by Suzie Quint
She peered over her glasses again, looking like a sexy, stern librarian. It hit him in the groin.
“Not that you’re sweet to me,” he said, “but you seemed to like him better than you usually like me, so I don’t know. Maybe you were sweet to him.”
She added a hiked eyebrow to her skeptical look.
Had he really hoped she’d deny it? “Or not.”
She sighed and looked down. “I should have been nicer to him. When I was sixteen and needed a summer job, he got me on with the casino’s housekeeping department. It was my first real job.” She shook her head ruefully. “He didn’t have to do that.”
Her mouth drew into a tight line as she stared at the puzzle, but there was a blind quality to her gaze. “She didn’t do it, Alec,” she said softly. “Annaliese didn’t kill Sebastian.”
“I can’t imagine it either,” Alec said. Except he could. Everyone was capable of murder in the right circumstances.
Did that make him a cynic?
The only person he would rule out as a suspect was Jada. Cleo was right about her. She was one of those rare people. A true innocent. They’d have to invent a whole new category for any death that occurred by her hand. Murder by freak accident maybe.
He laid his hand on Cleo’s where it rested against the edge of the table. “It’s going to be all right.”
Her chest expanded with a deep breath. “You don’t know that, but thanks for saying it.” She pulled her hand out from under his. “It’s easier if someone else says it.”
“Have some faith. Annaliese is the type who lands on her feet.”
“I hope so.”
She needed, he decided, a distraction from stewing about her mother’s arrest. In his experience, action was the best cure. “You know,” he said, “cops stop looking at other suspects once they’ve made an arrest.”
She looked up, her gaze sharpening. “Are you saying we should investigate on our own?”
“You did make your name as an investigative reporter.”
Her eyes were coming back to life.
“And we do work for the media,” Alec said. “People expect us to be nosy.”
“That’s true.”
“It’s not like we aren’t already covering this story.”
She nodded slowly then got up to retrieve her laptop from the bedroom. He met her in the kitchen where she opened the lid and powered it on. “Where should we start?” she asked.
“Let’s make a list of what we know.”
It didn’t take long. Sebastian had drowned in the tub in his penthouse. He’d been drinking. Sometime Sunday evening, Annaliese had stopped by to discuss the repayment of the loan. When he became sloppy drunk, she put him to bed and left. He’d been found the next morning when the maid let herself in to clean.
“What kind of reporters are we?” Cleo asked. “We didn’t even ask Annaliese what time she was there.”
“We didn’t know it was important.” But she was right. They’d taken too much at face value. He got a couple of Cokes from the fridge, opened them, and set one in front of her. “How did Annaliese get in debt to Sebastian?” He’d wanted to ask her that before, but she wouldn’t have told him. Now it was relevant. Now there was something in it for her.
“It was a string of things.” She slid the laptop aside. “Jada had some cosmetic surgeries so she could keep working. She’s thirty, you know. Showgirls can’t sag, even a little. The surgeries and recovery time both cost money, but they were holding it together. Then they were in a car accident that injured Jada’s knee. More expenses and more lost income. They got behind on the condo payments.” She took a sip of her Coke. “Sebastian offered her a loan. She took it.”
“Interest on the loan?”
She nodded. “Then Annaliese got sued over the accident, so there were legal expenses.”
“She lost the lawsuit,” he guessed.
Cleo nodded again. “Sebastian offered to loan her more money, but she didn’t want to owe him that much. That’s when she called me.
“I didn’t know how bad it had gotten, but I could dig her out to a place where they could handle it. But I didn’t have it in cash reserves, so she took what was supposed to be a super short-term loan from Sebastian. I thought I could convert some assets and pay him back quick enough we’d all be okay.”
He leaned on the counter, supporting his upper body with his forearms. “But you couldn’t.”
“Oh no. I did. Everything should have been fine.”
“Except?”
“I told you she has the worst luck in the world. Her timing stinks, too. The night before I transferred the money in her account, she and Jada went out with some friends, and Annaliese got to telling the story about how she won the down payment for the condo at a craps table.” Cleo took a deep breath. “This is where it gets bad. She was hungover the next day, so Jada, who’s the sweetest, best-intentioned person in the world, decided to take the money to Sebastian.”
“Why do I have the bad feeling that when you say money, you mean cash.”
“Because you’ve read ahead? Yeah, lots of business is done on a cash basis here.”
“So what happened? Jada gambled it away?”
“She didn’t intend to. She just thought . . .” Cleo took another deep breath, releasing it in a long sigh. “She thought if Annaliese could get a down payment for the condo that way, she could win enough to get them completely out of the hole and even pay me back.”
“But she didn’t, of course.”
“No. And she couldn’t stop after she started losing. She kept chasing the money that was already gone.”
“Green felt disease,” Alec said. Not an uncommon affliction in Las Vegas.
She nodded. “I see you’ve heard of it. It got complicated so fast. You can declare bankruptcy on all sorts of things, but a Vegas loan isn’t one of them. Especially not if you live and work here.”
“That’s what drove you to a tabloid, isn’t it?”
