Casino Girl

by Leslie Wolfe

  “Great,” I cut him off, unwilling to hear anything else but a loud yes articulated with conviction. “Please see that her family cashes that after the trial, okay? That’s what Crystal would’ve wanted.”

  Gully stared at me for a brief moment, his eyebrows ruffled and slightly raised. “I’ll see what I can do,” he replied cautiously. “But why ask me this today? Won’t you be able to make sure that happens just the way you want it, later on down the road?”

  “Hey, you never know,” I said, avoiding the direct answer he was looking for. “Good luck with this mess,” I said. I gave him a quick peck on the cheek and rushed toward the exit, where Holt was waiting, leaning against the wall with a strange expression on his face.

  Once outside, I stopped and breathed in the cold, evening air, feeling it oxygenate my brain and dissipate my weariness. I still had one annoying question on my mind and, no matter how hard I tried, I kept going back to it, again and again.

  How did Celeste find out about Crystal? Did Ellis share with his wife all the sordid details of his affairs? I understood, to some extent, the concept of an open marriage, but I couldn’t imagine the two of them having dinner and talking leisurely about who else they’d slept with that day, who was pregnant, or how good in bed the tennis pro really was.

  Something didn’t add up.

  As we walked across the visitor parking lot toward the garage, a black limousine pulled up at the curb, and I saw Celeste Bennett step out, looking cautiously around her, fearing the media storm that was about to start. She saw me approaching quickly and stopped in her tracks.

  “Detective,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.

  I looked at her and saw her pale lips, the weariness in her eyes, the hopelessness that engulfed her like a shroud. Maybe she feared I would change my mind and arrest her, like I’d started doing a few hours earlier, before I found out her mother liked purple mountain flowers. Or maybe there was something else going on.

  “What happened?” I asked, instead of asking what I really wanted to know.

  “I lost my mother tonight, and my husband too. He left… he blames me for everything.”

  “How did you know, Mrs. Bennett? How did you find out Crystal had become significant? Did your husband tell you?”

  “I sensed something was different, but he didn’t tell me, and I didn’t know for sure,” she replied. “Not until I got that letter and I learned her name. Then I went there, to the Scala. I watched her dance, I saw how Ellis looked at her.”

  “What letter?”

  She smiled sadly, as she opened her purse and pulled out a handwritten letter folded in thirds. I took it using a latex glove, then waited until Holt pulled out a see-through evidence bag and slipped it inside.

  There, in the yellow sodium lights of the parking lot, I read the words that had sealed Crystal’s fate.

  Dear Mrs. Bennett,

  I’m hoping you will forgive the sender of this note, knowing that my intentions are pure. I am deeply concerned for the future of my dearest friend, a young, talented girl by the name of Crystal Tillman. She’s everything I have in this world, and I am scared for her.

  She’s in love with a married man, and she’s carrying his child. I’ve urged her to give this man up, to walk away, knowing that her actions are breaking someone else’s heart, and that her happiness is based on someone else’s misery.

  Yours.

  She wouldn’t listen; she wouldn’t let him go, and I’m terrified that you’ll feel the need to seek retribution for the damage she and her lover have done to your life.

  Therefore, from the bottom of my heart I am begging you, Mrs. Bennett, please find the strength and the kindness to forgive, to understand. Someone as powerful as you can easily crush a young girl like her, but she doesn’t deserve that. She never wanted to be a homewrecker; she’s just a naïve girl with a heart of gold, who made the mistake of falling in love with the wrong man.

  Please, Mrs. Bennett, she’s all that I have.

  The letter wasn’t signed, but it didn’t have to be. Even if the Crime Lab wouldn’t find any fingerprints on it, I still knew who sent it.

  “Roxanne,” I said to Holt. “That little—”

  I thanked Mrs. Bennett, cringing when I thought of what she’d think of me as soon as she’d learn about my role in taping her mother’s confession. Thankfully, she hadn’t heard about that yet, or she wouldn’t’ve shared that letter with me. She walked back to the waiting limousine, got in, and we watched as it pulled away.

