the possibility that the note was put in the bag prior to Miss Hamilton’s arrival.”
          I didn’t think that was the case but didn’t say anything. Had I not met with Ross, I would’ve considered it.
          “You’re not convinced?” He said probing.
          “It is a possibility,” I lied. “But that would expand the amount of suspects quite considerably. We’ll start locally and branch out from there if necessary.”
          He nodded.
          “Is this the first time one of the contestants of the pageant have been threatened?” I asked.
          “No,” he replied. “It happens every year. This is the fourth time one of the contestants here has been threatened. Mostly, they are pranks. They usually don’t amount to anything more than a kid trying to get their name in the paper or their face on television. Last year, a man who thought Miss Virginia bore the resemblance to the Virgin Mary was stalking a contestant. How he came to this conclusion is still a mystery but he managed to get by the police and corner her on the boardwalk during the parade. He bowed down, tried to kiss her feet, and prayed.” He shrugged. “To my knowledge no contestant has ever been physically injured during their stay in the city.”
          He stared at the letter on his desk and turned it so it faced him. “What do you know about poetry, Mr. Edwards?
          “That the only emperor is the emperor of ice cream.” I replied.
          He smiled and pointed to the paper. “This poem is written in a style called Ethere. More specifically, it’s written in the reverse form or reverse Ethere. The style employs ten lines where the first line is comprised of one syllable. The second has two syllables, the third line has three, and so on until it reaches the tenth line, which has ten syllables. In this case, it’s the reverse. The first line has ten syllables, the second nine, and continues to decrease until the last line has one syllable. I noticed it immediately. I doubt a prankster did this and I further doubt it was done by accident.”
          “So, if you think there is some validity to this threat, why not involve the police?”
          “That’s where it gets a bit complicated.” Davis went back to the bar to refill his glass. “There are several facets to that argument,” He said from the bar. “Even if I told them about the poetic style and how I thought it was deliberate, I doubt the police would take the threat seriously. I’m not saying they would ignore it but they can’t dedicate a man to watching Miss Hamilton. I can almost guarantee other girls have been threatened in some way or another or will be in the next week. Then there’s the issue of reputation. No casino has ever involved the police in these matters. For all concerned, a certain amount of discretion needs to be maintained.”
          “Does Naomi have a chaperone?”
          “Yes,” he replied. “They all do. In Naomi’s case, only her mother, Elizabeth, arrived with her. Her father and brother will arrive in time for the pageant.” He crossed the room and stood facing the ocean. “I gave her mother the opportunity to dictate the direction I took. Without implication of how I thought we should proceed, she chose the path I intend to outline to you.”
          Davis sat at his desk and produced a folder from the same drawer from where he got the letter.
          “This is a schedule of events for the contestants leading up to and including the pageant. There are several public appearances, photo opportunities, list of all the preliminaries, Friday’s parade, and many other events the contestants will be attending. In some cases, the girls will be split up into groups and separated for short periods of time. I’ve highlighted the events Miss Hamilton will be attending during those times.” He took a deep breath. “Essentially, from the time she leaves this casino until the time she returns, I want you to be with her.”
          “A bodyguard?”
          “Yes,” He replied. “I sense your disapproval but I feel it’s the most appropriate course of action at this juncture. I can protect her within these walls but once she leaves.” He spread his hands over the desk. “I have no control. I also realize that as certain leads develop you will need to follow them up. I believe the police have also enlisted your help in a different matter.”
          “You know?”
          “Yes,” he smiled. “Well, I’m not privileged to the particulars but the commissioner phoned before your arrival and said you would be helping them. He and I go way back. If you’re faced with a decision, I trust your judgment to make the morally correct choice.” He reached inside his suit jacket and handed me a card. “That’s my personal key. It opens every door in this building. Unlike the conventional swipe where the magnetic strip faces the door, this card is used in reverse. Not many people realize the doors have two readers, one for the master key and one for the actual key to the door. It also works in the elevators. Just past the lobby, there is a set of double doors that leads to the old coatroom. Inside is the service elevator I told you about. Once you use the key, the elevator will take you directly to the suites without stopping at any floors in between. I will inform security not to worry if they see you coming or going. Naomi and her mother are in suite 1618.”
