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I didn’t want to wait for his arrival to see what he could tell me about where Frankie Limback was when this other Futurium executive had died, and so I called him and asked him what he could find out.
“I’m going to say your sister’s Frankie Limback has a type,” he began when he rang me back. “You’re right: this Cleo person looks a little bit like you and your sister. She also looks like his wife.”
“Soon to be ex-wife,” I said. “Was he on Grand Cayman with Cleo when she died?”
“I don’t know what you mean by with her, but it seems he was at that club. A lot of Futurium was, as well as some Mastaba leaders.”
“Mastaba? What in holy hell is the Mastaba?”
“You’ve never heard of the Mastaba?”
“No.”
“It’s a crime syndicate. A crime family.”
“Futurium’s a…a front?” This was almost more than I could process.
“No. Not at all. But some of their backers have connections to the Mastaba. Most likely, they put some of their money into Futurium crypto. Some Russian oligarchs have, too.”
“And they were on Grand Cayman when Cleo Dionne died?”
“A few. But it doesn’t seem like they were up to no good. Nothing I read suggests anyone ever suspected Cleo was murdered.”
“So, you really are a spy,” I told him.
“I really am not,” he insisted. “You need to stop pulling that thread.”
I had been joshing, but there was a firmness to his response that was jarring.
“Got it,” I said meekly.
“Everything I just told you? You would have found it yourself if you’d known where to dig.”
“You said Frankie has a type. Do you think he and Cleo were more than just business associates?”
“It crossed my mind.”
“I asked my friend, Nigel, if he thought my sister was in danger. He doesn’t know anything about espionage—”
“I don’t either.”
This was utter tosh, but I wasn’t going to call him on it. “Do you think my sister is in danger?”
“I don’t see why. She’s an administrative assistant for an established cryptocurrency. I don’t think you have any reason at all to worry about her or Marisa.”
“Okay,” I said. “Thank you.”
It was only after we hung up that I began to wonder: had I ever told Yevgeny that I had a niece? And, if I had, had I told him her name?
* * *
Red Rocks is a mere fifteen miles from Las Vegas: twenty to forty minutes by car, depending upon the traffic and where in the city you start. But the moonscape—or, given the redness of so much of the natural world there, the Mars-scape—is a primeval diversion from the man-made neon theme park that is the nearby metropolis. There is a casino nearby, of course, but when you are amidst the sandstone obelisks and peaks, some walls touching the clouds at three thousand feet, it’s easy to forget that a half hour away people are losing their shirts at the slot machines, ogling strippers, watching the world go by from the ersatz Eiffel Tower, or wondering why in the world they are listening to a lass sing Petula Clark while telling stories about a now long-dead princess. It’s a weirdly virtuous activity for the Las Vegas environs, and there are always families, many with small children, because there are plenty of hikes that are not especially challenging.
But then there are also opportunities to scale rock faces, and so the park has its share of climbers and visitors more likely to be packing carabiners than picnics.
Sunday morning, Yevgeny set off for Red Rocks on his own. He asked me if I minded the idea that he preferred his walks to be solitary, and I reassured him that I was relieved. Red Rocks was never going to be my cup of tea. Besides, I had business of my own. There was a woman in the house for my second show Saturday who sent a note backstage that intrigued me. Her name was Britt Collins, and she was writing a biography of Princess Diana (yet another), and hoping to interview me on Sunday before leaving Las Vegas on Monday. She was based in London. I decided it would be worth chatting with this writer and seeing where the conversation went. I might be able to help her, and I did so little for anyone that I might as well offer this homeopathic kindness to a stranger. And—who knows?—I might even learn something I could use in the show. So, I sent a note back that I would be charmed to meet, and asked her to suggest a time and a place.
Yevgeny’s and my reconciliation had been energetic the night before and went well into the small hours of the morning. But while he’d slept on the plane west, I’d done two shows. I was exhausted on Sunday, content to loll in bed while he dressed for the desert.
