Ian stuck his chin out and said, “Why don’t we sort this out quickly?” I frowned at him, but it was no use and he went on, “There was DNA on Crystal’s body. Why don’t you come down to the station with us and give us a blood sample?”
I groaned inside, imagining the detectives’ reactions when I drove up and demanded that the ME take Ben’s blood sample.
Ben said, “Sure. I’ve got no problem with that, because I never touched her. And I definitely didn’t kill her.”
He sounded convincing, but I wondered if it was a bluff. Maybe he knew that we couldn’t get the ME to test his DNA.
“I don’t think you’re telling the truth about Crystal,” I said slowly. “I think you asked Crystal to come over here so you could seduce her. But then, when she said no, you got angry and killed her. Maybe she walked down the street, and you followed her out and killed her there.”
Ben shook his head. “Even if I did want to seduce her, why would I kill her if she said no? I can get any girl I want. So one woman says no, big deal.”
I looked at him carefully. He was right; the story didn’t add up, but I still said, “I don’t know why you’d kill her. Maybe your ego was hurt?”
“No,” Ben said. “She came over to talk to me. I did try to put the moves on her. Asked if she wanted to go out to the hot-tub. But she said she had a boyfriend, and I let it go. She’d get the part anyway, and I didn’t want things to be awkward between us.”
“I thought you were the producer. You could just veto her getting the part.”
Ben looked at me like I was clueless. Which I probably was, when it came to Hollywood affairs. “It’s about money,” he said. “Sam thought she’d help make the movie sell. I trusted his judgment.”
I nodded, trying to make sense of it.
“Look,” Ben said, “We talked for a couple minutes, then she got a phone call. And then a few minutes later, he called again, and she said she had to go.”
“Who called?” Ian and I said at the same time.
Ben said, “Sam Rampell.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
The three of us stared at each other, all thinking the same thing.
Finally, I said, “We should go. I’ll call you if we need you to come in to give that DNA sample.”
Ben nodded. “No problem.”
Ian and I drove away, and I went straight back to my condo.
“Are we going to talk to Sam, now?” Ian asked, and I looked at him sternly.
“You weren’t meant to talk during the interview.”
“But I was good. I was like Bogart. I was the bad cop.”
“You were rude.”
“Yeah, but I got him to talk, didn’t I?”
I considered that for a moment, and then I strode out of the carpark and began walking toward The Tremonte. Ian tagged along at my heels, panting slightly at the fast pace.
“I won’t talk this time,” he said. “I promise.”
I couldn’t seem to shake him off, and maybe I owed him for letting me sleep over at his place. As we talked, he went on and on about his favorite TV show about mysteries, and how they solved the murders each time.
It was kind of nice to have him talking away, I thought; it stopped me from doing a premature victory dance. And it stopped me from being too ashamed that my thoughts of victory weren’t just about discovering Crystal’s killer, but also about proving that Jack had nothing to do with her death.
When we got to The Tremonte, Sam was giving directions to a couple having a huge fight. “Really show the despair in your voice,” he told the woman. He glanced over to me and went back to work.
I stood beside him quietly, until the scene was over and he was forced to talk to me.
He smiled at me politely. “I’m afraid I’m busy now. Can we talk later?”
I shook my head. “It’s a bit urgent, and it’ll just take a minute.”
Sam sighed, and stepped off the set with me. Ian trailed behind us, and for once, he seemed to be intent on not talking. Maybe he’d exhausted himself on the walk over.
“Sam,” I said, when we were standing in a quiet corner where nobody could overhear us. “They found out who killed Crystal.”
He looked at me seriously. “Who?”
I continued to stare at him, waiting for him to realize that the game was over.
He waited a few seconds, blinked and then asked me again, “Who?”
“We know it’s you,” I said.
He took a few seconds to process what I’d just said, and then he tilted his head and smiled. “And why would I do that?”
