My heart pounded in my ears as I read the flyer a second time and then a third. The party would be a perfect cover for someone to get into the building and sneak up here to leave me a note…but everyone that enters the building has to sign in. Is Parker's killer on the guest roster?
I unlocked my deadbolt and raced down the hallway back to the elevators. On the ground floor, I sprinted past the new gym. Two rows of treadmills and elliptical machines were set up to one side, and the other side of the room was dedicated to free weights and bodybuilding machines. Along the far back wall was a table decorated with balloons and a spread of goodies and sweets. There were a handful of people gathered around the table putting the treats away into plastic containers and taking down the decorations. A few turned their heads as I jogged past, but I kept running. I arrived at the front desk of the building lobby. Panting, I asked the receptionist, "Did anyone sign in to visit me today? Amelia Grace in 1302?"
The receptionist was a snooty, young, blond woman with pursed lips and a pinched face. She squinted at her clipboard. "No," she said in a clipped tone. "Nobody for Grace or 1302."
"Well, has anyone suspicious been by today?"
"What do you mean by 'suspicious,' exactly?" She eyed me warily.
Impatient, I grabbed the clipboard from the edge of the desk and held it away as she protested. I scanned the list of visitors that had signed in for the fitness center opening. "Shelly Davidson. Emmett Larson. Jessica Strange," I rattled off the list. My eyes fell on one name in particular, and the hairs on the back of my neck prickled. "Ben Dixon."
* * *
I huddled under a blanket on my couch, sipping a cup of chamomile tea as I tried to calm down. Detective Dixon had been by my apartment. Had he left me the letter? He's a cop. Cops don't threaten innocent people, I reminded myself. Maybe he was just trying to keep me safe? No. If Dixon wanted to warn me about Stone for my safety's sake, he'd have done it in person. He'd typed the message because he didn't want me to know he was the one that left it. He must have some connection to Stone or the murders that he didn't want me to know about.
Sergeant Sinclair mentioned the police were conducting background checks on several people who'd been at Castle Rock on Monday night. Maybe I should do a little background checking of my own. Pulling out my laptop, I entered Shawn Stone's name into the search engine on my Internet browser. If the police wouldn't tell me about his past, maybe Google would throw me a bone.
Google gave me a whole damn skeleton.
Shawn Raymond Stone was the first cousin of Joey Stone—"The Stone Cold Kid," as the media had nicknamed him in the late nineties. I shuddered, remembering the first time I'd heard his name in the news as a child. When he was sixteen, Joey robbed the cashiers on the ground floor of his father's hotel and casino, The Magic Hat. Todd Stone punished his son by having him sent away to a youth detention center. Joey came back several years later a hardened, angry young man. His father tested him to prove he was worthy of joining the family's secret business: organized crime. Joey and a team of Todd's men pulled off a heist at a neighboring casino and brought Todd their loot. As soon as father's back was turned, Joey crushed Todd's skull with a stone from their driveway—earning his nickname. He wasn't the "forgive and forget" type.
Todd's goons wouldn't testify against Joey, and one of them even disposed of the murder weapon. Joey escaped more jail time and took over the family business, becoming the head of the largest Las Vegas mob family in recent history. The Stones practically ran Sin City, owning a surprisingly large amount of the off-Strip camouflaged behind corporate masks.
Joey had a reputation for being a ruthless businessman and an even more ruthless human being—a string of other casino owners had gone missing over the past ten years, and it was suspected that the Stone Cold Kid had grown angry with them for one reason or another and decided to silence those partners…permanently.
Shawn's name popped up in several articles regarding the family's business dealings. As Joey's closest cousin, he was his right-hand man and had been given control of four of Joey's top casinos. A year ago, Shawn abruptly left the family business to pursue a career in the music industry. Since then, he'd been Bobby Glitter's manager, and while he still called Vegas home, he had little to no involvement with Stone family casino dealings.
Frowning, I paced back and forth across the living room. So, Stone belonged to a dangerous family, but from the sound of things he was on the straight and narrow. If he was making an honest living, then whatever deal he made with Parker had to have been legal, right?
