Lounge Singers And Liars In Las Vegas

by A. R. Winters

  Nadia gave him a withering look. “No. I’m telling you. All the signs point to Roger killing her.”

  Ian pressed on. “Maybe someone visited Alicia at her house and they were wearing gloves.”

  Nadia stared at him in silent exasperation for a few seconds, and then finally said, “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. You’re coming up with one excuse after another. Roger killed Alicia, and that’s that. He needs to pay for it.”

  “By getting blamed for a murder he didn’t commit?” asked Ian.

  Nadia rolled her eyes. “I can see you guys are set on getting the killer freed. I’m done with you two.”

  She marched over to the other protestors, grabbed her sign, and began chanting loudly. “They’re trying to free a killer!” She pointed at us, and the rest of the protestors spun around, staring. “They’re as bad as Hitler! They’re as bad as Hitler!”

  The rest of the protestors joined in the chant. “They’re trying to free a killer! They’re as bad as Hitler! They’re as bad as Hitler!”

  My jaw dropped. I hadn’t seen this one coming!

  People were starting to turn and stare at us, and Ian squirmed uncomfortably.

  “Let’s go,” he muttered. “I don’t like being compared to Hitler.”

  “Me neither,” I agreed. “Let’s get out of here!”

  We rushed into the Tremonte, since that seemed to be the closest escape. All the while, Nadia and her crew kept chanting and jeering at us.

  “She doesn’t seem nice,” Ian complained.

  I tried to see the issue from her perspective. “She thinks Roger killed her sister. And she wants to do whatever she can to see him blamed for a murder. Even if it’s someone else’s murder. And she suddenly has a lot less time to see her mission through.”

  “I don’t like this,” Ian grumbled. “I don’t like Nadia, and I don’t like the idea that Roger killed Alicia.”

  I let out a breath. “You’re right. I don’t like it either. We should’ve done more research on Alicia’s disappearance, but we didn’t. Since we’re here anyway, let’s go talk to Roger and see what’s got to say about it.”

  Chapter 23

  We headed up to Roger’s suite without calling ahead. I figured we were already here, so we had nothing to lose.

  Ian knocked on the door to Roger’s suite loudly, and for a few long moments, there was absolutely no response. We couldn’t hear any noise coming from inside. So we waited a whole, long minute, and then Ian knocked again.

  This time, after a few moments, we heard the noise of shuffling feet, and then Roger’s voice called out, “Did you leave something behind?”

  He opened the door and saw Ian and me, and his face fell. “Oh. You guys.”

  “You seem excited to see us,” I said.

  Roger looked disheveled. He was wearing a robe over red-and-white checkerboard pajamas, and his hair was pointing out in all directions, except in one spot, where it was plastered flat. The lines on his face seemed to be etched deeper, and he rubbed the back of his hand against bleary eyes.

  “Come in,” he yawned. “I’m beat.”

  “Fun night?” Ian asked.

  Roger grinned. “The best. I had—” he took one look at me and decided against regaling us with tales of his adventures “—a great time,” he finished lamely.

  I tried not to look too disapproving.

  Here was a guy, accused of murder, and caught on video stuffing a body into an oven—and he was clearly living it up.

  “Your show’s gotten a lot more popular,” Ian said.

  Roger beamed proudly. “Yep! And there’s paparazzi outside the hotel, waiting for me, just like old times!”

  “I guess you’re doing well,” I said dryly.

  “Don’t be like that.” We all settled down in the suite’s living room, and then Roger got up. “So I had a bit of fun.” He headed over to the kitchen and put a pod into his pod coffee machine before pressing a button. Coffee spurted out, the machine making a racket like it was working extra hard, and then Roger grabbed his mug and joined us again. “A guy deserves some fun, right?”

  He sipped his coffee, and Ian said, “Are you going to brush your hair? It’s bothering me.”

  Roger laughed like Ian was joking, but I knew he wasn’t. Roger’s hair was bothering me, too—why was one spot plastered down like that? “I’ll take a shower in a bit,” Roger said in a placating tone.

