by Nero Blanc
“Thank you,” Belle said. “Is Mr. Narone’s room sealed or have you given it to other guests?”
“Oh, goodness no! The police have it locked up tighter than a rattlesnake’s fist.”
Rosco frowned slightly; the clerk gave him a cherubic smile. “An expression we have out here.”
“I see,” Rosco said again. “And since there are no secrets in Las Vegas, has the cause of Mr. Narone’s death been classified yet?”
The clerk became innocence itself. “You’ll have to check with Lieutenant Hollister on that point. All I can say is that Dr. Jazz will be sorely missed around this casino. Sorely missed, indeed. He was, without a doubt, the classiest high roller of them all. A ‘whale,’ as we call folks like him out here. The biggest darn thing in the whole darn sandy ocean … Even though his accommodations were comped, he took care of the little guy—if you know what I mean.” The clerk graced Rosco with another high-wattage grin that seemed to indicate he wouldn’t be averse to some palm greasing, but Rosco merely nodded, picked up the key to Suite 1014, and handed it to the bellhop, who escorted them up to their room.
THE suite was far more lavish than any hotel room Rosco and Belle had ever stayed in. The sitting room was larger than their living room back home. It had a huge wraparound leather couch; an entertainment unit with DVD, VCR, CD, and tape players; and a TV screen that seemed bigger than many multiplex movie theater screens. The walls were decorated with reproduction French Impressionist paintings: Cezanne, Manet, Monet, Matisse, Corot—an upscale gang that seemed out of place in a hostelry known as Cactus Cal’s. There was a marble-countered kitchen, a minibar, pile carpet so thick it felt like the densest of furs, and an expansive balcony overlooking the Las Vegas “Strip.” Even though the sun had yet to set, most of the casinos were already illuminated with a full battery of electric lights that washed the desert sky in colors normally reserved for lush, tropical paradises.
Rosco tipped the bellhop, and strolled from the sitting area into the suite’s bedroom. Again, everything was oversized. The bed appeared large enough to play basketball on; and there was also a hot tub that had apparently been designed to easily accommodate more than two bodies.
Rosco turned to Belle. “This was definitely made for recreational activity.”
“I’ll say.”
He gave her a long soft kiss. “So?”
“Seems like Angie’s put some ideas into your head.”
“Angie? Angie? Who’s Angie?”
“Methinks the gent doth protest too much … You couldn’t take your eyes off her tattoo downstairs.”
Rosco opened his mouth to object, but the sudden ringing of the telephone cut him short.
“I’ll get it,” Belle said. She walked to the bed stand and lifted the receiver. Rosco followed, placed his arms around her waist, and kissed the back of her neck. After a “Hello … Sure … Fine,” and a “See you then,” Belle replaced the receiver in the cradle. “That was Lieutenant Hollister. He was in the neighborhood; he’s stopping by.”
“Now? He’s stopping by now?”
“Why not?”
“I thought we might … You know …” He glanced at the oversized bed. “Take a nap? Jet lag and all?” He looked at his watch. “Wow, it’s darn near seven P.M. back East.” He stretched his arms, and put on a fake yawn.
She kissed him. “I do love you, Rosco, but this is a business trip, remember?”
“Right.”
They spent the next few minutes unpacking, and hadn’t quite finished when they heard three hard knocks at the door.
“I see some folks don’t feel the need to go through the formality of having the front desk announce them.” Rosco made no attempt to cover his disapproval. He opened the door without bothering to ask who it was, or use the peephole.
Hollister was a good deal taller than Rosco, about six foot five, and wore a light tan Western-style suit with lizard-skin cowboy boots. He was probably forty years old, with thick brown hair, a healthy mustache, and a deep tan that etched the contours of an angular, don’t-coop-me-up, outdoorsy face. He held a wide-brimmed hat in his left hand, and extended his right to Rosco as he strode uninvited into the room. His grip was solid, intended to let the other person know just exactly whom they’d be dealing with.
“Pleased to meet you, Mr.Pol-y-crates.” He gave the name three syllables, coming down hard on the first and making it sound like “pole.” “I realize you used to be on a police force in Massachusetts; and you may think you Easterners have cornered the market on crime, but things can get just as nasty in Vegas. You folks should be a little more cautious about opening hotel doors to strangers.” He nodded perfunctorily toward Belle. “Ma’am.”
