Harley Jean Davidson 03 - Evil Elvis (42 page)

“Yes,” Monotone Man said, “a good thing you came along to invest.”

Harley looked from Sandler to Tootsie. “I knew it! No wonder you’ve been so panicky. You stand to lose money, too.”

Tootsie’s mouth pursed, and the look he gave Sandler should have scorched his professional strength gray socks. “How indiscreet of you.”

Sandler’s expression didn’t change. “My apologies.”

Harley smiled. “One mystery solved. Next thing I know, there’ll be an actual Steve-sighting to prove he exists.”

“How droll of you,” Tootsie said, but she could tell he wasn’t angry, only annoyed at being outted as more than a mere employee.

“I’m sure you’ll share your reasoning for being so secretive.” She waggled her brows.

“Don’t hold your breath.”

Harley smiled.

Sandler said, with what passed for impatience, “I’ve traced the identity of the hacker, but the police must become involved now.”

“Yes, the police will definitely be involved.” Tootsie paused, and then added, “I have a feeling that they already know more than we do anyway.”

“Quite likely,” Sandler said, then pivoted on his heel and walked back to his office down the hall.

“Have you ever noticed that he walks like a penguin?” Harley mused.

“I’d describe it as more like he’s got a stick up his ass. But he’s good at what he does, so I have no complaints.”

“So the last guy who had his job stole a lot of money?”

“Quite a bit. If not for my investment, Penney would most likely have folded. Fortunately, we came to an agreement—that you are not to tell any of the other employees. I prefer being one of the rank and file, not one of the bosses.”

“That’s so modest of you.” Harley crossed her legs and swung a foot back and forth. “Tell me about the last accountant. Did you know him?”

“I met him several times. I started out here as a driver, and when my grandmother died she left me a tidy sum that I decided to invest here and there. Unfortunately, Horton objected. It got tense around here for a while, but then he got caught embezzling so it didn’t matter.”

“How’d Horton get caught?”

Tootsie looked a little uncomfortable. “Well, I’m the one who discovered the discrepancy when the books were examined before I invested. It was supposed to be routine, but it turned out to be a nightmare. Horton didn’t take it kindly.”

“I imagine not.” Harley swung her foot a little harder, thinking. “So Horton—every time I hear that name I think of the Dr. Seuss book, Horton Helps A Who—went to prison?”

“I thought it was Horton Hears A Who.”

“Whichever. Anyway, I take it he went to prison.”

“Ten to twenty. He’s been there four years now.”

“You checked and he’s still there, but he has motive to want to ruin MTT. Maybe he’s on work release?”

“Not from prison, no. I checked. What would he have to gain anyway?”

While Tootsie answered another incoming call, Harley mulled this new possibility. Really, he seemed like the most likely candidate, other than Hughes or Larry Penney.

“There’s no shortage of suspects,” she said when Tootsie finished the call and typed in the information on the computer. “Horton could have had a partner in crime, maybe, and just didn’t rat him out. Maybe it’s his partner who’s doing this.”

“What would he gain?”

“Revenge.”

“By killing innocent people? That’s pretty sick.”

“As you’ve said a few times, there’s no shortage of sickos in the world.”

“Lord knows I’ve met my share of them,” Tootsie muttered. “Still, it’s impossible for Horton to be behind this. Prisons usually monitor prisoners’ mail pretty closely, and honestly I just don’t think he’s slick enough to carry it off. Vengeful enough, maybe, but not the kind who could sit in a van full of tourists and stick a knife in one of them.”

“But if he has a partner?”

Tootsie shook his head. “No evidence of one. Besides, Horton’s too greedy to share.”

“Maybe he figured better some than none.”

“Not Horton. He made less than $40,000 a year, but he had a huge house in Countrywood, a couple of really expensive cars, and his kid went to the best private schools. MTT didn’t make enough to support that life-style and share it with anyone else.”

“Okay, you’ve convinced me. It’s not him. Bobby says it’s not Hughes, so unless it’s just a wacko out to rid the world of Elvis impersonators, it has to be the ogre’s son. How old is he?”

“Twenty-eight. I’ve got a photo of him somewhere.” He rummaged in the desk drawers then pulled out a folder of photos. “Company picnic. He’s standing beside Penney.”

Harley stared at the photo with interest. “I didn’t know the ogre could smile. Good thing he doesn’t do it too often. It looks strange.”

Larry Penney stared unsmiling at the camera. He looked to be near six feet and pretty thin. Maybe it was the drugs. “It could be him,” she said slowly, “he’s about the right build.”

“I don’t think it’s him. He’s in and out of rehab too much to spend time plotting murders.”

“Who’s this guy?” She tapped her finger against the photo.

Tootsie peered at it. “That’s Horton. His youngest son is right beside him.”

“How old was he in this picture?”

“Somewhere around twelve, I think.”

“Maybe he’s the one.”

“I doubt it. He moved to Hawaii with his mother.”

“He could have come back, you know.”

“From Hawaii?” Tootsie stared at her in disbelief. “Who’d want to move from Hawaii?”