  He took a long sip of his coffee and yawned loudly. Then he stretched his legs out in front of himself and leaned back. “God,” he said. “I feel rough! Last night was a blast, but I’m not as young as I used to be, am I?”

  I rolled my eyes, trying to tamp down my annoyance at this man child.

  “Why didn’t you call ahead? Roger asked.

  I looked at the kitchen again. There were empty, stained wine glasses placed next to the sink, and a glass full of what looked like whiskey. The place stank of alcohol and God knows what else, and I twisted around to peer through the half-open door into the suite’s bedroom. I could make out pillows and sheets thrown onto the floor, and I stifled my sigh and turned back to face Roger.

  He didn’t seem to have noticed me peering around, and now sat with his head thrown back and his eyes closed. Finally, he groaned and lifted his head, looking at us again. “What did you say you wanted?”

  “I didn’t,” I said, trying not to sound snippy. “I’m working for you as a PI and I had a few more questions. Questions that could help you out.” Or put you in a more damning light, I thought, but I kept that thought to myself.

  Roger groaned again. “I still feel half-asleep. Can you give me five minutes? I’ll go have a quick shower, then we can order room service and talk over some food.”

  Visions of croissants and breakfast muffins filled my head. It was just past midday, but I wouldn’t mind a nice, fluffy croissant—maybe with some melted cheese and tomatoes inside. Or maybe one of those chocolate-filled croissants. Or even one of those nice almond-flavored croissants with sliced roasted almonds drizzled on top under a layer of syrupy goodness.

  As I was dreaming about my food, Roger disappeared and closed the bedroom door. We heard the noise of running water, and I snapped out of my reverie.

  “How many days has it been?” Ian whispered to me. “This guy dies, Roger gets semi-famous, and he’s back to partying like a rock star.”

  “Like an aging rock star,” I reminded Ian unkindly.

  I got up, using our five-window minute to snoop around the kitchen. There weren’t any empty bottles lying around, so I guessed Roger had thrown out the trash—or more likely called for housekeeping to come and take out the trash.

  Other than enough food and alcohol to feed a small group of partiers, there wasn’t anything of note in his kitchen. The place seemed fairly modest for a man who must’ve been used to grander digs in his youth, and I wondered if Roger would try to capitalize on his newfound fame. Then I realized it wasn’t a matter of if but just how Roger would try to make the most of the publicity. The old adage “no press is bad press” seemed to be at play here.

  The sound of running water stopped, and I went and sat back down with Ian, who was reading something on his phone.

  “What’s that?” I asked him.

  “TMZ went through old reports on Alicia’s disappearance. It’s what we’ve heard from Nadia so far. Nothing new.”

  I pulled up my phone and checked my messages—nothing new—and Roger walked in, looking much better than he had when we’d first arrived.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting,” he said. “I can’t function most mornings without a cold shower. Coffee doesn’t do the same trick.”

  Ian glanced at his watch, and Roger smiled. “Yeah, yeah, I know it’s past twelve. So I slept in a bit. I had a long night.”

  “We’ve heard,” Ian said. “How about some food?”

  Roger pulled out the room service menu and handed it over to us. It was extensive, but Roger insisted he’d gotten i
t memorized in all his years of staying at the Tremonte. “I don’t go out to eat much,” he said. “I’ve become a bit of a shut-in.”

  “I guess that’s easy to happen,” I said, feeling a little more charitable toward Roger again, now that he was buying us food. “I wouldn’t mind a chocolate croissant. And maybe a chocolate-chip muffin. I’m in the mood for fluffy baked goods with chocolate in them.”

  “I’ll have the same,” Ian said.

  Roger put away the menu and called through to place our order—he got chili, scrambled eggs, and toast for himself, with a side of mushrooms, hash browns, thin beef sausages, and bacon—and then he sat down again to chat with us.

  “Have you found anything new?” he asked.

  I thought about Pete, Anastacia, and Gregory. “Nothing I can reveal yet,” I said, not caring that I sounded cagey. “I’m really here to talk about Nadia Tumal.”

