I nodded, but I wasn't entirely sure that was true.
Chapter 13
After our chat, Frank quickly excused himself and left. I could tell that he felt guilty for "betraying" Chuck, and I wondered just how close-knit the crew was. I wondered if Chuck would tell us the truth about his conversation with Brenna, but instead of rushing off to talk to him, Ian and I decided to wait ‘til we were sure the cops had finished interviewing him. We waited patiently until we heard the sound of a door closing and then footsteps walking down the hallway.
Ian heard them too, and he quickly got up, poked his head out the door, and watched for a few seconds, before motioning to me.
We waited ‘til the footsteps had died down, and then walked along the hallway looking slightly shifty.
I was annoyed with myself for feeling so secretive. We weren't doing anything wrong, and if we did find out anything, I'd go and tell Ryan. I wasn't sure if Ryan knew about Chuck's philandering ways–I made a mental note to go and talk to him about it.
Ian knocked on Chuck's door, and a few minutes later, we heard his voice calling out, "Come in."
But when we walked into his room, he narrowed his eyes at us. "I thought it would be that detective guy again. He just doesn't stop asking questions, does he?"
I shrugged. "Cops can get under your skin sometimes."
Chuck nodded. "Well, at least it's over. I'm looking forward to heading back to my hotel and having a break.”
He stood up, and looked at us as though he were about to leave.
Ian said quickly, "We wanted to talk to you for a bit."
Chuck glared at us, and shook his head in annoyance. "I've had enough of talking to people about Brenna's death for the day.”
"How did you know we wanted to talk about Brenna's death?" Ian said.
Chuck rubbed his cheek. His short, dark hair was perfectly styled, and his eyes were wary and cynical. "Everyone knows that Dave hired you two to investigate the murder. I’ve got no idea why–the cops are meddling around and wasting enough of our time. We don't need two amateurs doing the same thing."
Ian glared indignantly. "We’re not amateurs!"
Ian looked at me for support, but I just shrugged. I was used to people thinking that just because I was a woman, I was an amateur. Of course, Ian didn't look all that professional either, with his big curly red hair and naïve expression.
"I know you're very busy," I said in a gentle tone, trying to mollify Chuck. "But could we talk to you for maybe five minutes?"
Chuck looked at me and sighed. "I really am very tired today. Maybe another time."
There was nothing we could do to convince Chuck to talk to us, and he shooed us out of his room politely. I had the sinking feeling that Chuck would never really agree to talk to us. Since we were private investigators, we couldn’t force people to talk to us–most of the time, I could convince people to do so, but not always. Perhaps this would be one of those times when my powers of persuasion wouldn’t work.
"What now?" asked Ian, as we walked slowly down the hallway.
"Perhaps we should leave. I can probably make it to my shift tonight after all."
"How can you go to a shift while you're in the middle of an investigation?"
"I like it," I said honestly. "The change of pace helps me think better."
Ian snapped his fingers. "Let's go talk to Bruce, the head cameraman.”
"He might have left by now," I said, feeling disheartened but Chuck’s non-cooperation.
We were standing in the hallway, trying to decide what to do, when we saw Frank emerging from one of the rooms. He waved at us, and headed down the hallway toward the stage, clearly not wanting to talk to us again.
We walked toward the door from which Frank had emerged, and then Ian rapped on it loudly.
From inside, Bruce's voice drifted over to us. "What?"
Ian opened the door, and I followed him inside.
Bruce was sitting on one of the chairs in the room, typing away on his laptop. He looked up, and glared at Ian and me. "You two. The meddlers."
I rolled my eyes. Being called an amateur once is a bit annoying, but this was getting old. "We're not meddlers. Dave hired us for a reason, and I know you think we’re getting in the way of the police investigation, but we're really not."
Bruce snorted, but he didn't make any attempt to argue with me.
"We just wanted to ask you a few questions about Brenna," Ian said.
"I'm not interested in talking about Brenna."
"It’ll just take a few minutes of your time," I said politely. "And we would really appreciate it."
Bruce slammed his laptop shut, and began packing a bag. "It's about time I headed home. It's getting late."
Ian asked, "Do you still get paid even if the show isn't running?"
Bruce stopped his packing, and turned to glare at Ian. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Ian shrugged. "I'm just asking. I was talking to the stagehands who said that they don't really care about when the show restarts because they'll still get paid."
"I get paid per project," Bruce said slowly. "If this project doesn't go on, I might not get paid at all. Of course, I'm going to try to get some of the payment they owe me, but I'm not sure what Dave's going to do. I know he invested a lot in this, and if it doesn't work out…" He let his words trail off, and suddenly, I felt sorry for Bruce.
"In that case, don't you want to wrap things up quickly?"
"I do," he said. "And I think that having two different investigations going on at once will slow things down."
"How would we slow down a police investigation?" Ian said.
"You might tamper with evidence. You might tip off suspects. People might tell you something, and then forget to tell the police that same thing because they've already told you. Or people might embellish stories. You might waste people's time and they'll get annoyed with talking to you, and not talk enough to the cops. I can think of a million ways you two can mess up this investigation."
"We've worked on a few open cases before," I said slowly. "And it always worked out well."
