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Cleo hated to admit Alec was right again. Her connections got her into places no other reporter could have managed. A little chitchat here, a little schmoozing there, all with people who knew and actually liked Annaliese, and Cleo was in the studio where the dancers practiced their routines.
Showgirls didn’t have a lot of job security. When their six-month contracts expired, each of them had to re-audition to retain their place in the show. With a round of auditions coming up, Cleo wasn’t surprised the rehearsal she peeked in on was well attended.
She watched for a few minutes as Liz barked at one of the girls for not tilting her head just so and another whose turn wasn’t executed gracefully enough. It wasn’t an environment Cleo would have cared for, but it had its upside; the women all earned a full-time wage for what amounted to part-time hours.
Interrupting wouldn’t get her what she wanted, and according to the schedule on the wall, the rehearsal would last another forty minutes, so Cleo slipped out and went in search of a drink.
Like most casino bars, The Knotical was pretentious and just a bit gaudy—a shipboard illusion with its snowy white ropes done in fancy knotted patterns, amber lighting, and just enough maritime antiques to set the atmosphere. Still, it had comfortable seating at the bar, and most importantly, she didn’t know the bartender from school or anywhere else.
A smattering of customers were seated around the room, but she didn’t look closely at any of them until she’d settled in and ordered a White Russian.
A group of eight or nine people reflected in the huge mirror behind the bar caught her eye. On some level, her knee-jerk reaction screamed “reporters” but she didn’t know why until she looked more closely and recognized a couple of the men. She dragged up a memory from a conference The Sun had sent her to after her story started receiving national attention.
One of the men was Marc something-or-other from Seattle. The other . . . The name Aaron Peabody popped into her brain. From the San Francisco Chronicle. Dammit. How could she have failed to recognize those jutting ears the moment she saw him?
When her border story had brought her attention in press circles, some of her colleagues had acknowledged a job well done, but there were others, ones with the good-old-boy mentality, who had treated her like a usurper. As if this . . . this woman . . . who hadn’t even been on anyone’s payroll when she started her research, had no business walking into their territory and scooping up a story they hadn’t even known was there. Aaron Peabody had been one of the worst for making snide, cutting remarks.
As long as she’d had her job at The Sun, she’d been able to think BooHoo at him and the other whiney crybabies. But she didn’t have that legitimate job to shield her any more. Now, she worked for a tabloid, and if they discovered that, they’d think she’d found her proper place down there with the media’s bottom feeders.
Every instinct shrieked to get up and leave or at least move further away, but if she moved now, she’d only draw attention to herself. Instead, she pulled her hair forward to shield her face, dug her iPad from her bag, and pretended to be engrossed in the list she’d made earlier.
Her drink arrived as her phone trilled. She snatched her phone up before it could ring again.
“Step one accomplished,” Alec said. “My foot’s in the door.”
She tilted away from the reporters and spoke softly. “She’s talking to you?”
“I’m meeting her for a late lunch at the Bronco Café.”
“Hm. Did she pick that?” The Bronco had been a good place at one time, but it had gone downhill after the original owner retired. In a way, it made sense. There was little chance they’d be seen by any Vegas residents who knew better than to eat there.
“Yeah, why?”
“No reason. A word of caution. Order carefully.”
“O-kay.” He drew out the word.
He was a smart man. He’d figure out the warning. And if he didn’t, well, she’d tried.
She glanced into the mirror after she hung up and saw she wouldn’t have to worry about the reporters much longer. A couple of them were tossing back their drinks the way people did when they were getting ready to leave. Another was signing the tab.
She dropped her head and made a pointless note on the iPad about Alec’s meeting with Nancy Bales.
“Cleo?”
She caught her breath. Why couldn’t she be a Jessica or Jennifer? Something she could ignore because it was so common.
“Cleo.”
Oh crap. She lifted her gaze to the mirror. Crap was not nearly strong enough language. Her heart leaped into what felt like an arrhythmia, beating in quick, irregular pulses like a scared rabbit.
She slowly turned her chair and looked up. “Hello, Martin.”
