Heartache Motel: Three Interconnected Mystery Novellas (Henery Press Mystery Novellas) (18 page)

I checked my watch. It had been 45 minutes, and I felt the clock ticking. I needed an inside source, and Kyle might not be able to find anyone. It was Christmas week, after all. And Bob had put my first story on the web almost an hour before. I might be the only reporter in here, but what if someone had a cousin on the staff or something?  I wanted it first. Especially with my beat being babysat by the copy chief who spent her days gunning for my job— and her nights sleeping with anyone she thought could help her get it.

I saved the email draft and tucked the phone back into my pocket, wondering where I might find a chatty housekeeper.

FIVE

Into thin air

I wandered back to the smoking porch where I’d talked to the gardener, ducking inside the door he’d come out.

Fixing a confused-tourist expression on my face, I looked around. I was standing in a long, sterile hallway that looked like a work area. I walked slowly in the direction of the main area of the basement, keeping my eyes and ears out for anyone in a maid’s uniform.

I made it to the far end of the hall without seeing another soul. I sighed, ready to call strike one, when I heard a clatter on the other side of a closed door. I paused.

“You said this would work out,” a shrill voice wailed.

“Shhh! You want someone to hear you?” The second one was almost too quiet to pick up, but I’m pretty practiced at eavesdropping (occupational hazard). I got enough to piece the sentence together.

“I can’t spend Christmas in jail!” The first woman was only a little quieter that time.

“Will you calm down? What does anyone know? Nothing. And as long as we don’t tell them anything, that’s what they’ll keep knowing. Just hold it together until we get out of here.”

“And then what? You think they’ll just give up?”

“I think it was Christmas money and Christmas is pretty much over. They’ll give up eventually.”

The handle rattled and I scuttled through the thick door at the end of the hall, striding through the basement to the rec room before I stopped walking.

Holy Manolos.

I hadn’t seen them, and they hadn’t said their names, but that sounded pretty damning. I looked around, wondering where acting head of security Dale had gone. And if he might know who they were. Maybe policy said he couldn’t talk to me on the record, but he might be willing to swap information if I didn’t reveal my source.

A quick search didn’t find him lurking in the basement. I took the stairs back to the main floor two at a time, my thoughts racing. I’d just stepped into the hallway when my Blackberry started buzzing. I pulled it out and checked the screen. Kyle.

“This just keeps getting more interesting,” I said in place of hello.

“Sorry I’m missing all the fun.” He chuckled. “I did find you an in at the Memphis PD. Lionel Pierce. He’s a detective in their major crimes unit. No idea if this is his case or not, but he might be able to get you someone who will talk to you. Merry Christmas. You saved me a trip to the shoe store.”

“This could be better than shoes,” I said, scribbling the detective’s name down. “And I don’t say that about many things. You didn’t happen to get a cell number for me, did you?”

“Of course I did,” he said, his voice dropping to a sexy baritone. “What’s it worth to you?”

I laughed in spite of myself. “We can discuss that when I get there,” I said, memories of long-ago Christmases with Kyle tugging at my heart. But I could worry about my flummoxed love life after I got the story.

“All right. I trust you to keep your word.”

Butterflies flapped around in my belly before he reeled off the number.

“Thanks, Kyle. I’ll see you soon.”

I hung up and shoved thoughts of a fireside heart-to-heart (and fantasies about where that could lead) to the back of my brain as I retreated to a quiet corner to call Detective Pierce. I crossed my fingers as I hit “send,” hoping he wasn’t on vacation like the rest of the world.

I must’ve been on Santa’s “extra good” list, because he answered on the second ring and was surprisingly jovial for a guy working over the holidays.

“My man Jeff at the ATF office says you’re trustworthy,” Pierce said in a gravelly tenor. “That’s high praise for a reporter. What do you need to know about Memphis?”

