chase?”
“Probably. But a woman did die here.”
“The Meteorite Inn. Looks like it was hit by a meteorite. If a guy stood on this corner, the girl in the flatbed Ford would’ve driven right by. I’ll bet people rent by the month.”
Laura looked at the old motel. There was a cluttered look to some of the rooms—doors open, old cars outside. It did look like people were camped out there. “You think they were hiding out?”
“Could be. You can’t get more out of the way than this.”
“But the woman died from a drug overdose. Maybe he wasn’t running from anything at all in Vegas. Maybe he just met the woman here and paid her for sex.”
“It’s a theory,” Anthony said. Hands on hips, he stared out at the bleak side of Winslow.
“But that would be a coincidence,” Laura said.
“Yeah—and I know how much you don’t like coincidences.”
“Coincidences are rare. Besides,” she said. “Sean Perrin was killed by a pro.”
They met with Greg Wyland, the detective who investigated Aurora Johnson's death at the Meteorite Inn. Wyland was tall like Anthony, so the two of them towered over Laura, even though she was pretty tall, herself. Wyland looked boyish, with a pale blonde buzz cut and startling blue eyes.
He showed them the file.
Aurora Johnson did have a sheet—prostitution busts and drugs.
The crime scene photos were shocking. There was blood everywhere, mostly from Johnson running into things, like the dresser where she ended up, head smashed into the bottom drawer.
“Ketamine and PCP,” Laura muttered, looking at the sheet. Anthony leaned over her.
Even dead, Aurora Johnson was a beautiful young woman. She was twenty-four years old. She looked like she might be a mixture of Hispanic, African American, and perhaps Asian. In one of the close-up shots, Laura noticed a tattoo on her forearm: a bullet. Just the black silhouette, but it was unmistakable. “Did LVMPD send a photo of her?” Laura asked.
“Yeah.” He pulled it up on his desktop.
It was the first time Laura had seen a mug shot that was actually flattering.
“Jesus,” Anthony said. “She’s a knockout.”
Even the cloth they used to drape under her chin looked elegant.
Aurora Johnson had been arrested for possession of drugs twice and prostitution three times.
Laura said, “All these arrests were from two years ago or earlier. Since then, nothing.”
“Somebody looking out for her?” Anthony asked.
“Cedric Williams,” Wyland said. “A.K.A. WMD.”
“His name is ‘WMD?”
“No, A.K.A. WMD. Supposedly he’s a rapper.”
Laura knew that rappers in Vegas were pimps in actuality. Like the guy in Vegas who was shot and killed on the Strip awhile back, blowing up a taxi in the process.
Anthony said, “Stands for ‘also known as’?”
Wyland shrugged. “That would be my guess. She definitely had protection—my contact at LVMPD said she was A.K.A.’s bottom girl.”
Laura knew that a “bottom girl” was the Most Valuable Player in the pimp-hooker world. She was trained to run the business, make sure the girls did what they were told, groomed to perfection and schooled to be a high-level prostitute worthy of the high rollers who wanted the best. “So what’s she doing dying of a drug overdose in a dump like the Meteorite Inn?”
They went back to the motel with Wyland. Perrin and Johnson had stayed in room 10, right near the backside of a bar and facing a Dumpster.
“This was over two weeks ago,” Wyland said, after coming out with the key to the room. “The place has been cleaned up.”
“Probably not all that much,” Anthony said. He covered his eyes against the lowering sun and stared at the room down at the end. “I can picture this. Fade In: a fleabag motel on the edge of town.”
Wyland glanced at Laura.
“Anthony writes screenplays in his spare time.”
“This would be a good setting for a zombie movie,” Wyland said helpfully.
The room had not been repainted, but the
“Probably. But a woman did die here.”
“The Meteorite Inn. Looks like it was hit by a meteorite. If a guy stood on this corner, the girl in the flatbed Ford would’ve driven right by. I’ll bet people rent by the month.”
Laura looked at the old motel. There was a cluttered look to some of the rooms—doors open, old cars outside. It did look like people were camped out there. “You think they were hiding out?”
“Could be. You can’t get more out of the way than this.”
“But the woman died from a drug overdose. Maybe he wasn’t running from anything at all in Vegas. Maybe he just met the woman here and paid her for sex.”
“It’s a theory,” Anthony said. Hands on hips, he stared out at the bleak side of Winslow.
“But that would be a coincidence,” Laura said.
“Yeah—and I know how much you don’t like coincidences.”
“Coincidences are rare. Besides,” she said. “Sean Perrin was killed by a pro.”
They met with Greg Wyland, the detective who investigated Aurora Johnson's death at the Meteorite Inn. Wyland was tall like Anthony, so the two of them towered over Laura, even though she was pretty tall, herself. Wyland looked boyish, with a pale blonde buzz cut and startling blue eyes.
He showed them the file.
Aurora Johnson did have a sheet—prostitution busts and drugs.
The crime scene photos were shocking. There was blood everywhere, mostly from Johnson running into things, like the dresser where she ended up, head smashed into the bottom drawer.
“Ketamine and PCP,” Laura muttered, looking at the sheet. Anthony leaned over her.
Even dead, Aurora Johnson was a beautiful young woman. She was twenty-four years old. She looked like she might be a mixture of Hispanic, African American, and perhaps Asian. In one of the close-up shots, Laura noticed a tattoo on her forearm: a bullet. Just the black silhouette, but it was unmistakable. “Did LVMPD send a photo of her?” Laura asked.
“Yeah.” He pulled it up on his desktop.
It was the first time Laura had seen a mug shot that was actually flattering.
“Jesus,” Anthony said. “She’s a knockout.”
Even the cloth they used to drape under her chin looked elegant.
Aurora Johnson had been arrested for possession of drugs twice and prostitution three times.
Laura said, “All these arrests were from two years ago or earlier. Since then, nothing.”
“Somebody looking out for her?” Anthony asked.
“Cedric Williams,” Wyland said. “A.K.A. WMD.”
“His name is ‘WMD?”
“No, A.K.A. WMD. Supposedly he’s a rapper.”
Laura knew that rappers in Vegas were pimps in actuality. Like the guy in Vegas who was shot and killed on the Strip awhile back, blowing up a taxi in the process.
Anthony said, “Stands for ‘also known as’?”
Wyland shrugged. “That would be my guess. She definitely had protection—my contact at LVMPD said she was A.K.A.’s bottom girl.”
Laura knew that a “bottom girl” was the Most Valuable Player in the pimp-hooker world. She was trained to run the business, make sure the girls did what they were told, groomed to perfection and schooled to be a high-level prostitute worthy of the high rollers who wanted the best. “So what’s she doing dying of a drug overdose in a dump like the Meteorite Inn?”
They went back to the motel with Wyland. Perrin and Johnson had stayed in room 10, right near the backside of a bar and facing a Dumpster.
“This was over two weeks ago,” Wyland said, after coming out with the key to the room. “The place has been cleaned up.”
“Probably not all that much,” Anthony said. He covered his eyes against the lowering sun and stared at the room down at the end. “I can picture this. Fade In: a fleabag motel on the edge of town.”
Wyland glanced at Laura.
“Anthony writes screenplays in his spare time.”
“This would be a good setting for a zombie movie,” Wyland said helpfully.
The room had not been repainted, but the
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