“I’m not sure,” I admitted. “She’d worked for you before, as an extra in two movies. Maybe you fell in love with her.” He looked at me skeptically and crossed his arms, but he didn’t say anything, so I went on. “You knew she’d gone to Ben’s apartment and you thought she was sleeping with him. Why not you? But she kept saying no, and you finally lost your temper. You’d already had a few drinks, and before you knew it, you’d killed her.”
“I have an alibi,” he said stiffly.
I nodded. “Sure. But I’m sure that when we talk to the people at the bar, we’ll find out you left long before midnight.”
The charm had left Sam’s eyes, and now they were dark and angry. “I don’t believe you,” he said. “You’ve got some nerve, coming in here and accusing me of all this.”
I shrugged. “Talk’s cheap. Why don’t we head down to the station and you can give the ME a blood sample and prove you’ve got nothing to do with all this?”
I watched the blood drain out of Sam’s face, and he glanced seriously from Ian to me. “I can’t do that,” he said, finally. “I’m busy. Stuff to do.”
I shrugged. “Suit yourself. We’ll have the ME come down to see you.”
He took a step back and said something incomprehensible, and I watched him hurry back to the set. I knew what I had to do.
Chapter Thirty-Three
My first call was to Emily, who said she’d pass on the information to Detective Coles, and that I’d hear from him soon.
“We got the prints off the knife,” she added. “Mr. Beard’s real name is Penrith Goodham.”
I laughed drily. “With a name like that, maybe I’d be a criminal, too.”
Emily didn’t laugh. “Be careful, Tiff,” she said. “We’ll keep an eye out for this guy, but you know how short-staffed we are.”
My second phone call was to Jack. I asked him if he’d like to have dinner sometime next week, but he didn’t want to wait till then. “Meet me tonight,” he said. “I’m glad we’re doing this.”
“I’ve got shifts till Friday. And it’s not a date. I don’t date criminals. I just wanted to tell you something I know about the burglary.”
Jack sighed. “Fine. As long as you don’t accuse me of another murder.”
“I don’t think I will. But, speaking of which, do you think you could make sure that Sam Rampell can’t leave The Tremonte?”
“That might be a bit awkward,” Jack said, and I could hear the smile in his voice. “Is he the one you think killed her, for now?”
I didn’t appreciate being made fun of, so I said, “Yes. And he told me yesterday that he saw you fighting with Crystal. He implied that you killed her.”
There was an icy silence, and then Jack said, “I’ll make sure he stays put.”
I smiled, pleased that my snitching had the desired effect.
***
“Are you sure it’s Sam?” Ian asked as I unlocked my door. “How can you be sure it’s Sam?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” I asked. “How can you have any doubts?”
“Hey, your answering machine’s blinking!”
I was going to do a safety sweep through my condo, but Ian had already walked over to the machine in the corner and pressed a button.
There was one message from three hours ago. “This is Detective Elwood,” said the familiar voice. “I’ve been trying to reach you since yesterday. We r
eally need to talk about the Van Gogh burglary. Call me back.”
“Urgh.” I was annoyed by the message, and the image of a chubby, suspicious Elwood that popped up in my mind.
“Who’s that?” Ian said, as I walked over to the fridge and pulled out the box of cupcakes.
I was going to open it to check how many were left, when Mr. Beard stepped out of the bedroom and into the living area.
The box of cupcakes fell from my hands.
“Surprise!” yelled Mr. Beard. “Isn’t this nice?”
His hands were by his side, and I saw that he was holding another knife today. It was almost a relief to see that he hadn’t taken Nanna’s suggestion and opted for a gun instead. Almost.
Blood pounded in my ears, and I tried not to look into Mr. Beard’s eyes. They were tiny and dark and glittering, and behind him, Ian said softly, “Oh. No.”
Mr. Beard turned to face Ian, and I took the opportunity to open the cutlery drawer and pull out a knife of my own. The only knives I could see were butter knives and a tiny paring knife, so I picked the paring knife. I wasn’t too sure what I could do with it – it didn’t seem like a match against Mr. Beard’s large chef’s knife. But it was better than nothing.
“Go away,” Mr. Beard growled at Ian. “This doesn’t concern you.”