  Roger rolled his eyes. “That pain in the butt.”

  “I can see how you don’t like her,” I said steadily, “but she does think you killed her sister.”

  Roger snorted. “Then she shouldn’t have slept with me.”

  My jaw dropped. “After Alicia disappeared?”

  “No,” Roger tilted his head and thought back. “Before she disappeared.”

  “Wowzers,” Ian said, sounding as dumbstruck as I felt. “You slept with your sister’s fiancé?”

  “It was a different time back then,” said Roger defensively.

  “We aren’t talking about the sixties here,” said Ian. “You really did get around!”

  I nudged Ian to shut up. I didn’t need him offending our client. What I did need was for our client to talk.

  “Tell us more,” I said quickly. “What happened between you and Nadia?”

  “Well,” Roger twisted the band of his watch around and around. “I met Alicia first, through work. We hit it off—we were good friends. We both knew what it was like to be a celebrity, all the pressure that comes with that.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And anyway, one thing led to another. Then I met her sister, Nadia. Nadia was a hoot. She was really out there, you know? One of those activist types, out to save the world. She was different from people I knew back in Hollywood—the fakers. So she and I hit off, too.”

  “And you became more than just friends.”

  “Exactly.” Roger nodded, glad I understood. “So, yeah, we slept together a bit. It was just some fun.”

  There was a loud knock on the door, and a voice called out, “Room service!”

  I smiled despite the horrible story Roger had just been telling us, and my smile grew even brighter as a doorman wheeled in the large cart. Roger gave him a tip, and after the man left, we all picked out our food and dug in.

  There was silence for a few minutes as we ate. I took a bite of my fluffy croissant and was pleased with my choice; it seemed to suit my mood. It was still warm, and the inside was filled with melting chocolate and a thin layer of delicious custard that didn’t overpower the chocolate.

  After a few bites, I asked, “Did Alicia know?”

  “Hell, no!” Roger paused with his fork mid-air and gave me a look like I was stupid. “What girl wants to know you’re doing her sister on the side?”

  I tried not to grimace. “So why’d you do it then?”

  “Well…” Roger laid his loaded fork back on his plate and looked off into the distance. “That was a different time. We were different people. I had this life, finally—I had fame, freedom, people hanging on my every word. I wasn’t a real popular kid growing up, so I lapped it up. I wanted everyone’s approval. I wanted all the women I could get, I’m not ashamed to admit.” Quite the contrary: he seemed proud of that fact, I thought to myself.

  Roger went on, “Alicia knew I was no saint. She knew what kind of life I lived. She knew I was seeing other people on the side. We weren’t exclusive or anything.”

  “She just didn’t know you were sleeping with her sister, too.”

  “Hey,” Roger lifted his hands, palms up, “it was hard to say no. Nadia was sure beautiful back then.”

  “Oh-kay.”

  “Anyhow,” Roger said, “I ended it with Nadia soon.”

  “Why? You seemed to be having such a good time.”

  Roger smiled. “I decided to ask Alicia to marry me.”

  “Oh.” This was so different from the life Roger had just been talking about. My surprise must’ve been apparent.

  Roger nodded, pleased with himself. “Yup. I realized I would never find a girl like Alicia again. Not one who understood me so well. She was someone in the business, she was gorgeous, and she didn’t have any weird issues, you know. Plus, my agent said it would be good for business.”

  I tried not to groan out loud and ignored the twisting feeling in the pit of my stomach. So much for love.

  “So,” I said, finishing the last bite of my chocolate croissant, “you thought you needed to be exclusive in order to marry Alicia?”

  Roger laughed. “Hah, no! Alicia knew what she was getting in to. I mean, we liked each other, but we weren’t delusional, right? She knew this marriage wouldn’t last more than a year or two—I mean, the fans would be upset, but we’d explain it away. Or we could fake it a few more years, separate houses in separate states, you know how it goes in Hollywood.”

  No, I didn’t know. But I decided to nod along and pretend like I understood.

