THANKFULLY, THE rest of our lunch passed in idle, more benign, conversation. Flash regaled me with her latest romantic conquest, while I sipped my wine and pretended not to be horrified. The woman left broken hearts scattered in her wake—a plethora of men used, abused, and totally ruined.
“One day you are going to meet a guy who can give as good as he gets.” I shook my head, then drained the last drop of wine. “Paybacks are hell, girlfriend.”
“My problem is I’m always hooking up with second-stringers, bottom-feeders looking for a meal ticket. I seem to scare away the quality meat.”
“You do come on a bit strong. My mother used to tell me that, while men like a challenge, they don’t want to be bludgeoned until they’re on the ropes.” I had no idea why I was spouting life-according-to-Mona-isms. After all, she wasn’t the most reliable authority on men who didn’t expect to pay for sex.
“What are you suggesting?”
Despite the challenge in Flash’s voice, I waded into battle. “Tone down that effusive personality and dim the lightbulb. Sorta ease them into it—like putting a lobster in a pot of cold water, then turning up the heat. By the time they realize something’s wrong, they’re cooked.”
“Subterfuge, I like it.” She gave me an evil grin and waggled her eyebrows at me.
“Mother always told me I was smart enough to play dumb. While that is overstating, you do need to learn the benefits of the soft-sell.”
“Is that how you got Teddie? He’s totally a keeper.”
“Unfortunately, I’m not very good at playing games. That’s why I spent decades alone.” I eyed my plate, the food now cold, and thought about snaking another egg roll. I didn’t want a repeat performance of yesterday’s swoon. But I couldn’t work myself up to fried food that had gone soft, oozing grease. “With Teddie, I went the straightforward route: I hit him with a club, then dragged him back to my lair, and chained him to my bed.”
“Bold.”
“And a lie,” I admitted with a sigh. “It was actually Teddie who used the straightforward method. First, he was my best friend, then he kissed me in Delilah’s Bar and proceeded to show me he loved me. I couldn’t resist.”
“Jeez, who would want to?” Flash bounced to her feet, gave her mouth a swipe with her napkin, then threw it back on the table. “Are you finished? I gotta run. Tortilla Padilla is putting on a show for the press. Fighters aren’t my normal gig, but he’s such a tasty morsel, I can’t resist a chance to catch him without his shirt.”
“I’m headed there myself.” We walked to the front counter, where I added a tip to the bill and paid it. “And, for the record,” I said. “He’s married with fifteen children.”
Flash stared at me, momentarily speechless. “Fifteen?”
I nodded, and shrugged.
“Heck of a price to pay. Guess he must be prime meat.” Flash reasoned.
“Maybe so, but it doesn’t sound like he spends much time on the hoof, so to speak.”
Flash shot me an appreciative grin as she hooked her arm through mine. “So he’s taken. That doesn’t mean we can’t drool.”
The girl had a point.
The Babylon’s Grand Arena, Las Vegas’s largest venue with seating for over thirty thousand fans, had hosted performers of every persuasion, from aging rockers to flamenco guitarists, from circus performers to Cirque du Soleil traveling shows, from exhibition basketball to bull riders. Patrons entered on the highest level, then filtered down to seats sloping to a sunken floor. Suspended from the ceiling high overhead, a latticework of scaffolding and walkways dangled like a net over the crowd. Depending on the show, lights, speakers, backdrops, stage sets, and the occasional warbler riding a crescent moon could be permanently affixed or raised and lowered using a series of cables and high-torque motors. Fights didn’t require much staging—only lights—so the walkways above were empty.
A huge screen had been erected at the far end of the arena so the patrons who had paid several hundred dollars apiece to sit in the nosebleed section could actually see the fight. Standing at one of the entrances, I realized the screen wasn’t superfluous, it was essential. The ring, erected on a raised platform in the middle of the floor, looked tiny from up here. And the boxers bouncing around in it looked more like toy figures ready for a game of sandbox war than grown men doing battle.
