by Leslie Wolfe
No, it was something in his cold eyes that I saw glimmering for a fraction of a second. Irritation that his televised entertainment had been disrupted. Annoyance with what was going on, with Elaine’s sobs, with Tina’s fiery glares. Visible displeasure with our presence in his home. But what I didn’t see in his eyes was equally worrisome. Not a single shred of empathy, of curiosity even, over what could’ve caused the women in his life such immense grief.
A fraction of a second later, that glimmer of who Norm Chaney really was had vanished, and the worried, apparently empathic companion came out, played to perfection. He rushed toward Elaine as she pulled herself out of her younger daughter’s arms, stood, and buried her face in his chest, her wails renewed.
I kept my eyes riveted on Tina, the twelve-year-old freckled kid whose reactions were nothing I’d expected. She wiped her nose with the back of her hand, stood, and rushed into her room, slamming the door. Well, maybe her reactions were starting to become a little more normal; most teenagers would forego the use of a tissue and run and lock themselves in their room in a situation like that.
Only half a minute later, she emerged from the room calmer, a look of fierce determination in her dry eyes, and that was unusual. She wore jeans and a black hoodie over a white, V-collared T-shirt, and kept her hands in the hoodie’s pockets. She walked calmly across the room, then threw Chaney another death glare and let herself drop on the sofa, seemingly more struck by anger than by grief.
That kid knew something about her sister’s death.
I looked briefly at Holt, but he’d already picked up on the girl’s demeanor. He took a step forward toward her, but I stopped him with a touch on his forearm.
“Mrs. Tillman, I know this isn’t the best time, but we have some questions about Carole.”
“Crystal,” Tina said sharply. “She hated that name. Everyone called her Crystal. She was legally changing it, or had already changed it, I don’t know.”
“Crystal, yes,” I replied, wondering if they knew she was an exotic dancer and that was her stage name. Her mother knew her age, so my guess was she probably didn’t know what Crystal really did for a living.
Mrs. Tillman made a visible effort to contain her sobs. Her shoulders still heaved while she wiped her tears on her apron, then mumbled an apology and disappeared for a moment inside the kitchen, from where she emerged with a box of tissues.
“Tell me,” she said, looking at me directly, “how did she die? Did someone…”
She couldn’t bring herself to say the words.
“We’re investigating, ma’am,” Holt replied. “There are no signs of violence. Her heart stopped, apparently for no reason, while she was working. Are you aware of any heart condition she might’ve had?”
“N—no,” she replied. “She was a healthy, happy girl, full of life. She worked really hard, always pushing herself to be first, to finish school early. She must’ve been tired, but I don’t believe a strong heart like hers could just stop.” Fresh tears started rolling down her stained cheeks. “No, my baby wanted to live. Her heart… didn’t just stop.” Then she turned to me and took two steps forward, then grabbed my hand with both of hers. “Please, promise me you’ll find out who killed my baby. Please.”
“We’ll do our best, Mrs. Tillman,” I replied, while in my mind I said the words we weren’t allowed to say out loud. Yes, I promise I’ll catch your daughter’s murderer. I swear I will. “When’s the last time you saw her?” I asked, looking at Tina first, then at her mother.
“Last weekend,” she replied. “She came home for Sunday dinner.”
“Please, sit down, Mrs. Tillman,” Holt said, and she let go of my hand after prolonging her pleading look for one more moment. She sat on the couch and Chaney took a seat next to her, holding her hand. Tina kept her distance from Chaney and glared at him every few seconds, in the typical insistence of teenagers who don’t immediately get what they want. All that time her hands stayed deeply hidden in her hoodie’s pockets, and her jowls showed the tension of firmly clenched teeth.
“And you are...?” Holt asked Chaney, pretending we didn’t know already.
“Norm Chaney,” he replied, while his eyes flickered, avoiding Holt’s. Visibly nervous, he ran his hand across his face, and scratched his nose in passing. Those hand movements were definite signs of deception; Norm Chaney was lying.
