by Leslie Wolfe
When I was done editing the recording, I listened to it again to make sure it didn’t include a single hint of my voice, then sent it as a text message attachment to all the players: TwoCent; his son-of-a-bitch attorney, Volo; and Gully, the ADA.
Then I went straight home; it had been a long day, and another one was about to start, just as long. I needed to get some sleep.
33
Deal
When I woke, the sun was up, sending darts of light between the seams of the thick, opaque curtains of my living room. I’d never made it upstairs the night before; I’d kicked my shoes off and dropped on the couch, just like the previous night when Anne was sleeping in the master bedroom.
I wasn’t sure, but it must’ve been a noise that woke me. I jumped to my feet, abruptly immersed in anxiety; was I already late for court? Why hadn’t anyone called yet? Then I heard knocks on the door, loud, persistent. I pulled open a curtain and peeked through the sheers, immediately recognizing the man carrying a Starbucks tray with two large cups.
Holt.
In a frenzy, I looked around, evaluating the room. I rushed to get rid of the two weapons I’d abandoned on my kitchen counter, unceremoniously sliding them in the cutlery drawer.
“In a minute,” I shouted, as I rushed to grab the shoes and dress from the floor and shove them into the pantry. I put on a shirt and some pants, whatever was handy, not really caring I’d worn them the entire day before.
I unlocked the door, a little out of breath but smiling. Holt came in, sizing me up from head to toe, unspoken questions in his eyes. It took every ounce of willpower I had not to avoid his scrutinizing glance.
“Come on, we’re going to be late for court,” he said, still looking at me as if I were one of his suspects.
I smiled, looking at him straight as if nothing was wrong. It wasn’t difficult to smile, because I liked what I saw.
He was dressed sharply in a navy suit and light-blue shirt, matched with a pinstriped navy and white tie. By contrast, I needed work, and lots of it. My hair was a mess, and yesterday’s makeup was smudged badly after staining the couch pillows.
He looked at me with laughter in his eyes, but also something else I’d seen before but couldn’t pinpoint, then he veered his eyes toward the sofa. It was visibly slept on; he didn’t need to ask.
“Anne still with you?”
“Nah,” I replied, fidgeting, looking for my phone. I remembered I’d left both my phones in the microwave the night before; that was going to raise an eyebrow. Casually, I opened the oven and took them both out.
“That’s where you keep ’em?” he asked, his grin wider.
“Not always. Only when they piss me off and won’t let me sleep.”
“Uh-huh,” he said, in the tone of voice a parent uses when he hears his child tell a lie.
Damn him… he was good, and he was always there, not leaving me much room to maneuver. Not at all ideal, considering my after-hours hobby.
I checked the time; it was seven-forty-five, and I needed to start getting ready for court. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to testify, but unless I heard otherwise, I had to assume I was still due to take the stand at precisely nine AM. Feeling anxious and wondering why I had no news yet, I grabbed the cup he’d placed on the dining room table for me and tasted the green tea; it was just right, and the hot liquid soothed my taut nerves as it made its way down my parched, constricted throat.
Had something gone wrong? Was I about to step into a trap, once I took that stand? Did TwoCent recognize me? Maybe he had video surveillance at the house, recordings that Fletcher couldn’t remove, and he knew who I was by now. Maybe I was going to hear police sirens coming to pick me up in a few minutes. Maybe I’d totally screwed up and was about to take my partner down with me.
I managed to smile and thank him without a word, then set the cup down. “Will you be okay by yourself until I get dressed?”
“Sure,” he replied, taking a seat on the couch. “I could always come upstairs and keep you company while you do that,” he added in a sultry voice that sent instant butterflies to my abdomen. Against all logic I was tempted, but I found the strength to say no.
I went upstairs and took a quick shower, while anxiety did a number on me, swirling millions of questions in my head, making me relive every moment of the night before, analyzing it, wondering what could’ve gone wrong. I’d expected to find a voicemail canceling my court appearance, but there was no message.
