Nevada Rose Read online

  “Ms. Willows?” Smiling. “Please come in. I’m Eleanor Samuels.”

  Catherine nodded, offered her hand. Mystery solved. She’d seen some of Eleanor’s talk-show appearances with her husband.

  “I appreciate the doctor agreeing to talk to me,” she said. “I know I didn’t give him much notice.”

  Eleanor motioned her into the entry hall.

  “Your call seemed quite urgent,” she said. “I assume this visit concerns a patient?”

  Catherine displayed her most effortlessly professional I can neither confirm nor deny it smile and then followed Samuels’s wife into the foyer. As she went deeper inside, passing from the first hallway to a waiting room and then into a second hall, she tried her best not to look overly impressed by the enormous plasma screens along the walls, each of them gliding through a preprogrammed slide show of pricey-looking artwork.

  “They’re all from my husband’s personal collection,” Eleanor said. “Monet, Gauguin, Degas…people don’t realize Layton holds a Cambridge degree in art history. He’s of the conviction that it’s influenced his approach to aesthetic bodywork.”

  Catherine figured it probably couldn’t hurt, though she had to believe that any connection between fat sucking and an Impressionistic painting of daffodils might be just a little bit of a stretch.

  Mrs. Samuels made another turn, stopped at a wood-paneled door, and reached for the knob.

  “This is Layton’s office,” she said.

  Catherine nodded. She’d already read the plaque beside the door.

  “Can I do anything else for you?” Eleanor lingered between Catherine and the entryway. “Help with information? I’m very hands-on, running the practice.”

  Catherine shook her head. “If I think of something, I’ll let you know.”

  Samuels’s wife stood there another moment, smiled briefly, nodded. “Please feel free,” she said, finally moving aside.

  Catherine went through the door into a small anteroom and immediately noticed a painting hung above an antique chair to her right. No plasma image this time, but honest-to-goodness oil on canvas.

  “It’s from Picasso’s Blue Period.”

  She spun around toward the sound of the voice, almost bumping into the man who’d come up to stand behind her—presumably Layton Samuels. Standing about six feet tall and weighing a fit hundred and eighty pounds or so, the doctor had a horseshoe fringe of gray hair around his otherwise bald pate and a short, neatly clipped beard. He wore a black T-shirt under an eggshell blazer, with charcoal slacks and loafers. Catherine guessed he was in his late fifties.

  “Dr. Samuels,” she said, “I’m—”

  “My wife told me you’d arrived, Captain Willows.”

  Catherine raised an eyebrow as they shook hands. Unless she’d missed something, Eleanor hadn’t announced her.

  Samuels must have seen the question on her face.

  “Our security cameras picked you up at the gate,” he said. “And then at the front door. Since I canceled all appointments for the afternoon, we just assumed you were our visitor.”

  Catherine nodded at the explanation. She was about to suggest they sit down to talk, when Samuels motioned toward the painting on the wall.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it? It’s the crown jewel of my collection.”

  Catherine turned to regard the oil again. Rendered in monochromatic shades of blue, it showed two women in robes and shawls standing together near an archway, one with her head bowed penitently, the other seeming to offer her stern consolation.

  “Very beautiful,” she said. “Sad, too.” And valuable. High-ticket plastic surgery certainly did pay.

  “The Blue Period started with a close friend’s suicide and lasted about four years,” Samuels said. “This was done after Picasso visited Saint Lazare, a French women’s prison. The inmates were prostitutes, most of them with venereal diseases, and their guards were nuns. It must have been hoped the sisters would steer them toward absolution.”

  “Better late than never,” Catherine said, and looked at him. As he continued admiring his pride and joy, it occurred to her that Samuels did not seem like a man having anything that resembled a blue period over his lover’s death. Or like someone who was even aware of it. But Rose Demille’s apparent murder was making front-page headlines. Unless Rose’s friend Nova Stiles was wrong about her relationship with the doctor, that seemed peculiar, to put it mildly.

