In Miranda’s experience, flesh and blood often treated each other like shit.
Obviously Reedy hadn’t heard about Blythe’s death. Forest and his publicist might be scrambling to keep it out of the media or the bar owner might have been too busy to catch the news. Probably not unusual to avoid daily reports of tragedy when you lived in a town built on escape.
“By any chance, do you know if Cameron went straight home after seeing you that night?”
Reedy tapped her fingernails on the glossy bar and glanced around as if trying to find a good answer. Apparently she failed. “I don’t know for sure,” she said at last. “But he was too upset to face the bitch. He probably went to one of his parties.”
“Parties?” Forest had failed to mention that during her interview.
Reedy waved her hands in the air as if in surrender. “What he couldn’t get at home, he managed to find elsewhere. You know. Men have their needs.”
“Yeah, I know.” Except for more bitching about Ambrosia Dawn, she wasn’t going to get much else here. She slid off the stool and reached into her pocket for some cash.
Reedy held up a hand. “No charge.”
“Oh?”
She smiled, showing off the mole on her cheek. “I’m always happy to support the police department.”
And keep herself out of trouble. But she’d take it. “Thanks,” Miranda said and smiled back with extra sugar on top.
Reedy Max’s smile faded. She’d said too much.
Miranda turned to go.
“Wait a minute.”
She turned back.
The woman wagged a finger at her, her face turning hard. “If you’re thinking Cameron had anything to do with his wife’s death,” she barked in her husky voice, “you’re wrong. He was too drunk to think straight when he left here.”
Something that would be hard to verify. “He shouldn’t have been driving in that condition.”
“He wasn’t driving. Andersen was. Just like usual.”
“Andersen?”
“His limo driver.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
Back in Parker’s rented sedan, Miranda’s head was spinning. When she’d gone to see him, Cameron Forest had lied to her like one of his fancy Persian rugs. He didn’t go straight home the night his wife was killed as he claimed. He knew about the bad rehearsal and the temper tantrum Ambrosia Dawn had pitched in front of the entire crew. And their relationship hadn’t been as peachy as he’d led her to believe.
No, he was worried about the way his second wife treated his son. Maybe he was afraid of her. So he turned to “other sources” for comfort. Maybe he’d planned it all from the beginning. Pinning his wife’s death on his cook and her bodyguard. Maybe the former Elvis impersonator was a whole lot smarter than he looked.
But why was he so upset about her death, then?
She thought of the tears he’d shed in front of her, his anguished cries, his open display of grief both during her first interview and at the rehearsal yesterday.
She’d been so sure that grief was real. She was still sure.
But you could love and hate someone at the same time, couldn’t you? Maybe he loved what she once was or what he thought she was. Could you love someone and cheat on them? Maybe in the minds of some men. Men who were married to celebrities.
She let out a long, frustrated sigh.
None of this proved Cameron Forest killed Ambrosia Dawn. None of it proved anything about Sean Scott. Or how Blythe Star came into it or why her fingerprints were on that jar in Suzie Chan’s refrigerator. Or why she was now dead.
She needed more. Tapping her hands on the steering wheel as she waited for a light, she forced her thoughts to focus. And then she got it.
The limo driver. He was at the rehearsal yesterday. Someone had to have interviewed him. She glanced at the time on the dash. Her hour was almost up.
“Just a little longer, Parker,” she murmured as the light went green. Hope burning in her chest, she turned onto the Strip and headed for the police station and Detective Ralston.
Parker, she thought on another sigh as she hit the brake for the heavy traffic. She couldn’t figure him out, either. Why did he want to up and leave before they were certain who the killer was?
Was he just trying to protect her? Hell, he was always trying to protect her. By now she knew he’d never overcome that chivalrous, knight-in-shining-armor, Southern gentlemen syndrome he had. He was born with it. It came along with the silver spoon in his mouth. It was bone deep.
And she knew he’d gone through hell in that hospital last October. If their roles had been reversed, she’d have been a basket case. And she’d be just as jittery about him on a dangerous assignment. This one hadn’t been so dangerous yet, but you never knew when you were chasing down a murderer. And what were they supposed to do? Shut down their lives? What was she supposed to do? Put on an apron, stay in the house and play Suzy Homemaker? They both knew that wasn’t gonna happen. She had a life to live. And as corny as it sounded, she was still convinced she had a destiny to fulfill.
She’d do that with or without Parker but she’d really prefer to have him by her side. She was determined to make that happen tonight.
If Ralston had the information they needed, she’d have some evidence to show her husband that would make him stay and see this case to the end.
She’d call him, he’d rush over to the station, and they’d be off and running again. Everything would be just fine.
# # #
Miranda marched down the hall to Ralston’s office, exhilaration and adrenaline streaming through her veins. They were close. She could feel it. She reached the door and knocked.
Then she peeked inside. It was empty.
She hailed a uniform passing by. “Where’s Detective Ralston?”
“Got the day off. Her case is closed.”
“Thanks,” Miranda murmured, her excitement plummeting like her body on the Insanity ride this afternoon.
