"I found out that reporters are pretty much censored, and they don't like it. It's not like back in D.C., where the only people you have to watch are the politicians—here you have to watch the casinos' security and the cops as well. One does not tread, even lightly, on their toes. No one knew anything about Marble Rose and her big winnings. At least that's what they said. They talked a lot about the celebrities who come here. And the guy from the Sun told me he'd just gotten a text message that there is going to be some kind of martial-arts exhibition at the Babylon in the next few days. The Babylon is the biggest draw here. Even the Wynn can't hold a candle to it. They talked quite a bit about the top-notch security and the guy—Owens—who runs it. They were telling me about his inner ring, but said they weren't allowed to write about it. They said those guys, the ones in the inner ring, live in mansions and drive Porsches. They wear five-thousand-dollar suits and handmade silk shirts, but they still look like goons. The reporters said they can't print that, either. The casinos own both papers. Those reporters make twice what I do. I might think about relocating here. They have unlimited expense accounts, too."
"Is there anything else going on that we should know about?" Lizzie asked as she checked the time on her watch.
"Yeah. But neither guy could put his finger on what it is. Something involving Owens and the Babylon. I asked a few pointed questions about the Gaming Commission, and they clammed up when I asked one too many. Suddenly they both wanted to call it a night. They did give me a little human-interest story early on if I want to follow up on it when I'm here. Seems there's some guy who lives out in the desert who's named after a fish. They said he has more money than God. He lives in the desert, but he's surrounded by green grass. They thought that was amazing. What I found amazing was the guy's got claymore mines all over his property. He has a major hate for Owens, but according to them, everyone in town has it in for Owens. The guy is supposedly lethal."
"His name is Little Fish and he's a full-blooded Shoshone," Lizzie said, a wicked gleam in her eye.
Ted sucked down that tidbit of information the way he sucked down his coffee. "Jesus! You didn't leave this place last night, so how do you know. . .Never mind, I don't want to know."
"That's a good thing because I wasn't going to tell you. You gotta love that old devil attorney-client privilege." Lizzie looked at her watch again. "Time to go, Mister Reporter. I ordered a car last night. It should be waiting out front just about now."
I ordered a car. It sounded like she'd just said she ordered Chinese. He could hardly wait to see what kind of car Lizzie had ordered. He made a bet with himself that it was something flashy, with a rocket engine that would start off at a hundred miles an hour. Lizzie was all flash. She wanted the world to see her coming. Probably a fire-engine red Porsche.
The only vehicle Ted saw when they went outside was a champagne-colored Range Rover. He just knew it was the latest model and fully loaded, not that he knew squat about four-wheel drive vehicles, much less fancy-dancy Range Rovers. What he did know was that the little baby sitting at the curb cost upward of a hundred grand, and Lizzie had just ordered it.
"Nice set of wheels," Ted said.
"I agree," Lizzie said, climbing behind the wheel. "Use that map on the dash. You're the navigator. Tell me where to go."
"What's the address of the county jail?"
Lizzie put the Rover into gear and pulled out onto the road, and without missing a beat said, "It's 330 South Casino Center Boulevard. Downtown. I would have thought they would lock her up closer to the Strip, but I don't really know where the substations are. There might be a reason for her being where she is. We'll know soon enough."
"Maybe they want to keep her away from the Strip and anyone who might get curious. Neither of the reporters I spoke with had ever heard her name. Let's face it, Lizzie, a name like Marble Rose Barnes is not a name you'd forget if you heard it. They didn't so much as blink."
"Hmmm," was Lizzie's only comment.
With the exception of Ted telling Lizzie where to turn and generally being a pain in the ass, as Lizzie put it, the trip to the Clark County jail was made with Ted doing all the talking as he discussed the front page of the Post and what would be on tomorrow's front page as a follow-up. From time to time, Lizzie said, "um," or "hmmm." It finally dawned on Ted that Lizzie was thinking, which meant she was working, so he clamped his lips tight and stared out the window at the horrendous traffic she was battling. On second thought, he decided, he wouldn't live here even if they gave him his own personal slot machine.