Standing in what would be the VIP section on Saturday night, a throng encircled the ring. Flash bounded down the stairs, taking two at a time—a feat in her stilettos—and pushed her way to ringside. As I took a more prudent journey to the floor, Flash squeezed in next to Paxton Dane. Apparently she greeted him, because I saw him turn and grin in response. Flash and Dane? Now that would be a pair. Was the world ready?
Ever the showman, Tortilla Padilla seemed to expand in front of a crowd, becoming larger-than-life. With each ooohh or aaahh from his admiring onlookers, he taunted his sparring partner, egging him on. The man would throw a punch, Tortilla would dodge then counter, punishing the hapless fellow. At the nauseating whump of his well-landed punch, Tortilla would raise his arms, urging the crowd to show its appreciation.
Leaning back against the railing in front of the first raised section, I crossed my arms and closed my eyes. With two nights of iffy sleep and the morning I had had, I was running on fumes, too tired even to eat, which for me was a sign of impending death. Maybe I could catch a couple of winks this afternoon.
Lost in thought, I wasn’t aware that Jerry had sidled in next to me until he spoke.
“You look like crap.”
I didn’t move, but opened one eye. “I keep wondering why I keep you as a friend. It must be because you’re so good at brightening my day. What are you doing here?”
“I’m running security checks for the fight,” he said. “And you?”
“In theory, I’m here to solve any problems that might arise during this punch-fest for the press.”
“So you’re not a fight fan?”
“Fighters are a bunch of overblown egos sacrificing their brains, what little they have, for the almighty dollar.” That came out a bit harsher than I intended, so I elaborated. “I find the whole thing barbaric.” I’m not sure that softened my response any.
Jerry gave me a sardonic grin. “I’ll take that as a no.”
Something flashed across the few synapses of mine that were actually firing. “Do you have a minute?”
“Sure, what’s up?” Jerry looked interested.
“Let’s find a couple of seats, then I’ll tell you.”
We trooped halfway up the stairs, then out into one of the empty sections where I chose two spots. Once settled, I said, “Remember the tape from the other night—the one of the twelfth floor.”
“Yeah, I was the one who actually spliced that one together, so I remember it well.”
“When Daniel left the room, he shielded his face. Do you remember which side?”
Jerry closed his eyes, and sat stock still, as if rewinding, then reviewing the tape in his head. “The left. Why?”
“One of those two women hit him.”
Jerry looked at me as if I’d grown a second head. “No way.”
“He didn’t have a problem with his eye when I saw him in the laundry room. Then, a short while later, he shields his face as he leaves. And this morning he has a well-advanced shiner.” I looked square at Jerry. “Daniel wasn’t hiding his identity—we already knew that. He was hiding his eye. I’m sure of it.”
“Somebody could have punched him later, after he left.”
“If that was the case, why would he shield it from the cameras?”
Jerry thought for a moment. “I have no idea. Let’s assume you’re right, for argument’s sake only. Why would either of them hit him?”
I could think of a couple of reasons, none of which I felt compelled to share right now.
“Beats me,” I said, proud of myself. “And even if neither of them hit him, and he got his shiner later that night…well, that looks a bit suspicious, don’t you think? He could’ve gotten it in a struggle.”
“Or he could have walked into the bathroom door.” Jerry put his feet up on the back of the seat in front of him and relaxed back. “There’s just one tiny problem with your scenario.”
“Proof. I know.” The air escaped from my balloon of enthusiasm, leaving me flat. I felt defeated. There was a reason I wasn’t a detective—I sucked at it.
All of a sudden I got this prickly feeling at the nape of my neck. I looked behind me. Seeing no one, I scanned the crowd below.
Not a face turned our way. Everyone seemed engrossed in Tortilla Padilla’s antics. Then I saw her, hiding in the shadows of a doorway, a hint of orange.
