I pinched Dee on the back of her arm. She gave me a WHAT!? look and pretended she didn’t just invite a billionaire to hang out with us and do illegal shit.
“Apparently I need the entirety of shows available on the Investigation Discovery Channel,” Edison said to Debra What’s-Her-Face. “Thank you.”
He ended the call and slipped the phone back into his pocket. A few seconds later, we entered the elevator.
As we walked into the backstage area, I noted that it was quiet. The kind of quiet that made the hairs on the back of my neck stick straight up. Where the hell was everyone? Shouldn’t a practicing magician make some noise?
Baby Got Back blared into the creepy silence.
Dee slapped my shoulder. “Thanks for giving me a heart attack.”
“I can’t help it if you’re a scaredy-cat.” I answered my phone. “Hey, Matt.”
“Hi, Violetta. How are you?”
“Good. Great. Couldn’t be better.”
“You sound rattled.”
“Too much caffeine, I think.” Or too much doing the opposite of what he told me not to do. “How was the murder on Bell Street?” I cringed. That probably wasn’t the best way to phrase the question. I waved at Dee and Edison to walk ahead, and I stayed near the wall, leaning against it as I talked to my boyfriend. I really liked thinking of him as my boyfriend. Now all he had to do was let me wear his class ring and ask me to prom.
“ Greta the Great is now Greta the Dead.”
“Oh, shit!” I felt my stomach pitch. I’d only been half-serious about Greta getting killed by the person she was trying to blackmail. Hell, it was all conjecture. As far as I know, she’d gotten mugged and shot. Still… “Was she waxed?”
He said nothing for a moment. “I’m not in the habit of examining corpses to determine their grooming habits.”
Huh. I’d basically said the same thing to Sara. “I meant was she filled with silicone and then waxed—like Blaine Angel.”
“How did you know that?”
“Sara told me.”
“Who the fuck is Sara?”
“The CSI lady we saw at Blaine’s crime scene. Remember, the brunette? She came into the casino last night drunk as hell and told me.”
This time Matt’s pause went on for a lot longer. “We don’t have a Sara in the crime scene unit.”
My heart dropped. What the what? “Maybe she’s new. I saw her, Matt. Tall. Thin. Wearing a ponytail. She walked right past us when were talking to Monetti.”
“I saw our senior CSI Marie but she’s a blonde, and she’s definitely not tall.”
I huffed out a frustrated sigh. “The girl was right behind Marie.”
“I can’t believe I’m going to ask this, but are you sure she was alive?”
I opened my mouth to deny Sara was a ghost. But then … I didn’t know. I’d never touched her, and I’d never gotten independent confirmation that anyone else had seen her.
“I think she was living,” I said. “But I don’t know for sure.”
“Try to find out, Vie. I need to know either way. Ghost or not, why would she tell you about Blaine’s body?”
“Spirits tell me shit all the time. Usually against my will.”
I heard a loud crash, a high-pitched scream, and then a thud. “I gotta go.”
“What was that? Where are you?”
“I don’t know. And I’m at the Black Dragon theatre.”
“Damn it, Vie. I told you…”
I didn’t hear the rest of Matt’s lecture because his words were drowned out by loud grunts and more muted thuds. I tucked the phone into my bra and raced to where I thought I heard the noises. The back stage connected to another room via an open door. I peeked inside. It was dark, and I saw flashes of movement along with more fighting sounds.
I flicked on the light.
Edison stood like an oak tree in the middle of the room, fists in a boxer stance. He was breathing hard and his tie was askew—as was his hair. Dee stood to the right of him. She wielded a plastic arm, which she held over a short, thin man, whose arms covered his face. He was trembling uncontrollably.
“Dudes. What the hell are you doing?”
“The lights went off, and we were attacked!” said Dee. She looked around wildly. “I guess they’re gone.”
“So you screamed like the Black Canary at the bad guys?”
“What? No. That was him.” She used the arm to point down at Quivering Man. “He screamed and then collapsed.”
“Edison? You okay?” I asked.