Out of the corner of his eye, Ted watched Lizzie. She looked blissful, serene. For some reason he felt scared witless at what he was seeing. He jerked his gaze back to the road and the snarl of cars all around them. While Lizzie looked serene and blissful, her attire shrieked look at me! So, like any other red-blooded male, he had looked. He'd even taken a second look, and wondered what was wrong with him that he wasn't attracted to the woman driving the vehicle he was sitting in. Any woman as beautiful, as perfect, as intelligent as Lizzie Fox should have every man in the universe lusting after her. He felt proud of himself that she didn't turn him on. Only Maggie Spritzer turned him on. It was either the second or third time he'd had this discussion with himself. He wondered if he was a fool.
"Lizzie, make the next left and that should put us right where we want to be. Listen, can I ask you a question on the personal side?"
"Go for it. I might answer, I might not."
"Do you. . .do you dress like you do for a reason? I mean, is it the real you? Or do you dress. . .like, you know. . .to play a part?"
"That's three questions and my answer is, what do you think?"
"I think you play to your strengths, which in your case are beauty, brains, and lust. I don't mean that you're the one doing the lusting. What I meant. . ."
"Well, there you go. I can see why you're the Post's ace reporter. I have two rules, Ted. Rule number one is: Never explain. Rule number two is: See rule number one."
Ted laughed as Lizzie swerved into a parking space that was labeled VISITOR PARKING.
The Clark County jail was a busy place, since it was attached to a police station. So police officers were milling around, getting ready to hit the road for a new day of protecting the citizenry of Las Vegas. A small group of people, who looked like they were in no hurry to reach the front door, hung back as Lizzie and Ted walked around them and marched toward the door with a purpose. Ted held it open, and Lizzie sailed through, head up, lip gloss shimmering.
Lizzie sniffed. For an instant she let her nasal passages remember the scent. All police stations smelled the same—sweat, burnt coffee, and Pinesol being the primary contributors.
Lizzie wore a lavender suit whose skirt had a slit up the side that revealed a generous expanse of thigh with every step she took. Ted wondered if she was wearing panties, then mentally slapped himself for such an outrageous thought. The waterfall of silver hair cascaded down to her shoulders. Ted made a mental note to tell Maggie that Lizzie shimmered and glimmered. Maggie loved to hear stuff like that.
All activity ground to a halt when Lizzie walked over to the desk sergeant. Oblivious to the approving stares she was getting, Lizzie was all business when she offered up her credentials, and said, "I'd like to see Marble Rose Barnes, I'm her attorney."
The desk sergeant leaned down over his desk so he could ogle Lizzie's cleavage, and said, "I wish I could help you, Miss Fox, but we don't have a Marble Rose Barnes in lockup and we don't have a Marble Rose Barnes in detention, either."
Lizzie managed to offer up a look that said her world had just come crashing down, and this buffoon was the reason. "Oh," was all she said. Lizzie waited, knowing that, at times, silence was the better part of valor. Sooner or later, the Keystone Kop would want to make her world right side up and say something enlightening.
She made a pretense of stuffing her credentials back into her designer bag when the sergeant said, "But we do have a Jane Doe in lockup. W
hen she was brought in six days ago, she had no ID on her and she refused to give us her name. If you want to see if our Jane Doe is your whatever you said her name is, I can arrange it."
Lizzie cooed her response. "Why, you dear, sweet man, how kind of you. Yes, I would like to speak with your Jane Doe if it isn't too much trouble."
The desk sergeant offered up a sappy grin as he bellowed to someone named Simmons and instructed him to fetch Jane Doe to the visiting area. He then looked down at Lizzie, and said, "You know the drill, Counselor, leave your handbag, your cell phone, your keys in this basket. They'll check your briefcase when you go through security." He looked over at Ted, and said, "If you're not a lawyer, take a seat over there."
Lizzie nodded to Ted as she dropped her belongings into a tattered wicker basket and followed an officer with a Michelin Man waistline as he waddled down the hall and around a corner, where he picked up a phone and spoke into it.
"You can sit over there," Simmons told her, motioning to a grungy steel table that was bolted to the floor with an equally secured bench on either side of it.
