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asked polite questions about Porter, leaning forward with what she thought was amiable sympathy.
    When the interview was done, Morgan gave Jake a thumbs-up through the window. On his way out, Jake found her and gave her his card.
    “You ever need any legal advice, you call me,” he said. “Those yoga teachers are torts just waiting to happen.”
    Morgan checked her watch. “I’m off right now.” Her aquamarine eyes were bright and teasing, and she wiped a purple-streaked shank of hair off her forehead. Jake paused. This could be just what he had been looking for, to help him shut off his mind.
    “Do you know Olive’s at the Venetian?”
    “Hate it. How about Opal?”
    Jake grinned. “Ten minutes?”
    “Twenty.”
    Opal was poolside on a rooftop, with a view of all Las Vegas shimmering around it. Morgan was late, so Jake ordered a tequila shot and waited on a ruby-red, velvet-cushioned stool. When Morgan ambled up, unapologetic, they had a drink, then decided to skipdinner. The tension between them was mounting pleasurably. Jake followed Morgan’s black Jetta back to her apartment. Inside, she opened a bottle of wine and lit about eight dozen candles in the living room. She didn’t have a lot of furniture, but there was a long, low table and some scratchy kilims and a huge pile of floor cushions that could have come out of a yurt in Mongolia. Her approach wasn’t a bit shy or coy, and when they were naked and fucking on the floor, her toned athletic body moved with confidence. She had beautiful, strong legs and broad shoulders … Jake found he needed to fixate on each individual body part just to keep his mind from caving in with thoughts of Porter and Suzanne, of the whole mess of who and why, and of the sordid aftermath of hairs and blood and skin …
    * * *
    “Hey, big spender.” Morgan was shaking him.
    “What time is it?” Jake mumbled, embarrassed and irritated with himself.
    “We dozed off. It’s almost two.”
    “Shit. I’ve got to go.”
    “It’s okay. I was getting ready to kick you out,” Morgan teased, without a trace of guilt or agenda. “Nice job.”
    “Yeah. You too.” Jake dressed quickly. He kissed her cheek, then jogged down the stairs to his car, pushing the remote on his keychain. The Mercedes blinked at him, and he got in behind the wheel. Morgan waved and disappeared behind her door. Jake felt completely dislocated. Morgan had shaken him out of a dream he didn’t want to be having—but one he hadn’t wanted to wake up from. The songstress from Shrake’s nightclub, wearing nothing but the Marilyn wig and black gloves, was singing to him in an empty room. He sat on a chair in the middle of the room. Her gloved hands wrapped around the mike, but instead of singing lyrics into it, she was singing questionsthat didn’t quite make sense: “When did you see Porter?” “Why did you see him?” “Which way did Porter fall?”
    And then Jake had noticed that all around the perimeter of the room were television cameras, each operated by someone he knew. Suzanne peered around the eyepiece of hers, mouthing questions. He saw the pig-eyed nightclub owner. Alana Sutter. The FBI agents, Norris and Brewer. Cooper and Randy Carlen were there. The singer-dancer in the platinum wig was moving closer and closer. There was a voyeuristic quality to having an audience, and he was enjoying it. In one fluid movement, the Marilyn look-alike straddled him, and as she leaned forward, breathing, “Hey, big spender …,” Morgan had jostled him awake.
    A thought suddenly occurred to Jake as he revved the engine and backed out of the parking place. He could just ask the Marilyn dancer a few questions. He was wide-awake now anyway. He steered the car in the direction of the nightclub, secretly pleased to have come up with an official reason (or maybe it was just an excuse) to visit a certain blonde wig. Though he couldn’t believe that, after all the horizontal action with Morgan, he was getting