  Samuels studied Catherine’s face a moment before he motioned her toward the door to his inner office.

  The room had black leather chairs along the walls, a sleekly abstract bronze of a female nude in one corner, and a huge quarter-sawn oak desk as its focal point. Catherine sat down at the desk, giving Samuels a chance to settle in on the other side.

  “I didn’t mean to talk endlessly about my art out there,” he said, angling his head in the general direction of the anteroom. “Give me any time away from my patients, and I forget myself.”

  “That’s all right,” Catherine said. “It isn’t every day I get the chance to stand around admiring a Picasso.”

  Samuels smiled. “My wife says you some questions for me,” he said. “Eleanor says that when she spoke to you on the phone, you didn’t mention what they might be.”

  Catherine took a deep breath. “Dr. Samuels, I’m here about Rose Demille.”

  He gave her a vague look. “What do you mean?”

  Catherine was used to that being the obligatory first response. She couldn’t recall a single married person she’d ever questioned who’d admitted an affair without prodding. Not that she necessarily thought Samuels was faking his confusion.

  “As you may be aware, she died several nights ago under mysterious circumstances,” she said. “There’s an ongoing police investigation to try to determine what happened.”

  Samuels nodded, rocked forward in his chair. “I heard what happened to her. Like everyone else in Vegas. The story’s all over the news. But why are you talking to me about it?”

  “I have information that you were having an intimate relationship with her,” Catherine said. “Is this true?”

  He shook his head. “I’m a happily married man, Captain Willows.”

  Which Catherine was very aware was neither a yes nor a no. Again, not saying she was prepared to tag the doc’s answer as evasive. She sighed heavily. “Are you telling me you didn’t know Rose Demille?”

  “That isn’t what I said.”

  “Then could you please help me understand what you did say?”

  “We’d met. I don’t know where this information of yours originated, but there’s no scandal to the story. She came here once or twice quite a few months ago.”

  “By here, you mean—”

  “The center,” he said. “She wanted to consult about possibly having a cosmetic procedure.”

  “And what happened?”

  “Nothing.” Samuels made a small gesture with his hands. “She elected to pass on the work. Or possibly chose to get it done elsewhere. I wouldn’t know.”

  “Can you tell me what sort of work it was?”

  Samuels shook his head. “I don’t recall. This was a while back.”

  “But you’d have a record of the consultation?”

  “It really depends on how long ago it was. My wife’s proficient with computers and handles that end of things. I think Eleanor keeps old appointments archived in the office scheduler for several years, so there might be a date and a time. But in this case, she wouldn’t have bothered leaving a notation about the reason for her visit.”

  “Because?”

  “If there’s no follow-up with me, it becomes irrelevant.”

  Catherine thought a bit. “And that’s it? There was no further contact between you and Rose Demille?”

  Samuels rocked back and forth in his chair some more, hesitating.

  “Doctor…”

  “I’m not sure,” he said. “We may have had a casual conversation or two at some point.”


  Catherine looked at him, suddenly cognizant of his rocking. It might mean he was nervous, but that wasn’t necessarily significant. Most people got nervous when somebody with the LVPD came around asking questions. And it might also just mean he liked to rock when he talked.

  In any event, right now, she was more interested in the meaning of his last response.

  “I don’t follow,” she said. “Did you or didn’t you see Rose after her visit?”

  Samuels shook his head. “I lead a very public life,” he said. “Las Vegas is a small town in many ways. We occasionally mixed in the same circles, were invited to the same parties…I remember that we did bump into each other at some social function or other. But I couldn’t tell you when that might’ve been. Or if it was before or after the consultation. Whatever we talked about, I know it wouldn’t have been anything but chitchat.”

  Catherine watched his eyes. “Dr. Samuels, can you think of any reason someone would lie to the police about you and Rose Demille being involved in an affair?”

  “I wish I could,” he said. “As it is, I have no idea who’s accused me—”

  “I wouldn’t call it that.”

  “What?”