He must have been sitting with his back toward the bar because Martin Prescott the Third stood there in all his golden-boy splendor, just the way she remembered him. His blond, perfectly streaked hair was tousled in that just-got-out-of-bed look that required a costly stylist to achieve. Even dressed in casual designer apparel, he looked expensive.
He was the last person in the world she wanted to see.
His perfect smile, revealing his perfectly even, perfectly whitened teeth didn’t falter at the less-than-delighted inflection of his name. He sat in the chair next to hers. “This must be kismet.”
It felt more like punishment.
“How are you?” he asked. “You left Tucson without a word. By the time I learned you’d resigned, you were already gone. I thought you’d at least say goodbye.”
She stiffened. “I thought we’d pretty much already covered the goodbyes.”
“You didn’t leave because of our little tiff, did you?”
“Our little tiff?” she repeated.
Not unlike other rich people, he was sensitive about people hanging around because he had money, but she’d thought—hoped—he’d known her better than that. She’d done everything she could—sold her condo and her new car, then calculated every dime of credit she had, knowing she would still come up short—before she’d asked him for a loan.
Her last-ditch effort to stay at The Sun had cost her a lot of pride. As tactful as she’d tried to be, he hadn’t even let her explain before he started ranting, calling her a gold digger and a parasite and a few other inventive epitaphs. He couldn’t possibly believe she’d forget that, could he? The thought of facing him afterward had made her sick to her stomach. And he called that a little tiff?
“I tried calling you,” he said, “but you never returned my calls, and then you changed your number. You didn’t do that to avoid me, did you?”
“Of course not.” That had just been an added benefit of her new Denver number. “What are you doing in Vegas?” Please don’t let him be here because of Sebastian.
“Sam Jorgenson got married here this weekend. You remember Sam. Works for the San Francisco Chronicle.”
She didn’t, but she nodded politely anyway.
“A bunch of us came for the bachelor party. Then with Koblect’s death, some of us stayed over to see if anything worthwhile breaks from it.”
She forced a smile. “I’d guess you’re wasting your time. An alcohol-related drowning? That’s not really a major story.”
“True. But since we were already here . . .” He shrugged. “Vegas may not be Aruba, but it has its charms. What are you doing here?”
“Visiting family.”
“That’s right. You grew up here.”
“Hey, Martin,” Aaron Peabody called. “We’re leaving. You coming?”
“I’ll be right there,” Martin said, then turned back to Cleo. “Listen, I don’t know why you left, but you should come back. The Sun misses you. I miss you. We should talk about what it would take to bring you home.”
His words caught her in the chest. Not that she wanted to be back with him. But her job at The Sun? The longing for that almost had her leaning into him.
He pulled out his phone and tapped the screen a few times. “We’ve got to make our tee time, but you and I need to talk about this. What’s your number?”
If she gave him her number, he’d call, and she’d have to talk to him again. Maybe even see him. Which would only increase the chances of him discovering she now worked for a tabloid. She didn’t think she could take the humiliation.
On the other hand, if there was a way for her to get back to The Sun before her byline appeared at The Word, she’d be crazy not to grab it with both hands, no matter how slim the chance might be. She didn’t have time for a lengthy cost/benefit analysis, so she followed her heart and gave him her new number.
He leaned in and kissed her cheek then, before she could respond, he headed toward the door and his waiting buddies.
She crossed her fingers on both hands, hoping she’d made the right choice, then, checking the time, she picked up her bag and headed back to the rehearsal hall.
~***~
Alec met Nancy Bales for a late lunch at a nondescript café off the Strip. She started by giving him several photos of Sebastian that hadn’t been in the PR packet, for which he was properly appreciative.
After they ordered—a chef salad for her, chicken strips for him—he remedied their lack of a proper introduction, adding, “But you can call me Alec.”
She inclined her head in acknowledgement. “And you can call me Ms. Bales.”
Okay. Her caution had reasserted itself.
“So who do you think you can sell this story to?” she asked.
“Typically, I start with the higher-end magazines. It’s a topical story, so there’s a good chance I’ll find a taker.”
“Really?” The word was spoken with a sing-song quality that made Alec’s antenna go up. “And if you don’t sell it to one of them, then you’ll work your way down the food chain until . . . what?” She pursed her lips as though in thought, but it was clearly an affectation. “You have to spice it up with a bunch of lies, so you can sell it to a tabloid?”