“I’m locked in at Graceland,” I said. “I need to know what the hell’s going on here and why hundreds of people are being held on the grounds. It’s only been an hour, but folks are getting antsy. It’s going to get ugly if this goes on much longer. The guard I talked to said they’re waiting for the Memphis PD to show up. So anything you can tell me about any of the above would be fantastic.”

I heard keys tapping in the background.

“We don’t show a call from Graceland today,” he said. “Who told you the grounds were locked?”

Come again?

“The acting head of security,” I said. “There’s something funky going on with a belt in the trophy hall that started the whole thing. Maybe it’s just not in the system yet?” My voice went up at the end of that sentence, turning it into a question as I thought about Dale’s smooth demeanor and easy smile. Shit. Did security have access to display cases? What if it was him?

“Our systems update automatically,” Pierce said. “But there’s one more place I can look. Stand by, please.”

All I heard for several minutes was computer keys clicking.

“There,” he said finally. “There is an open file on Graceland, but it’s in property. Let me see when they should have a car out there.” More clicking. “Oh. No, that’s something else.”

“There’s another case file about Graceland? In the property crimes division?” My story radar went on high alert.

“It appears they’re working a switch scam involving limited edition Elvis coins at the gift shop there,” Pierce said. “But I can’t comment on it further. It’s not my case, and this file is password-protected.”

“Is that standard procedure there?” His tone told me it wasn’t, but I needed him to say it.

“No, ma’am.”

I scribbled, my brain racing. Stolen coins, passworded files at the PD, and people locked in the mansion when the police computer had no record of a call. What. The. Everloving. Hell?

“A switch-scam?” I asked.

“I can’t comment further,” he repeated.

“Detective Pierce, I really appreciate your time and help, and believe me, I understand the spot you’re in. You don’t know me from Ann-Margret. But this is a very unusual situation, and anything you can tell me, even off the record, would really be helpful.” I took a deep breath.

He was quiet for a second. “Off the record?”

“Absolutely.”

“I don’t like that I can’t find a call in the system about the lockdown. And I can’t speak to this coin case in particular, but things like that are usually counterfeiting operations. Either someone took the real coins and replaced them with fakes, or they were never there in the first place. I can’t even see where the report originated, so I don’t know if we got a call from the mansion or from a pissed-off collector.”

He paused and clicked more computer keys. I scribbled.

“Moreover, I can’t find a report on stolen ones being fenced,” Pierce continued. “Which is weird, because this first one was months ago. When people steal collector items, they sell them. Usually online.”

I noted that.

“That actually fits with the theory I’ve been able to piece together,” I said. “Best I can tell, security figured out that one of the big gold costume belts in the trophy room was a fake. They scooted it out of the case before I got a look at it. I’m guessing they think the real one is still here, though. Why else would they seal the exits?”

He was quiet for a minute.

“Detective?”

“Off the record, I’d say you’re probably onto something.”

Score one for the crime reporter. “Can I get the correct spelling of your name for my article?” I asked.

He gave it to me. “Just so we’re clear, you’re not printing anything except that we have an open investigation there, correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. About this lockdown—I’m going to create a file, because we don’t seem to have one. You said you’ve been locked in for an hour?”

“Yes, sir.” I gave him my name and cell number for the report.

“We’re short-staffed because of the holiday, but this is more pressing than what I was doing when you called. I’ll stay with it. If I turn anything up, I’ll call you back.”

“I really appreciate that,” I said. “I have a feeling I’m going to end up owing my friend at the ATF a favor.”

“Good, then he can owe me one.” Pierce laughed. “Watch your back, Miss Clarke. And call if you see anything we need to know about. I’m betting it’ll be at least an hour before I can get someone there for a theft, but I’ll put it in.”

“I will. Thanks, detective. And Merry Christmas.”

I hung up, leaning my head back against the wall and closing my eyes. Well, shit. So much for finding Dale and asking about the mysterious women I’d overheard bickering downstairs. Whatever happened to normal crime stories where the players were who they seemed?