Glinda Lovato, staring straight at me.
She stepped out into the light. A defiant tilt to her chin, she held my eye. Then she disappeared.
There were so many ways the tortured little trio of the Lovatos and Numbers Neidermeyer could’ve gone down. Did Glinda kill Numbers in a fit of jealousy? Doubtful, since Daniel had slept with half the female population of Vegas and they were still walking and talking. Did Numbers want to kill Daniel, and he did it to her first? How did the gambling debt rumor play into all of this? And the private book? And, come to think of it, why did the murderer dispose of the body in the shark tank, a very public venue where Numbers, or what was left of her, was sure to be found? Didn’t a murderer usually try to conceal his crime? And how the heck was I going to prove any of this?
Why was I trying? Oh, yeah…Jeremy.
All these questions pinged around my brain as I wandered from the Arena back to the main hotel. All speculation and conjecture—no proof. My head hurt. I might have totally despaired and given up if it wasn’t for someone trying to run me down this morning. I may not have any idea where this path would lead, but I sure was making someone nervous. Unwittingly, that someone’s attempts to put me off the chase had fortified my resolve.
Lost in thought, I didn’t see the hurtling body until it had crashed into my knees, bringing us both down.
Stunned, I rolled to a seated position and tried to reorient myself. A young girl untangled herself from my legs and jumped to her feet, ready to bolt.
“Whoa, there.” I grabbed the tiny human torpedo by the hand, bringing her up short. “Not so fast.”
As delicate as a hummingbird, her hand was cold and clammy.
Her dark eyes wild with fear, she looked like a cornered animal as she struggled to pull away from me.
Thin as a rail and not more than five years old, she had long dark hair, one side corralled with a pretty red bow. Her olive skin was flawless except for a fresh scar, still purple, running from her nose through her upper lip. Dressed in a smocked white dress, the front of which was embroidered over tiny pleats, thin white socks fastidiously turned down, and a pair of bright red Mary Janes that reminded me of the pair that took Dorothy home to Kansas, my tiny captive didn’t seem like she was on the run. She must have family close by.
Surrounded by knees and thighs and still sitting on the ground, I felt as if I had fallen into a canyon of humanity. Looking up, I scanned the crowd streaming around us for a face that held the panic-stricken look of a parent who had lost a child. Nothing. No raised voices calling, either.
“What’s your name?” I asked. Still gripping her hand, I pushed myself to my feet.
She looked up at me with those big eyes, now blinking in surprise, but said nothing.
Her stare gave me insight into how Gulliver felt in Lilliput, or how the giant felt talking to Jack after he’d climbed the beanstalk. “Your mother or father? Where are they?”
Big alligator tears leaked out of the girl’s eyes. She swiped at them with the back of her free hand.
Yes, I have a knack with kids.
Clearly that was the wrong question. I narrowed my eyes at her. Or the wrong language.
‘‘¿Como se llama?” What is your name?
Her eyes brightened, losing that wild animal look. “Maria Jose.” Her voice soft and low, I had to bend down to catch her words.
“Encantada, Maria José. ¿Cual es tu apellido?” What is your last name?
She gave me a blank look. Terrific. She didn’t know her last name. “Me llamo…” My name…Now I was stumped. What was my name in Spanish? I knew the word for luck. But there was no really good translation for lucky, not for use as a name anyway. I settled for the appellation I abhorred. “Me llamo Señorita O’Toole.”
A flicker of interest flashed across her features, but she still looked stricken. “No puedo hablar con estranjeras.” I’m not supposed to talk to strangers.
“No yo, tampoco.” Me neither.
That got a shy smile.
I proceeded to tell her that I wasn’t a stranger—well, not much of one anyway—and I worked for the hotel, sort of like a policeman. She watched in amazement as I pulled out my phone, keyed Security, and asked if anyone had reported a missing child. No one had. Making a calculated guess, I bet the youngster had sneaked out of a room and gone exploring. I left her description with Security and told them she would be with me at the gelato stand.