Rosco cleared his throat. “Actually, back East my name gets a different reading—Pah-lick-rah-tees, stress on the lick. But why don’t you call me Rosco.”
“Not a problem.”
Rosco pointed to a grouping of table and chairs. “Shall we have a seat?”
Hollister’s face creased in what obviously passed as a smile. “I’d like to take you to the suite Dave Narone kept here first, Rosco. It’s Number 1015.”
“Sounds good.”
As they walked down the hall, Rosco began second-guessing the real reason he and Belle had been placed in Suite 1014. Perhaps it was more for the lieutenant’s convenience than their own?
The dead man’s accommodations were the mirror image of Belle and Rosco’s. The furniture and carpeting were identical, as were the kitchen and hot tub. But there were also noticeable differences. The suite was filled with personal effects: books, magazines, knickknacks, a closet full of clothing, and photos—many of Dr. Jazz with an aging collie identified as “Trevor.” There was also a funerary cremation urn with the dog’s name on a brass plaque. Belle stared at the urn for a long, sad minute as she considered how much love the dead man must have felt for this obviously adored canine. Then she thought of Kit, the dog she and Rosco had left at home. Kit was still in her puppyhood, but … but … Finally, reflectively, Belle returned her attention to the job at hand. She noted genuine Southwestern landscapes in place of the reproduction artwork in the other suite, and the room’s pièce de résistance—a white baby grand piano in one corner of the sitting area. The rooms had obviously been “home” to Dave Narone for some time. Another fact was also immediately apparent: Someone—either an intruder or the Las Vegas police—had pawed through everything.
After their tour, Belle, Rosco, and Hollister sat on the sectional couch. “I’d like y’all to bring me up to date on what’s goin’ on between you and Karen Wise,” Hollister said in his slow, “I’m-the-man-in-charge” drawl. “Don’t skip over anything you think I might already be aware of. I’ll let y’all know if you’re boring me.”
Belle could sense, rather than see, Rosco bristle at the lieutenant’s condescending attitude, so she jumped in before a battle—or even a skirmish—could begin: “You know about Dave Narone’s list of words?”
“Why don’t you just start from the beginning, ma’am.”
This time it was Belle who experienced a twinge of irritation. She had a name—a well-known name; and she didn’t expect to be treated like the “little lady” or “other half.” Her gray eyes flashed, then narrowed into indignant slits, while Rosco settled into the sectional’s cushions.
He’d been in Hollister’s position more than once when he’d been on the Newcastle police force: attempting to extract information from one witness—or suspect—after another, while looking for inconsistencies that might steer an investigation in the right direction; and although he found it odd to be on the other side of the interrogation, he knew Hollister had a job to do.
On the other hand, Rosco didn’t like being pushed around, and he liked seeing his wife in that position even less. “I understand you’re with Homicide, Lieutenant? Does that mean that LVMPD is classifying Dr. Jazz’s death a murder?”
Hollister took a moment to speak. Like Rosco, he also leaned back, hi
s long legs sprawling across the couch and his boots planted in the carpeting as if stuck in stirrups hanging from a wide-backed horse. “I have to tell you … Rosco, I’m not a real fan of private detectives. Las Vegas has more of the buggers than you can shake a stick at. Most are as slippery as a forty-pound eel. Slipperier, some of ’em.”
Rosco’s smile was thin. “Fair enough, but I’m not from Las Vegas, and ‘slippery as an eel,’ as homey as it might sound, doesn’t really answer my question, does it? All I want to know is if a man was murdered in this room.”
“Tough guy from the East Coast, is that it?”
Rosco leaned forward. “We came here to help, Lieutenant. Think what you will.” He looked at Belle. “Why don’t you explain what we know, Ms. Graham.”
As much as she loved her husband, Belle didn’t relish the idea of becoming a tennis ball bouncing between two testosterone-laced rackets, so she stood, and walked to the back of the couch to sit on a bar stool. The men were forced to turn and face her. “Well, Lieutenant …” Belle pasted on a high-wattage grin intended to establish her femininity and superior brain power. “I don’t imagine we know more about this situation than you, but here goes … On the Monday before Thanksgiving, I received a telephone call from Karen Wise of the Blue Diamond Wildlife Shelter. She told me that Dave Narone, also known as Dr. Jazz, was found dead a few days earlier—”
“Last Friday, that would have been,” Rosco tossed in, and received a cold stare from Hollister.
