Justice Betrayed

by Patricia Bradley

  “A vegetarian pizza made with a cauliflower crust.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re a health food nut.”

  “No. Gran is.” She turned into the parking garage and saw him standing by his car. Rachel pocketed her phone and pulled in beside his car. “How is Culver?”

  “It’s still touch and go. His blood sugar isn’t dropping as drastically when they try to wean him off the medicine, and he’s off the vent. The nurse thought he should be alert enough tomorrow for me to ask him questions.”

  “Maybe we’ll get some answers then,” she said as they crossed Beale Street. “Busy here tonight.”

  He nodded toward the entrance to Blues & Such where tourists were streaming in. “Yeah. Everyone looks like they’re going to the same place we are.”

  Inside the café, strains of “That’s All Right, Mama” rocked the building as they worked their way to the door they’d gone through just last night. She scanned the crowd to see if Donna was there but didn’t find her. The fans went crazy when the song ended, clapping and whistling. It was a little quieter as they stepped into the backstage area.

  “Well, if it isn’t the Bobbsey Twins.”

  She turned. Monica Carpenter leaned against the wall with a coffee cup in her hands. For some reason, her body language was more relaxed, and she definitely had a better attitude than earlier in the day. “You’re dating yourself,” Rachel replied.

  “What can I say? They were a part of my generation.” She took a sip from the cup. “This generation doesn’t know what they’re missing. What are you looking for this time?”

  “Just answers to questions,” Boone said.

  “What? You’re not finished with me?”

  Her voice had lost its usual sarcasm, and Rachel wondered if there was anything other than coffee in the cup, because she was definitely warmer.

  “Actually, no.” He pointed to a camera. “I’d like to view the video from Friday and Saturday.”

  “Sorry. No clue about that. You’ll have to talk to the manager.”

  While Boone went to find the manager, Rachel said, “Is Lucinda Vetch here yet?”

  Monica walked to the door and scanned the audience. “Third table, the blonde in the black strapless top.”

  Lucinda Vetch looked nothing like Rachel had expected. She’d pictured a lonely older woman, maybe overweight. Not this blonde bombshell with her arms raised and moving to the beat of the music. Since she didn’t look like she was leaving anytime soon, Rachel pulled out a list of performers she’d made from the photos at her grandmother’s house and handed it to Monica. “Do you recognize any of these names?”

  She looked over the list. “A few of them. They used to perform at some of the events I put together. Where did you get these names?”

  “On the back of photos that were taken when Harrison Foxx won the contest seventeen years ago. Are any of them here tonight?” Last night they had not questioned any of the performers about Foxx’s case.

  Monica looked at the list again. “Daryl Cook. I saw him a few minutes ago.”

  Boone had interviewed him last night. “Where?”

  Monica nodded toward the stage.

  Rachel turned. She’d noticed Cook was one of the better-looking singers and was about her age, maybe a little older. He was about to take the stage. She would catch him when he finished. “Are you sure you don’t remember seeing Vic Vegas talking to someone Friday night?”

  Hesitation crossed her face before she set the coffee cup on a nearby table. “I’m sorry, but I was busy, and my coffee break is over. I have work to do.”

  Monica Carpenter definitely knew more than she was saying.

  “Get anything more from her?” Boone asked when he returned.

  “Not tonight.” Tomorrow, at her condo, would be a different story. “Lucinda Vetch is here.” Rachel pointed her out to Boone. “She’s next on my list to interview. How about you? Did you get the video?”

  “I’m going to tap into their feed as soon as we finish here.”

  She nodded. “I’ll catch Jerome and then talk to Ms. Vetch.”

  “Why don’t I talk to her?”

  “Sounds good.” Boone would probably get more out of the lady than Rachel. While he threaded his way through the crowd, she walked over to where the emcee stood in the wings waiting for Cook to finish. “Do you have a minute?” she asked.

  “That’s about all I have. Daryl should be finished soon.”