“Is Norm short for something?” Holt asked, and by the tone of his voice, I knew he was aware of Norm’s dishonesty.
“No,” he replied quickly.
“What do you do for a living, Mr. Chaney?” Holt asked unperturbed.
“I’m a construction foreman at Sun Builders,” he replied, also a little too quickly, rehearsed.
“What are you building these days, Mr. Chaney?” Holt asked.
“That new hotel, over on East Sahara,” he replied, his frown deepening. He fidgeted, ostensibly nervous, then shifted in his seat and crossed his hairy legs. One of his flip-flops fell off his foot, and he struggled with coordination as he put it back on.
“Could we see some identification, Mr. Chaney?” I asked.
He didn’t reply. Instead, he grunted as he stood and walked over to a pair of jeans abandoned on an armchair, near the dining room. He returned with his wallet and extracted his driver’s license. His fingers shook a little, almost imperceptibly.
I studied it and didn’t see anything wrong. It seemed legit. Maybe he was hiding something else other than his identity, or maybe he was just not comfortable talking to cops. It’s known to happen.
“Mrs. Tillman,” I asked, handing Chaney his license back, “where was Crystal going to school?”
Her red eyes filled with pride and renewed sadness. “She could’ve gone anywhere she wanted,” she replied, stifling a sob. “She had acceptance letters from lots of places, but she wanted to stay here, with us. She went to the University of Nevada.”
“Did you help her pay for tuition?” I asked, careful not to kick a hornet’s nest and cause damage without any gain. Holt looked at me briefly, intrigued.
“No,” Mrs. Tillman replied, lowering her eyes. “I, um, don’t really make that much, and she didn’t want to be a burden. No, she had financial aid, and I cosigned her application.”
It felt as if I walked through a maze, at each step a new, unexpected turn. A web of lies, with no end in sight. That meant we couldn’t take any information for granted, no matter where it came from. Everything had to be checked and double-checked, then checked again.
Crystal had been a talented liar; thus far I understood all her reasons. But had we uncovered all her lies?
As if reading my mind, Holt cleared his throat and asked, “Do you know if anyone wanted to hurt Crystal? Did she have any enemies that you know of?”
She shook her head, then said, “No, no one. Everyone loved Crystal.”
That wasn’t true; at least one person had disliked her enough to want her dead, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell her that.
“Tell me about Crystal, Mrs. Tillman. What kind of person was she?” I asked instead.
Her eyes met mine with a softer, warmer light in them. “We moved here from Grady, Arkansas, after my husband died,” she said quietly. “Crystal was ten, and this one,” she pointed toward Tina, whose fierce demeanor hadn’t shifted a single bit, “was only four. We didn’t have a choice; there aren’t any jobs in a place like Grady. Here I could make a living, keep a roof over our heads. It wasn’t easy.”
She stopped talking for a while, then patted her eyes and nose with a tissue she kept in her hand, clutching her fingers tightly around it, as if afraid to let go.
I allowed her time to collect her thoughts.
“Crystal noticed how tired I was every day, coming home from work after pulling at least four, five hours of overtime each day,” she continued after a while. “One night she asked me, ‘Mom, how can I make money to help you?’ I told her she had to finish school first. She was a high school freshman when she asked
me that. A year and a half later she graduated from high school with honors, in a rush to make money for her family. Two years after that, at only eighteen, she’s a third-year college student. Can you believe it? That’s who my Crystal was.”
There was little left to be said. I thanked her, offered my condolences again, then headed for the door. As I shook her hand and presented my business card, Tina sprung off the sofa and came near us, apparently waiting in line to say goodbye, uneasy, agitated. Holt noticed her too and moved in front of Chaney, blocking his view of Tina, while he asked him more questions about the hotel his employer was building on East Sahara.
Nothing happened for a long moment; I reiterated my commitment to find out what had happened to Crystal while shaking her mother’s hand. I turned to leave just as Tina tripped over the edge of a tasseled rug and flailed, trying to grab on to something for support. I reached out and grabbed her right arm but felt her other hand reach inside my pocket.