She turned on her heel and headed for O’Toole’s office but her spirits didn’t rise. If Ralston wasn’t in, the slothful sergeant would probably have gone fishing at Lake Mead.
She was shocked when she found him at his desk, typing away on his keyboard. “You’re here,” she said, slinking into the room and sinking into the guest chair, which was back to a single.
He turned to her with a smirk. “I gave the team the day off and decided to finish up the paperwork myself. I’ve almost got it all ready for the DA.”
“Parker said you’d closed the case.”
“Mm-hmm,” he murmured as he kept typing.
Watching him, Miranda was overcome with that familiar ants-crawling-up-your-backside feeling. “You think the DA is going to go with what you have on Scott?”
O’Toole lifted a shoulder without looking at her. “Not much choice. We still haven’t been able to reach the alibi.”
Miranda wondered vaguely if the young woman was dead. But maybe not if her new theory was right.
“We impounded Blythe Star’s vehicle. Lab is combing it for evidence. They’re still working on the footprints, as well.”
Could be a week or more before they had anything conclusive. She cleared her throat. “I’ve been checking out some loose ends.”
“Oh, yeah?” He sounded as interested as a teenager engrossed in a video game.
“I went to see an old friend of Cameron Forest’s. His former manager, actually. Her name’s Reedy Max.”
Now the sergeant stopped typing and turned to her. “Why?”
“Like I said I wanted to check some things out. I discovered some interesting details.”
“Such as?”
“Such as Forest and Ambrosia didn’t get along so well. She mistreated his son. They fought all the time and he used to complain to his former manager about it.”
O’Toole’s dark chestnut brow rose in cynicism. “You’re suspecting the husband now? We have nothing on him.”
“All I’m saying i
s we all bought his grief act and didn’t check him out. Turns out he lied about a bunch of things.”
“Such as?” O’Toole asked again.
“Ambrosia’s mood during her last rehearsal. Her fights with Suzie Chan and her sister.”
“That was probably to avoid bad publicity.”
“Maybe, maybe not. The man was cheating on his wife, according to the ex-manager.”
O’Toole sat back and put his tongue against his cheek to consider what she’d said a moment. Then he frowned with disapproval. “That’s all interesting, but not enough to even bring him in for questioning. Not when we’ve got someone like Scott on the line.”
“I know. That’s why I’m here. Forest led me to believe he drove himself to and from the rehearsal this past Tuesday night. But his manager says he had a limo driver.”
“Ambrosia’s?”
Miranda shook her head. “A second one. If that’s how Forest normally travels, and according to the ex-manager it is, that driver must have been at the rehearsal last night. One of your men would have questioned him.”
“And you want to see his report?”
“I thought that would be a good place to start.”
O’Toole paused a moment to consider the request, then turned back to his keyboard and began to type. Feeling triumphant, Miranda got up and came around the desk to peep over his shoulder.
“Wait a minute.” He pressed another set of keys. “The report of Blythe Star’s phone calls just came in.” He scrolled a bit while Miranda tried to read the text. He was going too fast. “She called Scott three times last night. No answer.”
“Were there any texts?”
The sergeant studied the screen then shook his head. “None. But look here. She called Forest once.”
She squinted where he was pointing and saw the time. “That would give Forest enough time to get there before she was killed.”
“You’re right. Let’s get back to that interview.” O’Toole’s enthusiasm seemed to have revived. “Would you happen to have a name for said limo driver?”
“Andersen, according to Max.”
He flipped through some more screens. You’d think that name would be on top, but they’re sorted by case number. Which meant the fifty or so interviews they had would all be lumped together. Which could take forever to sort through. Damn.
Miranda tried not to grind her teeth while she breathed down the sergeant’s neck as he worked away.
“Here we go,” he said at last.
“About time.”
He gave her a scowl over his shoulder then pointed to the screen. “King interviewed him.”
“And?”
“Says he was evasive, seemed a little nervous.”
Anybody would be nervous being questioned by the police about a murder. “Anything else?”
“After the rehearsal Tuesday night, Andersen says he took Forest to the Blue Palm Lounge on East Desert Inn.”
“That’s where I went to see Reedy Max just now.”
“Said he went inside with Forest and had a coke at a table by himself while he waited. Said his boss was generous that way.”
“Then what?”
“Forest didn’t stay long. After about half an hour, they left the bar. Now Andersen gets really evasive. Doesn’t want to say what time Forest got home.”
The hair on the back of Miranda’s neck stood up. “See what I mean? That doesn’t sound too kosher.”
“No, it doesn’t.” He read more. “Good work, King. He gets it out of the driver that he took Forest to a party before they headed home.”
“Where?”
“Another country club where local celebs and well-to-dos live. Catalonia Cove.”
“Is that close to Costa Rica Hills?”
“Three miles.”
“And when did they get home?”
O’Toole read through a lengthy passage that must have been more back and forth. “Andersen says he’s not sure of the exact time he pulled into the drive, but he thinks it was at least twenty minutes after one.”
“After?”
“He’s not sure.”
“TOD was between eleven and one. It could be off a few minutes.”
“Not by that much.”
