LITMIR.BIZ

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when she turned up dead. They have to look into the possibility she died there and then got dumped over here.”

      David said he’d copy the police report and leave it on my desk.

      “But you already know more than what’s in it,” he added.

      As I continued looking through Victoria’s files, I came across an audio tape. I didn’t have a chance to check it, but I wondered if it was the one Julia Saxon wanted. What I did learn was that the madam at the Beavertail Ranch was named Bernice Broyhill. Victoria had written her two letters, one explaining about the beauty contest and another asking for her support in her feud with Kent Freeman, the Beavertail’s owner.

      Bernice liked to issue commands on pink Post-It notes: “See me today noon,” and “See me ASAP.” Only one was more revealing: “See me re: Marks this p.m.”

      Marks. That was a name I recognized. But then, everybody in Las Vegas knows that name. Charlie Marks has practically been deified for reinventing the Strip and building one blockbuster hotel after another. But why would a guy who owns megaresorts frequent a brothel? Surely he could afford full service blondes direct to his room! It can’t be him, I decided. Must be some other Marks.

      On the Beavertail’s website, I found Bernice Broyhill listed as “shift manager” along with the great news that she was happy to give free tours, “Ladies welcome!” I was more than half tempted to drive to Pahrump and take her up on the offer.

      I’d been to Pahrump only once before, when Michael and Sierra took me to the Pahrump Valley Winery for dinner when I first arrived in Las Vegas. “Going over the hump,” they called it, because we had to cross the Spring Mountains to get there. They didn’t mention anything about brothels, though, and it wasn’t until two months later that I learned that Pahrump’s X-rated attractions were hidden on the south side of town in their own little unmarked bordello zone. Fortunately, the Beavertail’s website provided directions: “West on Highway 160, south on Gamebird Road, east on Homestead to the end. Our doors are always open.”

      They should have added, “And we’ll leave the red light on for you.”

      :: :: ::

      After thinking things over and realizing that Sierra’s breakfast had done a good job of making me human again, I decided to go to Pahrump. Even if I didn’t find anything out about Victoria, I’d never have a better chance to see the inside of a cathouse. I had Christmas shopping to do, but it would have to wait. As Auntie Melanie would say, the opportunity was too precious to let it get away.

      When I opened my apartment door to leave, I almost stepped on the perfectly dissected interior organs of a large rodent. The cat wasn’t gone after all. She’d brought me a gift. Sierra would have called it true love, but all I could say was, “Yuck!” I decided to give the cat a name, though: Sekhmet.

      As I headed south on the freeway, I realized I would be driving very near the spot where Victoria’s body was found. I wondered if I’d be able to find it, and that thought was enough to pull me off of Blue Diamond Road when I got to Grand Canyon Drive. David had told me the site was less than a quarter mile south, on the right hand side of the road. The pavement ended a few hundred feet from Blue Diamond, and the ditches on both sides of the road had standing water in them. The sky was clear now, but there had obviously been a cloudburst in the area sometime recently. I bumped on down the gravel, and sure enough, I soon spied festoons of yellow caution tape.

      I pulled off the road where several cars were parked and joined a few other gawkers watching three men in jeans, sweatshirts, and baseball caps. One was poking around in a creosote bush, and the other two were squatting over a big black stain on the ground. Their gloves, clipboards, measuring tapes, plastic bags, cameras, and little flags made it obvious they were on official business, even though they weren’t wearing uniforms.

      David was right, I thought as I surveyed the scene. There was a lot of blood. At least I assumed it was blood that had created the big black stain.

      “Fuckin’ drunk drivers,” the man standing next to me said. He was a bearded guy of about fifty wearing a Harley-Davidson T-shirt. “Las Vegas is a dangerous place to be a pedestrian, even way out here.”

      “You think it was an accident?” I said.

      “Happens all the time,” the Harley guy said. “Some asshole hit her, realized there were no witnesses, and took off.”

      It made sense except for one small problem. Victoria was supposed to be at the Beavertail, not alone on an isolated desert road.

      :: :: ::

      I hung around a little while longer, watching the investigators take pictures and put dirt samples into little bags. One of them mixed up something I guessed was plaster of paris and poured it into a muddy rut. I was tempted to try to talk to them, but when the Harley guy asked them if they had any leads, the one who seemed to be in charge brushed him off with a well-rehearsed line that went something like, “We don’t have any information at this time.”

      I had walked back to the Max before I remembered the digital camera in my backpack. Figuring photos would make a good addition to the article I was planning to write, I walked back and snapped a few pictures of the scene before heading over the Spring Mountains to Pahrump.

      :: :: ::

      The cloudburst had dropped a picturesque layer of snow on the rocks and juniper trees at the summit, and I enjoyed a brief feeling of Christmas before descending into the wide dry valley on the other side.

      I knew I had arrived at my destination when I caught sight of its tall sign, a cutout of a woman’s leg in a fishnet stocking. It had a flashing red light at the top, like the ones at railroad crossings. Under the leg were placards saying “Welcome,” “Sports Bar,” and “Truck Parking.” As I slowed, I saw another sign pounded into the gravel parking lot. “Free Tours. Ladies Welcome.”

      Beyond the parking lot stood the Beavertail itself. I have no idea what I expected a bordello to look like, but it wasn’t trailers. Or maybe they were mobile homes. Whatever their official designation, about eight of them had been dragged there, plunked down to form a big square, and painted a dainty shade of lavender. The trailer facing the parking lot had a big silver Christmas wreath hanging on its door. A potted poinsettia stood on each side of the wooden steps leading up to it.

      I decided to park across the road. As I did, a truck from a Las Vegas glass company pulled into the Beavertail’s parking lot. A man in white overalls climbed out and disappeared through the door with the Christmas wreath. There was no other activity, just four cars in the parking lot.

      God. I wasn’t sure I could do this alone. On the other hand, that was the only way I could do it at all. David wouldn’t have come with me unless the newspaper told him to, and my brother would have had an aneurysm if he had known where I was. Anyway, what was the worst that could happen? In a few days, somebody would report a white Chrysler minivan abandoned out on Homestead Road, and the search for my body would begin.

      When I finally got up enough nerve to approach the front door of the Beavertail, it swung open and almost hit me. The man in white overalls brushed past me like I wasn’t there, and I found myself face to face with a woman who reminded me of my college Shakespeare professor. Her graying brown hair was pulled up in a librarian’s bun, and she was wearing a tweedy suit and a high-necked white blouse.

      “Kin ah help you?” she asked, and all thoughts of my Shakespeare professor vanished. Her voice was rough from a century or two of smoking, and she had a truck stop waitress drawl. As I stared at her, she gave me a quick head-to-toe once-over.

      “I—I’m here for the tour,” I said. Her eyes were still appraising my chest.

      “Oh!” the woman said, shifting her gaze to my face. “Sure, hon. Come on in.”

      She held the door open, and I walked into the whitest room I’d ever seen. Everything was white: the floor, the ceiling, the sofas, the fireplace, the plaster statue of Venus. Even the Christmas tree next to the fireplace was white, and so was the flower arrangement

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