  “Did you see the basket Randy Culver received last night?”

  He frowned. “Not really. Flowers, baskets, so many of them arrived Friday and Saturday that I stopped noticing who got what.”

  “Did you notice anyone around Culver’s basket?”

  “No. Did someone take something from his basket?”

  “Someone stole his bottled water.”

  He turned his head toward the stage to watch Cook. “So, someone grabbed a water.”

  “Someone also switched out the insulin in his travel bag.”

  Jerome snapped his attention back to Rachel. “What? Are you sure? How do you know?”

  “Because the vial he had in his bag had insulin five times stronger than what was on the label.”

  “That doesn’t make sense. Why would anyone do that?”

  “I was hoping you could tell me.”

  He shook his head. “Everyone likes Randy. Unless . . .”

  “Unless what?”

  “He is the favorite to win the Supreme Elvis next Saturday. Daryl’s the odds-on second.” He glanced toward the stage. “Look, I gotta get on stage in less than a minute.”

  “One more quick question. Did you see Vic Vegas talking to anyone Friday night?”

  He rubbed the back of his perfectly coiffed blond hair, being careful not to disturb the style. “He talked to everyone.”

  “Did he talk to you?”

  “Yeah. He pigeonholed me just before stage time. Asking questions about Harrison Foxx. Like I would remember anything about that time.”

  “You don’t?”

  “That’s when I was doing a little weed.” He held his thumb and forefinger together like he was holding a joint. “Well, not a little. A lot. Pretty well stoned, so those days are kind of hazy.”

  Daryl Cook ended his song and Jerome said, “Gotta go.”

  She caught the singer as he bounded off stage. “That was good,” she said. “Can I have a minute of your time?”

  “I told that other detective all I know last night.”

  “It never hurts to tell it again.” She asked him the same question about Culver’s basket, and he scratched his ear.

  “Maybe.”

  Her heart caught. “Could you elaborate?”

  “The basket was here when I arrived. Sitting right beside one for me, only it was bigger than mine. We usually leave them on the table, but I noticed later someone had moved them both. By the way, I much prefer a goody basket to flowers,” he said with a grin. “In case you’re wondering.”

  She ignored his comment. “Did you see anyone fooling around with the baskets?”

  He winced. “Oh, man! I forgot all about seeing a brunette grab the water out of it after Randy collapsed. Just figured she was thirsty.”

  “Can you describe her?”

  He scratched his jaw. “Not really, other than she wore something big and flowing. It reached the floor.”

  “Would you recognize her if you saw her again?”

  “I didn’t really get a good look at her face, just that she was a brunette. I couldn’t even tell you how old she was.”

  “How about Vic Vegas? How well did you know him?”

  “I’ve hung out with him over the years. Nice guy. But he’d bug the daylights out of you about Harrison Foxx’s murder.”

  “What do you remember about that?”

  “Not much. Never particularly liked Foxx. He was always stringing at least two or three women along. Wouldn’t surprise me if one of them didn’t kill him.”

 
; “You don’t happen to remember some of their names, do you?”

  He scratched the side of his cheek. “Naw. There are always women hanging around a stage. And his women were a little too old for me.”

  “Did you see Vic talking to anyone Friday night?”

  “Didn’t pay much attention to Vic, either. Probably anyone who’d talk to him.”

  Monica called Daryl’s name, and he shrugged. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to get my picture taken.”

  For the next hour, Rachel interviewed the other contestants one after another to the backdrop of ballads, hymns, and rock and roll. If anyone remembered seeing Randy Culver’s basket arrive, they didn’t remember anything else about it. Everyone was focused on the singers until Randy Culver’s collapse.

  When she questioned them about Vic Vegas, a couple of the performers remembered seeing him talking to different people, but no single description. A blonde, a redhead, a brunette. He evidently talked to men and women. But no one mentioned an argument or even a deep discussion. Hopefully, Randy Culver would be able to give them more information on the person he saw with Vic.

