Diva Las Vegas (14 page)

“How long ago was this girl found dead?” I asked.

“Two months,” Cushing said.

“And no others?”

“No. Not until LA, I guess.”

“Shana,” I said.

“The only connection we have is the way they were killed,” Jakes said. “If we can connect her to Reynolds, then we have another link.”

“So how do we do that?” I asked. “We can’t find the doctor.”

“We’ll find him,” Jakes said, “but until we do, we’ll talk to the family, see if they know anything about Reynolds.”

“You may have a problem there,” Cushing said.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“You haven’t read the whole file,” she said. “She moved out of her parents’ house because they didn’t want her to be a showgirl.”

“So where’d she live?”

“With some other girls.”

“I wish you’d told me that before,” he said. “We should be going to see them.”

I saw Cushing duck her head. I knew if I could see her face now, she’d be red.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I—I didn’t think—”

“It’s okay,” he said, his tone softening the way it did with me sometimes. Maybe he just couldn’t help sounding sexy, but I didn’t like him talking to her that way. “We’re already committed to this. We’ll talk to the family and then the girls.”

Cushing nodded.

“It’s really okay, Cushing,” he said, again. “I should’ve read the file.”

He wasn’t being sexy, I realized. He was being kind. Funny that it would be while I was listening to him talk to another woman that I would realize how much I loved him.

Spanish Hills was one of the largest custom-home communities in Las Vegas. “High-end homes owned by professional people.” That was how Detective Cushing put it.

“Mr. Bronsky,” she said, “is a very expensive dentist. The community is gate guarded, and the homes run an average of fifty-four hundred square feet.”

“You sound impressed,” I said.

She looked at me in the rearview mirror.

“My parents live in a community like this. No, I’m not impressed.”

She showed her shield at the guard gate, told the uniformed rent-a-cop that she was there to see Dr. Bronsky. The guard made a call, but gave Cushing a pass only after Jakes displayed his shield, as well. They both introduced me as an associate.

We approached the front door of the Bronsky home. Since Cushing was the legal one, we let her knock and take the lead—for the moment. I was sure that once inside, Jakes would ask the questions.

The neighborhood seemed middle-class, the house a ranch that had probably been built in the fifties. Cushing had pulled her car into the driveway, behind a four- or five-year-old Chevy Malibu.

The middle-aged woman who opened the door radiated waves of sadness. She had to be the mother who had recently lost her child.

“Yes?”

“Mrs. Bronsky,” Cushing said, showing her badge, “my name is Detective Cushing; this is Detective Jakes and his associate, Ms. Peterson.”

She looked at me curiously, and I hoped not to be recognized. It would have been intrusive.

“The police?” she asked.

“Yes,” Cushing said. “May we come in and have a word with you?”

“Is this about my daughter—” she started, but a man’s voice cut her off.

“Where’s the damn tape, Alice?” he demanded.

“It’s there, dear,” she said, “with the other boxes.”

“I can’t find—oh, there it is. What the hell was it doin’ there?”

The woman’s shoulders tensed up for a moment. She seemed embarrassed.

“Yes, ma’am,” Cushing said, as if the man had never interrupted. “It’s about your daughter.”

“Very well,” she said, backing away from the doorway. “Come in, then.”

“Thank you,” Cushing said, and walked inside.

Jakes stepped aside so I could follow, and then brought up the rear. As the woman closed the door behind us, we stepped through a small entry area into a living room filled with boxes, some sealed, some open. A heavyset man in his fifties was struggling to tape one of the boxes closed.

“Goddamn it, I told you to buy the brown tape—” He saw us and stopped. He straightened, leaving the dispenser on the box, and frowned.

“What’s goin’ on?” he demanded.

“Dr. Bronsky, I’m Detective Cushing; this is Detective Jakes. He has some questions—”

“What kind of questions?” the man demanded. “Who are you people? What happened to Detective Childs?”