“I beg your pardon?” he asked with feigned confusion.
“You think you’re the only one who can do research?” She opened her purse and pulled out the latest copy of The Inside Word. “Page thirty-two. I believe you’re familiar with the story.”
Ah. She thought she’d busted him.
“I told you I freelance.”
“For a tabloid?” Her voice dripped disdain.
“You do what you have to when you don’t have a guaranteed check. Maybe you don’t understand that. You’ve got a steady job, lots of responsibility and respect. I’ve got whatever I can sell and a mother who’s a near invalid. I can’t always afford to be picky.” Silently, he begged his mother’s forgiveness for his lies.
Bales was eyeing him with suspicion, but her look also held a hint of surprise. She hadn’t expected him to own up so easily.
“Look. My work isn’t always bylined, but if you dig a little deeper, go back a little further, you’ll find my name in the Washington Post. Most people think they’re pretty reputable. I can write this with that level of integrity. Let me prove it to you.” Of course, the Post’s integrity wasn’t spotless either, what with having to return a Pulitzer because of Jason Blair’s story about a homeless boy who didn’t exist, but most people had conveniently forgotten about that.
“All right. I’ll talk to you,” Bales said primly. “But if what you’ve said doesn’t check out, this will be the last conversation we have.”
“It’ll check out.”
The waiter appeared with their orders. “Where do you want to start?” Bales asked when he’d gone.
To break the ice, Alec went through the details of the press release with her. Asking about each ex-wife in turn.
“Samantha Koblect. She was the first wife,” Ms. Bales said. “They were married for twenty years. I don’t know her, but I’ve always felt bad for her. She stuck with him through the hard times when he was building his empire. The divorce was bitter, and she got a sizeable chunk of money and some property.”
“So she’s been out of the picture for a while,” Alec said.
“Almost sixteen years,” Ms. Bales confirmed.
“Still in Vegas?”
She shook her head. “L.A. She’s married to a music producer.”
“And they had two children?”
Bales nodded as she forked a bite of salad into her mouth. “Both grown of course. Both estranged from their father. They took their mother’s side in the divorce.”
“What about Loretta Ellis? Wife number two.”
“She was his assistant. His ‘office wife.’”
Alec thought he heard something in her tone. It didn’t sound like jealousy exactly. Disapproval, perhaps? Or something else? He sharpened his attention.
When he’d first started at The Inside Word, he’d done a piece about how to spot a liar. For most people, honesty was their default setting. When they lied, their bodies betrayed them with little tells that were fairly universal. Shoulder shrugs, mismatched body language such as nodding as they said “no,” and inappropriate smiles were a few of the things he’d come to watch for automatically in interviews. It was useful knowledge. Unfortunately, it only indicated a lie was possible; it didn’t tell him what the lie was.
Of course, some people were more skilled liars. For them, establishing a baseline of behavior was crucial in ferreting out things they didn’t want to tell. He didn’t know yet which group Bales fell into, but she was a solid source. He’d probably have the chance to figure it out.
“The secretary and the boss. That’s an old story.” He referred to his fact sheet. The marriage only lasted three years. “What happened there?”
“Another nasty divorce. She found out he got a vasectomy without telling her. And he was cheating.”
“An even older story.”
“Yes. She got a pile of money, too. That’s when Sebastian wised up and started using prenups. She works for the Vegas Hilton now.”
“And wife number three?”
“Ah, yes. Candy Masengale. The first of the gold diggers. She was a pole dancer. Candy Cane is her stage name. Sebastian was dazzled by her body, but she wasn’t very bright.” She paused. “Then again, she was smart enough to latch onto him. Just not smart enough to keep him long enough to cash in.” Her mouth puckered in a thoughtful moue. “I think she went back to working in a strip club, but I’m not sure which one.”
Alec nodded and, as he added a note in his iPad, wondering what Cleo would say if they interviewed Candy at her place of employment. “What about Donna Harris? Wife number four.”
