by Leslie Wolfe
“Wait a minute,” the manager reacted, heaving heavily while his cheeks turned an unhealthy shade of dark red. “You can’t pin this on me!”
“Tell us who screwed up, then,” Holt intervened, in a lower, sympathetic tone. Only the deep ridge above his eyebrows revealed the frustration he must’ve felt.
“Um, Joe, he’s the security manager,” he replied, pointing at a thin man wearing a three-piece suit. He stood a few yards away, talking to a group of people seated in the lounge area. Judging by his body language, he was pacifying them, trying to accommodate whatever it was those customers were demanding.
“Last name?” Holt asked.
“Deason, Joe Deason,” the manager replied. “He should’ve called nine-one-one, it’s his job, not mine. I had them to deal with,” he added, gesturing loosely with his hand, pointing at the lounge area.
“And your name?” Holt asked, just as calmly as before.
“Stan Farley,” he replied quickly, then cleared his throat. “I’m the high-limit gaming room manager,” he added.
“Quite the mouthful job title,” I reacted. “You’re telling me you stood here for hours, without asking yourself how come the cops weren’t showing up?”
“Listen, I had to keep the customers calm, keep them from leaving, you know? Do you have any idea who these people are? They buy and sell people like you and me on a daily basis. I was going crazy trying to keep them calm. At least they’re all here, so you can talk to them.”
“They better be,” I added, then made for Joe Deason, the security manager.
He noticed me coming and nodded toward the customers he was speaking with and met me halfway.
“Detectives Baxter and Holt,” I introduced us when Holt caught up. “You’re the one responsible for sitting on a crime scene for hours without calling us in?”
“No,” Holt intervened, “he’s the one we’re booking for obstruction, right this minute.”
Deason flinched a little. The corners of his mouth tensed and dropped lower, and his pupils dilated for a tiny fraction of a second.
“It’s nothing like that, Detectives,” he replied. “It was an honest misunderstanding. I assumed, because Crystal died on Farley’s floor, that the first thing he did was call the cops. Unfortunately, I didn’t think to ask; I rushed to secure the video, to close the area, to preserve the scene. To keep things contained, if you wish.”
“You’re throwing me under the bus?” Farley shouted from where he’d followed us. “You son of a bitch! Whose job is it to deal with the authorities?”
“All right,” I intervened, raising my hands in the air in a pacifying gesture, before they could get at each other’s throats. “We get it. Who called us, eventually?”
“I did,” Deason replied coldly, shooting Farley a deathly glare.
“What about them?” Holt asked, pointing at the lounge area. “Are these all the people present at the time of Crystal’s death? Eleven men and one woman?”
“Y—yes,” Deason replied, after a split-second hesitation.
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“Positive.”
“Walk us through the events,” I asked, turning to Farley. “What exactly happened, and when did it start happening?”
“Crystal was dancing the blackjack tables, over there,” he said, pointing at the stage where her body was found. “There weren’t many players at those tables; it was late. Maybe two or three.”
“Was it two, or was it three?”
“Um, three,” Farley replied, looking left and right frantically, as if seeking help from someone. “I’ll ask the croupier, if you’d like, but I’m fairly sure there were three men playing blackjack before she dropped.”
“Then what happened?” Holt asked.
“Nothing,” he replied. “She just fell to the ground, slowly.”
“Slowly?” I asked. “How does one fall slowly?”
“I thought it was her routine at first. She had the pole, and held on to it, you know.”
“Okay, go on.”
“But then, she didn’t get up, and I got worried. Players, too. I went over there, but she was dead already. I tried CPR, but—”
“How long had she been dancing before she died?”
“About two hours,” he replied, shooting Deason a quick glance.
“Precisely two hours and eight minutes since she came back from break,” Deason replied. “I checked the video.”
I exchanged a quick look with Holt.
“So that’s what you were doing, instead of calling us?” I asked, drilling my eyes into his. “Checking what happened, to see if and how you needed to cover up anything?”
