Stripped by Brian Freeman Page A

veil and uncovered the real story.
    Lane married a young actress in the early 1980s, after she interviewed for a role in a science fiction film he was bankrolling. She didn’t get the part, but she got Walker, and two years later, MJ was born. There were no public details about the relationship between Walker and his twenty-something wife, but somewhere along the line, it went badly wrong. Stride found news reports from 1990 about the woman’s suicide. There was no public memorial, no photograph of a grieving Walker Lane, and no public comment. She might as well not have existed.
    Stride couldn’t find any evidence that Lane had given an interview in decades. That wasn’t a good sign. He didn’t expect the man to open up and discuss all his father-son secrets with a police detective from Las Vegas.
    “You ready for your close-up?” Amanda asked, dropping into the chair squeezed inside his cube. She looked scrubbed and rested, which made him feel old. He had taken Serena to McCarran to catch an early flight to Reno, and two cups of coffee hadn’t dented the haze in his head. On the other hand, his body still had the pleasant ache from cramped, sweaty sex with Serena a few hours earlier.
    “I’ll be lucky if he takes my call,” Stride said.
    “He’s still a father with a dead kid. He’s got to be anxious to find out what happened.”
    Stride shrugged. “Maybe. Sounds like Sawhill practically had to beg the governor to get Lane’s number. Nobody wants me to make this call.”
    “Except me, because I want to hear what the big guy sounds like. So make it.”
    “Let’s go in a conference room.”
    They took over a small, windowless office and shut the door behind them. Stride had another cup of coffee with him, and Amanda had a cruller and a glass of orange juice. They sat down on opposite sides of the conference table, and Stride dragged the phone to him. Amanda had a yellow pad in front of her. He punched the hands-free button and dialed the number.
    He expected to go through five layers of secretaries, personal assistants, and senior aides. Instead, almost immediately, the man answered his own phone.
    “Walker Lane.” His voice sounded exactly like the one they had heard on the answering machine in MJ’s condo, but flat, without the emotional pleading. It was a terrible voice, as gritty as sandpaper, an old hound trying to bark like a fierce dog in its prime.
    Stride couldn’t help but think of the photo he’d found of Walker Lane in the 1960s: absurdly tall, a mop of blond hair, Clark Kent glasses. Cocksure, as if he would someday own the world, which he pretty much did today. The price he’d paid was chiseled in his voice.
    Stride introduced himself and Amanda. Lane didn’t sound surprised. Stride wondered if the governor had tipped him off to expect the call.
    “Do you have any idea who killed my son?” he demanded.
    Stride explained what they had found on the casino video-tapes and the steps they were taking to retrace MJ’s movements. “We were wondering,” he added, “if you had any idea who the killer might be or why he wanted your son dead.”
    “No, I don’t. I just want you to find him.”
    “Did MJ talk to you about any problems he was having?” Stride asked.
    “No.”
    “Do you know of anyone in Las Vegas he was particularly close to?”
    “No,” Lane repeated.
    “What about women in his life? Did you know who he was involved with?”
    “I didn’t ask.”
    Walker Lane didn’t waste unnecessary words. Stride realized he was just going to have to lay down his cards.
    “Mr. Lane, we heard the message you left for MJ on his answering machine. We know you talked to MJ shortly before he was killed. There was obviously a significant disagreement between the two of you. Can you tell us what it was about?”
    This time there was a long pause.
    “That’s a private matter, Detective. It has nothing to do with his death.”
    “I understand you feel that way, Mr. Lane,” Stride