“Y-y-yessir!” Ian said, and he opened the front door. So much for my bodyguard.
Mr. Beard turned toward me and smiled. He said, “I see you’re not wearing stilettos, today.”
I lifted up my paring knife. “I’m armed,” I said, surprised that my voice was steady.
Mr. Beard smiled and lifted his knife to show me. The large blade glinted in the light and I could see that behind him, Ian stood frozen in the doorway.
“Perhaps we should talk,” I said quickly. “You know, this whole thing was a misunderstanding.”
Mr. Beard took a step toward me, and I lunged and ran toward the bedroom.
“Hey!” Ian shouted, and I was just in time to see him pick a cushion off my couch and throw it at Mr. Beard.
“What the hell!” Mr. Beard turned and stared at Ian in surprise. “Didn’t I tell you to scram? Don’t make me cut you, too!”
Time slowed down. I saw Mr. Beard raise his knife and step toward Ian. His back was to me, and Ian grabbed another cushion off the couch. This time Ian held it over his chest like a shield. I could see Ian’s eyes, large and scared, and his lips seemed to have gone white.
The air felt cold and my arm seemed to rise up on its own. I wasn’t thinking when I threw the paring knife at Mr. Beard’s neck. It made contact briefly, and then fell to the floor with a soft clang. The three of us stared it, and I froze in horror.
Mr. Beard unfroze first. He looked up, swore loudly, and took a step toward me.
I don’t have a weapon, I thought. I can’t believe this is how I’ll die – at the hands of a madman who thinks he’s getting even for a stiletto-stab.
Before I could scream or try to run, Ian leaped onto Mr. Beard’s back. Suddenly, Ian had wrapped his arms around Mr. Beard’s chest, and his legs around his waist. The next thing I knew, Ian opened his mouth wide, and sank his teeth into the side of Mr. Beard’s neck.
“Argh!” Mr. Beard’s tiny eyes snapped open wide, round with surprise. His scream was more of annoyance than pain, and he reached back and stabbed Ian in the leg.
I heard myself screaming, as though in the distance. My mind didn’t know what was going on, but my body reacted instinctually. I took a few steps forward, and swung my leg up in a high Rockette kick that made firm contact with Mr. Beard’s gonads.
He groaned loudly, and bent over at the waist. His grip on the knife loosened, and he pivoted around, trying to shake Ian off his back.
I was thinking about whether I should try to wrestle Mr. Beard’s knife away from him, or kick him again, when a familiar voice said, “What’s going on here?”
Mr. Beard and Ian froze, and for once, the sight of Detective Elwood made me smile. He was standing in the doorway, pointing his gun at the strange sight of Ian piggybacking on Mr. Beard.
“It’s ok, Ian,” I said. “You can get off now.”
Mr. Beard dropped the knife and Ian released his arms from around Mr. Beard’s chest and tried to step back onto the floor. Except he miscalculated how painful his bleeding leg was, slipped, and ended up lying on his back.
“This is my friend, Ian,” I told Elwood. “Piggybacking was his way of trying to save me from Mr. Beard here, who was trying to kill me.”
I looked at Ian again. He smiled up at me from the floor and I said, “We should get you to the hospital. Your leg looks pretty bad.”
“I wanted to talk to you about the burglary,” Elwood said, as he handcuffed Mr. Beard and helped Ian stand up. “But I guess you should make a statement about these two freaks, first.”
I nodded. “Sorry I didn’t get all your messages. I was overseas when you called yesterday.”
Elwood shrugged. “No rush. I was just stopping by today to make sure you hadn’t left town.” I gave him a funny look and he sighed, rolled his eyes and said, “I may have misjudged you.”
“It’s ok,” I said. “I’ll drop Ian off at the hospital and come by the station.”
“I don’t need to go to the hospital,” Ian said. “I’m fine. I just bleed a lot.” He rolled up his trouser leg to show me. “See?”
