Chapter Ten
First on scene were a pair of salt-and-pepper uniformed cops who looked like they’d been dragged out of retirement for one last job. Officer Bruce was short and portly with features like a Russian nesting doll and a silver bowl-cut that looked better on eleven-year-old girls than middle-aged men. Officer Nolan was tall and dark and grim. He looked like one of those guys who leaves the military and goes into law enforcement, but can’t help thinking of the public as The Enemy.
“So the old man finally killed someone,” Nolan said by way of greeting when Nick let them through the grand main entrance.
“So I wouldn’t jump to any conclusions,” Nick returned. “The power went out last night. I think there’s a good chance the intruder may have fallen down the staircase in the dark.”
Bruce and Nolan gave him the weary smiles of veterans used to dealing with know-it-all-know nothings. The three of them went quickly through the formalities of what, where, when, and how.
“A PI, huh?” Bruce said when Nick had finished his recital. “And you’ve been hired to do what exactly?”
That’s confidential sprang to mind, but not only was Nick not officially in Horace’s employ, there was no way to keep most of the story from coming out. The most he could do for Horace was try to control the spin. Best-case scenario was the cops determined accidental death and closed the book. There would still be publicity, and more crazies coming out of the woodwork, but that was still much, much preferable to a full-on investigation.
Nick felt pretty sure it was an accident.
But pretty sure was not one hundred percent certain. He’d have liked to be one hundred percent certain.
And even if the kid’s death had been an accident, there was still the problem of the power going off and the alligator getting loose all at the same time a prowler had entered the hotel.
“The kid who fell down the stairs is dressed like a trio who assaulted Daly on his patio on Friday. I chased him—or someone dressed like him—off the property last night.”
“Let’s see the victim.” Nolan snapped shut his notebook.
Nick escorted them to the third floor, waiting while they examined the body, then pointing out the marbles on the steps. Officers Bruce and Nolan held a scowling conference over the caped figure.
Nick was not privy to their conversation, and even if he had been, he was distracted by the realization that someone had moved the body since he discovered it. He was very much afraid he knew who.
“Why would he come back?” Nolan interrupted Nick’s thoughts. “What’s your theory?”
The question was probably rhetorical, but Nick told them about Horace’s collection of movie memorabilia, pointing to a gruesome portrait on the opposite wall. The painting was of a martyred saint holding his own head and, from the look of things, asking to speak to upper management. The officers did not look impressed.
“I don’t know what, if anything, this stuff is worth, but I do know a lot of this junk is the kind that appeals to adolescent males. And half the fun would be in liberating it.”
“Speaking from personal experience?” Bruce asked dryly.
Nick shrugged. “I was a kid once. Sure.”
“Okay, well, thanks for your help,” Nolan said. “We’ll let you know if we need more from you.”
Diiis-missed! Nick had been afraid of that. There were just too many weird things about this case for the uniforms to rubber-stamp it accidental death. One of those things being Horace’s celebrity status. Another thing being his well-known crank status.
Nick headed downstairs and found that the coroner’s team had arrived—on foot—along with more cops who were busily securing the scene. He made his way out to the terrace, where he could see Ned Duke and the Savitri girl having a cozy cup of coffee together amid the piles of autumn leaves.
“Good morning! The power’s back on,” Ami greeted him. “Would you like some coffee?”
“If it’s no trouble, I would.”
“No trouble.” She jumped up and vanished through the segmented glass door.
Nick turned his attention on Duke, but was interrupted by Enzo hurrying up the steps from the courtyard.
“What’s going on?” Enzo demanded. He sounded out of breath, as though he’d been running. “The place is crawling with cops. What’s happened? What did they find?”
Nick filled Enzo and Duke in on the events of the morning. Duke looked ready to faint by the time he finished.
“He slipped? You’re sure that’s what happened?”
“I can’t be sure, no. But I didn’t see anything to indicate violence.”
He glanced at Enzo, who seemed to have been struck dumb.
“No, I mean… Right.” Duke drummed his fingers on the iron tabletop. “How would he even get in?”
“How is the alligator getting in?” Nick asked. “Maybe they both came in the same way.”
Enzo came back to life. “This doesn’t have anything to do with Wally!” he burst out.
Nick eyed him curiously. “I didn’t say it did.”
Further discussion was interrupted as Ami returned, carrying a metal coffee carafe and another mug. She was pale, her eyes wide with alarm. “There are police officers and people from the coroner’s office inside. Nobody will say what’s happened.” She was looking straight at Nick. “Has someone died? Who?”
Enzo turned without a word, lumbering down the steps and disappearing into the courtyard.
“Enzo?” Ami watched him go, her expression bewildered.
“He’s worried about them taking Wally,” Duke said.
Ami’s expression altered. She exchanged looks with Duke.
Nick was about to reassure her that the victim was not a hotel resident, when the glass door opened and Officer Bruce stepped outside. The expression on his ruddy doll’s face did not bode well for a happy Halloween at Angel’s Rest.
“There you are, Reno. Your client is refusing to speak to us.”
Nick groaned inwardly. He said, “You want me to—”
“Nope,” Bruce said with sour satisfaction. “We’ve already called it as a suspicious death. It’s going to be up to the detective bureau to decide what happens next.”
Ami gasped. “You mean it could be murder?”
“A suspicious death…” Duke repeated numbly.
“Thanks for letting me know,” Nick said. He was wondering where Perry was in all this drama. He needed to let him know what was going down on his end, but he didn’t dare leave the storm’s epicenter yet.
“Whatever Daly is paying, it’s not enough,” Bruce commented. “I’d find another client if I were you.” And on that cheery note, he departed.