“¿Gelado?” Maria José asked, brightening considerably.
“Si” As I lead her into the Bazaar, I told her I would help her find her family, but she was going to have to help me.
My untrained ear and her slight speech impediment made clear understanding of her rapid colloquial Spanish a bit of a stretch, but I listened intently as she told me her story. There was a plane ride with her mother and multiple siblings, and a very big car. Then a house with many rooms, a garden with birds in it, and her very own swimming pool.
The Kasbah. Now we were narrowing things down.
Suddenly the light dawned. “¿Y tu padre, donde esta?” And your father, where is he?
Another torrent of Spanish and my suspicions were confirmed. Young Maria José belonged to Tortilla Padilla.
Again I called Security and asked them to alert the Padilla family that I had found their wayward daughter and would be bringing her back in a bit. Mystery solved and crisis averted, I let Maria José linger over her strawberry gelato cone.
Hand in hand we strolled past the shops, the youngster gasping in delight at the riches in the window of the toy store. A beautiful little doll with long black hair and a lacy white dress caught her eye. Of course, she was going home with it. My life had a shortage of little girls to spoil. I paid for our purchase, and, when I presented the doll to her, she clutched it to her chest and gave me a million-watt smile. That smile was like an arrow to my heart—she totally had me.
Feeling slightly guilty that my joy was coming at the expense of a placated, but probably still slightly frantic, parent I moved us along through the casino into the quiet of the Kasbah.
Even through the solid wooden doors of Bungalow Seven, I could hear the raised voices of excited children. I started to ring the bell, then decided that was pointless, so I knocked loudly.
I heard several shouts back and forth, and then the door flew open.
“Yes.” A petite woman, long dark hair and laughing dark eyes, clad in blue jeans and a halter-top, looked at me. When her eyes trickled down to the child, they widened in surprise. “Oh! You’ve brought Maria José!”
I could see the woman’s anger building, overriding her concern as she gave her daughter one of those parental looks my mother was so fond of when I was that age.
“Don’t be angry. My name is Lucky O’Toole; I work for the Babylon. Your daughter asked my assistance in helping her find her father. He was just finishing his press conference, so I brought her back here.”
The woman pushed her dark hair out of her eyes, and sighed as she looked at the little girl. “It’s been quite a day,” she said, to no one in particular. Then she bent and gave her daughter a hug and a pretend swat on the butt.
Straightening, she gave me a good look. “Thank you for bringing her back. My name is Carmen. Torti is my husband.” She opened the door wider, sweeping an arm to the interior as she did so. “And these are our children.”
Clutching her doll, Maria José darted around her mother and threw her body into the fray. Children cascaded from every piece of furniture and seemed to cover every square foot of floor space. Through the French doors, several more were visible doing cannonballs into the pool, then scrambling out to try it again.
Carmen had to shout to be heard as she grabbed my arm and dragged me inside. “Maria José is my Daddy’s girl. I thought I had all the doors and windows locked, but she must have found one.” Carmen shook her head then barked at a couple of the boys she thought were getting too rough.
They snapped to attention.
“I had put her down for a nap. She’s the baby, and it’s been a long, exciting day for her—a day of many firsts. Her first airplane ride, her first limo, her first time in Vegas. I love her dearly, but she has enough energy to light the Strip for a year! That girl will be the death of me. I turn my back and she disappears.”
“So this is what fifteen children looks like?” I said, totally overwhelmed by the hurtling bodies and the cacophony of laughing voices.
“Sixteen, actually. We just got another six weeks ago.” With a practiced dip, Carmen bent and grabbed a piece of discarded clothing from the floor. A quick command, and a sheepish boy, his head bowed, stopped his play. He took the garment from her outstretched hand, then disappeared toward the bedrooms to put it away as she had asked.