I made a face and looked away. “I’m taking you to see a doctor,” I told him. “I don’t want you to bleed to death right after you saved my life.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
I drove Ian to the hospital, and the nurse who admitted us took one look at his leg and said he was fine; it was just a slight cut. There’d be a wait, since Ian’s situation wasn’t critical, so I left him there and went to the police station to make an official statement about Mr. Beard. Elwood told me that Mr. Beard’s parole would be revoked, and then I went off to talk to Detective Coles about Crystal’s murder.
Three days later, Detective Coles called me up around midday. “Sam’s DNA matched the DNA found on Crystal’s body,” he said. “How were you so sure it was him?”
I smiled, allowing myself a moment of pride. “It was the lie,” I said. “He wouldn’t lie to me if he wasn’t hiding something.”
“Well,” Coles said. “I’ve got to say, you’ve got pretty good investigative skills.”
The words, “for a casino dealer” seemed to hang in the air, but maybe that was just my imagination.
I called Samantha immediately after that, told her we needed to talk, and drove down to The Peacock Club. I hadn’t typed up my report yet, but I wanted to tell her face-to-face what I’d learnt. We grabbed a table in a corner of the half-empty club, and the music pulsed and vibrated around us. I told her, sitting in the semi-dark, what I’d learnt, and she nodded sadly. When I finished, she sniffed and I saw her blink back a tear.
“I should’ve stopped her,” she said. “I should’ve realized something was up.”
“It’s not your fault,” I said. “She didn’t tell anyone what was going on.”
We sat silently at the table, and I watched Samantha out of the corner of my eye. She looked slightly silly, dressed in a skimpy pink and white bunny outfit and sky-high pink stilettos, but she was one of those tough women who you wouldn’t mind having in your corner. Crystal had been lucky to have her as a friend.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Jack and I were sitting in a quiet French restaurant, east of the Strip. It was the kind of place middle-aged men went to meet their mistresses. The words on the menu were unpronounceable, the waiters snooty and condescending, and everything cost too much. But it was dark, out of the way, and the tables were so far from each other that diners could safely talk about things they wouldn’t normally discuss in public. For the other diners, this involved a lot of arm-rubbing and coy glances. Jack and I kept our arms to ourselves.
We both ordered the filet mignon, and the waiter sniffed distastefully whe
n I asked for mine to be well done. Jack, of course, was having his medium rare.
We chatted about work, the weather, and our families with the pensiveness of a parent talking with their child’s teacher – it was pleasant enough on the surface, but we both knew there was an unpleasant reason for the meeting.
There was no point waiting till dessert to pull out the big guns. So I took a deep breath and told Jack the lie that I’d prepared. “I saw the number plate on the getaway car for the Van Gogh burglary. I ran it through the system; the car’s yours.”
Jack held my glance for a few seconds. I made sure I looked serious, and confident of what I was saying. Jack’s expression was unreadable.
“I know,” he said softly.
I tried not to look surprised. I’d expected him to deny the whole thing and a part of me was disappointed that he hadn’t given me some excuse, no matter how flimsy – maybe someone had stolen his car, maybe he’d been jumping off the roof of the Ascend for fun that morning.
I looked down at my steak, not caring if my disappointment showed, and sighed.
“I should’ve told you,” Jack said.
“Why?” We looked at each other, and I said, “You could just buy it off Jeremy, and he’s your friend. You could’ve reached a deal.”
Jack shook his head. “Money has nothing to do with it. Well, ok. Money has everything to do with it.”
Maybe the fillet mignon wasn’t agreeing with me. I dabbed my lips with the napkin, and put it down beside my plate.
“Wait,” Jack said, just as I was about to push back my chair.
I looked up at his eyes, glistening in the dim lighting, and waited.
“Do you know about Jeremy’s son?”
I shook my head. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Jeremy had health insurance with AAI. But then his son had a snowboarding accident and went into a coma. AAI refused to pay out, and on top of that – they dinged Jeremy’s report so he couldn’t get health insurance with anyone else.”
A.R. Winters - Tiffany Black 02 - Green Eyes in Las Vegas Page 18