  “What do you say we have dinner at the Scala?” Holt said with a crooked grin.

  “It’s a deal,” I replied.

  I spent the entire drive to the Scala mulling over Roxanne’s letter, a murder weapon just as deadly as the monkshood extract had been. That apparently unsophisticated epistle contained one poisonous dart after another, seemingly innocent words aimed at ripping Celeste’s heart apart like the deadly claws of a monster lurking in the shadows.

  It made sense… Roxanne was the one with the strongest motive to kill Crystal, the person she saw as a threat in her move to have and to hold Paul Steele and his fortune. Yet in the eyes of the law, she wouldn’t be found guilty of Crystal’s murder. In my eyes though, she was guilty as sin.

  And she was about to pay.

  A few minutes later, we dashed across the plush carpet in the high-limit gaming room toward the stage where Roxanne danced, paying no attention to the gamblers lining the tables. When she saw us, she stopped dancing and climbed down, color draining from her face, while Farley rushed over from the lounge area, his oversized jowls bouncing over his shirt collar like a bulldog’s.

  I held out my zip tie cuffs and beckoned Roxanne to approach.

  “Not here, please,” Farley urged me, but I ignored him.

  She didn’t move, so I yanked her arm, folding it behind her back. She instantly started to cry.

  “No, please,” she whimpered, pulling away from me and hiding her hands behind her back as if that was going to stop me from cuffing her. I grabbed her shoulder and propped her against the side of the stage, then cuffed her wrists behind her back.

  “Roxanne Omelas, you’re under arrest for obstruction of justice and the use of false identification. That’s all we can think of right now, but I promise you there will be more,” I said, as I recited the list of her Miranda rights.

  “Call Paul,” she urged Farley, who obeyed without question.

  “Great, we have something to discuss with him too,” I said to Roxanne and winked.

  “No,” she screamed, “no, why are you doing this to me?”

  I stopped and stood in front of her, my eyes drilling into hers. “You killed that girl just as if you’d poisoned her yourself. That letter you sent was a brilliant move.”

  She stopped whimpering for a brief moment, staring at me in disbelief. Then, as she understood the consequences of what I’d said to her, she started shaking, while a deathly pallor overtook her face.

  I grinned. “Yes, it was brilliant, and I will make sure you pay for what you’ve done.”

  I resumed walking her toward the door, holding her arm tightly in my grip, not really concerned if I left any marks on her alabaster skin.

  When Paul Steele rushed in, she started sobbing louder, pleading with him, but Holt intercepted the man before he could reach her.

  “Mr. Steele, there’s something I think you should know,” Holt said, as he pulled him aside for a private conversation.

  He whispered something inaudible in Paul’s ear, then the two men shook hands and the magnate turned to leave. The only sign that his world had just been shattered was in his shoulders, in the tension that gripped them and brought them higher up.

  “No, Paul, no, don’t leave me, please,” Roxanne cried, and the echoes of her cries accompanied Paul Steele who looked back and stared at her blankly on his way to the door, his pupils dark, menacing.

  “Please carry on, Detectives. I have no idea who this person is.”r />
  51

  Interrogation

  I managed to persuade Holt to accept dinner at the HEXX as soon as Roxanne was taken to Central Booking by a patrol crew we radioed for. I loved the HEXX, and it was probably going to be a while until I could afford to set foot in there again, as I was about to become unemployed. In a repeat of Monday night’s outing, I chose to sit outside in the cold but fresh air of the patio, enjoying the warmth coming from a space heater the hostess had pushed next to our table.

  I looked at my partner and felt a knot in my throat. He looked grim, siting silently across from me, his shoulders hunched forward, barely looking at the menu.

  “Hey, do you—” I started to ask, but he cut me off before I could continue.

  “Excuse me just a second, Baxter, I need to wash my hands,” he said with a humor in his voice I wasn’t buying. “I handled too much scum today.”

  He stood and disappeared inside the restaurant, while I watched the thinning flow of tourists on the Strip and the water show across the street, at the Bellagio fountains.

