A Crossworder's Gift (10 page)

“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?”

“My 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.

“So,” Rosco said as he stepped up behind Belle, wrapped his arms around her, and perused the notes she'd made on a memo pad, “I gather this means we have the rest of the evening to do a little gambling?”

“I was thinking of something else, actually.”

“Actually … so was I.”

“I was wondering if Reggie daCoit is in Las Vegas right now.”

“Believe it or not, that's
not
what I was thinking about.”

Belle drummed her fingers on the writing desk. “If he's here, he'd certainly be worth talking to, don't you think?”

“You were asked to come here to help decipher a crossword puzzle, not get tangled up in a probable murder.”

Belle regarded him with wide and innocent eyes. “Rosco! How can you suggest I'd even consider—”

“You're right; what could I be thinking of?” He shook his head, reached around her, and picked up the phone. “Okay. If he's here … he's here. At Cactus Cal's.” Rosco punched zero into the phone and waited for the operator. “Yes, Mr. Reggie daCoit's room, please.” It was answered after only one ring, and Rosco went into a practiced routine: “Mr. daCoit, I'm with
Today's Gambler
magazine. My apologies for calling at what must be a painful time for you, but we'd scheduled an article on your famous late uncle some time ago, and Editorial wants to pursue the piece despite the altered circumstances … As someone who obviously knew him well, I was wondering if you might be able to spare a few minutes and share your thoughts? If it isn't too much to ask …?” Rosco looked at Belle, then returned his focus to the phone. Flattery was the best approach in these situations. Everyone liked seeing their name in print. “I'm hoping you can supply some personal details … maybe, what it was like to be related to someone so well known in the city? Oh, that's super … Could we meet”—Rosco flipped through the Cactus Cal's brochure—“in Gila Gil's Grill, say in a half an hour? Great … I'll be with my intern. She's a very pretty young blond woman. We'll see you then.”

“Intern?” Belle remarked the moment Rosco hung up the phone.

“That way it won't seem odd if you ask some questions as well … I notice you didn't have any problems with the
very pretty
and the
young
part.”

G
ILA
Gil's Grill was located on the third floor of the hotel and seemed to be a transplanted tract of land from Death Valley. The walls were faced with rough-hewn red desert rock; and pebble-stoned walkways weaved in and out of small cactus groves and arroyos, allowing each seating area a feeling of seclusion that was almost unmarred by the slot machines set beside the individual tables. Elevated at the room's center, as if on a natural plateau, was a horseshoe-shaped bar also fashioned from desert stone. Ceramic lizard heads poked out from the crevices while behind the bar stood the eatery's namesake: a huge gila monster formed from clay, resin, and a substance that resembled rhinoceros hide. It was ten feet high and thirty feet long, and was surrounded by a number of stuffed gophers in various, lifelike poses. Despite every effort at realism, the desert, the real 110-degree desert, could have been a million miles away, but perhaps that was because the three barmaids and waitstaff—also all female—sported the skimpiest of two-piece costumes. Unlike the lobby staff, Gila Gil's were already attired for the Christmas season: red uniforms trimmed with furry white fringe.

After strolling the stone walkways for a minute or two, Belle and Rosco found Reggie daCoit. He was just as he'd described himself: late twenties, slight of build, carrot red hair already thinning. He wore faded jeans, a denim shirt, and a black leather vest with a large Arizona state flag stitched onto the back. An untouched, aqua blue drink with a green paper umbrella sat on the table in front of him. Reggie's attention was devoted solely to his personal slot machine.

“Mr. daCoit?” Rosco said. Reggie slid pale, mistrustful eyes in the intruder's direction, but didn't immediately reply, so Rosco extended his hand. “Bo Dakota,
Today's Gambler
. We sure do appreciate your giving us some time. This is my intern, Ann Jones.”

Reggie's thin face broke into a leering grin that revealed tobacco-stained and yellowed teeth.
“The Devil in Miss Jones?
” He extended his hand. “A real film classic. I'm a movie buff, a serious movie buff, if you want to start taking notes, honey … Have a seat. And call me Reggie.” He patted the chair next to him, but Belle moved to the opposite side of the table, and Rosco sat beside her.

A waitress sidled through the cactus, nearly catching her frothy fringe on the fake thorns. She beamed at the new patrons. “Hi, y'all … What'll it be?”

Belle ordered a ginger ale while Rosco asked for a beer. Then he glanced at the slot machine. “How's your luck been running?”

“South,” Reggie grumbled.

“Sorry to hear it.”

“Ah, it's just nickel stuff … Something to pass the time.” Reggie snapped his fingers dismissively and chuckled to himself. “Of course, with Dr. Jazz's passing, things are gonna start lookin' up. Yes, indeed.”

“My condolences on your loss,” was Belle's gentle reply. She seemed sympathy itself.

“Yeah, well … one of those things, what can I say? Life, y'know … Besides, I stand to pick up about a mil-five after the dust settles. A million-five can mop up a lot of tears. A whole
lotta
tears.” Reggie grinned again. It was not a sorrowful expression.

Rosco pulled a notebook from his jacket pocket. “That's the extent of your uncle's legacy?” He made a note. “Interesting … Given the fact that the great Dr. Jazz was such an institution in the world of no-limit poker, I would have thought he was worth considerably more than that. It was my understanding that his winnings were three hundred grand alone the night before he died.”

“Nah, man … Uncle Dave was incorporated—
Vegas style
. You know how that works, dude. He hardly ever played with his own jack. He had backers. They owned his pots—they took the losses, they took the winnings, and Dr. Jazz took his cut … Sure, sometimes he'd roll out his own wad, but he was a careful man. Me? I ain't never been careful, that's my big problem. I'm a reckless kinda' guy, what can I say? I like to take my chances wherever I find 'em.” He winked at Belle, then looked back at Rosco. His manner reverted from boastful optimism to one of wounded injustice. “See, Dr. Jazz knew he had some fish in the line last week, and he hooked 'em for himself. Big-time.”

Belle was also taking notes.
“Vegas style
… That's good. It has a clever ring to it … We could use that as a tag line, or maybe even a lead-in, don't you think,
Bo?
If that's acceptable to you, Mr. daCoit?”

“Reggie.”

“Reggie.” Belle graced him with a sweet and grateful smile.

“Yeah … quote whatever ya want, honey. I just made that up … that
Vegas-style
thing. You can write that in the mag. Tell your readers all about Reggie daCoit. Don't forget the movie thing.”