O’Toole had discovered Abbey and Cameron liked to throw parties at their house and invite some of the dancers and singers. Of course, the show’s executive producer and art director were also invited.
They’d had one just last week and during that time anyone could have scoped out the house and found a way to disable the alarm and break in.
“But,” Miranda said getting to her feet for a stretch. “Only a few people knew about Ambrosia Dawn’s nightly tea ritual. One of them is Giselle DuChamp, her lady’s maid.”
Parker reached for a coffee cup on O’Toole’s desk. “Blythe knew about it as well.”
“You talked to Blythe?”
“Yes.”
“And you asked her about the tea?”
He started to take a sip of the stale liquid, scowled at it and put it back down on the desk. “I managed to get her to admit her knowledge of it, yes.”
Miranda had to smile. Parker could get a confession out of a turnip. “What else did you find out?”
Parker sighed. “Unfortunately she clammed up after that. And grew decidedly nervous.”
“Like she was hiding something?”
O’Toole raised his hands “Hey, now. Let’s not go on another wild goose chase.”
Miranda watched Parker’s jaw tense and waited for him to remind the sergeant he was the one who had jumped the gun on Suzie Chan. But Parker didn’t. Instead he turned to her. “What did you get from Sean Scott?”
“He claims he was in Kingston, Arizona the night of the murder. Seeing an old girlfriend.”
Parker’s expression was flat but Miranda was well aware of his opinion of players.
“Did he know about the tea?” O’Toole asked.
Miranda shook her head. “He claims he was never alone with Ambrosia in her home. But he would have had the muscle to wrap a dead body in plastic, pick it up and put it in the trunk of a car. He knew Suzie Chan, who made the tea. And he also knew Blythe Star pretty well.”
O’Toole looked at Miranda, then at Parker with a you’re-holding-out-on-me expression. “And how do you know how well he knew Blythe Star?”
Miranda blew out a breath. “We saw them just before the rehearsal. They were in a ticket booth making out. Maybe more. We only had audio.”
O’Toole’s brows shot up. “You recorded this?”
“No. I overheard it.”
The sergeant gave her an accusatory look.
Miranda raised her hands. “We’re PIs. We were snooping.”
“Which the DA can’t use in court.” O’Toole gave a low grunt. Then he pointed at his detective. “Ralston, get me all the background you can dig up on Blythe Star and this bodyguard.”
“I’m on it, sir.” Ralston hopped up and left the room. Eagerly, Miranda thought.
But she caught O’Toole looking after her, eyeballing her backside with what looked like appreciation. Did he have the hots for his detective?
The three of them sat in silence for several long moments, mulling over what the next move should be. At last the sergeant opened his mouth but before he could speak, his cell rang.
Scowling, he picked it up. “O’Toole.” His face went rigid. “Yes, sir.” His eyes bulged, his color turned that rosy shade that meant he was either angry or embarrassed. “Yes, sir.” He sat up and Miranda thought he was going to salute. “Yes, sir.” At last, he hung up.
“What is it, Sid?” Parker asked.
O’Toole curled a lip at his cell. “The Lieutenant. He’s gathered the media people here for a press conference. Jiminy Cricket eating a shit sandwich.”
Parker rose from his chair. “I assume you’ll have to take care of that. We can resume in the morning.”
O’Toole’s finger shot out. “Not so fast, Parker. You promised you’d handle the press conference.”
Parker’s face flushed with his own shade of angry crimson. “I did no such thing.”
“C’mon, Parker. You said you’d consider it.”
“You imagined that, Sid.”
The sergeant folded his arms. “Well, I’m not doing it. And you two are just as much a part of this investigation as I am.”
“Then you’ll have to explain your refusal to the Lieutenant.”
Miranda looked at O’Toole. Then at Parker. Then back at O’Toole. She felt like she was between two bulls at a rodeo. They didn’t have time for these testosterone games.