Only moments after running the water, I heard music playing downstairs, possibly coming from the TV. I finished the shower as fast as I could, put on fresh makeup and got dressed, choosing a spiffy, black pantsuit with a light-beige, silk blouse and a fine, gold necklace with matching studs.
I rushed downstairs, black pumps in one hand and a matching purse in the other, but halfway through the steps the smell of fresh omelet and toast filled my nostrils. I heard my stomach growling; the night before I’d been too tired to eat. But then I remembered where I’d hid the guns, a fraction of a second before I saw them neatly laid on the counter.
Ah, bloody hell.
I stopped midstep, short of climbing down the last two steps.
“That’s where you keep them?” Holt gestured to the guns, smiling innocently.
The bastard.
“Anne was staying here, remember?” I replied calmly, but then I saw my dress folded carefully on the armchair and the Zanottis by the door. Of course, he’d run into those when he took the toaster out of the pantry.
Damn. I wasn’t going to explain that away.
Fortunately, he didn’t ask, although he noticed my unguarded stare when I was gawking at the dress. He just pretended to focus on setting the table for us, and I was grateful for that, trying really hard to ignore the obvious question that gnawed at the corners of my mind. How much did Holt really know, if anything, about last night? Why was he here today?
I’d only taken a couple of mouthfuls of what had to be the world’s best omelet, when Holt’s phone rang.
“Ah, it’s Gully,” he said to me and took the call on speaker.
“Good morning,” Holt said, “what’s up?”
“Something weird happened,” Gully said, and I breathed with ease as I could hear the excitement in his voice. “TwoCent took the plea, and we have a taped confession too.”
“What plea? What do you mean, we have a taped confession?” Holt asked frowning, but shot me a quick glance I could’ve sworn was filled with admiration. Somehow, that only made me worry more.
“Someone sent it anonymously to my cell phone,” Gully replied, “from a burner phone that’s no longer pinging active.”
Holt’s lips stretched into a wide grin that brought warmth to his eyes while looking at me. “So, no court today?”
“Nope, you got your day back, Detective. Just thank Baxter for me, will you?”
I froze, while Holt’s frown rematerialized.
“What for?” he asked.
“For her idea to put a plea on the table,” the ADA replied. “I didn’t expect it to, but it worked. Makes me wonder, with that confession coming into play when it did, how come she…”
He let his words trail off, while I stopped breathing.
“Yes?” Holt said, encouraging him to continue, while his frown deepened.
“No, it’s nothing, it must be a coincidence,” Gully replied. “I guess sometimes we win these things because we’re the good guys, right?”
“That you are, Gully, great job putting that slime bag away for good,” I heard Holt say, while I walked to the window and stared outside at the sunshine-filled street, letting my thoughts run free. At some point Gully could start asking some uncomfortable questions. At some point I could be asked to explain why I had suggested the plea, and my previous answer would not hold anymore. And maybe TwoCent, after rejoining his old friend Digger in prison and exchanging notes, might start putting two and two together and come after me. But neither of those things were going to happen
today.
Today I had a killer to catch.
And if any of those things were ever going to happen, I’d deal with them then, just as I’d dealt with good, old TwoCent.
When I turned around, I caught Holt’s eyes on me, a mix of worry and desire that made me uncomfortable. It was as if he was able to read into the depths of my mind and resonate with me in everything I did and thought and felt, although he didn’t know half of what was going on.
I smiled at him from across the room and said jokingly, “Whew, we’re off the hook.”
“Yeah,” he said, pushing my plate across the counter toward me. “Come on, finish your food.”
I didn’t need another invitation. I grabbed the fork and wolfed the food while standing and washed it down with the rest of the green tea, while trying to force the persistent smile off my face. After the exhilaration of the previous day, after the thrill of the hunt, now I was so relieved I felt like celebrating. Having Holt just two feet away made me smile incessantly, while he surely wondered what was going on in my head. I knew I couldn’t make the same mistake again and shag my partner, but I could at least think about it, right? Dream about it just a little?