Bales rolled her eyes. “Gold digger number two. She was a real piece of work. She wanted to be an actress. She thought Sebastian could help her break in to big-budget pictures. I’m not sure if she’s still in town or not.”
Alec checked his notes. In the sixteen years since wife number one, the marriages had lasted four years, a year and a half, and six months, respectively. “His marriages got progressively shorter.”
“He was wising up faster.”
“Until Elizabeth Morrow. They’ve been married two years.”
Bales’ lip twitched as though she wanted to sneer.
“So tell me about the Merry Widow.”
“Gold digger number three,” Bales said. “And as far as I know, the only one who cheated on him.”
“Is that why they were getting divorced?”
“One of the reasons.” She shifted in her seat. “I thought this wasn’t going to be an exposé.”
“I’m just filling in background.” He leaned back and threw an arm across the back of the booth. “Let’s talk about Sebastian. All sorts of things have been said about him. He was a ladies’ man. A player, both at love and games of chance, but only for high stakes. Women liked him. His business associates say he was a shark. Who was he to you? Did he inspire loyalty?”
“Loyalty?” She laughed, then sobered. “Yes, he could.” She paused, her eyes turning inward. “He was everything you just said and more. He was a complex man.” Her eyes cleared and she looked at him. “Most men are simple, you know. No offense.”
“None taken.” She might be undecided about him, but Alec was starting to like her. It was refreshing to interview someone so straightforward.
“Everything is a straight line to you men,” Bales continued. “The shortest distance between two points. That’s how you get from A to B. Sebastian was more like the hub of a wheel. Lots of lines radiating from the center. Some straight. Some not so much.” Her vision went internal again. “So many lines.” She spoke as though she wasn’t aware she’d verbalized her last thought.
Alec waited, hoping she’d say something more. When she didn’t he asked, “Did Sebastian have someone waiting to take Liz’s place?”
“There were a few women actually, who thought they had a shot at being the next Mrs. Sebastian Koblenz. Maybe even some I don’t know about.”
Was there a touch of bitterness in that last sentence? She was his “office wife.” Maybe she resented not knowing everything about his life. Or maybe she’d hoped she’d be next in line.
“I don’t think he saw any of them in the role of wife,” she said. “He was about to be divorced for the fifth time. I think he wanted to take a break.”
“A break from marriage, but not from women.”
“Of course not. He was a man. A powerful, wealthy man in Sin City.”
“Good point. What about this Annaliese Carson? Apparently, she was the last one to see Sebastian alive. Anything going on there?”
Bales made a disgusted noise. “I don’t know what Sebastian saw in her. She was always in the wings, hoping to be the next new wife. Sebastian wasn’t the most discriminating man, but he had more sense than to tie himself to that slut.”
It amazed Alec how judgmental women were of each other. In his experience, the sisterhood women talked about was strictly a mask to cover the way they turned on one of their own.
“So she was one of the wannabe Mrs. Koblects?”
“Oh, yes. But she didn’t fool Sebastian. He took what she offered, but it was never going to get her a ring.”
Years of practice kept Alec’s expression neutral, but he’d lay money Annaliese had never been looking for a ring. “So she predates Liz?”
“She predates everyone but wife number one. I don’t know, of course, because I wasn’t around then, but Sebastian could have been warming her bed even during his first marriage. Even smart men have blind spots. Give them a pretty face and a hot body, and that’s all they see. They forget what loyalty is worth.”
There was more than a trace of bitterness in her tone now, which made Alec wonder if the issue of loyalty was personal. He wasn’t fool enough to follow up on that before he got everything he wanted from her. “I’m curious . . . you’ve worked for Sebastian for, what was it?” He flipped through his notes. “Ten years?”
“Ten and a half.”
“You were there when he divorced wife number two.”
She nodded. “I got in at the tail end of that.”
“So you saw the last three wives come and go.”
She nodded again.
“What do you think my chances are of getting any of them to talk to me?”
Bales’ laugh was harsh. “Those gold diggers? Probably good. They like being the center of attention.”
“Even Liz? After all, her husband just died.”
“She might be tougher. But I could probably get her to talk to you.”
How was she going to manage that? Had he misread her disdain for Liz Morrow? “So you and Liz? You’re friendly?”