          I nodded and put the card in my pocket. “What if the threat goes back to Kentucky with Naomi?”
          He clenched his jaw. “That thought has already occurred to me and I passed my concern on to Mrs. Hamilton. I can’t in good conscious send her back without knowing the legitimacy of this situation. I have informed them that if the person responsible is not apprehended before they leave, they need to alert the proper authorities in Kentucky.”
          “Will they?” I asked.
          “It won’t matter,” he replied. “I intend to inform them myself. Discretion has its limits.”


Chapter Three

          The suites occupy the top two floors of the Tropicana. Vaulted ceilings jut down to paneled glass and sliding doors that open to a large balcony that overlook the ocean. The colors of the room are warm and underscore the nearly hidden tones of the furniture. Even the paintings, unlike the familiar and predictable landscape paintings that are bolted to walls in the other rooms, are more abstract and vibrant.
          An open loft, accessible by a tight spiral staircase, occupies the second floor that overlooks a large sitting room, which is furnished with two high-backed chairs, sofa, and carefully placed tables. A fully equipped kitchen, minus the stove, is on the wall near the door. Beyond the modest dining room, a short hallway leads to the master bedroom and bathroom.
Naomi and I were occupying the two chairs in the sitting room. The doors to the balcony were open and a cool breeze filled the room with the smell of the ocean. Though we were too high to hear the waves, I could imagine them rolling over the sand.
          Naomi was twenty years old with big blue eyes and blonde hair that curled up just above her shoulder. Her small dimples were nearly invisible in her soft cheeks. She was wearing a brown bathrobe with the letter “T” embroidered in fancy script. Her tanned legs stretched out from under the robe and her feet rested on an ottoman. Wedged between each of her toes were cotton balls.
          “You found the letter?” I asked.
          “Yes,” Naomi replied. “While I was unpacking my stuff. It was right on top of my clothes.”
          “Was anything missing from your bag?” I asked.
          “No,” she replied.
          “Did you check the bag or was it a carry on?”
          “I checked it.”
          “Could someone have put the letter in your bag at baggage claim?
          She shook her head. “Our bags were the last ones to come down the shoot. We were standing there waiting for them.”
          She tilted her feet to inspect her nails in the glare of the light. Unsure if they were dry, she bent her knee and gently poked her toe with an index finger.
          “Is this the first time you’ve been threatened during a beauty pageant?”
Before she could answer, her mother interjected from the kitchen. “They are no longer referred to as beauty pageants,” she declared. “Beauty is no longer the prevailing criteria in these events.”
          Naomi’s mother, Elizabeth, was resting on her elbows and her head was at an acute angle so she could see us through the opening between the counter and cabinet. Her dark hair delicately touched the counter. Her hand was bobbing above a mug. Satisfied her tea was strong enough, she dropped the tea bag in the trash and took a seat on the sofa next to me. She curled her legs under her and adjusted herself in the corner of the sofa so she faced me.
          “These events,” she continued. “Are a vehicle for young women to express themselves in a positive manner. It teaches them discipline and self-expression. It affords them the ability to compete amongst their peers while earning money for college and gaining a certain level of recognition and confidence. Over the last three years, Naomi has won nearly enough money to pay for her tuition at the University of Kentucky.” She blew across the top of the mug and cautiously took a sip. “In all of her years of competition, she has never been threatened. And if it wasn’t for Mr. Davis’ insistence that the letter was to be taken seriously, I would never thought it necessary to employ a man of your skills.”
          “You don’t think the threat has foundation?” I asked.
          “I didn’t say that, Mr. Edwards,” she said sternly. “Any threat, overt or not, against my daughter I take seriously. But when you make it to this level, there are certain things that are anticipated and expected.”
          She placed the mug on the table and folded her hands in her lap.
          “This is the culmination of all the competitions throughout her life,” she continued. “From the ones that seemed insignificant and proved not to be; to the ones that weren’t significant and proved to be.”
          She brushed the bangs of her hair away from her green eyes. They were earnest and accentuated by tiny crow’s feet that tugged at their corners.
          “This is the defining moment in a young woman’s career that can open doors. It’s the beginning of a long journey that will mark her place in history.”