With a groan she stood. “Hell with you two. I’ll do the press conference.”
Parker turned to her with a glare.
She folded her arms. “I am still in charge, aren’t I?”
His jaw tensed. He wasn’t happy at all. For the moment, she didn’t care.
Ignoring him, she turned to the sergeant. “Where are the newshounds kenneled?”
# # #
O’Toole led them out of the office and they zigzagged down the halls until they reached a door where bright lights and noisy chatter flooded into the corridor. The sergeant herded her and Parker—who was still scowling—inside and they stepped into the crowded space.
Reporters were packed into chairs and standing around the back, iPads and computers ready to take down all the dirt. There were even cameras. Dear, Lord, Miranda wondered. What had she gotten herself into?
Several grim-looking uniforms stood at the front of the room. Beside them was a large, equally grim-looking man in a dark suit that exuded almost as much power as those in Parker’s wardrobe. From the daggers he was shooting at O’Toole, she took this to be his boss.
After several nerve jarring moments, the big man raised a hand, stepped to a podium in the center of the front area, and the place went dead still.
He began to speak into a microphone in a dark, reverberating voice. “Good evening. I’m Lieutenant Henry Wells of the Homicide Division of Las Vegas Metropolitan Police and I’ll be conducting this meeting tonight.”
Once more he glanced over at the sergeant with a you’d-better-make-this-good glare.
“We are all sorrowed by the death of a key figure in our community. And I want you all to know that my unit is doing all they can to find the perpetrator. At this time I want to introduce Sergeant Sidney O’Toole who is in charge of the Ambrosia Dawn homicide investigation. Sergeant O’Toole and his team have been working tirelessly to bring closure to the family, friends and fans of the beloved singer. He will now make a brief statement regarding the current status of the case and then we’ll open the floor for questions.”
Miranda leaned over and whispered in O’Toole’s ear. “Statement?”
He didn’t respond.
Lieutenant Wells stretched a hand in O’Toole’s direction. “If you’ll come forward, Sergeant.”
Miranda felt O’Toole give her a nudge. At the same time, she felt Parker grab her elbow.
“Don’t do it, Miranda,” he whispered to her. “Let him sink or swim.”
She looked over at O’Toole and saw his upper lip was glistening. He was sweating. Actually sweating. He must have a horrendous case of stage fright. And in that moment, she felt sorry for him. Hell, who knew what he might say to the reporters if he was that nervous? He could blow the whole case with a slip of the tongue.
She wasn’t about to let that happened. She pulled out of Parker’s grasp, ignoring his frustrated exhale and stepped to the podium. She turned and faced the reporters.
Her mouth went dry. Her palms went damp. Her knees felt like rubber. Her heart hammered away in her chest.
There were at least two-dozen pairs of expectant eyes on her, waiting for answers. Waiting for her to deliver up Ambrosia Dawn’s killer. She’d expected local radio and TV celebrities. She didn’t know the station names but she recognized one reporter from the newscast she’d seen the other day. And was that…? Yes, there were two big media names. Of course, they’d be here. The story went national days ago.
No wonder O’Toole hadn’t wanted to do this.
Behind her, she heard Lieutenant Wells clear his throat. She wondered if he woul
d chew her or the sergeant out first when this was over. Probably Parker would beat him to it.
Realizing she was standing there giving the cameras a deer-in-headlight look, she shook herself out of it, grabbed the podium and took a breath to steady her nerves. Statement. Statement. What could she say?
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” she began. And stopped. And for my next act, I’m going to make a private investigator disappear before your eyes.
She was sweating harder than O’Toole now. She looked like an idiot. If the sergeant had any feeling, he’d step up here and rescue her. Wait a minute. Since when did Miranda Steele need to be rescued by a man?
Suddenly words came to her. “My name is Miranda Steele. I’m a private investigator with the Parker Agency in Atlanta, Georgia. Las Vegas Metro has called in Wade Parker, the Agency’s president, and myself to help investigate the death of Ambrosia Dawn.”
