The video started—the quality was surprisingly good. I let her do a complete run-through before stopping it. The feed picked up just before Turnbull staggered into the arena. “Okay, let’s go through it slowly. Can you do slo-mo?” Flash nodded. I brought in the other two with an encompassing glance. “If anything looks odd or jumps out at you, speak up, okay?”
The bullpen attracted my attention first. Toby Sinclair was there, advancing on Turnbull in Darrin Cole’s clown suit, who staggered away from him. The pen opened, the bull charged out—a thousand pounds of pissed off looking for somebody to kill. Turnbull turned in surprise. A few moments passed before folks realized what was happening, then they started yelling. Hard to tell who released the bull—folks were crowded around in front of the gate, including Sinclair and Turnbull. Then the gate flew open, knocking several people out of the way.
Turnbull turned to climb back out of the arena.
He saw someone, someone who scared him. He backed away, then turned, and with a drunken gait moved into the arena.
He could’ve been looking at Sinclair, but he’d known he was there waiting—he’d been running from him. Who else? I scanned the figures.
With no easy exit, he headed for the bull, waving his arms, trying to get the bull’s attention…trying to be a clown, to save the others. My heart hurt for him.
I turned my attention back to the figures huddles by the gate the bull had burst out of. Only one leaped out at me. A figure, his face hidden by a hoodie, his clothes nondescript, watched Turnbull until he dropped. Then the figure eased back into the crowd.
“Did you see that? Can you rewind maybe ten seconds?”
Flash did as I asked and we all huddled closer, focusing as she ran the video forward again.
“Any idea who that was?” I asked, but blank faces answered me.
“I’ll take a screen shot,” Flash said. “See if my friend can work some video voodoo.”
We watched the video through three more times. The man remained hidden, no distinguishing features. He backed away then lurched through the crowd, up the stairs, then, in a halting gait, he disappeared.
Finally, I’d seen enough and leaned back. Flash remained perched on her chair, Brandy sat cross-legged on the floor, and Miss P propped one butt cheek on the corner of her desk. They all waited for a sign from me. “Miss P, did you get any security videos from Jerry?”
“Not yet. He’s waiting for a time of death so he can narrow his search.”
“Let’s make a list of who we saw there.”
Miss P took out a pen and paper. We tossed out names then double-checked our memories for accuracy against the video. At the end, she tore off the list and handed it to me. It was short. If Sinclair killed Turnbull, he had an accomplice.
Dora Bates was conspicuously absent. The vet, too, but he’d told us they’d been together. And Beckham said he’d been drinking at a bar somewhere on Paradise.
“I still can’t put Dora Bates’s murder with Turnbull’s.” I let out a slow breath as I looked around my little band of merry men. “Brandy, you go work with Jerry. Help his staff to find Beckham or anyone else we can identify anywhere in the hotel sometime last night. Flash, you see if you can get me any more on the person who pushed Turnbull into the arena, anything that might help identify him.”
“What should I do?” Miss P asked, her pen poised.
“Keep me from shooting my mother.”
They all knew not to ask.
My phone jangled for my attention.
Dane. “Whatcha got?”
“Two girls now. One waking up. The other one scared out of her boots.”
“On my way.”
For once, I decided to wait for the elevator instead of taking the stairs from my mezzanine-level office to the lobby below. Maybe I needed a moment to catch my breath, to throw a rope around my thoughts, torture metaphors…whatever…but, when the doors opened, I met my father face-to-face.
“I was just coming to find you,” he said. Worry had frayed him around the edges, but guilt for keeping me in the dark was still nonexistent. He looked older than he had earlier today. “I’m glad I caught you out here.”
He stepped out of the elevator before I could join him. “Can we talk out here? Fewer…”
“Eavesdroppers?”
He stepped to the railing and I joined him. Normally, we loved to look out over the bustling lobby, soaking up the fun below. Today, the pall hanging over us diminished the glow of monetary enhancement. Eager to avoid each other, we both stared at the crowd anyway.