          I had a feeling she was speaking more of herself than of her daughter. She had the look of an aged beauty queen who looked back on her own history and tried to rewrite her past through her daughter’s future. There was a hint of melancholy in her voice and desperation in her eyes. She was convincing an audience far beyond the one that listened in the room.
          Naomi watched us with disinterest as though she was watching a movie to which she didn’t care about the ending. She looked down at her feet and began carefully removing the cotton balls and placing them in the trashcan. When she was finished, she walked out to the balcony.
          “How is she handling it?” I asked when Naomi was gone.
          “I think under the circumstances, she’s doing well,” she replied quietly. “This has upset her and understandably so. I think she feels more vulnerable being so far away from home. She’s competed against many of the girls in Kentucky before so there was always a familiarity in the pageants. It’s almost like a sorority. But here, it’s foreign. Not just the city, the people. I’ve been to Atlantic City before and I’ve never felt comfortable. It’s a dirty, ugly city. We come from a relatively small town and there’s security in that. But not here. Even the workers are transients,” She laughed. “I can tell by your accent even you’re not from here. You sound like you’re from Boston.”
          “Close.” I smiled. “I’m originally from Connecticut. Though I thought after ten years my accent was gone.”
          “No matter how long you’ve been away from home, you never fully lose your accent. It’s part of your identity.”
          The phone in the kitchen rang and she excused herself to answer it. When she did, I went out and joined Naomi on the balcony.
          The moon was still low and caught the ocean at an acute angle. It’s light lay over the small ripples of water like a blanket. The air was cool and clean and filled the distant sounds of sea gulls.
          “Nice night.” I said as I stepped outside.
          “Yes, it is,” she said absently. “The moon is almost full and the ocean looks like a giant spotlight has been cast upon it.”
She turned to face me. “I’ve never seen the ocean before. It’s beautiful and peaceful.”
          “It’s been a long time since I thought that. I guess after all this time, I just take it for granted. Like I do sunrises. Have you ever seen one?”
          She shook her head and turned her attention to the water. We both leaned against the metal railing.
          “If you get the chance, try and catch one. You see the Taj Majal?” I pointed to the red neon sign in the distance. “It comes up right about there. This time of year the sunrise is about six-thirty in the morning.”
          “That was your father.” Elizabeth said joining us on the balcony. “He has his plane reservations for he and Jeremy. They will be here Friday afternoon.”
          “Will they be here in time for the parade?” Naomi asked.
          “He believes so,” she replied. “Their plane lands around three. I’ll get there around two-thirty in the event their flight is early. Based on how long it took us to get from Philadelphia to here, I would hope we would make it back in time for dinner.”
          Naomi nodded and turned back to the ocean.
          “It’s a bit chilly out here,” Elizabeth said. “Shall we go back and sit down?”
          “If you don’t mind, mom, I think I’ll stay out here and look at the ocean some more.”
          “That’s fine, Naomi,” her mother said. “You want me to get you a sweatshirt?”
          Naomi shook her head.
          “Did you tell your husband about the letter?” I asked after we sat down.
          “No,” she replied. “There’s nothing he can do from Kentucky and there’s no need for him to spend the week worrying over it.” She shook her head. “I just can’t believe this is happening.”
          “From what I understand, it’s not uncommon for threats to be made when they reach this level.”
          “No, I guess it’s not,” she agreed. “But it’s hard to put that into perspective when it’s your own child. You can feel sympathy and understanding when it happens to someone else but when it happens to you...” She shrugged her round shoulders.
          “Can you think of anyone that may want to harm Naomi?”
          “I can think of at least fifty people,” she laughed without humor. “But I don’t think they would resort to anything like this.”
          Naomi emerged from the balcony and said goodnight. She bent down and kissed Elizabeth on the cheek before walking without enthusiasm to staircase.
          I took the notepad from the table and wrote down my number and address.
          “If you need me, call,” I said. “If it’s an emergency, call security. They can get here faster than I can.”
          She took the paper.
          “I’ll come by each morning and we can review her schedule together so that there’s no confusion. Since some of her activities are more personal in nature, they will have to be supervised by you. However, I will be as close by as I can.”
          She stared at the paper.