She nodded, her lips tightening. “Taking a loan from Sebastian was stupid. Those kinds of loans are high interest.”
“The cops probably think the debt was Annaliese’s motive.”
Her eyes dropped and she picked at the polish on her nails. “She didn’t tell them about it.”
He winced. “Ouch. They probably found out some other way then. Which makes her look guilty for not telling them.”
“But the money’s there in her bank account.”
He looked at her over the rim of his can as he took a sip, giving her a minute to see the obvious: the money was in Annaliese’s account. Not Sebastian’s.
Cleo wilted a little as it became obvious that, if she couldn’t even convince him, the police wouldn’t buy it either, but then she straightened again. “Besides, you don’t arrest people just because they have a motive. Lots of people could have a motive. Liz, for instance. She’ll probably inherit the whole pie instead of getting a small slice from the divorce.”
“Good point. And they always look at the spouse first. So they must have something else that makes Annaliese look guilty.” He took another sip. “They’ll look at her bank account and want explanations for any unaccounted funds.” And when they saw the money Cleo had deposited, they’d want to talk to her. She was right. Things got complicated fast around Annaliese.
The worried look on Cleo’s face reminded him he was supposed to be distracting her from her mother’s arrest. “But what they’ve got must be circumstantial evidence.” He scrubbed his hand across his chin, thinking. “What if someone framed Annaliese?”
He was rewarded with an almost hopeful look from Cleo.
“Maybe they knew she was going to see Sebastian that night,” she said.
“Or maybe they saw the opportunity and took it.”
She chewed at her lower lip. “Crime of passion or a business deal gone bad?”
“Hm. Annaliese says she put him to bed because he was stumbling drunk. Unless he got himself up and into the tub, wh
ich seems unlikely, someone else did. I gotta say that doesn’t sound much like a business deal gone bad.”
“You’re right. And men are more direct. More likely to use a gun or a knife or their fists.”
“So odds are it was a woman. Which makes a crime of passion more likely.”
“Do you think whoever did it knew Annaliese was there?”
“It would be awfully coincidental if they didn’t.”
“Coincidences do happen.”
They shared a look of silent agreement. Neither of them thought the timing was coincidental.
They talked about other aspects. Whether Annaliese’s visit might have triggered the murder, about whether Sebastian might have roused on his own and got in the tub himself. About how much strength it would have taken to drown a man who was already stumbling drunk.
And then they got down to the list of women who might want him dead.
Chapter 7
Alec watched the clerk at the check-in desk of El Dorado’s luxury hotel aim a come-here gesture toward the lobby.
He turned sideways to see a solidly built man in his early thirties who had all the earmarks of a bodyguard answer the wave.
“Mr. Rodriguez?” the man asked after dodging a pair of tunnel-visioned tourists who had clearly just arrived for a weekend junket.
“Yes.”
“May I see some identification?”
Alec pulled out his wallet and showed his driver’s license.
“Please open your jacket.”
He held open his sports jacket, displaying the pale blue button-down shirt underneath. For all this guy’s bulk, with his long eyelashes and chin dimple, he was way too pretty to be merely a bodyguard.
The man patted Alec’s sides, ankles, and the small of his back in a quick and efficient search. “Please come with me.”
Alec followed him to the elevator bank where the man inserted a key in the panel beside the last set of burnished steel doors and pushed the call button. A moment later, the doors opened. Alec and the bodyguard stepped inside. The key was reinserted and the button for the top floor pushed.
At the top floor, the doors opened onto a hallway. He counted four doors. Conservatively, he estimated each suite at three thousand square feet. This was luxury. With maid service.
The bodyguard tapped on the last door.
Beautiful was an inadequate word to describe the woman who answered. She was of mixed race—he’d known that from the bio Linny sent him—but her pictures didn’t do her justice. A pale cocoa, her skin was just dark enough to betray her African-American heritage. Her black hair was pulled back tight to her skull in the style ballet dancers favored. She had full, red lips and perfectly arched eyebrows over exotically tilted, chocolate brown eyes that made him think some sort of Asian blood though her bio claimed her mother was Polynesian.
A man would have to be three days dead to not turn and stare as this woman crossed the room. The only discordant note was the coolness in her dark eyes in the first moment she looked at him. It was a look he associated with women who’d gone rancid from disappointment. Usually with men. The look was disconcerting in a woman on the happy side of thirty.
Then her gaze flickered from him to the pretty-boy bodyguard and the look was gone so quickly, Alec almost thought he’d imagined it. Her fingers brushed the bodyguard’s wrist. “Thank you, Bernie.”
He smiled faintly and dipped his head in acknowledgement before turning for the elevator.
Which came first? Alec wondered. The bodyguard or the affair? Because he was pretty damn sure they’d had one.
She shifted her attention. “You must be Alec.”
“I must be or Bernie wouldn’t have let me up here.”
“Sorry about that. Until everything is settled, I feel safer knowing someone’s looking out for me.”
“I understand.” It never paid to let an interviewee think you were judging them.