“I’ve got to go get Bethany and her friend and work on finding a killer…or two. If you’re not going to help…”
“Do you have any leads?”
“Some suspects, but nobody who stands out at the moment. More questions than answers.”
“We had another murder, didn’t we?” When he turned to look at me, his skin was as gray as granite.
Curious his use of the term “we.” “Yes, in the Kasbah. A woman.”
“With the rodeo?”
“Yes, the mother of one of the competitors.”
“Do you know her name?” His voice was almost a whisper; yet, he held my gaze with his.
“Dora. Dora Bates.”
He flinched.
If I hadn’t been looking at him, I would’ve missed it. “You know her?”
“I’m not sure. I need to talk to your mother.”
“Any idea why she would register under the last name Fiorelli?”
My father’s head swiveled; his pained expression meeting my questioning one. “She did?” His voice was a strained whisper.
“That’s the last name Bethany uses. Who the hell are the Fiorellis?”
He swallowed hard. “Ask your mother.”
“You know how far I got last time.”
Pushing him, trying to manhandle him, wouldn’t work. Screaming and crying might, but that wasn’t part of my pissed-off personality. “Well, when you two decide how much time you’re willing to do for obstruction of justice—may I remind you that you both have two very young daughters who need their parents—let me know. Right now, I have to go try to catch a killer with, what I fear, is less than the whole truth. If I die, if anyone else dies and you and mother could have stopped it…I hope you two can live with it.”
Turning my back, I dove into the open maw of the elevator, leaving him standing there.
I didn’t turn around until the doors had shut.
Yeah, my final salvo was harsh, but the stakes were beyond high. And I was disgusted. If the Big Boss and Mona were covering up an old murder to save their skins and a new one happened, I would be without a family.
Thinking of my parents in those terms, that they could do that, left a pain in my gut.
CHAPTER TWELVE
FROM the chair in the corner, Bethany glared at me as I skidded into Doc Latham’s room. The doc, a bandage replacing his ball cap, looked a bit haggard but alive and aware. Blood had filled the white of one of his eyes and a bruise purpled his jaw on one side, probably a result of the fall after he’d been clobbered, but just a guess.
Poppy sat on the windowsill on the opposite side of the doc’s bed. Paler than I remembered, her freckles darker against porcelain skin. “My father didn’t hurt anybody.” Emotion jolted her to her feet, her posture stiff, her hands knotted at her sides.
“He clobbered the doc. Darn near spilled his brains.”
That took the starch out of her. “But he didn’t kill anybody.”
“Not a big leap from crushing someone’s skull.” I advanced on her. “Who tied the halter to the slats of your stall?”
“What?” the girl looked like she had no idea what I was talking about.
“The halter. It’s dragging on the ground in front of your horse’s stall, the rope tied through the slats.”
“I’d never do that. That’s one of the first things my father drilled in my head. You leave it like that and a horse could get his foot tangled. If that happened,
the horse would freak and break a leg or something.”
Of course! That’s what had been bothering me! It’s been a long time, but I’d heard that same thing only in a voice from my past.
“Any idea who tied it there?”
“Someone who doesn’t care about horses.”
“Not helpful. Tell me who you were yelling at and why when the bull got loose in the arena.”
“The doc, here. He was heading out. I thought maybe he could do something.”
“I think you’re mistaken,” the doc said. “I wasn’t there.” His eyes turned to mine. “I was upstairs on the mezzanine having dinner with Dora.”
“I saw you. I couldn’t see your face, but I knew it was you…” Poppy trailed off, looking unsure. “At least, I thought it was you.” She looked at Bethany, who shrugged. “I guess that’s why he didn’t answer,” she said to me.
Two against one, I couldn’t argue. Trying to separate lies from not in this group was a bit of a challenge. Had neither of these girls ever read the story of the little boy who cried wolf?
Why did teenagers always think that, because of their superior intellect, they could easily manipulate all of us advancing on our dotage? Was I ever that stupid?
Ever or still? That was the more accurate question.
