A Time For Us (Michael Kaplan Mysteries)

by David W. Cowles

  “Ohmygod.”

  “Now, here’s the kicker. Mark is almost completely convinced the serial killer is Rick Lacey.”

  “Ohmygod. Ohmygod.” Myra felt like she might throw up. “Kim, I’m going to have to call you back. Where are you?”

  “I’m still at the condo. Michael just left to go to work. I’ll stay here and wait for your call.”

  Myra steered her car to the side of the road and turned off the ignition. She lowered the window and breathed deeply of the cool morning air.

  “What is it, Myra? What’s wrong?” Morgan asked. She could see the fright on Myra’s face, see her struggling to catch her breath.

  Lighting another cigarette from the stub of her previous one, Myra relayed to Morgan what Kimberly had told her.

  “I’ve said all along I suspected Lacey is a killer,” Morgan stated. “Girlfriend, I’m scared. For all of us. What do we do now?”

  “What can we do? We might as well go to work and act like nothing’s happened. Lacey wouldn’t dare try anything at the Blue Hawaii. When we leave the casino, though, I think we’d better keep looking over our shoulders. Maybe I should call Mark and talk with him myself—”

  It wasn’t necessary for Myra to make the call. Her comment was interrupted by the ring of her cell phone. Mark Caruso had called her.

  “Myra? This is Mark.”

  “I was just going to call you, Mark. Kim told me about the video. She said you think Rick Lacey’s to blame and he’s the serial killer and—”

  Mark interrupted her. “Myra, hold on a minute. Kim’s right, that’s what I said last night. Maybe it’ll turn out Lacey was the serial killer, but now—”

  “Was?” Myra interrupted him. “What do you mean, ‘was’?”

  “Rick Lacey’s dead. Lacey’s murderer decapitated him and somehow snuck into his wife’s hospital room without being seen and placed his head on her night stand. The poor woman has gone totally bonkers because of the trauma.”

  “Ohmygod. Ohmygod. Ohmygod.”

  “We haven’t found the rest of Lacey’s corpse yet. It’ll probably show up months from now in the middle of the desert. This puts my investigation of the Sliced Nipples serial killer back to square two again. If the killer’s not Lacey but someone else, someone we don’t even suspect right now, someone you see every day, you might be the killer’s next victim. Do you want police protection, Myra?”

  “Yes. No. Let me think about it, Mark. Too much is happening right now. I’m completely overwhelmed from all that’s gone down lately. The murders of three women and one man, the fatal plane crash last night, the DVD of Michael, Kim, and me having sex, and now, Lacey’s murder. As the computer people would say, I’ve gone into data overload. I don’t know what I want or need or what to do next.”

  “You should be safe enough while you’re at work. There are plenty of people around the casino. I’d better have an officer keep an eye on you at night, though. Where are you staying now that you and Michael have separated? Maybe you should move back in your condo, at least temporarily. That way you won’t be alone.”

  Michael didn’t waste any time telling Mark we’re separated, Myra thought. I wonder what else he told Mark. I wonder if Michael’s pride would allow him to admit to his friend that I left him for a woman. “No, Mark, I’m not going to go back with Michael and Kim, and I’m not alone. I’ve moved in with my girlfriend, Morgan Penny. She works in Surveillance at Blue Hawaii.” Myra gave the detective Morgan’s home address and phone number.

  “You have my cell phone number, Myra. I keep the phone turned on around the clock. If you hear or see anything suspicious at work today—anything at all, no matter how trivial it may seem—call me immediately. And unless you absolutely have to, don’t go anywhere alone at night.”

  Morgan had been sitting impatiently next to Myra, also chain-smoking, waiting for Myra to get off the phone. “I heard you say Lacey’s been murdered. What happened?”

  Again, Myra relayed her telephone conversation to Morgan. “It’s too bad they don’t have extensions for cell phones so you could listen in to my calls,” Myra told her, when she’d finished. “I feel like the bologna in the middle of a sandwich.”

  Morgan almost smiled. “I guess we don’t have to worry about Rick Lacey any more,” she said. “But his death poses another problem. What are we going to do with the money stashed in your trunk?”

  “That’s the $785,000 question,” Myra replied grimly.