  28

  “DEPUTY LOCK”—ANDI HOLLISTER, the reporter for WLTZ, pointed the microphone at the US Deputy Marshal—“are you saying the police detective who received the ricin was not in danger?”

  “I didn’t say that. I said the ricin the officer received was inactive.”

  “Why would someone do that? Do you think it was a warning?”

  “Possibly. Or perhaps the sender didn’t know that ricin loses its toxicity rather quickly.” He looked into the camera. “But we will apprehend the person responsible. Not that many companies use ricin in their research. It’s just a matter of tracing the chemical to its point of origin. This person will be caught and put in prison.”

  Prison was not an option. And the marshal would never trace this ricin. With a click, the TV screen went black. But the ricin wasn’t active? She’d gone to all that trouble for nothing? At the very least, Shirley had been counting on the ricin to put Rachel in the hospital.

  But Rachel hadn’t opened the package, had called Boone Callahan instead. She was proving to be a smarter opponent than Shirley expected. “I’m smarter than you, Detective Sloan,” she muttered. “You were just luckier this time.”

  She paced her den. It’d been bad luck the detective was at Blues & Such when Culver collapsed. And grabbed the blue travel bag, making it impossible to switch the bottles again. Otherwise, no one would have questioned the coma or known the bottle contained the wrong insulin. She ground her teeth.

  Her father’s maniacal laugh filled her head. You can’t do anything right, can you, girl? Now the police will be looking for you.

  Shirley rubbed her temple. “The police will not be looking for me. No one saw me make the switch.”

  She’d hidden the small medical bag in the fold of her caftan and taken it to the ladies’ room, where she made the switch and changed into her regular clothes. Getting the medical bag back to Randy’s table had been easy—she’d hidden it under her shirt and made sure she never faced the cameras in the room.

  But she couldn’t let Randy Culver tell Rachel about the necklace, and since he was out of her reach now, she’d have to get rid of Rachel. And that would silence Shirley’s father’s voice once and for all.

  But a new plan would have to be put into place. In the corner of the room, a .22 caliber Browning rifle braced against the wall. This was a riskier plan and would require a disguise just in case someone saw her in the area.

  Thirty minutes later, a quick look in the mirror confirmed the disguise was perfect. A short red wig and the scruffy red beard was a nice touch. Now to see where Rachel was. Putting the tracker in the wheel of her car had been a good idea.

  Still downtown. Good. There was time to get in place before she drove home.

  29

  AS BOONE APPROACHED Lucinda Vetch’s table, she eyed him like he was a T-bone steak. “Mind if I sit?” he asked. The musicians had taken a break, so at least he didn’t have to shout.

  Her gaze rested on the gun he wore, and a slow smile spread across her tanned face. “Big guy, you surely can. What’s your name?”

  Oh, great. A badge bunny. “Lt. Boone Callahan, ma’am.”

  “Well, Boone, have a seat. You don’t mind if I call you Boone, do you? What can I do for you?”

  As he’d walked toward her, he’d found it hard to tell how old she was, but when he sat down he could see the crow’s feet around her eyes along with tiny lines framing her lips. Late forties, he figured, maybe even midfifties. “I’m investigating the murder of a man I believe you were once acquainted with. Harrison Foxx.”

  The transformation was instant. Her eyes hardened, and she clenched her jaw. “Let me know when you find out who killed the dirty, two-timing sleazeball. I’d like to pay for their lawyer.”

  “I take it you weren’t fond of Foxx.”

  “Nope.” A waitress set a glass of red wine in front of Lucinda, and she signed her name on the tab. “But since you know who I am, you’re already aware of that. For the record, I didn’t kill him.”

  “Do you have any ideas on who might have?”

  She raised the drink to her lips and took a long sip. After she set the glass down, she tilted her head. “That happened a long time ago. Why are you investigating it now?”

  “Does it matter? A man is dead and I want to find his killer. Tell me about your relationship with him.”