“Sixteen children? And you just got a new one? I thought you said Maria José is the youngest? I stood in the middle of the pandemonium, young bodies darting like bees around me, voices raised in excitement.
“Our children find us,” Carmen said as she watched them, her arms crossed, her eyes alight, a smile tugging at her lips. “They are magic, no?”
Before I could answer, the front door opened with a bang, and another, larger body, added itself to the chaos. Tortilla Padilla, minus the gloves, but still dressed for the ring, shouted, “¡Hijos!’’ Kids!
Heads swiveled, voices shouted, children launched through the air like living missiles, as they flung their bodies at their father. With feet spread, he absorbed each one, grabbing them to him. Grinning from ear to ear, he looked lit from within.
Carmen watched it all, a bit misty-eyed. Finally, after Torti had hugged and spoken with each child, he turned toward his wife. The look he gave her…well, if a man looked at me like that, my life would be complete.
Carmen gave a subtle nod to her husband, who turned in the direction she had indicated.
A young boy, no more than eight, dripping wet from the pool, hobbled into the room, then stopped by the door. His foot was badly twisted underneath itself. Clutching the heavy drapes for support, he watched the other children. The young boy’s face was serious; doubt clouded his black eyes. Unsure and self-aware, he hung back even though he practically vibrated with need.
Torti set the other children down. The man said nothing to the boy. Instead, he knelt down in front of him, leaving a space between them, then opened his arms and waited.
For a moment the room fell quiet, still.
Then, with a smile that could soften even the most hardened heart, the boy fell into his father’s arms. Flinging his own reed-thin arms around his father’s neck, the boy clung to him like a survivor gripping a life raft tossed on the stormy seas of life.
Torti clutched the small body to him and rose.
Completely caught up, I’d been holding my breath. I let it out with a whoosh.
“Tomás is our newest,” Carmen said. “We found him begging on the streets of Juarez. Starving, sick, regularly beaten by the other street kids or the drug traffickers, or the police, he would not have made it much longer. After we leave here, we are taking him to see a surgeon in L.A. who specializes in his sort of deformity.’’
Pandemonium again reigned. The other children grasped for any handhold they could get on their father as he staggered over to his wife. Even fully festooned with children, he managed to give her the most incredible kiss I think I have ever seen.
Then he gave me that trademark grin. “I see you have met my family, Ms. O’Toole. They are fabulous, don’t you think?”
“Beyond words.’’
Dancing around their father, the kids begged for a game of Hop on Pop. He shrugged at me, set Tomás down, then fell to the floor. Kids leapt on him until they had built a tower of love six kids high. Under it all, Tiny Tortilla Padilla laughed as he tickled the nearest tummy.
“Tell me about the kids,” I said to Carmen, as we watched, both of us cringing when another kid landed on his father’s stomach.
“Come, let’s have some tea and leave the children to their play.”
We took refuge in the kitchen, where Carmen poured iced tea into tall glasses, a fresh sprig of mint in each. Setting a small plate of Mexican Wedding Cookies on the table, she motioned me to sit. “The children were abandoned for some reason or another. Some were deformed. Some were sick. Some just came at the wrong time for their families, a burden that could not be borne.”
“And you go looking for them?” I took a sip of the tea—peach mango from Teavana, yummy. I resisted the siren song of the cookies.
“Not really. We keep our hearts open, and they find us.” Carmen’s face clouded. “That’s why my husband is fighting one more time…for the children. Not just for our family, but for the ones we can’t help—especially for them. We have a foundation It is small, but we hope not for long. There are so many children, you see.”
I saw it all very clearly. A guarantee of sixty-four million would go a long way… “You don’t want him to fight?”
“He’s not so young anymore, for a fighter. It’s a risky business. You never know.”
The noise in the casino, building toward evening, paled in comparison to sixteen children at full throttle. After saying good-bye to the Padillas, and getting a tight squeeze from Maria José, I hadn’t made it halfway to my office before a thought had me retracing my steps. This time, I rapped on the door of Bungalow Two.
