A Crossworder's Gift (11 page)

Belle smiled anew. “Thank you … So, you were with your uncle just before he died? And you and he were close enough to share …?”

“Well … No. Not exactly. I was in L.A. But I heard who he was playin' with … A bunch of chumps … They ain't a lotta secrets in Vegas.”

“So I hear.” Belle said. “Perhaps I should get their names, though? They might be worth chatting with for the article.”

“Hey, doll, I don't know no
names
. A couple a' dudes from Seattle. That's all I know.”

Belle continued to take notes. “I understand the police believe your uncle might have been murdered.” She looked at Reggie; empathy etched her brow.

“Life in the city, doll. Life in the big, scary city. Happens every day here in Vegas.”

The waitress arrived with the drink order. Rosco signed the tab
Bo Dakota
in such a way that it vaguely resembled
B. Graham
, scribbled
Suite 1014
, and said, “Of course, you're aware that your uncle's latest winnings are missing, aren't you?”

Reggie stiffened. “What's all this got to do with
Today's Gambler?
”

Belle assumed another sympathetic pose. “Well, Mr … Reggie … I'm sorry to admit this, but murder sells magazines. It's the sad truth about today's media environment. I guess that's why Editorial decided to push the story rather than kill it. I apologize if that seems insensitive—”

“Let me get a little background,” Rosco interjected. “Your uncle was born here, in Vegas?”

“Nah, Reno.”

“And where does the moniker ‘Dr. Jazz' come from?”

“I don't know … He played piano in a band when he first got here. I guess that's where he picked it up.”

“Any other relatives?”

“Nope. His sister, my mom, died when I was thirteen.”

“That's tough,” Rosco said.

Reggie's tone fell to a near whisper as he fed another dollar bill into the slot machine. “Yeah, it's tough.”

“Who's Gabby?” Belle's question startled both men.

Reggie sat bolt upright; his narrow shoulders jittered. “Where'd you hear about Gabby?”

“I think we got it on the wire service, didn't we,
Bo?
”

“Ah, yeah,” Rosco stuttered. “What can you tell us about Gabby?”

“Who are you people?” Reggie shot back. His pale eyes raced from face to face; his gaunt cheeks twitched.

“Today's Gamb
—”

“You didn't hear about Gabby on no stinkin' wire service of no stinkin' mag—”

“Yes, we—”

Reggie glowered as he purposefully sucked the remainder of his blue drink through the straw. “That
Vegas style
I mentioned a while back? That's for my use only, doll. It's not for publication.” He stood with all the fierceness of a small and insignificant man, and stormed out of the restaurant.

“So,” Rosco said after he'd disappeared, “care to tell me who Gabby is?”

“There's a straight flush framed on the wall in Dr. Jazz's suite. It's signed
Gabby
.”

“Huh … Seems to have struck a nerve.”

“And I have a question for you.”

“Shoot.”

“How come you get to be someone cool like
Bo Dakota
, and I get stuck with
Ann Jones?
”

“Okay, next time you get to pick the names.”

B
ELLE
and Rosco spent the better part of the evening strolling through Cactus Cal's and hashing over the snippets of information they'd picked up from Hollister and Reggie daCoit. Hollister's theory that the killer had not found the three hundred thousand dollars seemed logical, leaving the two unknown men from Seattle as the primary suspects, but they'd left town earlier in the week.

By the time Belle and Rosco had finished dinner, it was nearly eleven
P.M.
, two in the morning by East Coast time, and they were exhausted. They dragged themselves back to their suite, took showers, and slid into bed, hoping some answers would come their way the next morning during their visit to the Blue Diamond Animal Shelter.

“You know, we've been here all day and we haven't played one single slot machine?” Belle said as Rosco made an attempt to give her a kiss.

“So?”

“Well, it just seems wrong. Las Vegas is all about gambling, right?”

“But you're not a gambler. Besides, only the casinos win at slots.”

Instead of responding, Belle rolled out of bed, walked over to the dresser, and picked up two quarters that were lying next to Rosco's wallet. “I'll be right back. There's a machine at the end of the hall.”

“You're kidding me?”