  “It wasn’t much of a relationship. I was one of many on his string of wealthy girlfriends. He took my money and bought gifts for them.”

  “Do you remember any of their names?”

  “Do you want the names of those who wanted to do him in, or just generally?”

  “Let’s start with the first.”

  “Other than me, Monica Carpenter would be next on my list of those who wanted to kill him.”

  “Why Monica?”

  Lucinda took another sip of wine. “She really thought he was going to marry her. And then there was one of the women working backstage at the contests that year. A dancer.” She flipped a strand of the platinum hair back. “Terri was a mousy little thing. I was more worried about her killing herself than killing him.”

  “Anyone else?”

  She lifted her gaze upward. After a few seconds, she shifted her focus back to Boone. “There was another woman who hung around him, overweight, not really his type. Don’t remember her name. And there was no love lost between him and a few of the other tribute artists. About the only friend he had in the business was Vic Vegas.”

  “Do you know all the tribute artists?”

  “Only the best ones.” She waved her glass toward the stage. “I have a stressful career, and this is my downtime.”

  “What do you do?”

  “I run a modeling agency.” She shuddered. “You haven’t lived until you manage a group of prima donnas.”

  He jotted the information on his notepad. “Do you remember where you were the night Foxx was murdered?”

  She considered his question and then shook her head. “Afraid not. One forgets a lot in seventeen years.”

  “How about Vic Vegas and Randy Culver? Any idea of who would want them dead?”

  “Do you think what happened to them is connected to Harrison Foxx’s death?”

  “It’s possible. Were you here Friday night?” When she nodded, he asked, “Did you see Vegas talking to anyone Friday night?”

  She turned and scanned the room. “The way he was out here working the crowd, you would’ve thought he was competing, but no one stands out in my memory. Have you checked the security video?”

  From the corner of his eye, he saw Rachel approaching. “Not yet, but I will.” He took out one of his cards and handed it to her. “If you remember anything related to Vegas’s or Foxx’s deaths, give me a call.”

  Lucinda glanced at the card, then lifted her gaze and winked at him. “I will, Lieutenant.”
>
  “Did you learn anything?” Rachel asked when he joined her.

  He told her what little he’d discovered and then said, “You want to go back to the CJC and watch the video?”

  “What I want to do is take a run and clear my head, but I’m good with looking at the security videos.” She put away her notepad. “Of course, if you’re up to it, we can always stop by the gym on the way home and get in a couple of miles on the treadmill.”

  “Won’t the place be closed?”

  “I have twenty-four-hour access,” she said, giving him a smug grin.

  Which probably explained why she always beat his time in the personal fitness tests.

  30

  BOONE SET HIS LAPTOP on the conference table and booted it up. It’d been a long day, but the first forty-eight hours were crucial in an investigation. They’d gathered a lot of information, and maybe the video feed would give them more.

  Rachel sat beside him with her laptop so they could view more than one feed at a time. The light fragrance he’d noticed earlier still lingered, reminding him of honeysuckle. He refocused and typed in the information the security company gave him. The live feed popped up on the screen, divided up into five frames. Two outside cameras, three inside.

  “The tech said to go to file, then archives, and find the time frame we want,” he said. “And we can speed the film up so we’re not here all night.”

  Once they had the files opened, he clicked on Saturday and started the film rolling at 5:00 p.m., thirty minutes before the first basket arrived.

  “I’ll take camera one,” she said, tapping on her mouse pad.

  It showed the entrance and front tables. Anyone coming or going would show up. “I’ll take camera three—backstage,” Boone said.

  Half an hour later, Rachel nudged him. “I think we have something here.”

  Boone shifted toward her. “What is it?”

  “Someone is delivering a basket.” She backed the film up.

  The front door opened, and a delivery person carried in a basket. The images were dark, like there was too much sunlight in the background. He couldn’t tell if it was the basket Culver grabbed a bottle from. “Pause the feed right there where you can see the ribbon. Can you read what’s on it?”