The benches were stainless steel like the table but a deadly shade of pea green. Lizzie felt nauseated when she sat down and opened her briefcase. She had no clue what she would do if the Jane Doe she was about to meet wasn't Marble Rose Barnes.
The door opened, and a young woman who looked to be about thirty walked over to the table and sat down. Lizzie studied the woman for a full minute, taking in pale blond hair that the lawyer guessed was normally lustrous. Right now it was stringy and in need of styling. Her eyes were clear blue and intense. She looked to weigh about 120 pounds. She was dressed in an outfit that resembled hospital scrubs.
Lizzie held out her hand. "My name is Elizabeth Fox. I'm an attorney. I'm here to represent you if you want. By the way, they have you listed as Jane Doe. Is your real name Marble Rose Barnes?"
"You look familiar. Do I know you?" the young woman asked, avoiding the question as to her identity.
"I don't think so. I live in Washington, D.C. Are you Marble Rose Barnes?"
The young woman still didn't answer the question. Instead, she asked a question of her own. "Who sent you here?"
"A Ms. Beatrice Preston contacted. . .some people I work for. I met with Ms. Preston last evening but did not commit one way or the other as to representation. I told her I had to speak with you first, and the decision would be yours. This might be a silly question, but why haven't you engaged the services of an attorney?"
The blue eyes sparked. "Because I'm safer in here as Jane Doe than I am on the outside. Go back and tell Ms. Preston I don't need her help. Tell her I can pay an attorney on my own. You can also tell her to stay out of my life."
Lizzie tossed her yellow legal pad and her Montblanc pen into her briefcase and snapped it shut. "If you change your mind in the next twenty-four hours, call me."
"How would you suggest I do that? I have no money in here. I did ask for an attorney, and they ignored me. I'm not even sure why I'm in here."
"They told me up front that you had no ID when you were brought in here."
"That's a lie. I had a wallet in my pocket. I asked for an attorney more than once. They didn't read me my Miranda rights, either. I'm not stupid, Miss Fox."
Lizzie absorbed what she was hearing. She leaned across the table. "Do you want to get out of here if I can guarantee your safety?"
"Yes, but how are you going to do that? I don't want my mother involved in my life, certainly not this part of my life."
"I'm a lawyer, remember. Leave it up to me. I guess that means you are Marble Rose Barnes. Right or wrong?"
The young woman nodded. "Yes, I am Marble Rose Barnes, and I just remembered how I know you. I don't mean personally. I just remembered where I saw you and why you are so familiar. I sent money for their defense. I'm not just saying that, I did. Two hundred dollars."
Lizzie smiled. "Why don't we agree to keep that knowledge to ourselves for the time being? Deal?"
The bright blue eyes sparked again. A matching smile tugged at the corners of the young woman's mouth. "Deal."
Chapter 11
Lizzie signaled to the officer standing near the door that she was ready to leave. Marble Rose stood up, and the two women shook hands. "This might take a while, so be patient, but you will be out of here as soon as I can arrange it."
"And my mother?"
"Since you're retaining me, your mother just ceased to be part of the equation. I will have to call her and tell her. It's the right thing to do. You signed a legal, binding contract with me. Once you're home, you can write a retainer check. Everything has to be legal, Marble Rose. By the way, if you want, I know a law firm that can chase down that lawyer that took off with your twenty-five-thousand dollars. The Nevada State Bar Association frowns on things like that, as does the legal community in every other state. I'd do it myself, but I think I'm going to be a little too busy to take on any side issues."
Lizzie thought the desk sergeant looked uneasy when she presented herself in front of his desk. "Your Jane Doe's name is Marble Rose Barnes. She said she had a wallet on her person when she was arrested. I'd like to see it. And my client was not given her Miranda rights. I want to talk to the arresting officer, and I want my client released in exactly ninety minutes. You should be able to process the paperwork in that length of time. If you can't, we are going to have some serious issues to deal with. Just out of curiosity, what was Jane Doe charged with?"
"Well now, hold on here, Counselor."
"No, you hold on, Officer Dewberry. What was Jane Doe charged with?"