  Thirty-Eight

  AS MYRA EXPECTED, her day started out bad and became progressively worse. The telephone was already ringing when she opened the door to her office and calls continued to come in incessantly. Reporters from local television and radio stations, newspapers, and gaming publications—all demanded facts about the plane crash and the victims.

  After a few minutes of being unable to provide satisfactory answers, Myra transferred the calls to her voice mailbox, to give her an opportunity to gather information without interruptions. She had a clerk in Human Resources bring her the victims’ personnel files and gleaned as much data from them as she could. She contacted hospitals in Salt Lake City and, by pretending to be a close relative, persuaded nurses to tell her the survivors’ conditions. Myra then spoke with the SLC police and airport officials. She was informed that the cause of the crash had not been established, that it might be months before the National Transportation and Safety Board would make a final determination. Once prepared, Myra turned off the voice mailbox. All three lines on her phone lit up instantly. As soon as she finished with one reporter, two more were waiting for her.

  After half an hour of answering the same tiresome questions over and over again, Myra again transferred incoming calls to her voice mailbox, typed the information as a press release, and faxed it to the local media. Her idea worked. Shortly after ten the phone calls tapered off.

  Myra was working on four hours of sleep the night before and felt like something the cat had dragged in. At ten-thirty she phoned Morgan. They agreed to meet in the Help’s Hall for breakfast. Myra loaded her tray with fresh fruit cocktail, corned beef hash, eggs over easy, country sausage (the first time Myra had ever tried it), potatoes O’Brien, and rye toast. Morgan selected peach halves, ham, silver dollar pancakes with maple syrup, and a biscuit with country gravy. Both had numerous refills on their coffee.

  “Girlfriend, the entire casino is in a turmoil,” Morgan stated emphatically.

  Myra nodded wearily. “Yes, but right now it’s only from the plane crash. Wait until news about Rick Lacey’s murder gets out. Mark my words. It will become insane around here,” she commented dryly.

  Morgan wrinkled her nose. “I know it’s going to be a really grueling day for you, Myra. Do you still think you’ll be able to leave at four, when I get off work? If not, I’ll take a taxi home. Mom has another doctor’s appointment this afternoon, and she doesn’t drive.”

  “I’ll definitely get out of here by four. Whether I finish my work or not,” Myra told her. “I’m absolutely exhausted.” She frowned slightly. “I’d prefer not to drive alone, Morgan. That you-know-what is still in the trunk of my car, remember?”

  “How could I forget?” Morgan asked rhetorically, rolling her eyes toward the ceiling.

  “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. It looks to me like the money belongs to you now,” Myra told her, stifling a yawn. “Lacey and Carey were the only ones who knew about it and they’re both dead.”

  Morgan’s eyes grew to saucer size. “What do you mean? I can’t keep the money. Wouldn’t that be stealing?”

  Myra shrugged her shoulders. “Who would you be stealing from?” she asked, not quite rhetorically. “You won the money at the blackjack table. Maybe not fair and square, but you had nothing to do with that. The mechanic did. On orders from Lacey and Carey.”

  Myra pushed her tray to one side and lit two cigarettes, one for her and one for Morgan. “I really don’t think you have any choice in the matter. Who would you give the money t
o? Someone in the cashier’s cage? If you try to turn the money in to the cage, you’ll open up a dozen cans of worms. The cashier will want to know every detail of how you acquired the money. How would you explain that you’re returning your winnings because the cards were dealt dishonestly? The cashier would have to report the incident to the Gaming Control Board. It would be an enormously embarrassing scandal for the casino. It might even trigger a major investigation by the Board. Marshall Brendan certainly doesn’t need that with all his other troubles.

  “You can’t give the money to Marshall Brendan, either. It didn’t belong to him personally, it belonged to Crest Resorts, which is a corporation. Besides, whatever scheme Lacey and Carey concocted, it’s obvious Brendan didn’t know a thing about it. I’m sure he doesn’t want to know, either. You heard what Mr. Brendan said: ‘Keep whatever you’ve won. It’s yours.’ So, you’ll just be obeying orders from The Big Guy.”

  Morgan’s eyes twinkled. “Myra, you’re doing a lot of rationalizing. But you’re absolutely right. I could cause a heap of trouble for both me and Mr. Brendan if I try to return the money. I’d sound like the honest man who found a hundred-dollar bill in the street. He held it up high in the air and asked, ‘Did anyone lose this hundred-dollar bill?’ He was honest, all right, but plenty stupid.”