“Karen—Ms. Wise—explained that according to Mr. Narone’s will, all of his assets—stocks, bonds, and bank holdings—were to go to his nephew, Reggie daCoit … Does that jibe with your information?”
Belle looked at Hollister for a reply, but he remained poker-faced, saying, “Go on,” without blinking or seeming to move his lips.
“The other stipulation of Narone’s legacy was that the Blue Diamond Wildlife Shelter would be the beneficiary of everything found in this suite—and on his person. Which seems to me a very kind gesture. These are wonderful and evocative paintings.” Belle gestured toward seven canvases, each created by an obviously talented artist. There was also a framed straight flush—ace through five of diamonds—that hung above the wet bar, with the inscription You’re a Lucky Son-of-a-Gun. It was signed Gabby.
“I would imagine these oils are quite valuable.” Although Belle’s comment wasn’t posed as a question, she waited for a response from Hollister. Nothing was forthcoming, so she pushed ahead. “Karen Wise explained that the night before he died, Dr. Jazz had won close to three hundred thousand dollars in a high-stakes poker game. Is that correct?”
This time Hollister acquiesced, and gave Belle a brief nod of agreement.
“And no one knows where that money is now? It never appeared in his bank or casino account, and is nowhere in this suite, correct?”
“Correct.”
“Which brings us to Dr. Jazz’s ‘list of words,’ entitled Still, Man Wasted Talent. The list Karen faxed to me—”
“Yes, I have a copy of that document right here. As well as the word game you created and then relayed to Ms. Wise as per the deceased’s stipulation.” Hollister removed two folded sheets of paper from his jacket pocket and read an inscription at the top of the first, “As my will indicates, all my liquid cash assets are bequeathed to my sole heir, my nephew, Reggie daCoit, while everything within this suite, and on my person, shall go to the Blue Diamond Wildlife Shelter in care of one Karen Wise.
“But because my nephew has a certain unfortunate reputation, it is necessary for me to become cryptic in voicing my wishes as to the disposal of certain non-liquid assets, thus, Still, Man Wasted Talent:
“Below is a list of words. They represent a selection of out-of-order ACROSS solutions to a crossword puzzle. It is my wish that a puzzle grid be created by one Anna Graham of Newcastle, Massachusetts in order to accommodate these answers. When said grid is complete, a message will reveal the particular arrangement of those non-liquid assets. Although it is only a puzzle, there is good reason to—fear of it, however cute.”
Hollister raised his eyes from the paper. “If Dr. Jazz is talking about his recent three hundred thousand dollars in winnings with this gobbledygook, then I’m a monkey’s uncle … But hey, little lady, you’re supposed to be the puzzle pro; what did you discover?”
“‘Little lady?’” Rosco snapped. “Do you really talk like that, or is this just your ‘Marshal Dillon’ routine?”
Hollister was a man accustomed to having people step out of his way; Rosco’s blowup not only surprised, but confounded him. “No disrespect intended” served as a cursory apology before the lieutenant resumed his authoritarian tone. “I fail to see any connection—or resolution—to the disposal of Narone’s assets in this gibberish.”
Belle returned to the couch. “I was asked to come to Las Vegas to find answers, Lieutenant. If you can accept the fact that this admittedly obscure and curious document serves as Narone’s final wishes, maybe we can get somewhere.”
Hollister regarded her. Belle could almost see his brain wrestling with two major problems. One: “Little ladies” didn’t challenge police lieutenants; and Two: “Anna Graham” and her husband had been officially brought in on the case. “Shoot,” Hollister eventually said.
Belle smiled; it was a triumphant rather than a conciliatory expression. “The crossword I constructed according to the deceased’s instructions represents the only solution I was able to devise. As you can see”—she pointed to the puzzle Hollister was holding—“at 26-Across and 40-Across, where I would hope to find some answers, the words formed are unintelligible. If there’s a message, I haven’t found it.” Belle paused, her face softening in concern. “We’re on your side, Lieutenant. You have to believe that.”