"Assault and battery, resisting arrest, and inciting a riot, and there was no wallet on her person and no ID."
Lizzie knew a lie when she heard one.
"And the location where those incidents allegedly happened? My client denies all charges."
"They always do. Never had anyone come through here who said, Yeah, I did all the things you said I did. It all went down outside the Babylon casino. There were witnesses," he said defensively. He damn well hated smart-assed lawyers who looked like the woman standing in front of him. His ears started to ache with what he knew was going to happen in the next few hours.
"I bet there were," Lizzie drawled. "I'm on my way now to see Judge Logan McPherson to get a warrant for the Babylon's security tapes. You might want to pass that along to whomever you pass things along to. Ninety minutes, Officer Dewberry. By the way, see this guy?" she asked, pointing to Ted. "He's the Post's star reporter. That's the Post in Washington, D.C. The nation's capital. They love stuff like this. The AP will pick up on it, and it will be global within hours. You know how fast the Internet works. I'll be sure to spell your name correctly."
Without another word, Lizzie turned on her heel and followed Ted to the door. Two cops tripped over themselves as they rushed to hold the door for Lizzie while Ted stepped to the side. Lizzie offered up her megawatt smile and sashayed through the door.
Outside, Ted said, "We won that one, right? Who the hell is Judge-whatever-his-name-is?"
"Oh, yeah, we won that one. The judge is a friend."
"Oh." Ted decided he really didn't need more details. He watched as Lizzie worked her cell phone while he started to text message Maggie. Then Maggie called him for more instant information. He tried to listen to Lizzie's end of the conversation, but with Maggie jabbering in his ear it was hard. He closed his cell and started to text message.
"I would love to have a drink while I'm here," Lizzie said, "but I'll have to get back to you on the time and place. I appreciate your offering to have the warrant delivered to me. The Silver Horseshoe. I'll be there. I'm sure anyplace you recommend is top-notch. What a darling man you are."
Ted looked down at the message he was sending and was chagrined to see he'd typed in the words darling man. Maggie would raise her eyebrows at that one. He deleted the message and started over. His nose was twitching, a sure sign that something was about to pop. He said so in his
message to Maggie.
Lizzie unlocked the door of the Range Rover and climbed in. At least one of Ted's questions was answered. Lizzie Fox was wearing panties.
Lizzie settled herself in a booth done up in faux cowhide. Everything in the Silver Horseshoe was cowhide—the walls, the booths, and the bar stools. She looked around. "They should have called this place the Silver Cow. I wonder why they call it the Silver Horseshoe?"
Ted pointed toward the bar area. Hanging from the ceiling on fishing wire, directly over the bar, hundreds of horseshoes dangled. "This place is known for horseshoe contests. Some famous people participated in those contests. Even a few presidents." When Lizzie looked at him with an unbelieving expression, he just shrugged his shoulders and laughed. "I keep telling you, I read a lot."
"The judge said the food here is the best," Lizzie said, flipping open the menu. She looked up at a pretty young man and gave her order. "White wine spritzer, house salad, dressing on the side, along with a wedge of goat cheese. Two eclairs for dessert."
Ted tried not to laugh when he gave his order: "A beer, steak, a loaded baked potato, skip the salad, and a piece of pumpkin pie."
While they waited for their drinks and food, Lizzie spent the time on her cell phone, and Ted continued to text message Maggie.
When a second pretty young man set down their drinks, Ted looked up. Then he looked around for a moment. "Is this a gay establishment?" he asked.
"Uh-huh."
"So does that mean Judge-whatever-his-name-is. . ."
"Uh-huh."
Ted returned to his BlackBerry.
He almost fell out of the booth ten minutes later when his food arrived. He looked down at the turkey-sized platter that held a steak almost as big. The loaded baked potato was nestled in something that looked like a soup tureen. He looked over at Lizzie's skimpy salad and the sliver of goat cheese. Even the eclairs were meager, no bigger than the holes some donut shops sold. It was obvious the male appetite was king here. He shrugged. When in Rome. . .
Final Justice: Sisterhood Series #5 Page 10