  Myra laughed. “No one could be that moronic! The way I heard the story, the guy asked, ‘Did anyone lose a roll of cash wrapped in a rubber band?’ When someone stepped forward to claim the money, the man said, ‘Well, I’ve found your rubber band.’ That’s life in the real world. Keep the money and return the fake leopard-skin purse to the Wardrobe Department, before Micki Nedrow tells Payroll to deduct the cost of it from your next paycheck.”

  “Okay, you’ve convinced me. However—”

  “Yes?”

  “We’re life partners now, Myra. The money won’t be mine, it’ll be ours.”

  BY NOON, THE MEDIA had caught wind of Rick Lacey’s death and the gruesome display of his decapitated head in his wife’s hospital room. Quickly, the airplane crash became yesterday’s story. Myra again transferred her calls to the voice mailbox, prepared a press release with data from Lacey’s résumé, which she found in his personnel file, and referred the reporters to Mark Caruso at Metro for details of Lacey’s death.

  At three-thirty, Caruso bounded into Myra’s office and plopped down in the chair facing her desk. Myra seldom smoked in her office as Marshall Brendan was vehemently against the habit. However, Myra, like most of the other smokers in the organization, kept an ashtray secreted in her desk drawer for those occasions when the desire to prevent a nicotine fit outweighed the risk of facing Brendan’s opprobrium, should he happen to walk in unexpectedly. This was one of those times.

  Myra offered Mark one of her cigarettes, but he turned her down. “I’ve been trying to quit, now that I can no longer smoke at Metro headquarters,” he told her.

  When Myra lit up she noticed Mark was nervously tapping the desk. She tossed her pack within his reach. “Go ahead, Mark. If you’ve had as bad a day as I’ve had, you can use a cigarette about now.”

  He hesitantly removed one of Myra’s cigarettes from its package, rolled it between his fingers for a few minutes, held it unlit between his lips for several minutes more, then reached in his pocket and pulled out a lighter—which he still carried. “Twenty-nine days without a smoke,” he said, inhaling deeply. Mark looked at his watch. “Correction. Twenty-nine days, fifteen hours and thirty-nine minutes.”

  Myra knew Mark hadn’t stopped by her office just to socialize. “What’s up, Mark?” she asked.

  “Rick Lacey was killed here at Blue Hawaii. In one of the rooms in the hotel tower,” Mark explained. “One of the maids found his body—minus the head, of course. The killer had hung a DO NOT DISTURB sign on the doorknob, but about two p.m. the maid, who was anxious to finish her assigned rooms and go home, knocked repeatedly on the door. When no one answered, she used her master key and went inside. I’m surprised you didn’t hear her screaming all the way up here.

  “I’ve seen a lot of murder victims, Myra, but I’ve never seen anything like what I saw in that room. There was blood and gore everywhere. On the bed, where Lacey’s body was found, handcuffed and tied to the bed with ropes. On the floor. On the walls. On the ceiling. In the bathroom. Apparently, the murderer took a shower before leaving.

  “I knew immediately Lacey was murdered by the Sliced Nipples serial killer.”

  “You mean to say—” Myra started to ask.

  Caruso laughed. “No, Lacey’s nipples weren’t cut off. But his penis and testicles were. And—a stiletto with a six-inch blade was shoved up his rectum, just as the murder weapon was inserted in the vaginas of the female victims of the madman.”

  “Ohmygod. Then, Lacey wasn’t the serial killer after all.”

  Mark shook his head. “Nope. Just another victim. But this time, we’re going to find out who the killer is.”

  “I surely hope so. How are you going to learn the killer’s identity, Mark? Did you find fingerprints in the room?”

  “Yes. There are fingerprints all over. We didn’t even have to dust ’em. They’re in blood. But checking prints takes time, and there’s a faster way to identify the killer. I’ve just come from Surveillance. Your friend Morgan—what an incredibly beautiful girlfriend you have, Myra; I’m jealous—is, as we speak, viewing the surveillance tapes of the hotel corridor outside the room where Lacey’s cadaver was found. As soon we know who went into the room with Lacey and came out alone, we’ll know who killed him.