Hollister remained silent for nearly a minute. Eventually he took a large breath and exhaled slowly. “Okay, I’m going to level with you. Dave Narone had enough strychnine in his system to kill a Brahma Bull—and his last four riders. Samples were also found on a bourbon glass next to the body.”
Belle frowned, then wrapped her arms around herself while Rosco responded:
“So, you’re classifying this as homicide.”
Belle looked around the room; her expression was troubled. “What about suicide?”
It was Rosco who answered. “Nobody commits suicide with strychnine. It’s a horrendous way to die. Basically, it’s rat poison.”
Belle shivered and hunched her shoulders. Her eyes dropped to the floor.
“Your husband’s right. Besides, Dr. Jazz was on the top of his game. He had no reason to kill himself.”
“Any suspects, Lieutenant?” In an attempt to clear the air, Rosco’s tone was respectful.
“I’m starting with the obvious: the two people who stand to gain from the death—your friend, our local ‘wise woman,’ and Narone’s good-for-nothing nephew.”
“What do you mean by ‘our local wise woman’?” Belle protested. “It seems to me she’s doing an admirable job, rescuing animals—”
It was Rosco who interrupted what was threatening to become a very cranky broadside. His wife was swift to defend anyone or anything she felt was under attack; and Hollister’s tone had been more than snide. “‘Good-for-nothing nephew’?” he asked.
“Like Narone indicated, daCoit has an ‘unfortunate reputation.’ He’s a small-time con man … hails from down Phoenix way, and has been in and out of the hoosegow more times than a duck lays eggs. He drifts into Las Vegas every now and then. I imagine it was mostly to hustle some dinero out of his rich uncle.”
“Was daCoit here at the time of the murder?”
“He claims not, but his alibi’s as thin as a Mojave coyote. He maintains he was in Los Angeles at the time. We’re checking it out.”
“This place looks like it was inspected pretty thoroughly,” Rosco said. “Was it your investigation unit … or was someone searching for Narone’s three hundred grand?”
“M
y unit found the premises like this. They’re a solid crew.”
“Then you’re assuming the perp found—and pocketed—Narone’s winnings? Maybe, a sore loser scenario?”
“There’s no room for sore losers when you’re out there with the ‘whales’ … High-stakes players lose a quarter mil one night, win it back the next. As to my assumptions …” Hollister left the sentence unfinished as he escorted Belle and Rosco from Dr. Jazz’s suite, and locked the door. “Right now your buddy at Blue Diamond is a prime suspect, and if that list of words proves to be important, you two are in it up to your keisters, as well … I don’t want you two to leave Las Vegas without notifying me first, and I mean that.” He strode down the hall and stepped onto the elevator.
“‘Up to our keisters’?” Rosco grumbled. “What’d we get here? The Yiddish Wyatt Earp?”
Belle cocked her head. “You shouldn’t allow your masculinity to get bruised so easily.”
“Masculinity? What? Bruised? From that guy? You just like him because he looks so much like Gary Cooper.”
“He does look a lot like Gary Cooper, now that you mention it … Did you ever see Meet John Doe?”
“No. And I never want to see it if it’s going to remind me of our upstanding Lieutenant Hollister.”
“It’s a good movie.”
“I don’t care.”
They stepped across the hallway and into their own suite. Belle turned and gave Rosco a deep kiss. “I do love you, Rosco, and I’m awfully glad you don’t throw around phrases like ‘our wise woman.’”
“I love you too … But I’m never seeing Meet John Doe, not in a million years.”
Belle laughed. “I guess we should return Karen’s call. At least, let her know we’ve arrived.” She walked to the writing desk, but the phone rang before she could reach for it.
“Speak of the devil,” Rosco said.
“How do you know it’s her?”
“Hey, this is Las Vegas. Want to bet on it? I’ll give you two-to-one odds … But—if it turns out to be Angie? I’ll take it in the other room.”
Belle stuck her tongue out at him before picking up the receiver. It was Karen Wise, as he’d predicted. She suggested that they get together the following morning, and gave Belle directions to Blue Diamond, Nevada. It was just outside the Las Vegas sprawl, to the southwest on Route 160.