Our eyes locked and I saw the plea for silence in hers. Discreetly, I pulled out another business card and, pretending to straighten her clothes, slid it into one of her bottomless hoodie pockets.
10
Dinner
I breathed the cold air thirstily as soon as the Tillman’s door closed behind us. It was late, almost seven, when residential streets found their nightly peace while the Strip awakened, welcoming hundreds of thousands of tourists as it did every night. December was a slower time of the year for gamblers and vice seekers, but the city still came alive each night, with its myriad lights and incredible colors.
I climbed inside Holt’s SUV and rubbed my frozen hands together. It was cold; the temperature had dropped to maybe forty-five or so, and I only wore a light jacket on top of my shirt. I zipped it up and slid my hand into my right pocket, expecting to find something that didn’t belong.
I pulled out the piece of notebook paper and unfolded it carefully, squinting in the dim light.
“What’s that?” Holt asked, throwing me a quick glance after taking a right turn on Flamingo.
“Tina Tillman slipped me a note. It says, ‘I know who did it. I’ll call you.’”
“Interesting,” Holt replied, cussing under his breath after three tourists ran in front of his car, jaywalking. “After tonight, I think I know too. This guy, Chaney, no way he hasn’t done time. Did you see the tattoo on his chest?”
“The one he was trying to hide? Yeah, I noticed it, but can’t place it.”
“Aryan Brotherhood,” he replied. “Our Mr. Chaney has been on the inside.”
“We ran his rap sheet,” I replied, thinking that Holt’s theory sounded plausible. Chaney looked just like the ex-cons we collared each day. We both knew one when we saw one. “His driver’s license seemed legit, and if he’s living under a false identity, that’s two in a row.”
“Two? You mean, with Crystal’s?”
“Precisely. I wonder who has the ability to deliver such perfectly executed fakes.”
“Maybe they’re not fakes,” Holt replied.
“What do you mean?”
“Maybe someone at the DMV has a little side business,” he offered, shifting lanes and signaling a right turn as soon as the Paris Las Vegas Hotel and its scale reproduction of the Eiffel Tower appeared in sight.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“To dinner. I don’t recall us eating lunch today, and I’m not suggesting dinner, I’m buying.”
The moment he mentioned it, I realized how famished I really was. Maybe the chill I felt in my entire body had something to do with that, with the lacking calories that deprived my body of much-needed energy to function, to live. I smiled but turned my head away from my partner, hiding my smile.
He pulled his unmarked SUV into a restricted parking spot and flashed a badge for the Paris Hotel valet who was approaching us in a bellicose march. The valet stopped in his tracks and sketched a timid smile, then disappeared before we entered the hotel lobby.
“I don’t think Chaney is the killer,” I said. “He’s too butch for poison.”
“Too butch?” Holt repeated, laughing. “Is that a technical term?”
“He’s more of a blunt force trauma kind of lad, or maybe even gunshot trauma, but not poison. It just doesn’t feel right.”
“We’ll see. For now, après vous, mademoiselle,” he said, as he opened a massive door for me.
“Where are we going?” I asked, surprised at how excited I was, although it wasn’t the first time I was having dinner on the Strip. Nevertheless, I was smiling widely, and felt proud seeing the appreciative glances my partner got from practically every female, and some men too.
“The HEXX,” he replied, leading the way to the restaurant’s back entrance. “Outside, in the cold? Or inside, without the view?”
“Outside, definitely outside, and we’ll ask them to pull up one of those space heaters I know they have.”
The hostess greeted us with a perfect, little smile and then escorted us to a table out on the terrace facing the Bellagio fountains. Holt pulled out my chair and I sat, feeling the coldness of the metal against my thighs but not minding it that much.
“How come you can afford dinner at the HEXX on a cop’s salary?” I asked, the sudden tinge of anxiety and suspicion ruining my mood and reminding me of the skinny and wicked Lieutenant Steenstra.