Bethany saved me from my awkward fence straddle. “I want to talk to Mona, now.”
I whirled on her. “I’ll get to you in a minute. And you’re in no position to demand anything.”
After pasting on a forced smile, I turned to Dane. “Having fun?”
“Shits and giggles. I thought it best to keep them apart and quiet so they couldn’t gang up on me or coordinate stories.”
He was thinking and trying, both of which I appreciated. After scrolling through the photos on my phone to the most recent—where others had friends, animals, or exotic destinations, I had a montage of two murders—I handed the phone to him. “I’ll handle the girls if you could take a look at these and tell me if anything stands out.”
“Why me?”
“Well, you are a PI, and you have the whole cowboy thing down pat—a world I’m not familiar with.”
He nodded. “Deal.” He retreated to the hall but stayed where I could see him.
I had no idea whether I’d answered the question he’d really been asking. “Okay, you two,” I speared each one of the girls with my best maternal you’re dead look. “You have to tell me what’s going on.”
“I told you, we don’t know.” Bethany crossed her arms and lowered her chin, a look Mona would use in the same situation.
My look needed work. “But you do know about the lipstick.”
A surprised look passed between the two girls.
Bingo. “I’ve met Ms. Bates. Tawny Rose suits her, don’t you think?”
“Mrs. Bates,” Bethany huffed. “She’s crazy as hell.”
“How so?” I leaned against the wall, one hand on a hip, and gave Doc Latham, the man caught in the middle who looked like he’d run if he could, a sympathetic look.
“I can second that,” the doc said. “She’s erratic. Exhibits classic signs of some mental issues, bipolar if I could hazard a guess.”
“I thought you were sweet on her?”
He gave a self-conscious shrug then winced. “There’s all kinds of crazy.”
“You and Doreen’s mom?” Poppy looked like she’d smelled week-old fish that’d been left in the sun. “That’s gross.” Then she whirled on her friend. “You knew about this, Bethany?”
“No.” She feigned indignation, but it fell flat, fooling no one.
“How could you not tell me?” Color rose in Poppy’s face.
“What difference would it make?”
With the girls a bit at odds, I pressed. “What about Doreen? That’s the daughter’s name, right?”
“Tough being a kid with a nutcase for a mother.” Bethany’s attitude grated.
“Your sensitivity needs some work. Mental illness is not crazy.”
“Whatever.”
Ah, the word, the inflection to define a generation.
Intent on the murder, I’d momentarily forgotten that Dora Bates’s murder wasn’t common knowledge—and the people in this room would be profoundly affected by it. I cycled down the attitude. “Where is Doreen? Do either of you know? Was she part of this whole scheme?”
“What scheme?” Bethany still pretended superiority.
“Planting her lipstick at the scene of the murders.” They had to be behind it.
Doc’s head swiveled to his assistant. He sucked air in between his teeth against the pain, but he kept the mad and the hurt. “You did that? What would make you do such a thing?”
Bethany pressed her lips into a thin line.
Poppy stared at her friend. “How—”
“Shut up,” Bethany hissed.
“She used the name Tawny Rose when she came to see me. I don’t believe in coincidences.”
“Jesus, Beth, that’s so lame.” Poppy looked disgusted.
“I hadn’t thought she’d ask me my name.” That got an eye roll from her friend.
“Poppy, where were you in the afternoon before Turnbull got killed?”
“Hanging out at the rodeo. Darrin was showing me some rope tricks.”
“He was there all day?”
“I didn’t pay that much attention, but yeah, I think so.”
She was acting pretty complacent about the whole thing. In fact, both the girls were. I had just the dynamite to break this loose, but I felt terrible about using it. “Doc, I’m sorry to tell you this, but there was a murder at my hotel last night.”
He pressed back, dodging a blow. “Dora?” he whispered, as if giving voice to the horror would make it true.
“I’m so sorry.”
