The Secret History of Las Vegas by Chris Abani Page B

institute’s possible involvement ever came up. There just wasn’t any reason for the police to suspect them. Sunil surmised that Brewster knew that all along. His motives remained unclear to Sunil. Maybe he should be studying Brewster.
    The kettle shrieked. He emptied the water into the teapot and let it brew. From the fridge he took out the other half of the cantaloupe from the night before, laid it on a wooden chopping block, reached for the ceramic knife, and, still in the dark, cubed it perfectly. From the corner of his eye, through the kitchen window, he could make out the spotlight from the Luxor.
    He poured some tea, stirred in some sugar, and drank it in the dark, watching the dramatic sunrise through the blue-tinted kitchen windows. He couldn’t make up his mind which he loved best: Vegas at night with all the neon and flashing lights, or Vegas in the morning, when the neon was replaced by a fresh light—an innocence.
    It was a Saturday and he wished he weren’t going in to work. It would be nice to hike today. Somewhere hot but shaded, like the many arroyos that hid the scars of an older Vegas, of a past that was now held only in unreliable narratives; a confounding mix of hoaxes and urban legends. Sunil was drawn to those stories because he believed that there was real history embedded in their occluded forms and he loved nothing more than collecting them, sifting through them, and decoding the deeper truths he was sure were hidden in them—as if he could read the mind of the landscape, uncover its intentions and motives, and recalibrate its secret histories.
    In the meantime, he’d settle for being able to uncover the secrets the twins were concealing. The real secrets, not the ones they had half buried for him to stumble on. He knew they were playing some strange game, but he couldn’t tell what it was. The thing about half-truths littered in among outright lies is that they distract from the deeper secrets, the ones you really want to find. But Sunil was good at finding secrets. That’s what he’d done at Vlakplaas all those years ago. Found secrets and used them against their owners.

Twenty-one
    S heila, Sunil said as Sheila stepped into his office.
    Sunil, she said, and it sounded like a seduction. I was kind of hoping you’d made some of that amazing coffee you have, she said, and pointed to the machine on the sideboard.
    Sunil smiled. Of course, he said.
    This had become a little game they played. Every morning Sheila came in and pretended she was only asking for coffee. He didn’t know where it could lead, if anywhere, but he liked it just the same. Watching her cross the room he couldn’t help but notice how attractive she was: slim, fit, and tight, with perfect black skin. She stirred something in him. But in that same moment, while Sheila was a rational impulse in his mind, Asia was an ache that made him cross his legs.
    As she stirred her coffee, Sheila turned to him. Sleep well, she asked, licking the wooden stirrer before throwing it into the trash.
    Not really, Sunil said.
    Oh, why?
    You mean you haven’t heard about the conjoined twins, he asked. You must have, there aren’t any secrets inside this building.
    Sheila gave him a look. What the hell are you babbling about, she asked.
    Yesterday while I was meeting with Brewster I got a call from Salazar, he said.
    Don’t know him, she said.
    The detective from the homeless killing case I consulted on two years ago, Sunil said.
    She shrugged: Okay. And someone killed some conjoined twins?
    No, he arrested conjoined twins as suspects in the homeless murders.
    Sheila looked bewildered. No fucking way, she said. The twins are the killers? How is that even possible? How are they joined?
    Sunil opened the folder on his desk and passed her the Polaroid.
    Oh my God, she said, holding it away. They’re undifferentiated. I’ve never seen a case like that.
    I know. It’s crazy. I mean