Wrong. In my personal history there were plenty of mistakes made just because I’d been thinking of things. It was time to get busy and wipe that smirk off my face.
“Let’s catch us a killer,” I challenged Holt, cleaning my plate with the last piece of toast. “What do you say?”
“As we’re all dressed up with nowhere to go,” Holt offered, “let’s talk to this Paul Steele, and then we can ask Ellis MacPherson a few questions. It’s time to meet the men in Crystal’s life. We have an opportunity to rub elbows with Las Vegas royalty, and you sure look the part,” he added with one of his boyish grins.
I laughed. “Dream, on, partner. Do you think they’ll talk to us?”
34
Paul
The corporate office of the Scala Hotel and Casino was located in the downtown business district, a short drive north from the hotel on South Las Vegas Boulevard, then east on Fremont. The building, elegant and modern in glass and steel, had borrowed nothing from the hotel’s curved elegance; a rectangular parallelepiped, four stories of blue, tinted glass and white concrete, reminding me of the colors of rural Greek architecture, there, in the heart of the desert, thousands of miles away from the Mediterranean Sea. The windows on the top level were visibly taller, and I pointed them out to Holt.
“Penthouse, most likely. That’s where we’ll find our Mr. Steele.”
He looked up and nodded but didn’t say anything while we made a beeline for the entrance.
The vast lobby bore the Scala logo in large, silver brushed metal, slightly elevated from the wall behind and artistically emphasized with Persian blue lighting.
We showed our badges at the front desk, and the receptionist picked up the phone immediately and called upstairs.
“Mr. Steele’s personal assistant will be with you shortly,” she said in a professional tone of voice, displaying the whitest teeth I’d ever seen. “Please, take a seat.”
Both Holt and I ignored her invitation and explored the immense lobby. The walls were decorated with framed photos illustrating the history of the Scala. A black-and-white image taken when it was being built. The founder, the old Mr. Steele, John, when he signed the incorporation documents, more than thirty years ago. An image of the Strip taken back then, barely recognizable today. The first neon sign that was installed on top of the building, during times when LED lighting wasn’t even someone’s dream.
“Hello,” I heard a woman’s voice behind me, and I turned around.
She was a short-haired, natural blonde in her mid-thirties with high cheekbones and excellent skin tone, and her smile was textbook professional. She extended her hand and I shook it, appreciating the woman’s strong, no-bull grip.
“I’m Miss Gentry, Mr. Steele’s personal assistant,” she said. “How can I be of assistance?”
Holt shook her hand and I frowned, seeing how Miss Gentry’s eyes lingered on Holt’s body longer than they had on mine.
“We need to speak with Mr. Steele immediately,” I said, my tone colder than I had intended, raising an eyebrow on Holt’s forehead.
“Is this in regard to, um, Miss Tillman?” she asked, lowering her voice.
“Yes.”
“Follow me, please,” she said, leading the way to the elevators without looking behind. I had the opportunity to admire her perfect legs stepping without a trace of hesitation on her three-inch heels, despite the lobby’s marble floor, glass-like shine. How did she manage that? Practice, probably, that’s what it was.
She used a key to call an elevator, and one opened its doors promptly, as if it had been waiting there for her the entire time. Or maybe it had been, I had no idea.
Just as I’d suspected from the windows outside, we landed on the fourth floor and she led us straight into Mr. Steele’s office, without stopping to announce his visitors; by all appearances she’d already done that, and he’d already agreed to see us.
I entered the vast, corner office expecting to find two people, Steele and one of his overpriced attorneys. Instead, it was just Paul Steele sitting behind a huge, mahogany desk, working. The windows closest to him were shaded, so that the desert sun wouldn’t reflect off his two monitors. He typed quickly, an expression of deep focus on his brow, and barely acknowledged us with a wave of his hand that Miss Gentry quickly translated.