  He was taking a while, so I figured I might as well get that pesky IAB business off my mind, so I could enjoy the evening. I pulled out my work phone and typed an email to Lieutenant Steenstra.

  Lieutenant,

  Please be advised there isn’t a single shred of evidence I could find to prove that Detective Jack Holt has mishandled evidence or has stolen the missing kilo of cocaine.

  That said, bearing in mind our recent conversation, should you find it necessary to terminate my employment as a consequence of my failure to deliver said evidence, please feel free to do so, and communicate your decision at your earliest convenience.

  Best regards,

  (Barely, but still) Detective Laura Baxter

  I chuckled at the bit of humor I’d embedded into my signature and clicked send. The rat twat at least would see she hadn’t brought me to my knees, and she could go screw herself for all I cared.

  When I looked up from my phone, Holt was there, pulling out his chair and taking his seat. He looked just as sullen as before; washing his hands hadn’t worked any wonders for his mood. I forced a smile on my face.

  “Come on, partner, we’re not really suspended, you know. We can have adult beverages and celebrate closing one hell of a case.”

  “Trust me, we’re suspended. We still have our badges and weapons, but we’re busted.”

  “No, we’re not, you’ll see. Come Monday morning, worst that will happen is modified duty for a week, until they sort things out. The brass have got to cover their arses somehow. We dropped them quite the bombshell, didn’t we? What a perp walk that will make,” I laughed, imagining Patricia Bennett shielding her face from the media flashes gone crazy, when the sharks would gather for a feeding frenzy.

  Then my smile withered, and my eyes veered away from his; I’d omitted telling him he was also looking at being assigned a new partner come next Monday; there was no reason to ruin a perfectly good dinner.

  Michelle, our old acquaintance approached, and her professional smile wavered a little when she recognized us. But I was hungry and aching for some alcohol to warm my blood, so I smiled back at her as I ordered a stiff drink. Holt settled for a beer, and just the thought of holding a cold beer in that late-night chill made me shiver.

  As soon as Michelle brought our drinks and took our orders, I raised my glass. “To closing one hell of a case, partner,” I said, and a tinge of sadness touched my heart when I recalled Crystal’s body on that stage where she had fallen, her beauty untouched yet by death’s grip. We’d brought justice for her, but we were never going to bring her back to her loved ones.

  “Speaking of cases, what the hell was that stunt you pulled out there with old Mrs. Bennett?” Holt asked, dissipating my sadness.

  “Nothing,” I said, smiling serenely above my French 75 cocktail, double the gin. “Just an interrogation technique.”

  For some reason, my casual answer brought another shade of gloom to Holt’s face. Maybe it was time to have the conversation I’d been avoiding for a while.

  As Michelle placed mouthwatering appetizers on the table, I heard my phone chime. I had a new email. Curious as to who might be emailing me from work that late at night, I took a peek.

  The email from Steenstra was only a few words in length. “Please report to duty as scheduled.”

  Hey, I still have a job, I wanted to cheer, but I couldn’t, not without sharing lots of information I wasn’t ready to with my sullen partner. Instead, I stabbed a piece of crispy broccolini with my fork and chewed it with my eyes half-closed.

  I looked straight at Holt and asked, “What’s eating you up?”

  He let a long breath of air leave his lungs and clenched his jaws for a moment.

  “I’m putting in for reassignment,” he eventually said, avoiding my look.

  “What?” I reacted, feeling my stomach turn into a tight knot. I couldn’t lose him, not now, not knowing I still had a job to go to come Monday. Not when my entire being screamed for him. “But you can’t,” I said pleadingly. “Didn’t the boss say you’ve had too many partners, and you couldn’t be reassigned?”

  He still didn’t look at me. “I’ll put in for a transfer if I have to, but you and I can’t work together anymore.” When he finally looked at me, I saw a determination in his eyes that left me breathless, hurting inside like I’d never thought possible.

  “Why?” I whispered, clasping my freezing hands together to hide the tremble in my fingers. “We’re darn good at it, aren’t we?”

  His jaws clenched again, and he muttered a long oath. “Do you trust me, Baxter?”