“Maybe the limo driver fudged the time.”
“TOD isn’t public knowledge.”
“But if he wanted to protect his employer, he could have stated the wrong time. Say by half an hour. That would be plenty of time to make sure she drank the tea, stash the body in the trunk of another car and take it out to I-15.”
O’Toole scratched his chin. “What about Blythe Star’s fingerprints?”
Good question. Another framing? Would be hard to pull off. “I don’t have all the answers yet. But I think we’ve got enough to pay Elvis another visit. Which is what I’m about to do.” She got to her feet.
“You’re going there now?”
“Yep.” She turned to head out the door.
“Hold on, Steele. I’ll go with you.”
She spun back to him, brows raised. “You sure you don’t want your time off?”
He responded with a snort. “Please.” He gave her an after-you gesture and the two of them headed out.
They marched down the corridor side by side. Miranda had no idea what had made the sergeant change his tune about this case. But whatever it was, she was glad for it.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
The mourning fans who had declared their love forever in front of the Costa Rica Hills country club entrance had dissipated. The guards waved in O’Toole’s car, recognizing it by now, and the rest of the drive was the same as before. But under the summer moon, Ambrosia Dawn’s apricot mansion was lit up like an octogenarian’s birthday cake.
Too bad there wasn’t much to celebrate. Despite its luminosity, it looked as hollow and empty as a corpse.
O’Toole drove up to the curb near the circular drive and looked at the place. “Here we are.”
“Yep.” Miranda gazed at the rows and rows of glowing arched windows in the oddly shaped building blocks that made up the big home. Its design was as volatile as its owner’s temper had been. And maybe as her husband’s devotion as well.
No way to know for sure until she got some more answers. She reached for the door handle.
“Wait,” O’Toole said in a whisper. “Look.” He pointed at the garage. Its door was rising.
A moment later a sleek black limo began to slowly back out. It paused in the drive, reversed and the garage door slid down again as the car cruised around to the front door of the house. After another moment, a figure emerged.
His blue-black hair and sideburns were neatly trimmed. He had on tight pants, a blazer, an extra shiny shirt with the collar turned up. Lots of chains around the neck. A swagger in his step. He carried a black tote bag in his hand.
The driver got out, held the door open and Cameron Forest slid into the back seat.
“Where’s he going?”
Miranda bit the inside of her mouth. “Not to any memorial service, I bet.”
The limo took off. O’Toole waited a respectable about of time then followed.
They zigzagged through the residential streets and Miranda had to hand it the sergeant. His tailing skills were excellent. If the driver or Forest thought they were being followed, they didn’t show it. And they didn’t seem to alter their path because after a short drive, they pulled into the Catalonia Cove country club.
“This is where the driver took him the night Ambrosia was killed,” Miranda said, her skin prickling as they turned a corner, cruising several car lengths behind the limo.
“Yeah, funny coincidence, huh?”
Maybe he celebrates every time he kills a woman, Miranda thought. She’d known men who would.
“Odd time to party. Just after your wife and your sister-in-law have been murdered,” O’Toole said, echoing her own thoughts.
“Maybe he’s not going to a party. Maybe he’s going to see a friend.”
<
br /> “Not so sure about that.” O’Toole followed the road as it curved around a center circle decorated with palm trees and bushes planted in a bed of rocks, then headed down another street until the limo drove through an iron gate.
The sergeant pulled over to the curb and the two of them stared at the structure. What they could see of it, anyway.
It was another sprawling supercastle, this time situated on the corner. Its gate opened to a winding drive and a tall entrance tower. But Miranda couldn’t see much else. It was dark and the iron bars, the stone security wall that ran around the estate’s perimeter, and the palm trees alongside it obscured her view, as was their purpose.
She could tell the place was lit up, just like Forest’s own home. But this one wasn’t empty. Miranda cracked her window and the sound of 80s pop music and laughter wafted into the sergeant’s car, along with a blast of warm desert night air.
Miranda heard a faint splash. “Pool party.”
“Guess so. And here comes another guest.”
Through the iron bars they watched Forest’s driver get out of the limo and come around to open the passenger door for him. Then the two men went inside, the driver carrying the tote bag.
“Nice of him not to make the help wait in the car.”
“Unlike us,” O’Toole groaned, switching off the ignition.
Miranda let out a sigh of agreement. They couldn’t exactly go knock on the door and invite themselves in. There was no choice but to wait for Forest to come back out. Sometime.
Another limo pulled up, this one white, and glided through the gates. After a moment, two chatty couples got out, the men carrying liquor bottles, and hurried noisily inside.
O’Toole rubbed the back of his neck. “Looks like they’re just getting started.”
“Guess we’re in for a long night.” Stake-outs were the part of the job she hated most. Especially unplanned ones.
After about five minutes, a red Rolls Royce arrived at the gate. This one held three giggling young girls. Miranda wondered if they were local dancers or call girls hired for the night. Ten minutes passed and three more cars arrived with a variety of guests. The sergeant’s car grew hot and stuffy.
All Eyes on Me (A Miranda and Parker Mystery Book 1) Page 17