What if Shawn wasn't really out of the family business like he said he was? I thought about Kat's account of her trip to Vegas with Parker over the summer, of his mysterious bloody nose and black eye. Could Parker have crossed the Stone family somehow? He did have a penchant for gambling—maybe he'd lost money in one of their casinos and hadn't been able to pay up. The Stone Cold Kid could have sent his cousin Shawn here to settle their debt. When Parker couldn't pay what he owed, he'd taken a dive from the tower. If that was true, then Shawn was still in the family business—and he was very dangerous.
I couldn't figure out how Laura fit into things. Reese and Kat were the only plausible suspects who might have attacked her—maybe killing her was a way to throw the cops off Shawn's trail. After seeing Dixon's name on the sign-in sheet downstairs, I wondered if the mob family had some sort of leverage over him, forcing him to help take the heat off Shawn. Or maybe he was simply a corrupt cop. The reason why he may be helping them didn't really matter. What mattered was this—if the cops were on Stone's side, how could I possibly prove he was guilty?
I stopped pacing the floor as an idea struck me. The show footage from Monday night! The crew had been filming from all different angles—if anyone left the wings of the stage around the time that Parker was murdered, maybe one of the cameras picked it up. I needed to get into High Court, but it was dangerous to go alone. I couldn't get Kat involved. If we were caught, it would only incriminate her further. I grabbed my phone from the dining room table and dialed other reinforcements.
"Hey, sweetness." Tony's smooth voice emanated from my phone speaker. "I was just thinking about you." I was glad he couldn't see me blushing. I told him about my trip to the hospital and the news of Laura's death. "That's horrible," he said, his tone grim. "Ame, I'm really sorry to hear it."
"I know," I said sadly. "I am too. That's why we've got to figure out who shot her and pushed Parker. If we can find the real killer, we can clear Reese's name. He's already lost his girlfriend—he doesn't deserve to lose everything else."
I filled him in on the rest of my afternoon. I started with discovering Shawn Stone's ties to the mob and my theory that he must have murdered Parker to settle the score for something that happened in one of their casinos during his trip to Vegas with Kat. I told him about my visit with Sinclair, the threatening letter on my door, and Detective Dixon's name on the sign-in sheet at my apartment. "And he checked in at the hospital right before Laura died, too. I think Dixon's gone the rogue cop route and is working with Stone to cover up his involvement in the murders," I explained. "Laura's cousin said she was stable this afternoon, but then she suddenly just stopped breathing. Her family wasn't in the room with her when she died, so it's possible that Dixon suffocated Laura while she was unconscious and then slipped out before anyone noticed. Then he must have gone to work security at the event in my apartment building and snuck up to my floor to drop off the warning from his new mob boss before heading back to the station."
Tony seemed at a loss for words. He was quiet for several moments as he processed all my news. "Seems like you've had a pretty busy afternoon, Miss Detective," he said finally. "Never a dull moment with you, huh?" There was a smile in his words.
I chuckled softly. "My life hasn't exactly been what you'd call 'normal' this week," I admitted.
"So, what's the plan?"
I pulled up my work email on my laptop and found a message Shawn had sent m
e several weeks ago. It contained an attachment with Bobby's contract, which included a diagram that showed where all recording equipment would be set up on stage for shooting Bobby's video. "Let's see." I traced my finger across the diagram on my computer screen. "It looks like the footage for the right side of the stage is in Camera Three. If Stone left backstage at any time before Parker's fall, that camera would have caught it." I took a deep breath. "I'm going up there tonight to check out that camera."
"Count me in," Tony said. "I'll pick you up around nine-ish. I'll even take you out after." He hung up.
"It's not a date," I told myself a few minutes later. I sat on the floor of my walk-in closet, surrounded by piles of clothes, flinging hanger after hanger of shirts, skirts, and dresses backward onto my bed. Picking the perfect non-date outfit was tough! "Too formal," I said, grabbing two of the dresses and hanging them back in the closet. I eyed a pair of grey sweatpants and put them away too. "Too casual."