  “With my life,” I replied immediately. I believed those words with all my heart.

  “Maybe that’s true,” he admitted, seemingly reluctant to do so.

  “I lied to the IAB for you,” I said, lowering my voice, “I covered for you, and still do.”

  “Yeah, all that,” he said, speaking slowly, as if still thinking things over, still trying to reach a decision.

  I held my breath for a long, tense moment. Please, Holt, don’t leave me, I thought, unable to articulate the words out loud.

  “How did you know where to shoot that helo to incapacitate it?” he suddenly asked, riveting his eyes into mine, the way I did when trying to catch a suspect in a lie.

  I closed my eyes for a moment, feeling a wave of pain catching up with me and crushing me. Damn you for forcing me to do this… damn you.

  When I opened my eyes, a flare of anger lit them up and I didn’t try to hide it.

  “I was married to a helicopter pilot. A passionate one... he talked about his missions a lot, about flying, about maneuverability, agility, endurance, yawing ability, all that fun stuff.” I struggled speaking, as sadness choked me when I said the words Andrew used to say to me; in my mind, his voice resonated with mine, like an echo only I could hear. I pushed the pain aside, feeling anger bubbling up in my chest and swelling it, making my heart thump harder, faster. “But you knew that already, didn’t you?” I said, looking straight at him, unyielding.

  “What?” he replied, feigning surprise, but he didn’t fool me for a minute. The flicker I saw in his dark pupils when I’d asked the question, the tiny twitch of his mouth, and the barely noticeable flutter of his eyebrows told me he was lying.

  “Yeah, you knew,” I said calmly. “You did a full background on me, because you’re a good cop, and that’s what a good cop would do.” He didn’t say anything, but he lowered his eyes and played with his food absentmindedly. “Because that’s what you would do.”

  “Yes,” he whispered, and looked at me again, this time with sadness and shame in his eyes.

  “Then you know he’s dead, you know how and where he died. Not overseas, but here, in Vegas, at the hands of an odd-eyed drug dealer—”

  “That you pummeled to a pulp a year later,” Holt intervened.

  I took a sip of alcohol, hoping it would quench my all-consuming ange
r; instead, it fueled it.

  “Yeah, and if you know all that, you must know how painful it still is for me to talk about it, but you keep pressing and pressing,” I said, raising my voice with every word that stirred up the pain I’d been carrying with me for so long. “Why? Is this some kind of screwed-up mating ritual you’re trying to pull off? ’Cause it sure as hell ain’t working.”

  He was taken aback by the violence in my outburst, but then he pushed the plate aside and leaned closer to me. “Because I want you to trust me,” he said quietly, his voice filled with soothing warmth.

  My anger was too strong. “I trust you, Holt, I already told you. Not bringing up my late husband as a conversation topic doesn’t mean I don’t trust you,” I reacted, exasperated with him for bringing me to the brink of tears.

  “Sending me away two nights ago so you could pay a nocturnal visit to TwoCent means you don’t trust me as your partner,” he said, speaking just as calmly as before.

  I gasped, covering my mouth with my trembling hand. When I spoke, my voice was shattered, as if air wouldn’t want to leave my lungs. “You knew about that?” I managed to ask.

  “Yes, I did.”

  “How?” I asked, swallowing hard, feeling my throat constricted, dry as parchment.

  “I was there, having your back, in case things didn’t go your way,” he replied casually, as if we were talking about routine aspects of our jobs. But that warmth in his voice was still there, speaking more than his words were able to.

  I felt tears burning my eyes, tears of gratitude, of guilt, of shame, and no effort I made to hold on to my anger and dry them away yielded anything but rolling droplets of salty water down my cheeks. “Thank you,” I eventually whispered, touching his hand over the table. “Thank you for being there for me, for caring. No one’s ever done that for me, not since Andrew.”

  Holt didn’t pull back his hand, but he didn’t reciprocate the gesture either. He looked at me for a moment, his eyes loaded with that blend of emotions I sometimes saw when he thought I wasn’t paying attention.