Deason shook his head. “No, Detective, I would never do that. No job is worth going to jail for.”
“We’ll need that video, all of it, raw,” Holt said.
“Absolutely.”
“Were there any other girls dancing?”
“Yes,” Farley replied. “Brandi was dancing the craps, and Devine was there too, at the roulette tables.”
“We’ll need to speak with them,” I said.
“Brandi is over there,” he pointed toward a girl carrying a tray with half-filled, stemmed champagne flutes.
I watched her incredible body as she walked on stilettos with undulating grace, making quick stops near each player, replacing their empty glasses, smiling, chatting casually with them in a low voice, thanking them for the tips they placed on her tray.
“How old is she?” Holt asked.
My thoughts exactly.
“Everyone here is over twenty-one, Detective,” Farley replied, seeming sure of himself, more so than I’d seen him yet. “I vet the girls myself. They have to be twenty-one or older to be serving alcohol.”
“Do all your dancers wait on tables?” I asked, intrigued by Brandi’s visible experience with carrying a tray filled with drinks. She’d hauled that across the floor in four-inch heels without spilling a single drop.
“They do, yes,” Farey replied. “We can’t ask them to dance their entire eight-hour shift, right?”
“How considerate of you,” I remarked, not even trying to hide the sarcasm in my voice.
I walked toward Brandi, who smiled widely when she saw Holt and me approach. She wore her hair like Marilyn Monroe, but in a slightly darker, tamer shade of blonde. She had large, expressive eyes and a thin, long neck. She was a nine-point-five, at least.
“Hello,” she greeted us with a professional smile. “What can I help you with? Would you care for something to drink, coffee, maybe?”
“No, we’re fine,” Holt replied, his eyes lingering on her half-naked body long enough to piss me off.
“What can you tell me about Crystal?” I asked. “What kind of person was she?”
Brandi looked around quickly, discreetly, to make sure she was out of everyone’s earshot. “She was interesting, to say the least,” she said, speaking barely above a whisper. “Lots of hot shots buzzing around her, lots of action. One day she gets hired out of nowhere, three days later she dances the high-roller tables. I used to dance blackjack before; tips were way better than they are now, over at craps.”
“How did she pull that off?” I asked. “Getting promoted, or assigned here, in your section, replacing you?”
“No idea,” she replied, shaking her head with sadness. “Honestly, if I knew how, I’d do it too, whatever it was. But the thing is, if there’s a chopper landing on the rooftop at night, chances are that’s not some Saudi prince on his way to lose a fortune. No, that’s Crystal’s private ride.”
“What? She had a chopper?” Holt asked, just as surprised as I was.
“No, not her, but whomever she’s seeing sent one for her quite regularly. She flew out of here last night, right before her shift.”
“What time was that?”
“Maybe nine-thirty or so? Yeah, I believe it was after nine-thirty.”
“Then her shift started…?” Holt asked.
“At midnight,” Brandi re
plied. “She was here on time for that. She worked drinks for the tables for two hours, then took the stage. That’s how our shifts are scheduled.”
“I guess it’s easier this way, huh,” I said, thinking out loud.
“That’s just a gimmick to make it legal for the bosses to fire the wait staff if they gain weight. Law says you can’t weight discriminate anymore for waitresses, but you can for dancers. See? Problem solved. For us, it’s the same; same heels, still on our feet all day long, still naked.”
I couldn’t find my words for a moment, suffocated by the anger bubbling up in the pit of my stomach.
“Did she have any enemies?” Holt asked. “Maybe other dancers, like—”
“Like me?” Brandi laughed quietly. “I didn’t hate her for taking my spot. It wasn’t her fault, and even if it was, that’s life, you know? But no, none that I can think of. She and Devine were besties, you know. She might know more. They share a place together.”
“Yo, missy,” a player hollered from the lounge. “Cut the chitchat and give us something to drink, will ya?”