Arrianna, dressed in cutoffs and the top of a bikini, her feet bare, answered. Her eyes clear and bright, a smile split her face when she saw me. “Hey! Good to see you. I was getting lonely.”
Brandy really was a wonder. I had no idea the shops in the Bazaar carried something as mundane as a pair of cutoffs.
“A cage, even though gilded, is still a cage. What do you say I spring you?”
“Sure!” Her grin grew wider, then faded. “What about the media? I’m not up for another circus.”
“Me, neither.” I stepped aside as she pulled the door behind her. “We’re not going far.”
Another young man, tattooed and pierced, a studded collar around his neck, was perched on the corner of Brandy’s desk when I returned to my office. Dressed in dirty jeans, a faded black tee shirt with the arms and neck ripped out and the remnants of a stenciled skull and crossbones below the word poison still visible, he held a cigarette in his left hand, which dangled down beside his leg. Periodically, he would flick the ashes to the floor.
Miss Patterson glowered at me, her shoulders hunched, her distaste evident.
Brandy didn’t look happy, either.
“You.” I pointed to the young man. “Are you a guest in this hotel?”
He turned his head, giving me the once-over before his eyes met mine. “What’s it to you, lady?”
I took that as a no. “Out!” I pointed to the door. “Now!”
“Don’t have a hernia.” He stood then. His eyes never leaving mine, he dropped his cigarette on the carpet and ground it out with a booted foot.
My anger spiked as he sauntered out. “Brandy. My office. Now!”
A stricken look on her face, the girl jumped at my bark and followed me into my office.
“Shut the door.”
Brandy did as I asked, then planted herself in front of my desk as I took my chair. “I’m really sorry…” At the look on my face, she trailed off.
I let her stew as I counted to ten. Then to twenty. Finally, with my anger somewhat contained, I looked at my clueless young assistant. “Didn’t your mother ever tell you we are known by the company we keep?”
The girl bowed her head. “Yes, ma’am.”
“You and I have already established that your personal life is your own and you do not want my input. However, this is my office, and you are my assistant.” Placing my elbows on my desk, I steepled my fingers. “And we represent this hotel. Do you think your young friend there is consistent with the image we are expected to uphold?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Make better choices, okay?”
She mustered the courage to glance at me. “Am I fired?”
“Of course not.” I leaned back in my chair. “What would make you think that?”
“I screwed up and embarrassed you.”
“If you embarrassed anyone, it was yourself.” I let that sink in for a moment. “And I don’t think there’s a mistake you could make that I haven’t already made. Strange as it may seem, I was once your age.”
“I promise I won’t let it happen again.” The girl, looking a bit less panicked and properly chastised, still wrung her hands.
“I don’t expect perfection, but I want you to do me a favor,” I said.
“Anything.”
“I want you to take a good hard look at yourself. Are those guys really what you want? Or do you deserve better?”
After Brandy left, I pushed around the papers on my desk and flipped through my phone messages, then buzzed Miss P. “Got a minute?”
“Be right there.”
When she appeared in the doorway, I motioned for her to shut the door.
“You need to give Brandy some advice on men,” she said, as she took a seat across from me.
“Me? That’s rare.” I gave her a dirty look. “Not only am I uniquely unqualified, but our Miss Alexander wouldn’t recognize a good thing if it bit her on the ass.”
“She is only twenty-one,” Miss P stated, as if I needed reminding.
“Youth, an impediment to discernment,” I said, taking a quick tour through my own memories. Had I ever been that young? I ran my fingers through my hair. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been this beat—lack of sleep and lack of food, a killer combination. “Why don’t you take Brandy and check on the preparations at Babel, and anything else you think needs tending to?”
“Good idea.”
“Before you go, could you call Romeo and get him over here. I know I should quit summoning him like a dog, but I’m practically nonfunctional.”