She invited him in. He couldn’t help watching her walk as she lead him toward a conversational grouping of furniture. She wore black tights under wrinkly, electric blue leg warmers and a loose-fitting, low-cut, fluttery top in a swirly pattern of blues and greens that fell to mid-thigh. Her feet were bare, revealing toenails painted hussy red.
There was no question in his mind about why Sebastian had put a ring on her finger. Having a woman like her on his arm was like telling the world not to let his age fool them. He was more than a man who got what he wanted; he was a man who got what everyone wanted.
It wasn’t until she turned to gesture toward a loveseat that he pulled his gaze away and noticed the view of the Vegas Strip outside the floor-to-ceiling windows that made up the far wall. He could only imagine how it would look at night with all the lights of the city twinkling beneath his feet.
“Nice place you have here,” he said, proud that he could sound so casual.
Liz smiled coolly. “I like it.”
She gestured again, inviting him to sit. He chose the polar white love seat that faced a red accent wall with a large black Japanese symbol. “That’s striking.”
“Isn’t it? It’s the symbol for joy.”
“Very uplifting.”
“Are you making fun of me, Mr. Rodriguez?” Her tone held mild amusement.
“Not at all. We can always use a reminder to count our blessings.” And she had plenty of blessings. Millions if she inherited everything from Sebastian. Not that money bought happiness, but she’d feel better crying in a Mercedes. And speaking of blessings, he put the file he carried on the coffee table and opened it. “We should probably start with this.”
She sat down next to him.
“This is the same agreement we sent your lawyer,” he said. “There are flags marking where your signature is required.”
She flipped through the pages, signing or initialing as required. When she finished, he pulled the cashier’s check from his wallet and handed it to her. She rose and put the check beside her purse on the dining room table. When she returned, she stopped at the bar in the corner of the living room. “I think this calls for a celebration. I have some very nice wine.”
Since she was already reaching for a bottle, he said, “Sure.”
“I’ve decided that I don’t want to let other people define my special occasions,” she said as she opened the bottle and poured a glass. “Sebastian and I should have celebrated finding each other every month—maybe even every week—instead of once a year. So now, I plan to celebrate at every opportunity.”
At that rate, she’d be a lush inside of three months.
“Do you mind if I record our interview?” he asked, setting his voice recorder on the coffee table.
“Not at all.” She brought the glass to him, setting it and the bottle on the table in an obvious invitation to refill it as he chose. A glance at the label—Masi Amarone with all the smaller print in Italian—told him she’d be an expensive lush. Not that he expected her to celebrate with Boone’s Farm. At heart, he was a beer and bowling kind of guy, but he knew a little about wines, and a sip convinced him he’d never tasted anything that compared. It was smooth but with a complex character of dark fruit, cocoa, and wood. He didn’t even want to guess at the price tag on a bottle of this.
She returned to the bar and filled her own glass with something light colored from the mini-fridge behind the bar.
“You’re not drinking wine?” Alec asked.
“Not for a while. Alcohol . . . makes me weepy this week.”
She could be telling the truth. She had, after all, just lost her husband. Or she could be trying to convince him she’d married Koblect for something other than his money.
She sat on the other end of the loveseat and picked a piece of chocolate from an open box on the table. A little nudge in his direction. “Try one of these.”
Slightly larger than a CD case, even opening like one, the box contained six long fingers of something sparkly set in a starburst formation with a gap where two pieces had been removed—one
of which was in Liz’s hand. She bit off the end then sipped her drink and moaned softly.
“What is it?” Alec asked as he picked one up.
“Swiss chocolate. Delaffe’s.”
He assumed that was a brand name. “What’s this sparkly stuff on it?”
“Edible gold.”
He nearly dropped it. The satisfied smile on Liz’s lips told him she hadn’t missed his fumble.
“Try it with the wine. They’re heavenly together.”
He wondered which was more expensive, the wine or the chocolate.
She leaned back into the corner on the other end of the couch, the hand that had held the chocolate, empty now, flung across the back. One foot was tucked underneath her, the other leg crossed over her knee, putting her foot with her shiny red toenails just inches from his leg. “So where would you like to start?”
He started with her bio. Born in San Diego, moved to Las Vegas at eight because her father, a construction worker, found work there. She’d started dance lessons—ballet and jazz—at ten. Graduated from Bonanza High School and auditioned for a show at the Aladdin. She worked there three years when El Dorado announced it was holding auditions for a showgirl revue. She tried out and won a spot.
Her personal life hadn’t been quite so tidy. At twenty, she’d met a security expert who also worked at the Aladdin. Eight weeks and one whirlwind courtship later, she’d married him. The marriage lasted six months.
How coincidental was that? Her ex-husband worked casino security. Not at El Dorado, of course, but there were bound to be similarities between the casinos.
“I don’t want to talk about him,” she said. “It’s not fair. He didn’t sign up for this kind of notoriety.”
Alec allowed her to bypass it for the moment. He’d dig for the information about her marriage on his own and, depending on what he found, decide if he should press for more.
She’d met Sebastian at a retirement party for an upper-level manager. She’d gone as the date of one of the men in the manager’s department.