I felt tempted to tell that player he could wait his turn in the back of Holt’s unmarked Interceptor Utility vehicle, but I thanked Brandi instead and turned to Holt.
“A bloody chopper?” I asked quietly.
“Uh-huh,” he replied. “Might be something. Let’s talk to those high-priced bozos first.”
We approached the lounge area where eleven men and one woman were seated on red, plush armchairs and sofas, drinks in hand, ashtrays nearby on glossy, black end tables. One of the croupiers stood near the wall, ready to beckon a waitress if any of them desired anything.
“It’s about damn time,” one of the men said angrily, standing and coming aggressively toward us. “We’ve been sitting here for hours. My lawyer will be in touch; you had no right to detain us without due process.”
I refrained from telling him it wasn’t us who’d detained them; it was their favorite casino’s pit manager.
“Thank you for your patience,” I replied instead, as politely as I could force myself to speak. “I’m sure you’re eager to assist us in finding what happened to that poor girl, right?”
“Hey, I didn’t see anything, my back was turned. I wasn’t anywhere close to the blackjack tables. Can I go now?”
I saw no signs of deception on his face, no microexpressions, no flicker in his eyes. Later, when we’d have time to review the surveillance video, if he’d lied, we’d know. And we’d find him.
“Leave your contact information with the officer over there, by the door, and don’t skip town,” I said.
He practically ran toward the exit; it would be a while before he returned to lose any more of his money in that particular high-limit gaming room.
The next man we spoke with had even less to say. It wasn’t until the fifth witness that we got anything interesting. He was an older bloke, maybe seventy or so, wearing his bright white hair styled youthfully. Not many men his age could boast a full head of hair, but he looked as if he hadn’t lost a single strand his entire life.
“There was a guy who came to speak with her while she was dancing,” the man said. “It was about three in the morning. I’d just returned from the restroom, and I saw the clock on the wall on my way back.”
“Your name, sir?” I asked.
“Cline,” he replied with a quick smile, sizing me up shamelessly. “Jonathon Cline, with an O.”
“Mr. Cline, tell us about that man, their interaction, any detail you can recall,” Holt said.
“He was angry with the girl, really angry. He grabbed at her bra, but she didn’t scream or anything, she just—”
“That man shoved a chip in her bra,” the woman cut in. “I saw it clearly. I was right there, at the blackjack table.”
I turned toward her, a little surprised. Farley had said that only three men were seated at the blackjack table. He must’ve been wrong.
She sat cross-legged in a deep armchair, smoking menthols and drinking Evian. She was stylishly dressed in a black sequin dress with high slits on both sides and a deep cleavage in the front. She had nicely shaped, toned legs, but her face still told her age, despite the elaborate makeup. This particular high roller was pushing fifty.
“Did you hear any words exchanged between them?” I asked her, hoping for a miracle.
“No,” she replied. “He seemed intense rather than angry, but he shoved the chip in her bra and let her go. He disappeared, and she carried on with her dancing as if nothing happened.”
I looked toward Deason and Farley, who’d stayed near, observing every move we made. I caught them exchanging glances and called them on it.
“Who was the man they’re talking about, Deason? You seem to me like the kind of guy who knows who everyone is.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about, Detective. I didn’t see anyone.”
“How about on video, the one you had plenty of time to review?”
He shook his head a little too enthusiastically and ran his fingers quickly along his goatee, as if to check if it was still there, all hairs straight and smooth and accounted for. “I’m sorry, Detective, I didn’t notice anyone.”
Deason was definitely hiding something. I turned to Farley. “You’re responsible to keep these girls safe from rude customers, aren’t you?”
He fidgeted in place, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Yes, but no one gave Crystal a hard time. I didn’t see anyone.”
I gave them both a long glare, knowing they both lied, letting them know that I knew. Holt finished talking to the rest of the witnesses, released the last of them, and joined me in my staring match with the two casino officials.