“Please, take a seat, he’ll be right with you.”
This time, we complied.
“Can I get you anything, coffee, water?” she offered, but I declined, while Holt didn’t seem to hear her. He was studying the bookcase lining the wall behind Steele’s desk, where many framed photos lined the shelves. Reading the story those photos told, Mr. Steele was a family man, a father, a dedicated son, a passionate horseback rider.
Meanwhile, I studied Paul Steele, a man worth one billion and a half. Dollars. My mind couldn’t comprehend what life would be like if I had that kind of money. Probably that’s why I don’t have it, I thought, my lips twitching with the urge to laugh at myself a little.
He was intense; that was the first adjective that came to mind. He was handsome in a dangerous kind of way, emphasized by a black shirt he wore unbuttoned at the neck. When he finally looked at me, then at Holt, his gaze was dark and penetrating, ferocious. I couldn’t tell what my partner was thinking, but I felt the need to challenge him, just to prove he wasn’t in control, he couldn’t intimidate me.
I smiled. “Thank you for seeing us on such short notice, Mr. Steele.”
He turned his attention to me for a moment, then stood, plunged his hands inside his pockets and walked to the window, effectively turning his back to us. “What can I do for you, Detective?”
We stood and joined him by the window, while I recognized how easily he’d controlled our moves, our attitude. How he made us feel who was in charge without as much as a single word. That spelled power. So much for my challenge; I stood defeated.
“We need to ask you a few questions about Crystal Tillman,” Holt said. “Are you familiar with that name?”
“Absolutely,” he replied, looking straight at us. “I was fortunate enough not to have this kind of tragedy take place in my hotel before. As you can easily imagine, we’re all stunned something like this could happen. As her employer, I’ve taken steps to ensure her family will have our assistance to cope with the practical aspects of this senseless tragedy.”
All the right words, with the right intonation, a perfect recital of horse manure. I was starting to feel nauseated; the man was wasting our time. But I knew better than to snap at him or call him a liar to his face.
“What was your relationship with Crystal, Mr. Steele?” I asked in a neutral tone.
“I was her employer, of course,” the reply came promptly.
“Nothing more?” Holt probed.
Steele frowned, an unspoken qu
estion filling the air. “Nothing more, no.”
“And yet you gave her five-hundred-thousand dollars in the form of a gambling chip, Mr. Steele,” I stated. “May we know why?”
He glared at me, his eyes even darker than before, even more intense. “Because I can, that’s why. Do you have a problem with that?”
“Have you ever given your employees such sizeable amounts before?” Holt asked unperturbed.
He shrugged, but the gesture wasn’t one of indifference; it was more violent than that. “I don’t know, maybe, yeah. Why?”
He was definitely hiding something, and we were not hitting the nail on the head, not yet. I decided to change the course of my questioning and be more direct, more in his style, from what I could gather his style was.
“Were you having an affair with Crystal Tillman, sir?” I asked, the tone of my voice accusatory, not neutral.
“What? No, I wasn’t,” he replied, and I couldn’t see any signs of deception. He was telling the truth for a change.
“She was pregnant,” Holt said, then paused for a moment, waiting for a reaction that didn’t come. “Did you know that?”
“N—no, I’m sorry,” he replied.
This time, I wasn’t so sure he’d told the truth.
“Could you please give us a sample of your DNA, to rule you out as the father?” I asked with a tiny smile.
He took two steps toward me and stopped only a few feet away, just as Holt was touching the holster of his gun. “Let me be clear here,” Steele said, “hell, no.”
I pressed my lips together and nodded once, my head a little tilted. “Okay, then.”
“I can’t believe you had the nerve to ask,” he added.
“Here’s what we believed happened,” Holt intervened. “You got her pregnant, then paid her off to keep quiet and disappear. That’s why were you threatening her.”
He straightened his back and stepped behind his desk, where he picked up the receiver of his desk phone, holding it in his hand, not to his ear.