There was no denying the chemistry that had sparked between Tony and me—and unlike Jared, he was safe. Stable. I flushed, envisioning Tony and me on a real date, dolled up in our classiest threads for a night at the Fox Theater, or maybe strolling through Piedmont Park at night, hand in hand. Or, I thought with a delightful shiver, back here on the couch, watching a movie in the dark with a few glasses of wine. Mmm. My thoughts lingered there for another delicious moment before I mentally doused myself with cold water. I didn't have time for sexy daydreams.
After a quick shower and a not-as-quick makeup routine, I selected an outfit from the mountain of clothes strewn across my bed. I opted for cute but comfortable in a dark fuchsia sweater with skinny jeans tucked into dark grey boots. I tied back my hair with a ribbon that matched my sweater and draped a dark green scarf around my neck for added protection against the chilly November wind. Dos and Tres wound themselves around my legs, purring in approval. I paused briefly to inspect my reflection in the mirror and was also pleased with my results. I look like Daphne from Scooby Doo, I thought, amused.
I was ready to solve a mystery.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
At half past eight, I sat at my dining room table, snacking on pita chips as I waited for Tony to pick me up. Uno, my orange tabby, lay at my feet enjoying an evening siesta. I playfully poked his belly with my boot, and he rolled over to give me a questioning look before rising from his lounging space and sauntering over to my chair. I let my arm dangle at my side, and he rubbed against it, meowing. I scratched behind his ears and the spot on his back just above his tail—his favorite—and was rewarded with the low grumbling sound of kitty purrs. He blanched a moment later and ran for cover when my phone chirped on the table. It was Bronwyn. "What's up, Bron?"
"Ame! Ohmigod! I just heard about Laura," she cried. "Now she can't tell the police that Reese didn't do it." Crap. News of Laura's passing had gotten out. In all the excitement of the afternoon, I'd forgotten to notify our staff. I wondered if Kat had heard, too.
"Don't worry—I'm going to find a way to prove Reese is innocent." I tried to sound reassuring.
"How the hell are we going to do that?" she asked.
"We? Nuh-uh, girl. I'm not getting you mixed up in this," I said sternly. "Just trust me, I've got a plan."
"You know you can't talk me out of helping," she pressed. "Reese needs us." I pictured her, sitting on the other end of the line with her mouth set a stubborn pout.
"Well, uh…" I hedged, I trying to decide if it was safe to tell Bronwyn what Tony and I were up to. She was the police sergeant's daughter, and I didn't want to get the police involved until I found the evidence I needed—but, knowing Bronwyn, she was far too independent to run and tell her pops what we were up too—especially if we were trying to save Reese. She wanted just as badly as I did to prove that he was innocent. "Fine," I said, resigned. "Tony and I are going to do some re-con tonight. I still think Stone was involved in Parker's and Laura's murders, and if we can get into High Court and find the DVD footage that shows he left the stage on Monday night, we might be able to build a case against him and prove that Reese didn't do it."
"I'm coming with you." Her voice rang with resolve.
"It could be dangerous." I tried to reason with her. "We could get caught if your dad has anyone patrolling the venue tonight."
Bronwyn wasn't giving up that easily. "Come on, Ame—I want to help Reese too! Besides—if we get caught, I can talk us out of trouble with the sarge."
I considered that. Bronwyn had worked her charm on her father to keep Castle Rock open after Parker's fall, and I owed her for that. Still, the sarge would probably lock me up and throw away the key if I got his daughter mixed up with a dangerous mobster like Stone. It took another ten minutes of arguing back and forth with her for me to cave. "Fine." I sighed. "Has anyone ever told you that you'd make a good lawyer?"
"All the time." She sounded proud.
"Tony will be here at nine. If you can get here by then, you can come. If not, we're leaving without you."
Bronwyn arrived twenty minutes later, sporting dark jeans, a black sweater, and an excited grin. "This is totally like something out of a movie!" she gushed. "I hope I get to kick some bad guy ass!"
"We're not going to run into any bad guys, Bron. I'm gonna sneak into High Court, grab the memory card from the camera, and get out as soon as I can. You're going to keep a lookout. Got it?"