Nick had just finished his coffee and was recounting an abbreviated version of his adventures for the third time when he, Duke, and Ami were joined on the terrace by the Winthrop woman and the rainbow-haired psychic.
“What on earth is going on?” Winthrop demanded. “There are policemen everywhere. Where’s Horace?”
“Death has claimed another victim at Angel’s Rest,” announced Gilda, dragging a heavy iron chair across the bricks. The scrape and bump of the chair sort of lessened the portentousness of her pronouncement.
Nick inquired, “What was your first clue? The coroner’s van parked in the drive?”
Gilda glared at him. “I can’t see the drive from my room.” She plopped down in the chair.
Ami, meanwhile, was reassuring Wynne Winthrop that nothing had happened to Horace; that the victim had been one of Horace’s skeleton-clad harassers.
“Thank God for that at least,” Wynne murmured, and she seemed sincere.
Nick studied her curiously. Having been married to a woman who did not take kindly to slights to her ego, he’d had some questions ever since Horace’s midnight revelations.
In Nick’s experience, friendships between men and women were always dicey. Horace’s bisexuality and tendency to turn to Wynne when things weren’t going well between him and Troy would have complicated that relationship. It wouldn’t be surprising if Wynne had some deeply buried resentments—or maybe some not-so-deeply-buried resentments.
“There is a dark energy at Angel’s Rest,” Gilda said. “A dark presence.”
“It’s called lousy lighting, darling.” Wynne took a cigarette and lighter out of a small red leather bag. She lit the cigarette, tilted her head back, and blew a stream of smoke into the chilly air like a whale expelling air through a blowhole. “Mice have dined on the wiring in this place for decades.”
“When was the last time the building passed a safety inspection?” Nick asked.
The others laughed—which was kind of what he’d figured.
“Does Angel’s Rest have any secret passages?” Nick did not like secret passages.
“They wouldn’t be secret, then, would they?” Gilda retorted.
“It’s not likely.” Duke had been quiet for so long, Nick had almost forgotten he was still present. “This used to be a hotel. It was never a home.”
“It’s still not a home,” Ami said.
Wynne gave them a long look. “Nothing’s holding you prisoner here. You can always leave.”
Ami turned scarlet.
You can check out anytime you like, but… What was the rest of the line from that Eagles’ song?
Duke said, “Some of us are on a fixed income.”
“Darling, that’s pure luxury for those who have to rely on residuals and royalties.” Wynne added, “Which would be you, wouldn’t it? Aren’t you living on your writing?”
“Well, yes,” Duke said. “But Ami isn’t.”
Wynne smiled a little maliciously. “Living on your writing? No, not yet.”
Ami turned red again—and Duke just about matched her shade.
As interesting as Nick found their group dynamic, he wanted to check in with Perry, who probably needed a break from Horace about now.
He excused himself and went back inside, where he was stopped by a plainclothes cop who introduced himself as Detective Camarillo.
Camarillo was tall, dark, and ridiculously handsome. He looked like the traditional Latin lover in old films, or maybe a modern guy with a slew of Grammys to his name. He wore a suit no cop should have been able to afford, and smelled like Old Madrid and new money.
His partner, Detective Marin, was a stocky, pugnacious-looking blonde in sensible shoes and a suit from Sears, which Nick knew because he owned the same suit.
As Camarillo briskly took Nick through the whys and wherefores, it became clear to Nick that Camarillo did not like PIs in general or Nick in particular, but then Nick mentioned working for the Tristar Group. Suddenly he had discovered the secret handshake.
Camarillo stopped eyeing him with that sarcastic little smile, put down his pen, and looked at Marin, who shrugged like, How was I supposed to know? Camarillo turned back to Nick. “You work for Rick and Roscoe?”
“That’s right. Roscoe and I were in the SEALs together.” Nick rarely pulled the SEALs card, but he had been feeling like he needed an edge with Camarillo, and this looked like it.
“You’re that Nick Reno?”
“Well, yeah,” Nick admitted, now self-conscious.
It turned out Roscoe, Rick, and Camarillo had grown up on the streets of Los Angeles. Tristar Group was the only private-investigations firm Camarillo could tolerate—besides which, the guy who had saved Roscoe Jones’ life in Afghanistan was a great guy in Camarillo’s book.
“Maybe we could get back to the case?” Marin suggested once the social niceties were out of the way.
“Sure, sure,” Camarillo said. “So what do you think, Nick? Was it an accident, or are we looking at homicide?”
His smile was wide and charming, his eyes dark and guileless, and Nick knew whatever he said, Camarillo was going to take it with a grain of salt and make his own mind up. Nick revised his original opinion. He began to like the guy a lot.
“I think it’s an accident. But there’s something weird about this setup. I can’t put my finger on it, but something’s not right.”
“Instinct,” Camarillo agreed. “You’ve got it. I’ve got it. Marin took one look at this place and said hinky. She’s never wrong.”
Marin sighed.
“So, I’m not disbelieving you,” Camarillo said. “I think everything points to an accident. But we’ve got to be thorough. Your client had a history with the victim.”
“I understand,” Nick said. He did.
“Believe me, I’m no bleeding heart. A man’s home is his castle. In Daly’s case, literally a castle. I think this punk got what he deserved. Terrorizing old folks? Not okay. But we also can’t have senior citizens laying traps for juvenile delinquents.”
Nick nodded.
Camarillo seemed to commune silently with Marin.
He offered Nick another of those gleaming I-just-won-my-twelfth-Grammy smiles. “Marin just had a great idea. Why don’t we do this, maybe kill two birds with one stone? Why don’t you sit in on our interviews? You’ve had a day to observe these people. Your insights could be useful. What do you think?”
“That would be beyond great,” Nick admitted.
“That’s what I think,” Camarillo said—and winked.