“That’s a very nice gesture, Governor,” Sawhill said into the phone. He had a pink stress ball on his desk that he squeezed rhythmically, his slim fingers tensing. Every now and then, he studied a fingernail, as if it might need filing.

Stride might as well have been invisible, listening to the one-sided conversation.

It had taken years for Stride to trust K-2, because deep inside, Stride always believed that moving up the ladder in the police bureaucracy meant being a smart politician and giving up the things that made you a good cop. K-2 was different. For him, the cops came first. Stride respected him for his loyalty.

Maybe someday Lester Sawhill would convince him that he, too, was on the side of the angels, but Stride didn’t think so. That wasn’t to say that Sawhill was a bad man. He wasn’t. Stride knew he was intensely moral. A Mormon, like so many senior officials in Sin City. No caffeine. No tobacco. No alcohol. Lots of kids-at least seven, Stride figured, counting up the photographs he saw propped on the bookshelves behind Sawhill’s desk. But Sawhill put God and Vegas first, not his cops.

Stride didn’t know how Sawhill and the other Mormons survived here. They could work in the casinos but not gamble. They were religious in a godless town. He found it strange and a little hypocritical, like a bartender who thinks drinking is evil but doesn’t mind watching others pour poison down their throats.

Sawhill hung up the phone. “That was Governor Durand,” he explained, in case Stride had missed it. “That should give you an idea of the concern that exists over this homicide.”

“I’m aware of that,” Stride replied.

“This is a very public case, Detective,” Sawhill added. “A celebrity murder. The communications department is already fielding press inquiries from around the world.”

Stride could translate Sawhill’s meaning easily enough. If the lieutenant had known it would turn out to be such a high-profile case, he would never have turned it over to his black sheep, the untested detective from Minnesota and his transsexual partner. Not in a million years. Now it was too late to yank them. Unless Stride gave him a reason by screwing up.

“That reminds me,” Sawhill continued. “Direct any media inquiries to the PR office. Okay? You’ve got a case to solve. I don’t want you wasting your time with reporters. That goes for Amanda, too.”

Amanda most of all, Stride thought. Sawhill didn’t want either of them representing the city or, worse, snatching the limelight.

“What’s the status of the investigation? I need to tell the mayor something.”

“We have the perpetrator on film,” Stride said. “He left us his fingerprint. Deliberately. That’s a pretty ballsy move, and not like a hired gun who’s just doing a job.”

Sawhill narrowed his eyes. “Were his prints in the system?”

“No. We couldn’t get a good read on his face, either. He knew where the cameras were. All in all, one cool customer.”

“You’re sure he was after Lane? This wasn’t a random thrill kill?”

“It wasn’t a typical hit. But random? No. He was after MJ. Tracked him and killed him.”

“You have a line on a motive?” Sawhill asked impatiently.

“Drugs, gambling, women. Pick one, you’ve got a motive. But so far no reason to think any of them got him killed.”

“So how do you plan to crack the case?” He was the inquisitor now, probing for a weakness, looking for Stride to give him an excuse to pull him off the murder.

“We’re doing a sketch from what we’ve got, which isn’t much. The Oasis guys are reviewing their entrance tapes for the last month, to see if he was inside casing the joint and may have been a little less careful about keeping his face hidden. We’re backtracking MJ’s route that day and using the sketch to see if anyone spotted the perp when he picked up MJ’s tail. Amanda and I are talking to everyone who knew MJ or saw him recently, to see if we can pick up a thread on who he might have pissed off. And I want to talk to MJ’s father. There was something going on between them. It may be nothing, but it’s the only sign so far that anything was amiss in MJ’s party-boy life.”

Sawhill shook his head. “It might be better if I talked to Walker Lane myself.”

“Why is that?” Stride asked, struggling to betray no irritation in his voice.

“Walker Lane is a wealthy, influential man,” Sawhill said. He sounded like a teacher lecturing a slow student. “The governor himself was the one to break the news to Mr. Lane about the murder. I assume you’re not suggesting Mr. Lane is a suspect?”

“I have no reason to think so,” Stride said, “but a dispute was going on between Walker and MJ. We think they talked an hour before he was killed. It’s possible that MJ was involved in something that led to his death, and Walker might know what it is.”

Sawhill drummed his fingers on his desk. He nodded, looking unhappy. “All right, fine. You do the interview. But tomorrow, not today.” Stride began to protest, and Sawhill waved it aside. “Let’s give Mr. Lane a decent time to grieve. You’ve got plenty of other leads to follow. And kid gloves, Detective. He’s a powerful man who just lost his son.”

“Understood,” Stride said.

“How are you and Amanda getting along?” Sawhill asked. His face was stony, but Stride wondered if the man was hiding a smile.

“No problem. She’s smart. I like her.”

“Ah. Good.”

He sounded disappointed.

Stride barely had time to return from Sawhill’s office when Amanda poked her head around his cubicle wall.

“We’ve got company,” she told him brightly, her eyes twinkling. “Karyn Westermark in the flesh. And I do mean flesh.”

Stride followed Amanda to the third-floor conference room, which sported large windows looking out on the rabbit’s den of cubicles that made up the detective squad.

“Why’d they put her in the fishbowl?” Stride asked.

Amanda just grinned, and Stride understood when he reached the windows and saw that Karyn wore a white dress shirt, unbuttoned, with its flaps tied in a loose bow beneath her breasts, which were in serious danger of spilling out each time she leaned forward. Stride also noticed that most of the detectives had found reasons to take the long way to the kitchen to buy soda, a route that steered them past the windows of the conference room.

He went in and told Amanda to close the blinds.

“Sure, make me the bad guy,” Amanda muttered under her breath.

Karyn stood up and reached across the desk to shake his hand, offering another expansive view of her cleavage. Stride didn’t dare let his eyes drift south, and he saw a faint amusement in Karyn’s face, as if she were enjoying his struggle.

“I’m Karyn,” she said, pronouncing her name as if it were spelled Corinne.

Stride wasn’t familiar with her as an actress, but Amanda had already prepped him. Us magazine, Amanda told him again. Karyn was an up-and-coming soap star, trying to make the leap to the big leagues. She was L.A. stunning, with straight blond hair that reached well below her shoulders and glowed like a summer wheat field. She had a model’s long face and cool blue eyes, which reflected the sharp intelligence of someone who knew exactly how much power she had simply because of how she looked. Through the glass tabletop, he saw a red skirt that ended at the middle of her thighs, and then a long, silky expanse of bare legs.

“Thanks for coming in to talk to us, Ms. Westermark,” Stride said. “Can I get you a cup of coffee?”

“A skinny no-foam latte would be great,” Karyn replied.

“I’m afraid we have black coffee, and we have white powder with little plastic spoons,” Stride replied. He added, “The powder goes in the coffee.”

Karyn smiled at him, but there was ice in her eyes and the barest nod of appreciation. “No coffee.”

“I’m very sorry about MJ. It sounds like the two of you were close.”