One corner of her mouth quirked up in wry amusement. “I wouldn’t go that far, but we’ve learned to get along.”
“I’d be grateful if you can get me in with her. I’ll need that edge when I try to sell this piece, and if I do a book, she’ll be vital.”
When her lips thinned, he realized he’d blundered. She wanted to be the one who was vital to the story.
He tried to backpedal without looking like he was backpedaling. “Liz Morrow is the last chapter of his love life, but you’re the one who knows how he got there. I need you to help me show the shape of his life and to understand what each piece means.”
Okay, that was a little ham-fisted, but people tended to be less critical of the things they wanted to hear.
Her lips were still compressed, but she said, “I’ll talk to her.”
“Great. So let’s get back to these other women who wanted to be the next Mrs. Koblect. Are there any I should talk to?”
“I don’t know what kind of luck you’ll have with them.”
“All I can do is try.”
“All right.” She gave him four names. One was a blackjack dealer in a neighboring casino, another was a stripper Sebastian met at a private party; the third, a party planner; and the last a divorcee whose generous alimony allowed her to devote herself to high-class charities.
“Any more?” he asked.
“That’s all I know about for sure.”
Because he was listening carefully, he zeroed in on her choice of words: it was all she knew about for sure. “Are there any others you think are likely?”
She paused before answering, then said, “Just one. Willa James. She works the costumes for the showgirl revue at the casino.”
All those years of practice came in handy once again, allowing him to act as though the name meant nothing. “Do any of these women know each other? Or about each other?”
“Sebastian was good at keeping his women in the dark about each other―”
Was that another bitter note?
“—but Willa used to be friends with Annaliese, ‘used to be’ being the key phrase. I always thought she was jealous of Annaliese’s way with men.” She rolled her eyes as though that kind of jealousy was stupid and not pervasive as hell in the female of the species.
Time to get off the subject of Sebastian’s women. “How was Sebastian’s health?”
She made the adjustment smoothly. “He was in excellent health. He’d just had his annual physical which, I assure you, was quite thorough.”
“No concerns about his heart?”
“No, none.”
“Did he have any ongoing conditions? Anything like diabetes or epilepsy?”
“No.”
“Did he drink a lot or do drugs?”
“He’d had issues with alcohol, but he was never out of control. That would have offended him. As for drugs? No. He thought recreational drugs were for weak people. He never saw himself as weak.”
“Was he despondent about his impending divorce?”
“Sebastian?” She smiled sardonically. “No, not hardly.”
“Hm. Would it surprise you to know it’s actually rare for a healthy adult to accidentally drown in a bathtub?”
“Actually, I suppose it would be.”
“So if it wasn’t an accident and it wasn’t suicide―”
“Of course, it wasn’t suicide.” Her lips compressed as though offended by the mere suggestion.
He already knew that—suicide attempts invariably got in their tubs clothed—but he was glad to see Bales’ strong response to the idea. “Well then, what do you suppose happened?”
She shifted in her seat, clearly uncomfortable with the only remaining alternative.
“If someone were responsible,” Alec asked gently, “who do you think it would be?”
“Isn’t it usually the spouse?”
“Quite often, it is. Was there anything that might have triggered Mrs. Koblect to act rashly?”
“Well, there was the divorce.”
“They’ve been getting a divorce for months.”
“Well . . .”
She knew something. He could practically see it on the tip of her tongue.
It took several more seconds for her to decide to tell him. “They had a fight last Friday afternoon in his office.”
He’d done a better job getting her trust than he’d thought if she was telling him this.
“They got loud,” Bales said. “Only for a few minutes, you understand.” She sighed, as if she already regretted her decision to discuss this. “But after she left, he had me get his lawyer on the phone.”
“What kind of lawyer?”
“Not one of the in-house lawyers. His personal lawyer. He made an appointment for Monday.”
“Any idea why?”
She chewed on her bottom lip for a moment, then sighed again. “After Sebastian was found, I cancelled all his appointments. When I called the attorney, I got the impression he’d drawn up a new will.”
“One that Sebastian never got to sign,” Alec said, jumping ahead.
What a lovely motive for murder.