I reopened the email I’d started to Bob and stared at the lead.

I deleted “was stolen” and replaced it with “went missing,” because after talking to Pierce, I really wasn’t sure what I was dealing with. It seemed on the surface like they wouldn’t have locked the grounds unless the belt had been stolen, and unless they were pretty sure it was still there. But then why had Dale announced that the police had been called if they hadn’t been? Then again, why on Earth would he lock down the complex if he was the thief?

The best I had for that was that he’d get busted for not following procedure, which might raise suspicion. And sounded totally plausible. But that also meant I wasn’t asking him about anything else.

And the women downstairs—what the heck were they talking about if Dale was the culprit? Was it a crime ring situation?

Oy. I didn’t have any answers. I needed to send Bob an update, though, and from what Pierce had said I was running out of time. Once the police filed a report, my exclusive would disappear faster than last season’s Louboutins on Black Friday.

I clicked the phone screen back to life and started typing.

“[The property crimes division is] working a switch scam involving limited edition Elvis coins at the gift shop there,” Detective Lionel Pierce of the Memphis Police Department said. He had no comment on the lockdown or any other open investigations.

Graceland security was tight-lipped about the situation, too.

“No comment,” said Acting Head of Security Dale Leonard, citing a policy forbidding security contact with the media. Leonard said he wasn’t sure how long the lockdown would last.

Pierce said Memphis Police would be en route as soon as possible, but since the situation wasn’t an emergency, short staffing because of the holidays could mean a long response time.

I contemplated that for a few seconds, but left it that way. On the off chance anyone trapped in here with me saw the story on their smartphone, I didn’t want to start a riot by revealing that the cops hadn’t been told we were being kept here until I called. Since no other reporter would have reason to know that, I could save it for after everyone was safely on their way home.

I added the gardener’s comment about people being hauled in for questioning and cited him as an unnamed source, so I wouldn’t get him in hot water with Dale.

I hit send and gave it a second, then called Bob.

“I was just about to get worried,” he said.

“I’m starting to do a little of that, myself.” I gave him the rundown of my situation, picturing his bushy white eyebrows raising by degrees as I talked.

“Holy
Blue Christmas
, kiddo,” he said. “Only you. I’ve been on lots of vacations. I haven’t ever stumbled into a whopper of a headline on one, though. You have a knack.”

“I’d rather have a knack for cooking. Or gardening. Or sniffing out deals on shoes.”

“No, you wouldn’t. You love it. Stay with it. I’m here if you need me.”

“Thanks, chief.”

I stuffed the phone back into my pocket and considered my options. What did I need to know first?

What had happened to the belt that was in the display case.

How could I find out?

By wheedling it out of someone in security.

But who?

I thought back through my day, remembering the guard I’d seen interviewing Bonnie and Savannah right after the lockdown was announced. Calvin. His name was Calvin, according to Dale. I bet he knew what was going on. I didn’t have to tell him I was a reporter, either, because getting the information was more important than having an attributable quote.

I wandered through the house, checking the corners, but not finding the face I was looking for. What I did notice was that my fears about the crowd were founded. I saw three different guards gesturing helplessly and smiling while tourists chewed their asses about not being allowed to leave. I heard the phrase “this is still a free country, young man” in two of those conversations. Damn. I checked my watch. Pierce had warned me it would be a while, and I wondered if the cavalry would arrive before the mutiny began.

As much as that worried me, it also gave me an idea. A quick Google search on my phone told me Graceland’s guards weren’t sworn peace officers, which meant they weren’t required to have training in law enforcement. They just had to pass a background check because they carried keys and handled cash. Other than that, they were mostly docents for the tourists, handling issues and providing directions. Which could be good for me. Actual cops are notoriously more tight-lipped than your average folks.

I finally found Calvin in the back corner of the kitchen. Smiling, I wandered over.

“Do you know where I might be able to get a bottle of water?” I asked.