Bruce shook his head. "That doesn't mean anything. I think Dave just hired you two to look good in front of the staff, but I don't think he should’ve done it. If he really wanted to sort out this mess, he should’ve told you two not to poke your noses into everything."
Chapter 14
Ian and I headed over to the cafeteria, where some more brownies had magically appeared. We grabbed one each for the road, and then we got our things and headed out.
Neither of us talked about the case on the drive home. Night had fallen on Vegas, and the temperature outside had dropped a few degrees. Cars sped along, and I knew that tonight there would be a new influx of tourists, a new batch of gamblers at the Treasury.
When we got home and were about to retreat to our apartments, Ian said, "Do you have time for dinner before work?"
I glanced at my watch. I needed to be at the casino in an hour's time, which meant that I wouldn't have time for a proper meal.
I shook my head, no. "I'll see you tomorrow–I'll send you a text when I wake up, and then we can head straight to the convention center. I'm sure the cafeteria will have breakfast for us."
Ian grinned. "I’ve lived in Vegas for years, but I do still love a free buffet."
"There are only cheap buffets here for the locals," I agreed. "Free is better than cheap."
I showered quickly, dressed, and headed out. I speed walked the couple of blocks to the casino, and then before I knew it, I had gone from being a private investigator on the scene of a murder to a dealer at the Treasury Casino. I wore my red and white dealer's uniform, clapped my hands out at the table, and began to deal cards.
It was nice to sink into the familiarity of the casino pit. The bright lights and gaudy colors seemed to envelop me in a warm, comforting blanket. The gamblers’ laughter, the chimes from the slot machines, and the occasional whoops of glee were familiar and happy
sounds that I was glad to drown myself in.
The blackjack players sitting in front of me today were people I'd never seen before, and yet they all looked familiar.
There was the couple who were clearly here on their honeymoon, and if I had to bet, I'd bet this was their first night. They looked young, happy, and energetic. Within a few days they'd have their first major argument, and would have to deal with serious issues like how much gambling was okay, and if it was okay to ogle the cocktail waitresses or not.
There was the overweight, middle-aged gambler, red from too much drinking, who was here on his annual trip to the casinos.
There was the older couple, who liked Vegas for the cheap food and entertainment, and came to the casinos just once in a while. They weren't really big on gambling, but they were on a budget and they still wanted to enjoy a nice holiday.
Thankfully, I didn't have to deal with any rowdy bachelor or bachelorette parties tonight, and every now and then, there was a lull at the tables, which gave me time to think.
But I didn't really want to think about what had happened today. Our last conversation with Bruce had gone spectacularly wrong, and I couldn't help but feel that many of the people on-set felt the same way as him–they were just too polite to express their annoyance that I had been hired to look into the case. Brenna's death must've been a shock to everyone, even though none of them had known her all that well.
Speaking of which, I needed to make some time to go and talk to those who knew her–Brenna had a brother, a roommate, and an ex-boyfriend, all of whom would be able to shed more light on the kind of person she was and the sort of life she'd led.
I didn't like this case.
I thought back to that creepy sensation of being watched in the parking lot, and I shuddered. What was that all about?
And it wasn't just that. I didn't like the fact that I'd been hired reluctantly. I hadn't liked Dave from the very beginning, and I wondered why he’d bothered to hire me. He was always pretending to be friendly and encouraging, but I wondered if he had any faith in my abilities at all. I felt unwanted, but I'd accepted a job, and it was my responsibility to do the best I could.
I mentally replayed some of the conversations I'd had today, and I smiled and made witty banter with the gamblers, until it was time for my shift to end, and I hurried back home and into the comfort of my warm, soft bed.
The next morning, I texted Ian that I would come over to his place to say hello to Snowflake.
It was almost eleven by the time I got to his apartment, and I was thrilled to see Snowflake, Ian's little bundle of white fur whom he'd rescued when she was a tiny kitten.
Snowflake, however, didn't seem all that impressed to see me. She surveyed me from her perch on the kitchen countertop, and then pretended to go back to sleep. I bothered her by scratching her between her ears, and then she deigned to acknowledge me. She blinked at me lazily, and then she jumped off the countertop to weave between my legs. I stroked her soft fur, until she got bored of the game, and decided to stalk off into Ian's bedroom, presumably to have another nap.
It was then that I realized Ian had made us each two steaming mugs of pod coffee, and procured a plate of chocolate chip cookies.
It wasn't the healthiest of breakfasts, but I accepted the coffee gratefully.
"I thought we should eat something here," Ian said. "They'll have healthier things in the cafeteria, but we should discuss what we know about the case."
I nodded. "It's not a good idea to talk about the murder in the convention center–your room seems private enough, but someone might listen from behind the door. If they could bother to go and wait for us in the parking lot, who knows what else they'll try to do."
I pushed aside the prickle of fear that crept up my spine when I said those words.
"What I've been thinking," Ian said, "is whether Dave could actually be the killer or not. He was sort of forced to hire us, which means that maybe he had something to do with Brenna’s death after all.”
"I've been thinking the same thing myself. Dave’s probably not the killer, but I don't think we should share what we learn with him. He should stay a suspect."