  “An accusation,” Catherine said. “People tell us things for different reasons. I don’t think anyone was pointing fingers.”

  Samuels’s chair creaked. “Be that as it may,” he said, “I can only repeat that I’m very identifiable to the public. I don’t want to sound like a broken record. Or like I forget to count my blessings. But there are downsides to everything. When it comes to being well known, one of them is that you’re left open to all sorts of talk.”

  “And you’re stating that you and Rose Demille weren’t romantically connected?”

  Samuels leaned forward again. He closed his eyes a moment and rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger.

  “Captain Willows, I don’t expect you to tell me exactly what happened to that unfortunate young woman,” he said. Opening his eyes now to look straight into Catherine’s. “From the stories leaking out to the press, I suspect it may be something monstrous and can only hope she didn’t suffer for a foolish mistake.”

  Catherine looked back at him. She was thinking that once she was through with the doctor here, she would have to hurry up and find out what the hell kind of stories he was talking about.

  “Mistake?”

  Samuels expelled a long sigh. “Rose Demille was unapologetic about her way of life,” he said. “To answer your question…my practice may help people shape their outward appearances, but its success comes from them trusting who I am inside. That I’m the man I represent myself to be in books and on television. I could never jeopardize everything I’ve built up—my marriage, my public reputation—with some thoughtless extramarital fling.” He paused, sighed again. “One thing I’ve learned is that secrets have a way of baring themselves.”

  Catherine met his gaze with her own, shrugged.

  “Some do, Doctor,” she said. “But from my own experience, there are others that seem to need a helping hand.”

  The first thing Warrick noticed outside Niki Rusellia’s was the owner’s massive face next to the lettering on the salon’s logo. What struck him as he entered a moment later was that none of the staff members was working. Not to say they hadn’t been busy before he came in—everything Warrick saw told him they must have been in a full groove. The place was thick with the unmistakable salon smells of perm solution, peroxide, and perfumy shampoo. There were male and female clients with aprons thrown over them at mirrored hairstyling stations. There were clients with their heads tilted back over sinks, their hair sudsy and dripping wet. There were clients under the dryers, at the waxing and manicure booths, and waiting in chairs at one side of the door.

  But the fact remained that Warrick Brown had found the entire crew of the chichi salon standing motionless at their respective stations with their scissors, sprays, brushes, blow dryers, color tubes, and assorted other hairdresser’s whatnots in hand, as if they were playing freeze tag or had maybe swallowed some weird, immobilizing magic potion.

  A moment later, he realized that every single person in the salon—clients, staffers, everyone without exception—had his or her eyes trained on a big wall television over the waiting area.

  And then he abruptly understood what had gotten their attention.

  At an anchor desk on-screen were a man and a woman Warrick recognized as two of the rotating hosts for the Entertainment 24 cable gossip network. The woman was a perky blonde with large hoop earrings and a retro-style bob. The metro male beside her had swirled, thickly gelled hair and a pasted-on white strip of a smile. The graphic behind them, a huge photo of Nevada Rose Demille in a black low-necked dress, was captioned: “ET/24 Headline Story: Police Suspect Murder in Nevada Rose Sex Death.”

  “I can’t hear anything,” said a female stylist to Warrick’s right. “Somebody turn up the sound.”

  An elaborately manicured redhead behind the reception desk pointed the remote at the set and turned it up.

  Warrick stood inside the salon’s doorway, stock-still like everyone else, his eyes glued to the TV screen.

  “In a stunning revelation about the death of thirty-four-year-old Nevada Rose Demille at her home early this week, Entertainment 24 has confirmed that authorities are now theorizing it may be related to sadomasochistic sex,” said the woman in hoop earrings, the camera moving in for a tight close-up. She paused, approximated a sober journalistic face, and turned to her cohost. “Lorne?”

