A Crossworder's Gift (9 page)

“Thank you, that's nice to hear. And of course, this is my husband, Rosco—Mr. Polycrates.”

“And he decided not to change his name when you got married? How absolutely modern!” The clerk chortled energetically at his own joke; his black hat bounced merrily. “Sorry, sir, just a little humor on my part.”

Rosco nodded although his expression wasn't enthusiastic. It was a jest he'd been subjected to one too many times.

“It must be difficult being married to such a famous lady,” the clerk continued blithely. “Oh, before I forget. There are some messages for you, Miss Graham.” He handed her two slips of hotel stationery. One read:
Please call Karen Wise;
the other:
Stan Hollister, LVMPD
. Both had an accompanying phone number.

“The woman from the Wildlife Shelter, and Lieutenant Hollister,” Belle murmured under her breath as she handed the notes to Rosco.

The desk clerk placed Rosco's credit card slip and a small booklet on the counter. “If you would be kind enough to sign here at the ‘X,' Mr. Graham … er,
Polycrates
… This brochure will explain our many features here at Cactus Cal's Hotel and Casino. Naturally, all three restaurants are open twenty-four/seven, as well as the gambling tables and slots. Additionally, you'll find slot machines poolside, at the tennis courts, in the salon and barber shop, and at the end of the corridor on every floor of guest suites. Of course, the volume on the machines in the residential areas is turned off for your comfort when napping. Some guests don't appreciate the noise. What can I say? Party poops, I guess. If you need anything
special
sent to your room, just speak to Angie at the concierge desk.”

“Special?” Rosco asked.

The clerk winked at him and said, “Like, reading or
viewing
materials?”

“I see.”

“I've also taken the liberty of giving you a suite on the tenth floor, just down the hall from where Dr. Jazz, Mr. Dave Narone, that is, died … Sorry, but there aren't many secrets in Vegas, and everyone knows that's why you both are here. I thought by giving you a room on the tenth floor, it would be easier for you to
get the lay of the land
, so to speak.”

“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.

T
HE
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, his 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
.