“You’re the third person who’s asked me that. We usually send people over to the cafe, but it’s outside the gate. There is a water fountain near the restrooms out back.”

I nodded. “Thank you. Do you know how much longer it’ll be before they let us out of here? Funny, how excited I was to get here, but something about being locked in makes you really want to get out.”

“You and everyone else.” He looked around nervously.

And there was my way in.

“It seems like the best way to keep everyone happy is to figure out what’s going on,” I said, casting my eyes down and looking up at him through my lashes. “Figuring things out is all about asking the right questions. I have a knack for that, you might say. How about the coins that have disappeared from the gift shop? Has anyone suggested that the missing belt is related to that?”

“Of course they have.” He waved a hand in front of his face, too busy watching for a tourist uprising to wonder how I knew about any of that. “That’s the first place everyone went to when they pulled the fake belt out of the box.”

Switch scam. Check.

“But have they found the real one yet?” I asked. “I mean, that’s got to be the reason we’re all locked in here, right? Not to alarm y’all, but it looks like folks are getting restless.”

“No one has come up with diddly,” he said, eyeing an older man who stood in the doorway pulling at his collar and glaring our way. “But they say it couldn’t have left the property, because it was cleaned and returned to the case early this morning.”

“And it was cleaned on the property?” I wanted a notebook and pen, but didn’t dare reach for them. He talked absently as he looked around the kitchen.

“Yeah, there’s a room downstairs where they clean and polish things. I guess even in the cases, they get dirty after a while.”

The room I’d heard the bickering coming from, maybe? Hot damn.

I glanced up at the unobtrusive black eyeball in the middle of the ceiling, having noticed several hundred like it as I walked through the house.

“Does the security footage show who took it out or put it back?” I asked.

“I haven’t seen it. But I hear it just magically disappeared.” His attention snapped back to me. “Why are you so interested in the particulars? And how do you know so much?”

Damn.

“I work with the police.” Every word true. Just a few omitted. “Here’s what I think: you’re looking for someone who knows how to mess with the cameras and has access to the display cases or the cleaning room. Which means it may be one of your own.”

I left him pondering that before he could ask me any more questions, pulling my pad and pen out as soon as I got out of his sight and scribbling so fast my fingers cramped.

So the crook was tech savvy, because the security footage had been altered. And the belt was indeed stolen, but probably still on the property thanks to little Savannah and her enthusiasm. Also, the fake was shoddy if the jarring from a little girl’s right hook was enough to break it. Which meant this was not a master criminal. Which seemed contradictory.

I really wished I could talk to Dale the security guard, but after hearing Calvin’s comment about the altered security footage, I distrusted Dale even more. Which left me with two options: sit back and wait for the cops to arrive, or go look for the cleaning room.

I wasn’t sure how much trouble I could get in for trespassing in a staff area, particularly one that was involved in a crime, but something told me it was a fair amount. I could get around being in the hallway earlier with an “I got lost,” but that would be hard to sell a second time. On the other hand, this was a helluva story, and I had the kind of exclusive access that doesn’t come along very often.

I ducked into the ladies’ room to splash cold water on my face. The violet eyes that looked back at me from the mirror were ambitious as ever, but I didn’t feel like spending my holiday in jail.

“What does it really get me?” I asked. “Even if I crack the story and land the scoop, is anyone but Bob going to care?”

Since it was Christmas week, there was a good chance Bob and my mom were the only two people who would notice.

My Blackberry buzzed as I walked out of the bathroom.

“Just got off with the AP,” Bob’s text read. “They’re streaming and live tweeting your updates for the rest of the day. You just went national, kiddo. But no pressure.”

My jaw dropped as I stared at the screen, reading the message a dozen times. Sweet cartwheeling Jesus. I rolled my eyes Heavenward. “Point taken,” I muttered, turning for the stairs to the basement.

Christmas week meant slow news. Even so, a story blasting live over the wires comes along maybe a handful of times in a career.

National feed is the kind of chance you do not blow.