  “Thanks, Koko,” he said, replacing her on the screen. “As the investigation into Nevada Rose’s tragic demise heats up, so have police made her allegedly hot sexual escapades a target of intense scrutiny. As part of our ET/24 exclusive, we’ve learned that evidence allegedly discovered on or near the grounds of Rose Demille’s fashionable Mariah Valley residence has led the LVPD to zero in on Rose’s rumored fiancé, baseball legend Mark ‘Fireball’ Baker, as a possible suspect in what could be developing into a homicide investigation.”

  Another pause, and it was back to Koko.

  “A short while ago, ET/24 celebrity crime beat correspondent Roxxii Silver tracked down the case’s lead detective, Captain Jim Brass, outside police headquarters. He had these comments in response to her questions…”

  Warrick watched as a video clip of Brass appeared on the set, noticing he wasn’t actually outside the departmental HQ but was getting out of his car in the crime lab’s parking lot. Of course, ET/24 wasn’t exactly acclaimed for the accuracy of its coverage.

  “Captain Brass, what can you tell us about reports of Rose Demille participating in bizarre sex games with her alleged killer?”

  This had been Roxxii, speaking off camera as the lens zoomed onto Brass’s bulldog face.

  “We’ve got nothing for you at this time,” Brass grunted. Surprise, surprise.

  “Would you at least comment on stories that Rose’s home was filled with what have been described as ‘erotic lingerie’ and ‘kinky paraphernalia’? And that an item, even possibly a murder weapon, belonging to a prominent sports figure has been retrieved from outside the—?”

  “I repeat, we’ve got nothing for you.” Brass again, the picture of him wobbling crazily as he pushed past the cameraman.

  Warrick smiled a little. He could have warned Roxxii.

  The broadcast cut back to Koko in the studio.

  “Well, Lorne, that was enlightening.” Rolling her eyes.

  “Par for the course, Koko,” he said. “But ET/24’s viewers can be sure we’ll be on top of this unfolding story in coming days and weeks.” He sighed, his expression lightening. “Next up after a commercial break, our feature story on the paparazzi and pop diva moms. How far is too far when—?”

  The television suddenly blinked off, the salon returning to life a moment later. Warrick turned toward the reception desk, saw a thin guy with an ostrich crest of spiky black hair holding the remote, and recognized his fac
e as the same one above the salon’s entrance.

  He went up to him, flashed his ID. “Mister Rusellia—”

  “Those ghouls make me sick,” the stylist interrupted. He nodded at the screen and lowered his voice. “Shitbags are dancing on Rose’s grave.”

  Warrick looked at him. “I need to ask you a few questions,” he said.

  “Listen, I don’t know anything about what happened to Rose the other night.”

  Warrick looked at him some more. “Her boyfriend a client of yours?”

  “Rose had a lot of boyfriends.”

  “I think you know the guy I mean,” Warrick said. “If you’d be more comfortable talking somewhere else—”

  Rusellia held up his hand and stepped closer. Warrick saw his eyes flick up to the crown of his black departmental baseball cap.

  “Cee-Ess-Eye,” Russelia said, reading the letters off the front. “What’s that stand for, anyway?”

  Warrick wondered why he hadn’t asked when he saw the badge. But whatever got him to open up, he thought with a mental shrug. “Crime Scene Investigation,” he said.

  Rusellia looked satisfied. “Baker’s a client,” he said in a confidential tone. “I do the work on him myself.”

  “How long’s he been coming here?”

  “Four, five months. Rose referred him.”

  “And the last time you did his hair?”

  “Maybe two weeks ago.”

  “A foil job.”

  “You got it, man.”

  “What products you use?”

  “Strictly Oro for Men. Numbers twelve and sixteen. That’s Adonis and Olympus.”

  Warrick looked at him. “Okay, thanks.”

  “That’s it?”

  “For now.”

  Rusellia went back to staring at the top of his head.

  “There anything else you want to know about my cap?” Warrick said.

  “No,” Rusellia said. “Not about the cap.”

  “Then what?”

  “Your hair.”

  “My hair?”

  “Right. It getting thin or something?”