“Zangari represents every mobster Oscar Goodman had to give up when he got elected.”
“Right.” She flipped through some pages. “So, we’ve got a BOLO on the Kales Mortuary hearse, which is what Topaz was driving. His own car is parked behind the mortuary. You’ll be surprised to know that the security system here that films everything records absolutely nothing on-site. It’s all going somewhere else. It’s not networked to a security company. It’s private.”
“Stunned,” Poremba said.
“Cupertine’s house is the same way. Bugged up the wazoo, all of it feeding off-site. It’s going to take us a while to figure that out.”
“House turn up anything?’
“An arsenal,” she said. “All of them registered to Bennie Savone.”
“Do it all legal,” Poremba said, “less chance you’ll get nicked for some stupid shit. It’s smart.”
“Other than that, a lot of beautiful suits. A shit ton of books. A tremendous amount of yogurt and scotch. Nothing useful.”
“Keep looking,” Poremba said. He got up from the bench, walked over to the closest row of graves, set down some more rocks. Got down on one knee, wiped dirt off a headstone. Peter Copeland, 1997 to 2001. “Do you know the Copelands?”
Kristy walked over. “I don’t think so,” Kristy said.
“This boy died when he was four,” Poremba said. “Where was God then, Kristy?”
“I think he’s never stronger than then,” she said. “The Talmud says, we live our life in deeds, not years. Rabbi Cohen taught me that. That boy must have been loved tremendously and must have loved tremendously.”
“Rabbi Cohen taught you that?”
Kristy nodded. “He’s a good rabbi,” she said. “He gave my life purpose when I needed it.”
“Does he believe that?”
“I’ve been wondering that all day,” Kristy said.
Poremba walked a few more steps, stopped in front of one large headstone:
Beth Hertz 1961–2000Neil Hertz 1959–
“Do you think it’s a comfort to the husband to have his name already engraved on the tombstone?” Poremba asked.
“I guess it prevents him from falling in love with someone else,” Kristy said.
Poremba found a stone in the grass, placed it above Beth Hertz’s name, an idea coming clear. “You have any friends in local media?”
“I dated an investigative reporter on Channel 8 for two nights until he wanted to talk to me about the aliens being held out at Nellis.”
“Give me his number,” Poremba said.
TWENTY-SEVEN
SUNDAY, APRIL 21, 2002
LAS VEGAS, NV
THE PALM TIKI WAS ONE BLOCK OFF THE STRIP, WHICH WAS AS CLOSE AS David ever got to the Strip during his time in town. Before 9/11, there were more surveillance cameras in Las Vegas than almost anywhere; now it was a virtual police state. So he never stepped one foot inside the Bellagio or the Mirage or even the dumps, like Excalibur and Circus Circus.
But the Palm Tiki took cash and didn’t really care if your ID was real or not, which made it the perfect place for Jerry Ford to hole up while David figured out how he was going to keep him alive. A harder proposition now than it had been a few days earlier.
So even though he called Jerry and said he’d be there in twenty minutes, David showed up in ten, because he wanted to case the place, make sure Jerry hadn’t gone soft on him. The plan Jerry and David had cooked up after the explosion so far worked—it would be at least a week before anyone realized the body they pulled out of LifeCore wasn’t Jerry Ford, which was good because the Russians would be coming for him, the FBI would be coming for him, and, if he gave a fuck, Bennie Savone would be, too—and that meant Jerry had enough time to grab his wife and get out of the country or hope the feds gave him some kind of deal, which he’d need now that everything was falling to shit.
David parked between a dumpster and a light pole, turned on the local NPR, listened to some asshole prattle on about how if you wanted to really understand real estate investing, you had to first understand kabbalah numerology, that the truth of life and making money was found in the four hundred life-path combinations and their resonant vibrations.
“If you’re just joining us,” the warm-oatmeal voice on NPR said, “we’re with an up-and-coming Southern Nevada leader, Yehuda Stein from the Kabbalah Center on Sahara. He’s got some fascinating notions about investing, which we’ll explore even more deeply after this short break. You’re listening to Faith, Finance, and the Future on KNPR.”
Fuck no. If David weren’t feeling so charitable about the faith, he’d drop by KNPR on his way out of town, get Yehuda’s home address, and show him the number nine pressed against his fucking face.
Instead, he switched to an all-news AM station, KXNT. David closed his eyes.
He’d been awake for over twenty-four hours.
He’d killed two men.
He’d maimed one man.
He’d become a Jew.
Not a day he could have predicted.
David opened his eyes. He was pretty sure he opened his eyes. Most of Melanie Moss was sitting in the passenger seat. He hadn’t forgotten her.
David opened his eyes, again, and there on the light pole was a Missing flyer for Melanie Moss. He put down his window, reached out, yanked the flyer down. It was a newer one, which included the bounty from Temple Beth Israel. There was a number to call with a 775 area code. Carson City.