  I picked up my chocolate-chip muffin and considered it. It was smaller than I’d hoped, but it was still warm. “Then why’d you end things with Nadia?”

  Roger ran a hand through his hair. He looked vaguely guilty. “Well,” he said. He took another bite of his hash browns and chewed thoughtfully. “Alicia knew we weren’t exclusive. She could see other guys on the side, too.”

  “Did she?” asked Ian, who’d already gobbled down his muffin and was eyeing mine hopefully.

  Roger looked slightly affronted. “No, of course not. She had me. But she could’ve—if she wanted to. She just didn’t want to.”

  Again, I felt that twisting in my stomach. Poor Alicia. Maybe she wasn’t as aware of their non-exclusivity as Roger thought she was. Or more likely, Roger just claimed they’d been non-exclusive in order to justify his behavior.

  “So,” I said, “Alicia knew you weren’t exclusive. But she didn’t know you were sleeping with her sister.”

  Roger nodded. “Exactly.”

  “And,” I said, “you knew she’d forgive you for some things, but not other things.”

  “I guess, if you put it like that,” said Roger.

  I chewed my muffin thoughtfully. “You ended things with Nadia before you proposed to Alicia.”

  “Yes,” said Roger. “I didn’t need Alicia finding out.”

  “Did she?”

  “No.”

  “So what happened?”

  Roger finished up the last of his food, then went off to make himself another mug of coffee. The machine made its usual noise of complaint, and then coffee hissed out and the room was filled with the strong aroma of freshly brewed coffee.

  Roger came and sat back down opposite us again. “Have you read the police report?”

  “No,” I said, “But we’ve done some research.”

  “Then you know the story.”

  “Yes, but we’d like to hear it from you.”

  He took a sip of coffee and looked past my shoulder. His eyes had a strange, haunted look to them. When he spoke, his voice was flat and monotone.

  “I was out ‘til late. I came home and Alicia wasn’t home. She wasn’t home the next morning. I started to get a bit worried. I called around—no one had seen her. I called the police. They said I needed to wait forty-eight hours to make a missing person’s report and reassured me she’d likely show up.” He took a deep breath and continued. “She didn’t show up. I filed a missing person’s report. A few days later, there was no news, so they presumed her to be dead.”

  Roger finally looked me
in the eye. “Is that what you read?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why ask me?”

  I’d been hoping to get a read on him while he told his side of the story—some emotion, some tell. But there was nothing. “I was hoping to learn something new. But you seem to have told your story many times.”

  “Many, many times.” His eyes were dead, almost unseeing. “All those times in the past—first when I was a superstar, right up ‘til my star began to fade.”

  And now it’s rising again, I thought to myself. “Were you surprised how angry the fans got?”

  Roger nodded. “You start to believe in people. You think people will support you. But fans are fickle. They turn on a dime.”

  Silence hung in the air for a few seconds. Then Roger got up suddenly, walking to the bedroom.

  He returned with a brown leather wallet in his hand.

  “This is her,” he said, fishing out an old photo. “Alicia and me.”

  The two had their heads close, leaning in together. The shot was from just below their shoulders up. Roger seemed to be wearing a tux, and Alicia was wearing an aquamarine low-cut gown, her hair piled up high on her head. Both were smiling happily for the camera.

  In the photo, Roger had one arm around Alicia’s shoulders, and Alicia had raised her left arm to her shoulder. The glint of the massive engagement ring was caught by the camera.

  “The day after our engagement.” There was a slight break in Roger’s voice. “That was the day I hit peak popularity.”

  I nodded, studying the photo. Ian leaned over my shoulder, staring.

  “I like her locket,” he said, pointing.

  “So do I.”

  Roger took the photo from me and stared at it, as though seeing it for the first time. “Yes, the pendant. I got that for her with the ring.”

  He handed the photo back to me, and I looked closely at the pendant. It was the shape of a large daisy, delicate strands of gold around a center diamond. “It must’ve cost a fortune.”

  “I was rich back then,” Roger said drily.

  “What happened to the pendant and ring?”

  Roger shrugged. “Alicia was wearing them when she went missing.”