He fixed his tie and tried to restore order to his hair. “I need to find my men.” He reached down and picked up Dee’s war prize. “What happened, David?”
“That’s David Criss?” I eyed him. “I thought he’d be taller.”
“Everyone says that,” said David in a hoarse voice. “I don’t know what happened to the bodyguards. I thought I was safe here, Edison. But someone tried to kill me. Look!” He lifted his head and showed us a thin red line across his throat. “I need to get out of here.”
“You need to go back into protective custody, you idiot,” said my sister. She tossed the arm down. It clattered against the concrete floor, making David nearly jump out of his skin. “Who are you?” he asked us.
“Violetta Graves,” I said. “And that’s my sister, Dee.”
“Are you police detectives?”
Dee and I burst out laughing. David blinked, obviously confused.
Edison had gotten out his cell phone and was now barking orders to gather a search party for the missing security detail, call the police, and get the casino doctor pronto.
My attention was snagged by something to the left of Edison. I picked my way through tossed clothing and mangled props. “Dee, you broke the dummy.”
“Shit. I must’ve knocked it over when I grabbed the arm.”
The head had rolled away from the naked male figure (no junk—I looked). The dummy itself wasn’t anything awesome. It looked like any other mannequin. But its head was another matter all together. I squatted down, and picked up the head. It was ridiculously heavy. The detail of the face was amazing. I tilted up, thinking there was some sort of attachment I could use to replace it on the body. I hope the arm fit, too, otherwise Dee was gonna owe some bucks to the Black Dragon.
I studied the neck stump and noticed the inside of it was red and veiny and…
I dropped the head. It rolled away from me.
Dee kneeled beside me and put her hand on my shoulder. “Why is your boob yelling?”
I pulled out the cell phone and hit the speaker button. I heard Matt cursing and then the blare of a car horn. “I’m on the way,” he yelled. “Don’t touch anything. And get your ass to safety.”
My gaze was riveted to the cleanly sliced neck. The middle was grayish white, and I realized that was the spine. I gulped, my stomach roiling.
“Holy fucking hell,” muttered Dee as she leaned down to study the monstrosity. I couldn’t look away from the grotesque evidence of an actual human head.
“Blaine Angel,” she murmured. My sister yanked the phone out of my hand. “Um, Matt? You better hurry.”
12
In the backstage area, away from the chaos unfolding in the magician’s prop room, I sat on a foldout chair. Currently, my head was between my legs as I drew in deep breaths.
Dee hovered over me like a caffeinated butterfly until I told her to go away. It took a few times of asking (AKA demanding), but she finally left. And by “left” I mean she went sneaking into the crime scene.
“You and your dead bodies,” I heard Monetti say. “At least now I know why you’re so prone to find corpses.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I’m a lucky girl.” I ventured a peek and watched him hunker down next to me. Monetti’s gaze was empathetic and his expression one of concern. I realized he wasn’t mad at me anymore, and that was good. Maybe when it was time, he could let go of his Mom.
Slowly, I straightened in the chair and heaved
out a shaky breath. “So, is it—is he real?”
“Coroner thinks so. But we won’t know for sure until the autopsy.” Monetti got to his feet. “How’d you find this one?”
“It found me,” I said. “Sorta. Dee and I went to Madam Toussaud’s on a hunch. And we found Adam LaFarge’s figure had been loaned to the Black Dragon. So we came to see Edison and then he told us David Criss was down here.”
“That doesn’t make a lot sense, Violetta.”
“It’s all I got.” I squinted at him. “Do you know a crime scene tech named Sara?”
He shook his head. “Never heard of her. Maybe she’s new.”
“Yeah. Maybe.” Or maybe she’s dead. Ugh. I wobbled to my feet and Monetti grasped my elbow to steady me. “Who’d kill someone and then make the body into a puzzle for everyone to see? And to put the man’s head on a fake dummy? Jesus. Bury the body in the desert like a normal Las Vegas murderer, for fuck’s sake.”
“The killer wanted the body to be found—and wanted people to see Blaine Angel literally taken apart.”
