striations in the metal?”
“Barely.” I drew back. “What does it mean?”
Dane stood and looked at me. The look on his face frightened me.
“Murder.”
THE next hour was a blur. We called the police and they arrived with sirens blaring, which, I’m sure, endeared us to the sleeping residents of Spanish Trail. We gave our statements—several times—then finally, were allowed to leave.
The clock struck three bells as I dragged my sorry ass throughthe front door of The Babylon. My brain had ceased working an hour ago, and my body was threatening mutiny. I had one last thing to check on before I headed home.
My luck appeared to be holding. Sergio still manned the front desk.
“Can you give me a quick rundown before I quit for the night?” I asked as I propped myself up against the check-in desk.
“The megamillions lady and three of her friends are ensconced in the Sodom and Gomorrah suite with their three masseurs—they requested tall, blond and decidedly male—and a feast fit for a king. I have the Ferrari waiting for the body shop to open.” He ticked them off his fingers as he recited. “Let me see, there was something else . . .”
I wish he hadn’t told me about the masseurs and Mrs. Paisley and friends. I’m very visual. I closed my eyes and tried to shut my mind to the images flashing across it. Were the young men part of the feast fit for a king? “What’s the latest on the naked stair dweller?” Another wonderful image. If I ever got to sleep, my dreams were going to be doozies.
“Ah yes, Reverend Peabody.”
“
Reverend
Peabody? You’re kidding, right? Of what church? The Church of the Seven Virgins?”
Sergio offered a tired smile. “As of last hour, the doctor had checked on him several times, and each time he was resting peacefully. However, I don’t envy him the headache he’ll have in the morning.”
“So he’s all right?”
“Yes. The doctor will keep checking on him.” Sergio paused. A slight frown creased his flawless face.
“How did you figure out who he was?”
“Security gave me the name he registered under. Needless to say, it wasn’t his real name. I put two and two together when I kept fielding calls from a lady from Iowa looking for her husband. She said he was supposed to be in his room, but he hadn’t called, and she hadn’t been able to reach him.”
“You’ve checked his room?”
Sergio nodded. “Empty. And I confirmed his identity with her—she described him to a T. At first, the wife was unwilling to tell us who he was, but I convinced her I needed to know his real name so that I might find him.”
“Did you tell the wife we had him?”
“Of course not. I wanted to talk to you first.”
“Perfect. Next time she calls, tell her that half our phone system is on the fritz, including the phone in her husband’s room, and that you personally checked on him. He is, in fact, asleep and you didn’t see any need to awaken him. In the morning, when our Reverend Peabody from Iowa awakens, give him coffee, intravenously if necessary, a hand towel for modesty’s sake, and some aspirin, then have someone bring him to my office. I should be in by nine at the latest.” I looked at my watch. “I may not be functional, but I’ll be here.”
I stepped through the front door and out into the night air. The artificial daylight created by the lights of the Strip held the darkness at bay. I paused and took a deep breath. The heat of the midsummer’s day had given way to the coolness of a high desert night. Dry and still, the air was like wine, and I drank my fill.
My nerves were as frayed as the end of a broken rope.
Try as I might, I couldn’t shake the image of Lyda Sue’s body flailing like a broken rag doll as it hurtled earthward. Could it really be murder? And on top of that, add The Big Boss’s strong hint that Paxton Dane was something less than the good guy he appeared to be.
I was toast.
My thoughts shifted to Paxton Dane. I had a
“Barely.” I drew back. “What does it mean?”
Dane stood and looked at me. The look on his face frightened me.
“Murder.”
THE next hour was a blur. We called the police and they arrived with sirens blaring, which, I’m sure, endeared us to the sleeping residents of Spanish Trail. We gave our statements—several times—then finally, were allowed to leave.
The clock struck three bells as I dragged my sorry ass throughthe front door of The Babylon. My brain had ceased working an hour ago, and my body was threatening mutiny. I had one last thing to check on before I headed home.
My luck appeared to be holding. Sergio still manned the front desk.
“Can you give me a quick rundown before I quit for the night?” I asked as I propped myself up against the check-in desk.
“The megamillions lady and three of her friends are ensconced in the Sodom and Gomorrah suite with their three masseurs—they requested tall, blond and decidedly male—and a feast fit for a king. I have the Ferrari waiting for the body shop to open.” He ticked them off his fingers as he recited. “Let me see, there was something else . . .”
I wish he hadn’t told me about the masseurs and Mrs. Paisley and friends. I’m very visual. I closed my eyes and tried to shut my mind to the images flashing across it. Were the young men part of the feast fit for a king? “What’s the latest on the naked stair dweller?” Another wonderful image. If I ever got to sleep, my dreams were going to be doozies.
“Ah yes, Reverend Peabody.”
“
Reverend
Peabody? You’re kidding, right? Of what church? The Church of the Seven Virgins?”
Sergio offered a tired smile. “As of last hour, the doctor had checked on him several times, and each time he was resting peacefully. However, I don’t envy him the headache he’ll have in the morning.”
“So he’s all right?”
“Yes. The doctor will keep checking on him.” Sergio paused. A slight frown creased his flawless face.
“How did you figure out who he was?”
“Security gave me the name he registered under. Needless to say, it wasn’t his real name. I put two and two together when I kept fielding calls from a lady from Iowa looking for her husband. She said he was supposed to be in his room, but he hadn’t called, and she hadn’t been able to reach him.”
“You’ve checked his room?”
Sergio nodded. “Empty. And I confirmed his identity with her—she described him to a T. At first, the wife was unwilling to tell us who he was, but I convinced her I needed to know his real name so that I might find him.”
“Did you tell the wife we had him?”
“Of course not. I wanted to talk to you first.”
“Perfect. Next time she calls, tell her that half our phone system is on the fritz, including the phone in her husband’s room, and that you personally checked on him. He is, in fact, asleep and you didn’t see any need to awaken him. In the morning, when our Reverend Peabody from Iowa awakens, give him coffee, intravenously if necessary, a hand towel for modesty’s sake, and some aspirin, then have someone bring him to my office. I should be in by nine at the latest.” I looked at my watch. “I may not be functional, but I’ll be here.”
I stepped through the front door and out into the night air. The artificial daylight created by the lights of the Strip held the darkness at bay. I paused and took a deep breath. The heat of the midsummer’s day had given way to the coolness of a high desert night. Dry and still, the air was like wine, and I drank my fill.
My nerves were as frayed as the end of a broken rope.
Try as I might, I couldn’t shake the image of Lyda Sue’s body flailing like a broken rag doll as it hurtled earthward. Could it really be murder? And on top of that, add The Big Boss’s strong hint that Paxton Dane was something less than the good guy he appeared to be.
I was toast.
My thoughts shifted to Paxton Dane. I had a
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