“Detective Childs is still working on the case, sir,” Cushing said, “We’re just doing a follow-up—”

“I only talk to Childs,” Bronsky said.

“Sir,” Jakes said, “what’s your first name?”

“Charlie,” Bronsky said, then, “Charles. But I prefer you continue to call me Doctor.”

“That’s fine, Doctor,” Jakes said. “I’m not a Vegas cop; I’m from LA. We have a dead girl in my town who may have been killed by the same man who killed your daughter.”

“When?” Bronsky demanded.

“A few days ago.”

“The son of a bitch is in LA?” he demanded. “Is that where Childs is?”

Jakes cut Cushing off before she could answer.

“No, sir. The Vegas police knew nothing about it until I came here and told them. I asked for their help, and they assigned me Detective Cushing.”

“Why the hell wouldn’t they give you Detective Childs?” Bronsky demanded. “He knows all about my daughter’s murder.”

“Well,” Jakes said, throwing the entire department under the bus, “I guess he was too busy—”

Bronsky’s face turned so red, I thought he was going to explode.

“Dr. Bronsky,” Jakes said, “if we can sit down, maybe I can explain.”

Jakes got Bronsky to sit and calm down. Then he actually got some intelligent words from him. It probably helped that Cushing and I kept quiet and allowed Jakes to handle it. Unfortunately, the man didn’t know that much.

“We lost her,” he said, shaking his head, “when she moved out and mutilated her body.”

“I’m sorry?” Jakes said. “Mutilated?”

“Those phony . . . things,” Bronsky said, holding his hands out in front of his chest.

“You mean . . . she had plastic surgery?” Jakes asked.

Bronsky looked like he had tasted something bad. “You can’t call that surgery. She just couldn’t be happy with what the Lord gave her, could she?” he complained.

I looked around the room again. It was obvious the Bronskys were moving. On one wall was the outline of a crucifix. Getting breast implants and becoming a showgirl might have been Linda Bronsky/ Bronson’s way of distancing herself from her religious upbringing. At least, from her father’s point of view.

When Jakes asked the Bronskys questions about Linda’s life after she left home, they pleaded ignorance. In fact, Dr. Bronsky said he didn’t speak to his daughter once she moved out.

“She wasn’t my daughter anymore,” he said. “Not once they got hold of her.”

Jakes didn’t bother to ask who
they
were.

Mrs. Bronsky led us to the front door, still with a sad, faraway look in her eyes.

“I guess, judging from the boxes, you’re moving?” Jakes asked.

“Yes,” she said. “My husband doesn’t feel we can stay here after what’s happened to . . . to our daughter.”

“He can’t put all the blame on Vegas,” Cushing said.

Jakes and I exchanged a look, but said nothing. Mrs. Bronsky just shook her head and closed the door.

 

As we got back to the car, I said to Jakes, “I’m impressed.”

“With what?”

“The way you handled the father,” I said. “I didn’t think we were going to get anything out of him.”

“We didn’t,” Cushing pointed out.

“Yes, but that’s because he didn’t know anything,” I pointed out, “not because he wouldn’t talk.”

“Alex is right,” Jakes said.

“What about the wife, though?” Cushing asked. “Doesn’t a mother usually know more about her daughter than a father does?”

“You’d think,” Jakes said. “But I got the distinct impression this woman was totally clueless.”

“The father complained about his daughter’s fake breasts,” I said. “He seemed more upset about that than he did about her death.”

“Men like that . . .” Cushing said, but allowed it to trail off.

“Men like that . . . what?” I asked from my backseat position.

She started the car, and then abruptly turned the engine off.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “but that man reminded me of my father. They’re the same—bullies hiding behind their religious beliefs. My mother had the same look as Mrs. Bronsky. I knew as soon as we walked into that house.”

“That couldn’t have been easy for you,” I said.

“I’m sorry,” Jakes said.