“And Greta?” I asked. “Was she killed because she knew too much?”
“She was stabbed,” admitted Monetti. “More than thirty times. Overkill like that usually indicates rage. It’s probably someone she knew. Whether or not it’s related to the Blaine Angel murder remains to be seen.”
I shuddered. “What is it about Vegas that draws all the whackos?”
“Free buffets,” said Monetti, deadpan. “You can’t kill on an empty stomach.”
I laughed. “You’re a whacko, too.”
“Look who’s talkin’.” Monetti patted my shoulder. “You’ll be okay.”
“Thanks.” I patted him back. “You’ll be okay, too.”
He met my gaze, the grief fresh, but gave me a quick nod before heading back to the prop room. I still felt a little woozy so I decided to sit down some more. Before I could plant my keister, Annette appeared in front of me. “Ta-da!” she yelled.
“Aaah! Damn it.” I slapped a hand against my chest. “Would you stop doing that?”
“Nope.” She smiled. “I come bearing gifts. The missing men? They’re under the floor. There’s an old trap door in the prop room—at the back of the clothing racks. It’s a leftover from one of the updates. Anyhoodles, someone must’ve opened it and, gosh darn it, they fell in.”
“You didn’t.”
“And miss an opportunity to see David lose his shit?” she asked, unrepentant. “I want him sweating bullets, that rat bastard.”
“Did you hope the killer would show up and take him out?”
“A girl can dream.” She waved off my suspicion. “I just wanted to fuck with him. If anyone gets to kill David Criss, it should be me.”
I wasn’t touching that statement with a ten-foot pole. “Did you see who attacked him?”
“Sorry. I only stuck around long enough to see him panic. Like I said before, haunting him is just a hobby.” Annette snapped her fingers and disappeared.
I texted Matt the information and collapsed onto the chair.
Fucking ghosts.
We were released from the scene AKA kicked out because Dee had been caught interrogating one of the CSI techs. She did get to see the rescue of the bodyguards. Both men were checked out. Aside from their pride, they weren’t injured.
Edison escorted us back to his private suite for a much needed drink. Dee and I sat on the floor because it was more comfortable than the horrible furniture.
“It cost me a half a million dollars to create this space,” said Edison. He handed Dee her bourbon and handed over my requested vodka tonic. “And you’d rather sit on the floor?”
“Haven’t you heard of The Liquidators?” asked Dee. “You could’ve gotten better furniture for under a grand.”
“These are Walter Gropius designs. He’s one of the founding fathers of modern furniture creations.” He stared at our blank expressions and sighed. “My interior designer assured me this furniture was state-of-the-art.”
“Does Walter have a bony butt?” I asked.
“Or does your interior designer have a bony butt?” Dee gestured.
“I have no idea. What’s the relevance?”
“Only bony butts would find this couch acceptable.” Dee patted the floor. “C’mon. Sit down.”
Edison went to the bar and picked up his beer bottle, and then he took a seat next to my sister. He leaned against the couch. “You’re right. This is far more comfortable.” He looked from Dee to me. “You two are rather intimidating.”
“Have you seen you?” I asked. “You’re the size of a small city.”
“Not to mention you can buy whole countries,” added Dee.
He laughed and then sipped his beer. “I’ll have to cancel the event,” he said. “I should’ve done it right after Blaine’s murder, but my PR staff talked me out of it. Especially after David said he was willing to go on with the show.”
“He doesn’t strike me as soldiering on kind of dude,” I said.
“I don’t think it’s bravery,” said Edison. “His career has been on a downward slide. His last attempt at a publicity stunt ended in failure.”
“The block of ice thing in Time Squares?” I asked.
“It was supposed to open an off-off Broadway show for him, but he panicked and exposed the trick.”
“I bet magicians weren’t happy about that,” said Dee.
“Neither was the audience or the producers of his New York show. Everything got cancelled, and he returned to Vegas. He worked at West of the Wild until I hired him.”
Dee and I exchanged a look.
We heard the soft ding that indicated the elevator arriving, and the next thing I knew, Matt and Monetti were standing in the living room.