A woman coughed in the front row and Miranda caught a skeptical gleam in her eye. She went on.
“This is a very sad time for the family of the victim. All our thoughts and prayers should be with them. At this time, there’s very little I can say about the investigation except that Metro is putting much of its manpower and resources into finding Ambrosia Dawn’s killer.”
It was all she could come up with. She was about to turn away when the skeptical woman raised a hand. “Ms.—Steele, is it?”
“Yes.”
“We’ve heard certain evidence was discovered missing at the crime scene. Namely an eyeball?”
Lead with the gruesome. Miranda forced herself not to growl at the woman. “What is your question?”
“Why wasn’t this detail given to the press?”
Because they didn’t want the killer to know? They didn’t want to gross out the fans? Reporters must not have any common sense, she thought. “We were unable to divulge the information due to the ongoing investigation.” Now that was a nice piece of double-talk.
A man from one of the big stations started talking without being acknowledged. “I understand Ambrosia Dawn was found in the desert. Doesn’t that indicate the murder was premeditated?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.” As you should know.
“Have you drawn any conclusion as to why the body was in such an easy to find location?”
“Not at this time.”
Someone in the back row. “What is the significance of the eye? Does it point to a serial killer?”
That’s right. Send the entire Las Vegas area into a panic. The casino owners will love that. But she couldn’t lie. “We’re taking all possibilities into consideration.”
“Is there any other evidence the press should be aware of?”
“No.” They shouldn’t be aware of what they already know.
“We understand you had someone in custody but released her. Can you tell us why?”
“Not at this time.”
They went on and on. How were they dealing with the fans? Why wasn’t there enough evidence against Suzie Chan? When would they be ready to charge the killer? Miranda dodged and tapped danced around like she was on Dancing with the Stars.
Just before she was ready to beat them all to a pulp, she raised a hand to shut them up. “That’s all the questions for tonight. Now if you’ll excuse us, we have a job to do.”
And she spun on her heel and marched out of the room with Parker and O’Toole behind her.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
By the time they got back to O’Toole’s office, Parker was hotter than Miranda had seen him in a long time. “That was low, Sid. Even for you.”
His anger sparked hers. “I handled it, Parker,” she snapped at him. “It’s over.”
Parker gave her a brusque look but kept his attention on the sergeant. “We were hired to assist with this investigation. Not to run it and certainly not to perform your media duties for you.”
O’Toole waved an arm in Miranda’s direction. “What are you talking about? She did great.”
“See? I did great.” And that should put an end to it. But no.
Parker took an enraged step toward the sergeant. “I will not have you taking advantage of her.”
O’Toole’s lip curled in an expression halfway between disbelief and disgust. “What is she? Your girlfriend or something?”
Parker’s gray eyes flashed dark. His voice became a low growl. “She’s my wife.”
O’Toole sank into his chair, his chin dropping nearly to the desktop. He stared at Parker and Miranda could see the questions and nepotism accusations forming in his mind.
Fuming, she spun around to her husband. “What the hell, Parker?”
Before O’Toole even had a chance to ask what had happened to Parker’s first wife, his cell rang.
It took him a minute to answer but at last he picked it up. “O’Toole,” he said into the phone with a faraway voice. Then he blinked and shot straight up. “Wait a minute. Say that again?”
It took another minute but at last, he hung up, his mood completely altered. Wearing a triumphant grin, he leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head. “The boys in the lab just got back to me.”
“Yeah?” Miranda’s pulse started to quicken.
“Guess whose prints were on that pickle jar in Suzie Chan’s refrigerator?”
She held her breath. “Whose?”
He jerked his thumb in the general direction of Costa Rica Hills. “Blythe Star’s.”