          “Do you have any questions?”
          She shook her head. We both stood.
          “Thank you,” she said.
          On the way out, I figured it would be a good idea to find the service elevator and test Davis’ key. As soon as you leave the suite, you are forced to face the realization that you are in a hotel. Small lights leaked a yellowish light that splashed against the neutral colored walls and thin durable carpet. You suddenly feel isolated and withdrawn as you maneuver down the hall and past the doorways to the elevator.
          The room Davis had mentioned still bore the resemblance of a coatroom. Nicks and gashes mixed with the explicit writings on the bare sheetrock that covered the large arc opening above the counter. The small compartments under the counter were stuffed with empty soda cans, rolled up newspapers, and other debris. Old metal hangers hung neglected on the long metal rod that was still anchored to the wall. Two empty bellmen carts were positioned between the elevator and exterior door, which made it difficult to maneuver through the small room. The smell of cigarettes was biting. Two ashtrays on the counter overflowed with ash and half-smoked cigarettes. I pushed through the two doors and entered the lobby.
          The lobby, with its high ceiling and ornate decorations, resembles the inside of a tacky palace. The colors were deep and bright. Two large chandeliers loom above the opulent room cascading light from the little prisms that hung from metal branches. A large crowd gathered in front of the long counter that was manned by uniformed employees. The crowd, waiting to check in to the hotel, had been corralled between velvet ropes like mindless cattle.
          The Mitre Box forms the third side of a triangle whose other two points of the triangle comprised of the entrance to the casino and the large revolving doors to the entrance of the Tropicana. It was an ideal spot for hookers to operate because it made it easy to retreat into the anonymity of the street or security of the casino.
          It was still early for a Saturday night and only a few of the pedestal tables were occupied. A waitress revealing more than her ability to balance a tray on her palm passed out drinks to four young guys whose eyes never went higher then the charm that rested in her cleavage. They were probably in their early twenties and thought it fashionable to gamble. They spent their parent’s money without the fear of losing. In fact, they weren’t really gambling at all.
          At the end of the bar seasoned gamblers huddled underneath the television set that was broadcasting the final game in the Divisional Series between the Giants and Cubs. The Cubs were one game away from going to the World Series and breaking a curse that was cast in 1945.
          I sat at the opposite end of the bar and threw a twenty on the bar. Big John maneuvered his way towards me. I have never known Big John to be thin and I always thought it was an act of God that he was able to wedge himself behind the bar. I had also never seen him turn completely around behind it. He only functioned in quarter turns.
          “Hey Ace!” He exclaimed and offered his hand. “Been a while. How have you been?”
          “Pretty good, Big John.” I replied releasing his hand. “You?”
          He flipped his chubby hand back and forth. “Not bad.”
          He smiled and jerked his thumb towards the television. “Hell of a game,” he said. “They’re close.” He leaned in. “These poor bastards are waiting to see if the Cubs pull it out. They feel it is a sign.” He rolled his eyes. “Gamblers are a superstitious and strange breed.”
          He straightened up and eyed the twenty. “What’ll it be?” He asked. “Usual?”
          “Yep.”
          He reached under the bar and grabbed a glass and filled it with water. He placed it in front of me and took the twenty off the bar and deftly eased it into his pocket. The bill had been face up. It was our little signal. He had been a bartender for as long as I’ve known him and learned things the way bartenders do. He had a keen knack for intuitively differentiating between the bullshit and the useful information.
          Despite his size, he was a gentle man. Soft spoken, warm-hearted. He was a widower with three kids; two of which were in college. Many thought his nickname referenced his size. It was a common misconception that some people found out the hard way. Shortly after his wife died of ovarian cancer, he won millions in the lottery. He set up his kids, himself, and gave the rest to the American Cancer Society. He worked to get out of the house and donated most of the money he earned.
          I looked around the room and then back at John. “I’ve been in this place a thousand times and I still can’t figure out why this place is called the Mitre Box.”