Ian sipped his coffee thoughtfully. "I don't think I've ever worked on a case before, where the client was a suspect."
I shrugged. "The problem is if he is guilty, he won’t pay our final bill. So I hope he’s not! Of course, Chuck and Bruce won't even talk to us, which makes them look even more suspicious than Dave."
"And we should probably talk to the other contestants. They do benefit from Brenna's death."
"Who’s going to take Brenna’s place in the show now?"
"That’d be Taylor," Ian said. "But she seemed so nice. And she’s pretty."
Ian thought that every young, single female was attractive.
Unbidden, the conversation that I'd overheard when sitting with Nanna and Wes in the audience played through my mind. Those two "friends" of Taylor's had said she liked to manipulate men, and that she slept her way to the top. At the time, I thought those were just malicious ramblings, but what if Taylor really had something to do with Brenna's death? Maybe she'd manipulated someone into killing Brenna so that she could continue to be on the show.
I filled Ian in on what I'd overheard.
"When I heard them at the time," I said, "I thought they were just two malicious and jealous young women. But what if their words had a bit of truth in them?"
Ian bit into a cookie thoughtfully. "Even if it is true, what does it mean? That Taylor slept with someone on the show, and manipulated him into killing Brenna so that she could continue on the show?"
"When you say it out loud like that, it does sound ridiculous. But what if Taylor wanted Brenna out of the way for reasons other than the show?"
"If someone killed her for reasons other than the show, there's Clayton as well. I don't know if he’ll even show up at the convention center today, but maybe we should talk to him as well."
"What's going on with the show today?"
"I got a schedule when I first accepted the offer from the show," Ian said. "It said today was a catch-up day–I didn't know what it meant then, but I asked MJ, and he said that it's for redoing shots and things like that. I got a text from Dave last night, and he says that we’re all to be there by twelve o'clock today, and they’ll do some interviews and things like that. I think what he means is those confessionals you see on reality shows–you know, where they ask you what you think of the other contestants, and you talk about how much you hate them."
I raised one eyebrow. "Do you hate any of the contestants?"
Ian shook his head. "No, but you have to say that you do. Or you can say that one of them seems like a potential new friend. I'm thinking of saying that Taylor is really pretty, and that I hope something might happen between the two of us."
I rolled my eyes. Ian was conflicted by the curse that some single people have–he was constantly looking for a potential girlfriend. Most of the time, this meant that he came across as desperate, and he only attracted women who weren’t right for him.
I downed the rest of my coffee quickly. "Let's hope today goes a little bit better than yesterday."
Chapter 15
When Ian and I got to the convention center, we made a beeline for the cafeteria, wondering what kind of breakfast had been served.
We found that the room was mostly empty today–two of the stagehands and Penelope sat at one table, and Bruce and Chuck sat at a table on the far end. The stagehands and Penelope smiled and waved when they saw us, but Bruce and Chuck gave us dirty looks.
Ian and I headed straight for the countertop and gazed at all the food: the breakfast spread included hard-boiled eggs, yogurt, muesli, bagels, sliced bread, milk, cereal, sliced cheese, wrapped butter pats, tiny jars of jam and honey, some kind of sliced meat, and a platter of cut fruit. A pitcher of orange juice stood next to the food, and there were empty plates and glasses stacked along the far end. As we helped ourselves to the
buffet, I noticed Chuck and Bruce leaning forward, and whispering conspiratorially as they glanced at us.
I said in a low voice, "Doesn't the way they're talking just make you feel all warm and fuzzy inside?"
Ian helped himself to a large glass of orange juice. "Do you think the two of them could have ganged up to kill Brenna?"
I shook my head. "I really don't want to believe that. If two people work together, they can do a lot more damage than one, and they can do a good job of hiding each other's crimes. On the other hand, they might be tempted to turn each other in."
"If they were working together, they would probably give each other alibis."
We sat down at the table furthest from the others, and chewed our breakfasts thoughtfully. "That's true, but neither of them gave us a chance to even ask them where they were when Brenna died."
“Detective Ryan probably knows."
My brows drew together, and I chewed my bagel thoughtfully. "He probably does, but I don't think I can just go ahead and ask him if either of them has an alibi.”
"Why don’t you try? He could get a bit annoyed, but he could also give you a hint about what's going on."
I sighed. Ian was right. "I guess I should do the brave thing at some point."
Before we finished our breakfasts, Chuck and Bruce had left the room, and so had the stagehands and Penelope.
Ian and I decided to have a chat with Dave before we talked to anyone else.
When we got to his room, Dave was lounging back in one of the chairs and speaking into his cell phone. We could only hear his side of the conversation, but he didn't look too happy. "I know," he was saying. "I agree. I'm doing my best… I've even hired two private investigators. Just give me a week–no, make it two weeks. I'm sure everything’ll be sorted out by then, and we can speed up the production schedule to make up for the lost time." The rest of the conversation was a medley of "No," "Yep," "I know," and "Exactly."
After he hung up, Dave turned to Ian and I. "Well, the network’s sure annoyed about this hold-up."
Zombie Cash Run in Las Vegas Page 8