Exasperated, she put her hands on her hips. “Then we’re all out of suspects.”

“So it seems. Aren’t you relieved? Now you can stay home tonight.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re as bad as Bobby. Pretending we’re out of suspects isn’t a good enough reason not to go all-out to catch this guy.”

“I see you won’t be swayed. I’ll pick you up at six.”

“Remember, wear something discreet.”

“Darling, I told you, I’ll be the very soul of discretion.”

* * * *

Harley
stared at Tootsie. “You call this discreet?”

Unruffled, he gave an elegant shrug of one shoulder. “Don’t you like it?”

“Who are you supposed to be?”

“Priscilla Presley, of course.”

“Ah. Now I see it. Who else would it be?”

Tootsie wore a wig, the light brown bobbed hair liberally streaked with maroon, looking very much like Elvis’s ex-wife now wore her hair. From what Harley could tell, he also wore a black leather miniskirt, a gorgeous luminous bronze silk blouse and expensive Prada heels.

“A bit much with the heels, don’t you think?” she asked, but he shook his head.

“Not at all. Priscilla has style.”

Harley slid into the buttery-soft leather seat and closed the car door. “I feel underdressed. You should have told me you’d be in disguise tonight.”

“Girlfriend, you’re always underdressed. And someone has to be in disguise, since you’ve decided to paint a bulls-eye on your back.”

“Surely you’re not talking about my shirt.”

Snorting, Tootsie put the Acura in gear and took off from the curb outside her building. As he sped off, Harley looked back, and to her surprise, saw Sarah Simon peering out her living room window. Wow. That was a rare sighting, rather like Punxsutawny Phil. If Sarah was seen, there was sure to be six more weeks of Elvis festivities.

“Yes,” Tootsie said, turning onto Poplar, “I’m talking about your tee shirt. Could it be any more noticeable?”

“You’re one to talk, Priscilla. Besides, green is a good color for me.”

“Neon green? You look like a leprechaun puked on you.”

“Since you’re kind enough to worry if I get killed, I’ll refrain from mentioning your black leather miniskirt, even if I do think you’d be right at home on the back of a hog with some guy named Mad Dog or Killer.”

“As intriguing as that sounds, I’ll blend right in tonight. I predict I’ll even be asked to sign autographs.”

“Modesty dies a quick death in your company, I see.” Harley leaned her head back against the seat. “Besides, this tee shirt is loose and hides the wire I’m wearing. A policewoman wired me up, but I got this shirt in New Orleans. A rather pithy motto, I think.”

“You shuck ’em, I’ll suck ’em refers to crawfish or oysters I presume.”

“Well, of course. Not that I will, though. I don’t like either. I just like this tee shirt.”

Sunlight glinted off the Acura’s hood and into her eyes, and she lowered the visor. “Damn. I forgot my sunglasses.”

“We don’t really have time to go back. I think I have an extra pair in the glove box.”

Harley found a pair of bright red cat-eye sunglasses crusted with rhinestones. She put them on and turned to look at him. “Look at me. I’m Elton John.”

“Sir Elton John.” He glanced at her. “Come to think of it, there is a strong resemblance.”

She said something quite rude and sat back. “I can’t believe I forgot my sunglasses. I lost track of time while I was hunting for Sam, I guess.”

“Still no sign of him?”

She shook her head. “No. He’s probably at the zoo teasing the lions and standing in line for his cut of their dinner.”

“Sam’s too selfish to share. He also likes his creature comforts. He’ll be back.”

“Unless he’s gotten lost, or hurt, or...” She didn’t want to think about the implications. “We’re supposed to meet Yogi and the other finalists at the Heartbreak Hotel, and then take a van from there up to the Perpetual Garden.”

“If it wasn’t for the killer lying in wait to slaughter us all, I’d be excited about this. I’ve never been to Graceland.”

“What? You’ve never been to Graceland? As many times as you’ve booked tours, given the spiel, even driven the vans, you’ve never been in the mansion?”

“Not once. I did go around back one time looking for a lost German and found him sitting in one of the cars—EPE was polite about it, but not at all understanding, I might add—but other than that, I’ve never crossed the threshold.”

“Amazing.”

“Isn’t it? Tonight will be another adventure for me.”

“Let’s hope that’s all it is.”

Tootsie looked over at her, and she knew they were both thinking the same thing. Tonight it was going to be “do or die trying.”

Yogi and Diva were waiting for them at the Heartbreak Hotel. The large pink structure sat just across the street from Graceland, convenient to tourists and much safer than walking the area at night. Sad to say, this neighborhood of nice homes and quiet living had gradually turned into a collage of car lots, Elvis-related tourist traps, and high-traffic that lured more than just people who came to honor their idol. When Elvis was still alive, it’d been an upscale neighborhood called Graceland, the white mansion being just one more nice house among several big houses set back on wooded lots from Highway 51. The mansion had been named for the neighborhood. Who knew that one day it’d be an icon recognized around the world? After his mother died and Vernon wed again, Elvis bought his father and his new wife a house on the next street and put a gate through the back fence for easy access. Vernon Presley died after Elvis, and the gate no longer existed.