“Late night?” she groused, not even attempting to mask her irritation at me.
“Look, I know you want the skinny on Jordan Marsh, but there isn’t anything to tell. We’ve been friends for a long time.”
“He is so dreamy. Is he everything he seems to be?”
“And so much more.”
Miss Patterson left with Brandy in tow. My couch called my name. Twenty winks sounded like a good use of the thirty minutes I had before Romeo said he’d be here.
Prostrate, I was just falling asleep when I heard the outer office door open. Today was not my day.
“Anybody here?” The Beautiful Jeremy Whitlock.
“In here.” One forearm over my eyes, I didn’t bother to move. Whatever he had to say, he could darn well deliver it while I kept my current position.
“Man, since you didn’t get a nibble with the couch alone, now you’re baiting the thing. I don’t mind telling you, that has a whiff of desperation.”
“I’m getting there. Teddie’s in California.”
“So I heard.” He grabbed my feet, lifted them, and slid in underneath. My feet in his lap, he shucked my shoes and started rubbing one foot.
Removing my arm, I raised my head and looked at him.
“Inappropriate, I know. But I’m good at this and you look totally knackered.”
I didn’t have the energy to resist—and he was as advertised. I had to stifle a groan of absolute pleasure as he went to work.
“I don’t mean anything by it. Hope you don’t mind.”
“Mind? I’d pay you good money to never stop.” I relaxed back and again covered my eyes. A foot rub was the next best thing to a back rub and one of the top five most pleasurable things to do fully clothed. “Did you come by for Miss P, or do you have anything else to report?”
“I’ve been pressing a bloke I know at the FBI. Once Mary Makepeace died, the FBI terminated the protection. The kid wasn’t in danger and the mother was dead, so case closed.” Finished with one foot, Jeremy started on the other.
“So we’ve reached a dead end there?”
“Pretty much, but I did get a bit of interesting information. My friend checked the Makepeace kid’s birth date on her original birth certificate, the one in the sealed files before they issued her a new name and new papers.”
“Oh, God, right there. For some reason that foot hurts more than the other,” I said, momentarily distracted. “What about the birth date?”
“It matches the one Numbers was using. I know that’s not definitive, but it seems to indicate we might be on to something.”
“When folks enter into the Witness Protection Program, are they fingerprinted?”
Jeremy was quiet for a moment as he worked his thumbs into the sole of my foot just below my toes. “Sure, but where are we going to get a copy of Ms. Neidermeyer’s fingerprints? As I recall, taking a set directly isn’t an option—no fingers, no prints.”
“I bet Romeo can help us. I’m sure the police dusted her house and car. And, if we’re lucky, the Gaming Control Board might have a set on file. They keep gaming professionals on a pretty short leash.” I swung my feet to the floor and sat up. “Thanks, that was medicinal, just what the doctor ordered.”
I had just plopped myself back into my desk chair, when the outer door again opened and Romeo rushed in.
“Ask and ye shall receive,” I said, in response to Jeremy’s startled expression. “Take a seat, Romeo. The party’s just getting started.”
They both sat in rapt attention as I regaled them with all I knew up to this point. Of course, I left out the part about someone trying to run me over. That was my problem and I’d handle it my own way.
“So you think the district attorney is in on this?” Romeo asked, his eyes wide.
“It should be painfully obvious, and it bears emphasizing: I can’t prove anything!” I looked at both of them. “If you two can match fingerprints, then we’d have Number’s identity nailed down and a motive for revenge. After that, we can speculate, but any evidence we have now is purely circumstantial.”
“I can get a set of fingerprints for you.” Romeo said.
“I don’t need to tell you that you must keep all of this under your hat. The district attorney’s reach extends far and wide. He already knows I’m pushing, but let’s let him worry a bit, okay?”
Romeo nodded. “Agreed.”
“You two work the fingerprint angle,” I said, as I rose, a subtle sign the party was over. “I’ve got to see a man about some rock.”