  “Which is why I’m here. Morgan’s going to be working late. She asked me to ask you if you would mind driving her mother to her doctor’s office this afternoon.”

  “No, of course I wouldn’t mind. I’ll be glad to do it.”

  “Good. I’m heading back to Surveillance now. I’ll pass the word on to Morgan.”

  “We rode to work in one car this morning. Please tell Morgan to call me on my cell phone as soon as she’s finished and I’ll come back to the casino to pick her up.”

  Mark put his cigarette out and stood up. “I’ll do that. Whew! That cigarette made me a little dizzy. But would you believe, I’m already craving another?”

  “Take the rest of this pack with you,” Myra told him. “There’s another one in my purse.”

  Myra locked up her office and walked Mark down to the first floor. He continued on to the basement. She walked briskly to the executive parking lot, which was a thousand feet from the casino door. The employee parking lot was twice as long a trek. Myra was thankful her position entitled her to the preferred parking space.

  While unlocking her car door, Myra felt a tap on her shoulder. Startled, she turned around quickly. Myra was greatly relieved when she saw a familiar face, the face of Lois Lewis.

  Thirty-Nine

  “YOU STARTLED ME, LOIS. I didn’t hear you walk up behind me,” Myra said irritably. She was shaking. Her nerves had been increasingly on edge, and the lack of sleep the night before made her even more jumpy.

  “I’m sorry, Myra. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

  “What’s up, Lois?” Myra asked impatiently.

  “Are you going home now?” Lois inquired plaintively.

  “Yes, I am. I’ve put in a full, hectic day, I didn’t have enough sleep last night, and I’ve got to drive my girlfriend’s mother to her doctor’s office for an appointment. What do you need? Whatever it is, I hope it can wait until tomorrow.”

  Tears flowed from Lois Lewis’s eyes. “Oh, Myra, I’m overcome with grief. I just heard about Rick Lacey. I think I’m going to be very sick. I have to go home and lie down, but I’m in no condition to drive. I’ve already taken a strong tranquilizer. I know if I drive I’ll probably have an accident. Would you mind driving me home? Please? I don’t live far from here.”

  Myra checked her watch. “I’m already running late, Lois.”

  Lois rested her hand on Myra’s shoulder. “Myra, I want to
tell you something. Nobody else knows. I’m carrying Rick’s child, AND NOW RICK’S DEAD!” She started wailing and blubbering.

  Myra reached in her purse and handed Lois a tissue. “I’m sorry, Lois. I really am.”

  “What am I going to do now, Myra? I’d been so happy! Rick was going to divorce his wife and marry me. Now he’s been murdered. I won’t have a husband and my baby won’t have a father.”

  Myra was taken aback by Lois’s dramatic confession, though she’d strongly suspected Lois was carrying Rick’s baby. “Okay, Lois. I’ll take you home. Please try to calm down. For your baby’s sake. I know my saying this won’t be any consolation, but I’ll say it anyway: Time will help ease your pain. It always does.”

  Myra held the car door while Lois laboriously eased her bulk into the passenger seat. “I really appreciate your help, Myra. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t been here. I’d walked to my car and was ready to get in, but I felt like I was going to faint, and then I spotted you. You’re a real lifesaver.”

  Lois gave Myra directions to her apartment. It was not nearly as close as Lois had indicated and in the opposite direction from where Myra wanted to go. Lois continued sniffling all the way there.

  “Please come in for just a few minutes, Myra,” Lois invited, when Myra had pulled up in front of the building. The car engine was still running. “I’ll make us a cup of coffee or tea.”

  “I appreciate the offer, Lois, but I’ll have to visit another time. I’m really running late—”

  “Oh … OH … OH!” Lois groaned, as she stepped from the car. “Please help me get to my apartment, Myra. I’m having cramps. I hope I’m not going into premature labor from all the stress. Ohmygod, my baby can’t come now. It’s way too early. Help me, Myra. I don’t think I can make it up the stairs by myself,” she pleaded.

  Myra turned off the engine and walked around to the passenger side of the car. She stretched her arm around Lois’s middle and tried to support the pregnant woman’s massive weight. When they reached Lois’s door, Myra turned to leave, but Lois once again made an impassioned plea. “Please come in for just a minute, Myra. I want to show you something Rick gave me. It won’t take long. I promise you.”