“Drinks, detectives?” asked Edison lifting his beer bottle.
“No, thank you,” said Matt. “We’ve finished up with the crime scene, and we’ve released it. Our people have vacated the area.”
Edison nodded. “Excuse me a moment.” He pulled his cell phone from his jacket pocket. “Debra? Get a cleaning crew to the theatre. When they’re done, make sure security locks it up tight. And call PR and tell them the Adam LaFarge tribute is cancelled. I’m sure they’ll figure out a way to spin it so we don’t look like assholes.” He paused, listening. “Refund everyone’s money and give them free tickets to another show.” He hung up the phone and placed the cell on the coffee table.
Matt looked at me, brows raised. “We need to interview Mr. Klatch.”
“That’s code for skedaddle,” said Monetti.
Dee and I got to our feet and deposited our half-empty glasses onto the coffee table. Then Dee, being Dee, picked up the lid on a square wood container and plucked out two coasters. After she arranged our glasses onto them, she beamed at me.
“How did you know that was full of coasters?” I asked.
“You thought it had M&M’s in it, didn’t you?”
“No,” I denied. “I thought it was filled with cashews.”
“Ladies,” said Matt, “I’ll walk you out.”
“Bye, Edison,” I said.
“See you,” said Dee. “Thanks for the drinks.”
“Until we meet again,” said Edison.
As Monetti settled onto the couch, Matt escorted us to the elevator. “Anything I should know about your new friend?” he asked me.
“Like what?”
Dee was suddenly very interested in the painting on the left wall.
“You just seem a little chummy for someone who doesn’t know him all that well.”
“Is he a suspect?” asked Dee.
Matt gave her his patented cop stare.
She took the hint and returned to gazing at the—whatever the hell it was. The painting looked like something Justin had smeared across the wall.
“Is he a suspect?” I asked.
“I didn’t say that. But I can’t rule anything out.”
“Oh, my God,” I said. “You’r
e jealous.”
Matt frowned. “I am not. I just don’t want my girlfriend mixed up in another murder investigation.
“Too late for that,” said Dee, not turning around. “Weren’t you the one who got her involved?”
“Yeah,” I said. “No take-backsies.”
Matt raised his hands in surrender. “Just stay away from Klatch until he’s cleared as a suspect, okay?”
I leaned in and kissed him. “You are so jealous,” I whispered.
“I might punch him in the face if he makes a move on my girl,” he whispered back.
“Well, boy, you got nothing to worry about.”
“Except that Edison is handsome and rich and owns half the planet, ” added Dee.
“Shut up,” said Matt and I together.
Matt kissed me again. “Go home. Try to stay out of trouble, okay?”
I nodded. I didn’t want to outright lie because we all knew that staying out of trouble wasn’t really in my DNA.
As we stepped into the elevator, Dee asked, “Is David back in protective custody?”
“He’s disappeared,” said Matt, his tone weary.
“Again? He should have worked fugitive into his magic routine. Hiding seems to be his thing.”
“We’ve got some uniforms out looking for him.” He pointed at us. “If you get any… um, information about his whereabouts from your contacts, call me.”
“Annette’s unreliable as a CI,” I said.
“GI,” corrected Dee. “Ghost Informant.”
I high-fived her. “Awesome.”
“Stay out of trouble,” repeated Matt. “Better yet, you two go home and don’t leave the house until I say so.” The doors closed.
Dee turned to me. “Did your boyfriend just ground us?”
“Totally.”
When we stepped out of the elevators, guess who was there waiting for us?
Suspicious cop and his Snickers-loving partner.
“Detective Stone said we’re supposed to escort you to your car,” said the partner. At least he was friendly. His shiny nametag proclaimed him G. Barnes. I looked at Mr. Grumpy’s nametag. A. Capelle. Right. His partner had called him Capelle at the police station. Barnes’ expression was mild, but Capelle looked agitated, especially when he aimed his gaze at me.
Getting in the Spirit (Violetta Graves Mysteries) Page 7