"Fine. Got it." She poked out her bottom lip and narrowed her eyes at me. "Where's your sense of adventure, Ame?"
"In my other purse." My phone beeped, and I glanced down to read the incoming text. "Come on. Tony is downstairs waiting for us."
Thunder rumbled as Bronwyn and I stepped out into the cold night air. I cast a glance at the dark clouds overhead. The sky was threatening to unleash a downpour at any moment. The thick, storm-charged air gave me a feeling of foreboding and fear. I hoped the weather wasn't a bad omen.
Tony was driving the 95Rox van again—I was starting to wonder if he even had a car of his own. He wore a pair of faded denim jeans, sneakers, and a black Radiohead tee that hugged his muscular torso in all the right places. I almost slapped myself to keep from drooling—he looked good enough to eat.
Tony opened the van's door and swept his hand in a grand gesture, allowing me to climb in. "Your carriage awaits, princess," he said in a horrible attempt at a British accent. "And half-pint princess," he said, spotting Bronwyn. She scowled and pushed past him to find a seat in the back.
"I couldn't talk her out of coming," I whispered as he slid into the driver's seat next to me.
"No worries." Tony threw the van into drive. Five minutes later we crept slowly along the side street next to Castle Rock with the headlights off. There were no other cars parked behind the venue tonight, not even a patrol car. My pulse eased closer to normal. So far, so good. I instructed Tony to park close to the left side of the building so that we couldn't be seen from the street.
Our trio quietly exited the van. I shuddered as we crept past the loading dock and dumpsters, which were both still sealed off with yellow police tape. The chalk outline of Parker's body had washed away in Wednesday's downpour, but I could still see him lying there every time I looked down. I shuddered.
There was no patrolman standing guard at the back door. "Someone could be back at any minute," I warned, sliding my key into the lock and pulling the door open. Lightning lit up the night sky just then, accompanied by a menacing crack of thunder. We hurried inside just as the first few raindrops began to smack against the pavement.
Once inside, we tiptoed up the stairs to the second floor. I paused at the top of the landing and listened for a moment to make sure no guard was posted. Thick and ominous silence pushed back against my eardrums, and an uneasy feeling settled into the pit of my stomach. I held my breath for several moments, listening for any signs of life in the upstairs hallway. Nothing. We were completely alone in the castle. I reached into my back pocket and pulled out my keychain with a mini-flashlight attached. I s
hone the light up and down the hall. The venue was creepy in the dark, with its cold, grey stone walls and the hallway's worn carpet. I felt like a ghost-hunter searching for spooks in the ruins of an old medieval castle. I just hoped I didn't find any.
I slowly roved my beam of light up and down the hallway, noting that nothing seemed out of place. The hallway looked exactly as it had the night I had walked out to find Reese and Parker fighting in it. I replayed in my mind everything that I knew about Parker's final moments: he had made it to the green room to drop off Bobby's beer, and he and someone else—my money was on Shawn Stone—had ended up in the tower.
"This way," I whispered. I started down the hall to the stage door. Tony and Bronwyn followed noiselessly behind me—at least, until we reached the side door of the stage. One of Tony's frayed shoelaces came untied, and he tripped over his own Sketchers. He went sprawling forward, knocking down Bron and me like a pair of dominoes. We all cried out as we toppled forward, and Bronwyn slammed against the door. It burst inward and knocked down one of the tripods, launching a camera straight into Bobby's cherished Gibson guitar, Whiskey. I cringed at the crunch of glass and jarring discord of the guitar strings. So much for being quiet.
"Remind me to kill you when this is all over," I muttered to Tony.
"Sorry." He shrugged his shoulders sheepishly and stooped to pick up the fallen camera stand.
I hurried forward to assess the damage to Bobby's guitar. Shining my light down on the instrument, I breathed a tiny sigh of relief. The camera lens had cracked, but luckily no scratches were visible on Whiskey. Close call!
I panned the flashlight slowly across the floor and surveyed the area. The curtain was closed, creating a wavy red wall between the stage and the main room of High Court. Several cables were strewn across the stage like long, black snakes slithering the length of the floor. Each cable was connected to an amp or an instrument.
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