“Better not be a single millisecond missing from that video, gentlemen,” I said. “We would have a field day making an obstruction charge stick for both of you. Easy-peasy.” I let them squirm for a long moment, while they reassured me the recording was intact, then I asked, “Where can we find this Devine? She was Crystal’s best friend, wasn’t she?”
Roxanne
We followed Farley through a door marked “Authorized Personnel Only,” and it was as if we were stepping into a different world. All the glamour and luxury that made the Scala Hotel and Casino a world-renowned attraction stopped abruptly at the doorsill. Beyond that point, we walked through dimly lit corridors with cement floors and scratched, stained, off-white latex paint on the walls.
I grabbed Holt’s sleeve and held him back a little.
“Are you buying the bystander effect explanation for not calling us in earlier?” I whispered.
“It’s a hell of a stretch,” Holt replied. “My money is on trying to contain the fallout. Their high-limit customers spend a lot of money here, and most of them won’t be returning anytime soon. But I’m curious to see if they gave anyone a head start.”
“The killer?” I asked, doubting it could be that simple. It never was.
“Or someone who shouldn’t’ve been there in the first place. Some fat cat they might be protecting from being associated with something as trivial as a stripper’s murder.”
“Yeah, I thought of that too. One thing’s for sure, they’re lying; both of them are. They’re professionals, trained for situations like this. They’re playing dumb with us, hoping it will stick.”
Farley stopped in front of a closed door and knocked against the scratched plywood panel.
“Are you decent in there? Can we come in?”
No one answered, and Farley soon repeated the knock and the call, this time louder, more persistent. He pulled a universal access key card from his pocket and opened the door.
We entered a small dressing room, furnished with little else except three vanities lined up on a common counter and littered with scattered makeup items, hairbrushes, and a variety of cosmetic products. Clothing racks held the dancers’ stage attire on plastic hangers, although some were hung from seatbacks, drawer knobs, even the door handle. A walk-in c
loset, dark and small, opened to the back of the windowless room.
“She’s not here,” Farley said, while Holt and I exchanged a quick glance.
Poison was a woman’s weapon of choice. If Anne was right in her preliminary findings and Crystal had been poisoned, that meant the killer had access to Crystal, close enough to slip her the poison. That someone would doubtless hang around to see what happened next.
In the brief moment of silence that ensued, I thought I heard a sniffle coming from the back of the room.
“Devine?” I called in a gentle voice.
The sniffle repeated, closer as I stepped into the dark closet. I felt the wall looking for a light switch, which turned on the saddest, most underpowered light bulb I’d ever seen hanging from a hotel ceiling.
I saw Devine, curled up underneath a rusty, banged-up clothes rack loaded with garments. She had her back against the corner and hugged her knees tightly to her chest, her face buried against them. She seemed numb, inert, apparently going through what psychologists call bereavement shock.
Not what a killer would experience. Maybe I’d jumped to conclusions.
I crouched next to her and touched her arm gently. “Devine? I’m Detective Baxter, and I have my partner, Detective Holt, with me. We’re sorry for your loss.”
She raised her swollen eyes and looked at me without saying a word. Tears had left streaks in her makeup and had stained her white, glitzy top. She let out a shattered breath, a contained, quiet sob.
“We need to ask you some questions, please.”
She nodded once, then stood slowly, shakily. She wiped her tears with the back of her hands, grabbed her waist-long, silky hair and twisted it into a loose knot she brought forward, letting it hang over her right shoulder.
“Tell me what you need,” she said quietly, squinting from the bright vanity lights as she exited the dimly lit closet.
“Tell us about Crystal,” I said, then my eyes fell on Farley’s excited demeanor. The man was a creep. I turned to him and removed all sympathy from my voice when I spoke. “We’ll be fine from here, Mr. Farley. You can wait outside.”
His jaw dropped for a moment; he must’ve felt offended. But he complied, and as soon as he left the room, Devine’s body language changed. She relaxed a little, the tension in her neck dissipating, making room for more grief.