“Let’s go pick her up, then.” Without waiting for confirmation from either man, Miranda turned on her heel and marched out the door.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Miranda was so pissed at Parker for spilling the beans to O’Toole that they were married, she snubbed him and snagged a ride with Ralston to Blythe Star’s mansion.
Why had he done that? Okay, they’d never agreed to anything, but since they hadn’t mentioned it so far, she’d assumed Parker wanted to keep their private relationship private. The way she wanted it, too. Professional courtesy and all that.
And now he was going all macho on her? Just because she’d done the press conference?
But she didn’t have time to think about Parker now. It looked like a real arrest was within their reach and Ralston was talking to her.
With an efficient motion, the detective put on her blinker and made a right onto Flamingo. “Star’s prints were in the system due to a string of DUIs about three years ago. Seems she had an alcohol problem.”
“Not unusual with celebrities,” Miranda smirked, staring out the window and still seething about Parker.
“I also discovered our Blythe Star, whose real name is Roberta Ann Johnson, was married years ago before she hooked up with her sister.”
Now Miranda’s ears perked up. “Oh yeah?” She knew the name, except the middle one, but Blythe hadn’t mentioned any previous husband.
“An older man. Much older. And much wealthier.”
“No shit.” Miranda watched a stretch limo pass by heading for the freeway. “A sugar daddy?”
Ralston nodded. “Seemed to be. Someone to provide her luxury while she made a pittance trying to get her singing career off the ground.”
“Interesting.”
“He died under suspicious circumstances.”
Miranda’s stomach did a flip. “Whoa.”
“It was cleared up later, but one of the servants was under investigation for a while.”
“You think Blythe could have been responsible? And got away with it?”
“Hard to tell. It happened eight years ago.”
Miranda chewed on that a moment. Eight years ago was around the time Blythe Star went to work for her sister, according to Parker’s interview that afternoon. “Did she get an inheritance?”
Ralston shook her head and made another turn. “There were medical bills and home care bills. There wasn’t much left after that. Not for the lifestyle Blythe had become accustomed to.”
“And so she turned to her sister for help.
”
The detective’s thin brow rose in admiration. “Right. She joined Ambrosia’s company about that time. Now she’s part owner of Cameron Forest’s corporation.”
Miranda let out a low whistle. That was some whopping motive. “So now, she’s got everything she wants. Everything she ever dreamed of.”
Including taking the place of her sister on stage. She’d known it when she saw the look on the woman’s face on stage when she sashayed down that staircase singing her sister’s song.
“Could be.”
Miranda wondered if Blythe’s desire for what Ambrosia had extended to Cameron. Maybe Scott was just a fling on the side. Or she was trying to make Elvis jealous.
Her thoughts racing, Miranda studied the intent expression on Ralston’s thin face. She saw a kindred spirit there. The detective was really good. Too bad she had to be under someone like O’Toole. Parker could be aggravating at times, but when it came to work he’d always respected her abilities.
“Can I ask a personal question?”
Ralston gave her a surprised glance. “Shoot.”
“How come you stay in the job?”
Ralston’s head spun around so fast, it made her ponytail swing. Turning back to the traffic, she lifted a shoulder. “I like the work.”
“I mean why work for this police department? Why not transfer somewhere else?”
She gave her a knowing half-smile. “You mean why keep working for a jackass like Sid O’Toole?”
Exactly what she meant. “He doesn’t treat you very well. And well, he avoids work and shoves it off onto you whenever he can. Whenever he finds it distasteful or too strenuous.” Which seemed to be pretty often. “Why do you think we’re here?”
Ralston laughed. “Yeah, he does. But he’s had personal problems. His wife left him about six months ago.”
“Oh.” Miranda suddenly felt a tinge of pity for the guy.
“He was really in love with her and she walked out and left him flat.”
“That’s too bad.” She meant it, even though she usually took the woman’s side of a breakup. But it wasn’t any of her business.
All Eyes on Me (A Miranda and Parker Mystery Book 1) Page 13