“No. I can't go to bed without at least trying my luck once.” She wrapped herself in a hotel robe and trotted out the door while Rosco sat up in bed and shook his head. Belle was back in three minutes, holding the hem of the robe up to her waist. She walked over to Rosco's side of the bed and dropped the hem, releasing an avalanche of quarters onto the floor. Rosco sat up farther in bed.

Belle stepped over the pile of money, crawled on top of him, and gave him a long kiss. “The trick,” she said after their lips parted, “is to quit while you're ahead.”

N
INE A.M
. found Belle and Roscoe southwest of Las Vegas, in Blue Diamond, Nevada, at the animal shelter, where Karen Wise greeted them like long-lost friends. Her manner, her whole being, was so relaxed and affable that Belle couldn't imagine a person or creature not taking comfort in her kindly presence. As for age, Belle couldn't venture a guess; Karen's stature as well as a certain mature and thoughtful presence indicated that she could have been in her sixties or early seventies, but her youthful appearance, her curly, dark hair only slightly flecked with white, and her high energy could have belonged to a woman in her middle to late forties. The woman's enthusiasm and joy were positively contagious; it was obvious to Belle that Karen Wise was incapable of harming a single thing, let alone committing a murder.

She led Rosco and Belle through the shelter, stopping briefly to pat, talk to, coo at, examine, or mildly reprimand her many charges. She also introduced the couple to a volunteer assistant, a man of equally indeterminate age who was as upbeat and as friendly as his “boss.” Finally, Karen conducted the couple to Blue Diamond's office for a cup of her special sun tea—a concoction laced with rosemary and mint. The room, like the rest of the building, was teeming with wildlife: healing birds in cages, desert turtles and young jackrabbits also on the mend, and three orphaned coyote pups squabbling over the rights to a tattered dish rag.

“You're aware that Lieutenant Hollister considers you a suspect?” Rosco said in a tone that indicated he thought the idea absurd.

“He's a very mistrustful man.” Karen waved a sun-burnt hand as though casually brushing off a fly. “Always has been, poor guy. Uptight. Rigid. It can't be easy being his ‘little lady.'”

Belle laughed. It was clear Karen Wise had been the recipient of Hollister's not-so-subtle put-downs. Then she sighed. “I feel terrible that I haven't been able to come up with a solution to this mystery of yours … Although I imagine disposing of Dr. Jazz's painting collection should bring you a handsome—”

“I so dislike that term, ‘Dr. Jazz,'” Karen protested. “He was a fine person, a true friend to us here … but the name made him sound like a thug. Of course, I never much cared for his other choice either.”

“Dave Narone wasn't his real name?” Rosco asked.

“Oh no. His real name is daCoit, same as his nephew. He changed it when he moved down here.” Karen shooed a fledgling roadrunner away from her tea glass. “Beat it, Otto. You don't drink tea.” Otto paid no attention to the injunction, instead pecking noisily on the glass while Karen raised indulgent eyebrows and continued her recitation. “As far as the artwork is concerned, it's nice of you to imagine the stuff is valuable, but the truth is I did those oils myself. They were intended as a ‘thank-you' from the shelter. I daresay they're hardly worth the canvas they're painted on—unless some high-priced gallery suddenly discovers Karen Wise.”

“Oh …” Belle murmured. “But they're really good.”

“Nice of you to say so.” Karen shrugged her shoulders. “I like keeping busy, that's all.”

At that moment, Otto landed on Belle's lap and settled in as though he'd found the perfect nest.

Karen chortled. “Don't mind him. He's very friendly. They're in the cuckoo family, roadrunners, did you know that?
Geococcyx californianus.
”

Belle looked down at the still-fluffy bird with the bold and inquisitive stare. “So I see.” She thought for a long moment. “So the shelter inherits nothing …”

“Not unless I get discovered as a latter-day Grandma Moses … Or those ‘non-liquid' assets miraculously turn up.”

The three sat in gloomy silence; only Otto and the other rescued creatures seemed unperturbed by the discouraging news.

“Did Mr. daCoit ever talk about someone named Gabby?”

