Step to the Graveyard Easy by Bill Pronzini Read Free Book Online Page B

medium-priced motels lining the road, offering gambling-related specials.
    Stateline.
    On the Nevada side, a short strip of high-rise casino hotels. Harrah’s, Harvey’s, Horizon, Bill’s, Caesar’s Tahoe, Lakeside Grand. Huge marquee signs advertising entertainment, come-on promotions, nonstop action—the usual ballyhoo. Mini Las Vegas, poor man’s Las Vegas. A place for a quick visit, an even quicker getaway.
    Cape parked in the free lot behind the Lakeside Grand. The side entrance to the hotel was the one in the photo background,all right. He pushed through into a purple-and-gold lobby ringed with boutiques and specialty shops. Crossed that and entered the casino. Mirror-walled and -ceilinged, the usual banks of neon-lit electronic slots and gaming tables presided over by people dressed in purple and gold. The slots and blackjack layouts were getting some late-afternoon play; the craps, roulette, and baccarat tables were quiet. The high rollers, like vampires, only came out at night.
    He wandered through the casino, showing the eight-by-ten glossies to a woman in one of the change booths, a sleepy-eyed croupier, an equally bored stickman. Head shakes and negatives. He entered the bar at the opposite end. The purple-shirted barman said, “Can’t help you, sir. Unless it’s a drink you want.”
    A drink was just what he wanted. But not yet. He took the photos into the hotel lobby. A tour group had just come in; all the people behind the reception desk were busy. Cape crossed carpeting as thick as new sod to the shops. Jewelry, objets d’art, Asian antiques, men’s and women’s clothing. One of the boutiques was called Milady’s Pleasure. Nobody in there now except a saleswoman in a gold blouse and purple slacks.
    She said, “My name is Justine. How may I help you? A gift for milady?”
    Tall, jet-black hair, pale skin, striking almond-shaped eyes. Eurasian, probably. About his age. Not beautiful, not even pretty by any conventional standard, but with the kind of features you’d remember long after one of the plastic-faced Hollywood clones. Those eyes, especially.
    She was used to being scrutinized; neither her gaze nor her smile wavered. At length Cape shook his head, said through his salesman’s smile, “Actually, I’m looking for someone. I wonder if you might be able to help.”
    “Well…”
    He held up one of the photos of the tawny-haired woman. “Do you know her?”
    “Oh… yes, that’s Mrs. Vanowen.”
    “Vanowen.”
    “She’s a customer of ours.”
    “Lives around here, then.”
    “Yes, she does.”
    “Would you have her address?”
    “I’m sorry, but I couldn’t possibly…”
    “I understand. A phone number where I can reach her?”
    “I’m afraid not. But there may be a listing.”
    “I’ll check. What’s her husband’s name?”
    “Andrew.” Odd inflection. As if the name tasted bad in her mouth or stirred up an unpleasantness in her memory.
    “And hers?”
    “Stacy.” Justine hesitated. “Is it important, your reason for wanting to get in touch with Mrs. Vanowen?”
    “It could be. A personal matter.”
    Another pause. Then, “Rubicon Bay.”
    “Pardon?”
    “They live in Rubicon Bay.”
    “Where would that be?”
    “Southwest shore, on the California side.”
    Cape showed her the photos of the two men, side by side. “Is one of these Andrew Vanowen?”
    She pointed to the one of the older, silver-haired man. The oddness was in her expression this time, a darkening that might have been dislike or old anger or maybe both.
    “Do you know Vanowen?” he asked.
    “No. We’ve met, but… no.”
    “How about the other man?”
    “I’ve seen him before, but I don’t know his name.”
    “Seen him here at the hotel? Or around the area?”
    “Both.”
    “Another local resident, then.”
    “I think so, yes.” Justine had had enough questions; she said in her by-rote voice, “Now may I show you something for your wife or lady friend?”
    “Sorry. I don’t have