          He laughed. “You know those old mitre boxes you used to be able to buy in your local hardware store. I guess maybe you still can, I don’t know.” He shrugged. “You know, the ones that cut on a ninety degree angle and two forty-fives.” He put his hand on the cash register. “This register made the first transaction of this hotel and casino and each entrance to the bar plays off of it. The straight cut leads to the casino.” He pointed through the door and across the hall at the casino. “The other two entrances to the bar, the one to the lobby and the one to the street, are each at forty five degree angles from the cash register. In effect-“
          “Creating a mitre box.”
          He smiled proudly as if I were his student. “Let me check on these guys and I’ll be right back.”
          Big John refilled their glasses whether they needed to be or not. He blindly worked the register with precision and dropped their change on the bar.
          “What’s up?” He said returning.
          “Wednesday night you and Gilda Robertson put the mark on man in his late forties. Brown suit. Salt and pepper hair.”
          “Yeah, Yeah, I remember him,” he interrupted. “The cops came around asking about Gilda. She in some sort of trouble?” He asked with concern. “I haven’t seen her in a few days and that’s not like her.”
          “She’s not in trouble,” It was only half a lie. “I just want to know about the guy she left with.”
          “Him?” He shook his head and his brown hair brushed his forehead. “Fucking windbag,” He spit out the words with quiet anger. “He spent two hours in here hitting on anything with a skirt including the man that is halfway through his gender reassignment surgery. Prick had the balls to ask me if I oiled the sides of the bar to be able to get in here and move around.” He smiled and leaned back tugging the ends of his vest. “And here I thought this black vest they make me wear was slimming. If it wasn’t for the fact that I knew Gilda could play him, I’d have called security and had him thrown out.”
          “How much you squeeze him for?”
          “C note.”
          “Impressive.”
          He shrugged his shoulders.
          “What’s in it for you?” I asked.
          “What do you mean?”
          “You don’t need the money,” I replied. “You get caught, you lose your license. Then what?”
          “It’s not about the money, Ace.” He said. “There’s an excitement in it. Like gambling. The set up, the anticipation of the play.” He shrugged. “Besides, I don’t take any of the money. I do this with Gina and maybe two other girls. I get the excitement, they get the money.”
          I drank some water.
          “You gonna tell me what this is about?” He asked.
          “No.” I replied.
          “I didn’t think so.”
          “What was the plan when they left?” I asked.
          “Depends on whether the guy is staying in the hotel,” he replied. “If he isn’t staying, it’ll go one of two ways. Gilda deliberately leaves her purse on the bar and once outside, tells him that she forgot it. That creates the opportunity for separation. If he insists on getting it himself, she’ll take off while he retrieves it. If she comes back, I give her the purse and she goes through the casino and out another door.”
          “So he wasn’t staying in the hotel?” I asked.
          “No. But he insisted on coming back in to get the purse.” He reached under the bar and dropped the purse next to my glass of water. “I told him she didn’t leave a purse. It took him a while to make the connection. He demanded his money back but when I threatened to call security, he just bolted out after her.” Sadness snuck into his brown eyes. “She’s dead isn’t she?”
          “Yeah.” I sighed.
          “He do it?” Responsibility washed away the sadness.
          “I don’t know yet,” I replied. “Any chance he could’ve caught up to her?”
          “No way,” he insisted. “I give her a good five to tem minute head start. I put on a pretty good show trying to look for the purse. And with my size, it’s convincing.”
          “You know his name?” I asked.
          “Jimmy,” he replied.
          “Last name?”
          “No, sorry. They never give their last name.”
          “Anything else?” I asked.
          “Yeah,” he replied. “He was bragging that he was the top man at some insurance company in Philadelphia.”
          “Which one?”
          “Umm...Weil. Yeah, that’s it. Weil Insurance Company.” His eyebrows went up. “He had a comp. I can get you his last name from that. I’ll need a day or two.”
          I could’ve easily called the Weil Insurance Company and gotten his last name but there was a sense of responsibility in Big John’s tone and demeanor. He thought he was to blame, even though he wasn’t, and I didn’t want to deny him the chance to help.
          “You ever see him in here before?” I asked.
          “No.”
          “While you’re digging up his last name, can you find out if he’s been in here at all over the last few weeks?”
          “Sure.”
          “Call me when you get it.” I said
          “If there is anything else you need, you let me know.” He reached in his pocket and put the twenty back in front of me. “Not tonight. This one’s on me.”