“Gabby … Gabby … Oh, yes … I believe there was a lady friend some time ago … I think he told me they broke up on account of his arthritis. Very sad—and selfish, on her part. Bodies can be ailing. It doesn't mean the spirit is.” Karen sighed. “He made such a fuss over those ‘non-liquid' assets …” She lifted her head. “Well, no use crying over spilled milk … though to tell you the truth, things are going to be real tough around here without his annual gifts. Our volunteers are wonderful, but food and medication don't come cheap.”

Belle also released a sigh. “I still believe you're right about the crossword puzzle, Karen. Mr. daCoit clearly had a reason for making the instructions so cryptic. Perhaps, as he suggested, it was to keep his nephew from finding the money first.”

Rosco nodded. “If those ‘assets' were
not
located in the suite at Cactus Cal's, they'd belong to Reggie … Do you have any idea how much money we're talking about, Karen?”

“‘A lot' was all I was told. I never thought to ask for details.”

“So, we have to assume the legacy intended for the shelter is still in his suite … maybe in the form of securities.” Belle looked at Rosco for confirmation, but his response wasn't encouraging:

“I doubt we'll find any such documents. If someone
did
make off with the three hundred thousand dollars in winnings, he or she would have pocketed any other paperwork that appeared valuable.”

“Well, that's it then,” Karen said after another long and painful pause. She looked at Otto and then at the various cages with their various hopping or fluttering inhabitants, and then finally mustered a smile as she turned to Belle. “Thanks for trying to help.”

Rosco stood. “We're going to head back to Las Vegas. If the money's still in that suite, we'll find it, Karen, don't worry.”

Belle placed Otto in Karen Wise's capable hands.

“You can keep him if you want, Belle … He needs a good home.”

“We have a dog … Besides, I don't know what roads he'd run on in our neighborhood.”

Karen glanced down at the three coyote pups who were still wrangling over the dish rag. “Otto can handle himself. In the city or the country.”

O
N
the drive back to Cactus Cal's, Belle and Rosco discussed gaining access to Dr. Jazz's hotel suite, deciding that the best approach was for Rosco to jimmy the lock, while Belle stood lookout downstairs in case Lieutenant Hollister opted to return. But as they crossed the hotel lobby, their plan was dealt a blow. Exiting the elevator were two uniformed LVMPD policemen. Between them was Reggie daCoit. He was in handcuffs.

“What's going on, Officer?” Rosco asked as they passed.

“What's it look like? We're making an arrest,” one of the cops groused as they marched the prisoner away. DaCoit kept his head bowed; his greasy red hair and scrawny neck seemed to radiate both guilt and hopelessness.

Belle and Rosco stepped onto the elevator and pushed
TEN
. When the door opened on the tenth floor, they were greeted by another uniformed officer. “Sorry, folks, this is a crime scene. Please step back onto the elevator.”

“But our room is on this floor,” Belle protested.

“Sorry, ma'am.”

“Let 'em pass, Hank.” The order came from Hollister, who was standing at the entrance to Suite 1015. Rosco and Belle walked down to meet him.

“What's up, Lieutenant?”

Hollister tilted his head toward the doorway, and the three of them stepped into Dr. Jazz's suite. His baby grand piano had been smashed to pieces. A crowbar lay on the carpet beside it.

“I gather Reggie daCoit did this?” Rosco asked.

“The people in the suite next door called to complain about the noise, so the house detective came up. He found our boy beating the life out of the piano while mumbling, ‘Come to Daddy, Gabby …' The guy had really lost it. By the time I got here, Reggie confessed to the whole sheebang—strychnine, the works.”

“So, Gabby is … a
piano?
” Belle wondered aloud.

Hollister only shrugged.

“A piano who ‘left because of his arthritis.'” Belle glanced at the far side of the room. The framed straight flush had been pulled from the wall and smashed across the writing desk. The backing had been ripped off and the five cards were scattered on the carpet.

“Looks like Reggie was searching for something,” Rosco said. “Did he find it?”

Hollister shook his head. “No … But interestingly enough, I ran an IRS check on the good ‘doctor.' Paid his taxes just like Johnny B. Good. His net worth was estimated at six million.”

Rosco let out a low whistle. “So if his bank accounts are only showing one-point-five mil, you're saying there's another four and a half million dollars stashed in this suite somewhere?”