“I can’t afford it,” he replied. “That’s why we’re only going to have appetizers and dessert,” he said jokingly, his crooked smile bringing a warmth that dissipated the cold December air.
“Then I’ll cover the entrées,” I replied. “No way I’ll settle for appetizers and dessert after a twelve-hour day.”
“No, that’s not necessary, Baxter,” he replied laughing. “I’ll feed us tonight.”
“Yes, it’s necessary,” I insisted. “It’s also fair. This isn’t a date, you know.”
The moment I said it, I regretted it. Why did I have to bring it up? His widening grin told me he saw right through my words. He knew I still thought of our night together sometimes, mistake as it might’ve been.
The thought of that night brought a sigh to my lips, one I tried really hard to hide. Yeah, I’d shagged my partner after only knowing him for a few days. Words could not describe how guilty I felt, or how much I wished I could do it again. That conflict of emotions made me angry, nervous, hesitant, in one word, a complete idiot. Well, in three words, to be exact.
When I had the courage to look at him again I didn’t like what I saw, not even a bit. He leaned against his backrest, a crooked grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, and his eyes, half closed, were sizing me up.
“Then, what is it, if not a date?” he asked me in a low, sultry voice that sent heatwaves through my veins.
“Just two cops having dinner,” I managed to say.
“Uh-huh,” he replied, his expression unchanged. “Thanks for clarifying.”
Our eyes met across the white tablecloth and the winter chill dispersed as if it were never there. I couldn’t think of a single thing I could say that wouldn’t make things worse. Or better, depending on perspective.
Ah… Bollocks.
“Good evening,” the waitress said, after having approached the table completely undetected. “My name is Michelle and I’ll be your server tonight. Can I start you off with something to drink?”
I wanted to scream, tell her to bugger off for a minute or two. They should teach those waiters to read their customers, not barge in like that.
“Pellegrino for me, no ice,” I replied, hating to be the first one to break eye contact.
Damn Holt and his innuendo.
“Same here,” he added. “We’re ready to order, I believe?” he asked, the question being meant for me.
“Sure. What’s good here?” I asked, as I couldn’t seem to focus on the bloody menu enough to place an order, unwanted thoughts and memories clashing in my mind.
“Our specials tonight are—”
“Go for a steak, p
artner,” Holt cut in over the waitress. “Ribeye or filet for you, and you must try the crispy broccolini. You’ll love those.”
I nodded, and then clarified, “Ribeye, please, medium-well.”
“I’ll have the same,” Holt added, then handed Michelle the menu and thanked her. She accepted with wanting, lingering eyes and an openly inviting smile, raising in me the sudden urge to scratch her face and see her bleed. I was becoming ridiculous, and the only one to blame was Holt.
Of course, he was… Heaven forbid I had to take any responsibility for my own actions, and ideally a cold shower.
The waitress finally disappeared, leaving us in peace.
“You sure about that?” he eventually asked in the same loaded voice.
“Yeah, ribeye is fine with me,” I replied absentmindedly, still mulling over the intrusion of the waitress and the emotions she’d stirred in me. I didn’t want to think what it all meant, but I couldn’t put a lid on it either.
“Are you sure that’s all we are?” he repeated, unfazed. “Two cops having dinner?”
I steeled my eyes before looking at him. “I’m positive,” I replied sternly.
“It doesn’t have to be that way, you know.”
The hell it doesn’t, I thought.
“But it does,” I replied, as firmly as I could muster without sounding bitchy. “We made a mistake… I made a mistake, and I’m sorry.” I lowered my eyes, unable to look at him, at the curl in his lip, the glimmer of amusement in his eyes, and the unspoken words on his breath. “We have jobs, we need to be able to count on each other, Holt, as cops. No emotion, no luggage. Let’s admit it, we made a mistake.”
The waitress returned with our food. I wolfed it down in silence, barely taking the time to savor the exquisite taste. Those broccolinis with their orange-flavored dressing were to die for. Holt didn’t say anything either, and his sixteen-ounce steak disappeared at an incredible pace.