His face went slack with shock. “She was a good woman. Had some trouble, that’s all. Her family didn’t know what to do with her. Put her in a sanitarium somewhere up north. They helped her, gave her meds, stabilized her.” His eyes filled with tears as he looked at me. “She was fine when she took her meds, but they were expensive. The generics didn’t work, but the real stuff was ten times as expensive. You can imagine the fights with the insurance bastards. Sometimes she ran out.”
The girls had lost their defiance. Both blinked at me with big eyes as they processed their part in this mess.
“Want to tell me what the deal was with the lipstick?”
I waited to see who would find their decency first.
Bethany. “Sometimes, Mrs. Bates would talk about needing money, about how the insurance company would pay if the horses died. I figured she was crazy enough to go through with it. I wanted the cops to check her out, but I didn’t want to snitch.”
“Now, we’ve gotten Mrs. Bates killed.” The emotion in Poppy’s voice was hard to read. Horrified, yet juiced by the power? Hard to tell, but, whatever it was, it didn’t have the right ring to it.
“Maybe, but I don’t think so. There’s more going on here. You don’t string…do what the killer did to Mrs. Bates because of money. Not emotional enough. There’s something else.”
“What’d he do?” Poppy’s voice dropped conspiratorially.
“Crazy does some weird shit,” Dane mumbled as he sauntered back into the room, his attention on my phone.
“Excuse me?”
He looked up to find us all staring. “Oh, sorry. I think you’re going to want to see this.” He motioned me out into the hallway.
I stayed in the doorway, my back to the room. “What?”
He leaned in and lowered his voice, “Seriously creepy shit in those last pics. Whoever did that…”
Damn, why did he have to smell so good? “I got that far on my own, thanks.” I glanced back over my shoulder. The girls were now perched on either side of Doc’s bed. Bethany held his hand.
Dane took the hint and stepped back, out of my space…barely.
Normally, I’d be bothered he didn’t totally vacate, but when mu
rder was close, I took comfort in holding close friends closer. And, as mad at him as I was, he was my friend—although I wasn’t ready to tell him that.
“Look here.” He held the phone between us where I could see. “It’s really about the rope.” He pointed to a photo of the rope around Mr. Turnbull’s neck. “See the red and blue threads running through the rope?”
I got closer and squinted. Fine threads I’d overlooked before, wound over and under the hemp. “Yeah.”
“A signature. Custom rope makers use them, and they are as identifiable as a Paul Revere stamp on the bottom of a silver tureen.”
A cowboy who knew his silver. Somewhere, a Southern mother smiled. “Yeah, I’d gotten that far. I need you to chase down who made it. I’d like to ask him some questions.”
I had a feeling Darrin Cole was lying to me. Screwing his fellow rodeo folks by jacking the price indicated a strong inclination to squeeze a penny so hard Lincoln screamed. Someone like that wouldn’t buy the ropes from a middleman. He’d go straight to the source. The fact that Darrin Cole wouldn’t share that info with me was like dangling a red cloth in front of a bull. Even though Poppy had given him an alibi, I still wasn’t going to let him off the hook. He was around when Turnbull was killed. “Can you find out who made this rope?”
“Easily enough. But look here.” He scrolled through to a photo of Mrs. Bates. “Same signature on this rope.”
Needing a bit of support, I opted for leaning against the doorjamb, safer that way. Dane oozed his normal charm, but he looked tired and a bit off his feed. Somehow, I resisted the urge to comfort him. Falling into quicksand unawares was one thing, stepping into it on purpose a whole other thing.
“The way I see it, either the rope is a specialty item with few sales, mainly to killers, which would be awesome, or the rope is mass-produced and sold everywhere, getting us nowhere. Which bet would you place?”
“Neither. I prefer to hope for the best.” He waited for a beat, but I didn’t respond to the subtext. “I’ll chase it for you—if that’s okay?”
Was I going to let him back in the game? “You lied to me.”
“I lied to myself.”
Not the whole story, but a step toward…what? “Let me know what you find.”
Lucky Ride (The Lucky O'Toole Vegas Adventure Series Book 8) Page 22