Cushing waved a hand and said, “I shouldn’t let my emotions interfere with my work.”

“A good detective knows how to put her emotions to good use . . . Detective,” Jakes told her.

She didn’t answer.

I was running—I mean, literally running—down the hall of the Hilton to the Grand Ballroom, where the question-and-answer session was being held, trying to tuck my blouse into a very tight pencil skirt while holding a pair of Manolos in my right hand. I had called the limo driver from the backseat of Cushing’s car. She had given me a location where I could change cars. She and Jakes went one way; the limo and I, another.

I’d tried to change my clothes in the limo but had not quite finished the job. That made me nuts. I was a good twenty minutes late and I hated that. I prided myself on being punctual, and now here I was, feeling like I had let Kathy and all the fans down. An assistant saw me and met me at the door.

“I’ll take you in through the rear entrance.”

“I’m so sorry I’m late! I’m Alex. What’s your name?” I was out of breath.

“I’m Theresa. And I kind of know, I mean, ha, ha, ha. I know who you are—for sure I know who you are. Like, it’s okay. It’s fine. They just got started. Really. Ha, ha, ha, ha.” I had to listen to her babble the whole way through a labyrinth of hallways, through the kitchen and to a large metal door. “Right through there. Ha, ha, ha.” The girl made me nervous, but I didn’t have time to dwell on it.

“Thanks,” I said, and flung open the door, assuming it would lead to a backstage area where I could finish getting dressed and then discreetly sneak onto the stage. But no. And hey, thanks, Theresa. There I was. Center stage. Bright lights. Barefoot. Blouse all untucked. Balancing shoes and purse. Trying to catch my breath. Smack-dab in front of about seven hundred fans. What could I do? I waved my Manolos.

“Well, look who decided to show up. Alexis Peterson, ladies and gentlemen.” The fans clapped and whistled.

I had read in the itinerary that Brad was the emcee for this part of the event. And there he stood in front of the dais, about thirty feet across from me on the other side of the stage. He sauntered over.

“More important matters to attend to, Alex? Like maybe, oh, I don’t know, getting dressed?” Everyone laughed.

I’m sure I was a nice shade of scarlet right about then, but what could I do? I grabbed the mike and said, “Oh, shut up, Brad. Instead of making fun of me, why don’t you help me get dressed?” The crowd roared as I turned around and had him help me with the button on the back of my skirt. “Sorry I’m late, everyone. But I’m so happy to be here now.” I slipped on my pumps and strolled across the stage to my seat on the dais.

“Now, that’s an entrance. Ladies and gentlemen, Alexis Peterson.” Again, everyone laughed. I sat down and was trying to collect myself when I heard Brad ask if anyone had a question.

“You, over there in the lime green top. You have a question?” Brad asked. “Could you stand up, please?” An assistant handed her a microphone.

“Yes, I do. For Alexis. Um, why were you late?”

Of all the questions I was prepared to answer—about boyfriends, ex-husband, family, costars; oh, I don’t know, murders, maybe—that wasn’t one of them. Brad handed me the mike and I just sat there, dumbfounded. After a moment, I stammered, “I was out seeing the sights. I love Vegas. Don’t you?”

Brad took a question for Priscilla next. Someone asked about her gown. It was another beaded number strangely inappropriate for the time of day and weather. Apparently, they thought it was beautiful. No accounting for taste, I guess.

A few more questions were asked, none directed toward me, and I took a moment to look out at the people in the crowd. The stage was a good six feet higher than the floor of the ballroom, so I had a fairly decent view. Lots of women of all ages, and, not surprising to me, lots of men, too.

A lot of people think it’s a female phenomenon, soap operas. But I knew better. Just as many men as women watched the shows I’d been on over the years, and wrote letters, too. I’d received fan mail from all sorts of guys: cops, FBI agents, doctors, lawyers and, believe it or not, even priests. Soaps were many people’s guilty pleasure.