Nightwalker

They left, and Dillon dropped them all at Jessy’s house so they could pick up her car, since Adam had the rental. Dillon started to drive off, then stopped and called out to Jessy.

She walked over to the car and saw that he was smiling at her.

“What?”

“I…” He reached out and pulled her close, then planted a gently passionate kiss on her lips. “Be careful. Stay at the home until you hear from me. Stick with Timothy or Nikki once you’re there. I’ll be back soon,” he promised.

She smiled. “I won’t spend a moment alone. By the way, who’s on the list?” she asked curiously.

“Everyone I’ve come across in the course of this investigation,” he told her. “Cops—Jerry Cheever, Len Durso. Emil Landon and Hugo Blythe. Darrell Frye. I even threw in an M.E., my friend, Doc Tarleton, along with Sarah Clay, who works in forensics. And your stage manager.”

“Ron?” she said with a gasp.

“And Sandra,” he admitted.

“Sandra?” She felt her temper rising.

“Trust me, she’s not a suspect,” he assured her. “Humor me, huh?” Then he kissed her lips again and drove away.

“Jessy?” Nikki called, and Jessy turned around to see that Brent was already settled behind the wheel, with Timothy next to him. It was her car, but she decided it wasn’t really the time for a feminist statement.

Jessy got into the backseat with Nikki, and in a few minutes, they were back at the home. Brent walked them in, and Timothy greeted Jimmy and a nurse named Liz, who he really liked. He admitted he was ready for a nap, but first he took them to the TV room and introduced them to Mrs. Teasdale, who took one look at Nikki and Brent and informed Nikki that she was going to have beautiful children.

Timothy and Mrs. Teasdale agreed on a Scrabble date for later, and then Jessy, Nikki and Timothy retired to his room. Brent left them at last, heading for the library where Dillon had spent the morning. To be on the safe side, Brent ordered Ringo, who’d tagged along, to stay with the women. “And call if anything—” he began. He shook his head. “Hell, Ringo, you’re such a damn good ghost, I forgot you can’t use a cell phone.”

“Who knows, maybe I can,” Ringo said. “It’ll be a new challenge, anyway.”

They left Timothy to his nap and retired to a table in the empty breakfast room, where Jessy started doodling, and Ringo was standing off to the side, trying to dial Nikki’s cell phone.

“It’s bizarre, isn’t it?” Jessy said to Nikki.

“What’s that?”

“‘They’re all assembling,’” Jessy quoted. She looked over at Ringo, who had managed to flip open the phone. “Ringo, tell me about the shoot-out that day.”

He set the phone down and walked over to her. “The circumstances of my own death are beginning to bore me.”

“Please, Ringo.”

“Okay, okay. There was a bartender—and some townsfolk, but they had cleared out. At the poker table, there were John Wolf, myself, Sheriff Percy and Mark Davison. When Varny came in, he had four men with him. Now this I’ve only read, mind you, because I was dead at the time, but Varny had another of his goons, a particularly distasteful fellow named Tobias, with him, and he dragged in John Wolf’s wife. They’d been married in some kind of an Indian ceremony, and I guess the law recognized it.”

“Ten people,” Nikki said. “Four poker players, Varny, five goons. Wait, and Mrs. Wolf. That makes eleven.”

“Actually, there were really thirteen,” Ringo pointed out. “Don’t forget the piano player, and the singer.”

“Okay, so you’re you,” Jessy said to Ringo. “Dillon would be John.”

Ringo laughed. “Or Mariah. She was the one who carried on the line. She was pregnant at the shoot-out, or the Wolf line would have ended right there.”

“I wonder if I play any part in this?” Jessy murmured.

“The piano player,” Timothy said from the doorway, surprising them all.

In fact, Jessy was so startled by the sound of his voice that she jumped. “Pardon?”

“The piano player. George Turner. He was a distant relative.”

Adam Harrison spent his time at one table.

It wasn’t the craps table where Tanner Green had died, because that had been removed, but he played at the table that had taken its place.

The pit boss had a name tag that read Darrell Frye, and he kept looking at his watch as he walked around keeping his eye on the various tables. Interesting, Adam thought.

Adam waited until things were relatively quiet and then got Frye talking.

“Hear you had some excitement in here the other night,” he said to the croupier closest to him. “A man died or something?”

The croupier looked around and saw that Darrell Frye was hanging around by another table, then grinned conspiratorially and said, “Yeah, a fellow bought it right here, right where we’re standing. Hell of a thing.”

“Were you working?” Adam asked.

The other man nodded gravely. “I didn’t see anything till the guy collapsed on some poor woman, though. Too bad about the cameras.”

“Yeah? What happened to the cameras?”

“It’s a big deal up in the executive offices, but they were glitching and not catching everything or something like that. It was supposed to be a big secret, but everyone working here knew it.”

Adam filed that away to tell Dillon later and played for a few more minutes, then tipped the croupier and wandered away. He noted that Darrell Frye had finally gotten the break he’d obviously been waiting for. Adam spotted him in the coffee shop and went in himself, ordered a cup of coffee and took a seat, and then he waited.

His vigilance was rewarded when a pretty brunette in a clingy knit dress came up to Darrell Frye. She had a nice figure, long red-tinted hair that was poufed up like something from the sixties and huge sunglasses. Adam found her more than a little suspicious and wondered if the hair was real, or if she was wearing a wig.

She sat down across from Darrell Frye, and at first they spoke too softly for him to overhear their conversation. But in a minute their voices grew heated and their words were clear. “Today. Today, do you hear me?” the woman said, and then she rose and stormed away, stiletto heels clicking sharply on the terrazzo floor.

Dillon was surprised to see Doug Tarleton when he arrived at the station. Doug was wearing civilian clothing and sipping coffee in a chair in the conference room where Jerry Cheever had set up the screen and player so they could study the tapes.

“Doc, what are you doing here?” Dillon asked.

Tarleton grinned. “Taking a break. I’ve been up to my arms in blood and guts for too many hours in a row.”

“You are an M.E.,” Dillon reminded him.

Tarleton laughed. “Yeah, I know. But Detective Cheever here decided to humor me, so here I am. Okay with you?”

“Hell yeah,” Dillon told him.

The technician today was another rookie officer, this one named Drake Barton.

“Where’s Sarah Clay?” Dillon asked.

“Over at the morgue, working trace evidence,” Tarleton said. “That girl has ambition, and she’s one hard worker.”

“She is,” Dillon agreed. He studied the young tech, hoping that this guy was just as good. “Can you show the craps area for the time before the murder took place?” he asked.

“What are you looking for?” Cheever asked him.

“I’m thinking that maybe Tanner had been playing at the Sun earlier,” he said.

“Sure. I’ll roll it back,” the tech told him. “How far? There are hours and hours of footage here.”

“Go back about three hours, but fast-forward until I tell you to slow down,” Dillon told him.

“Gotcha,” Barton said.

The tape began to roll. Dillon watched the croupiers and clientele running around like something out of a cartoon but saw no sign of Tanner Green.

Then, suddenly, there he was, playing at the same table where he had died.

“I’ll be damned,” Cheever said.

“Hey, they say the man is good for a reason,” Tarleton commented.

Dillon shrugged. “All we’ve done so far is see that Tanner Green was there before he was killed,” he pointed out. “Back it up, please,” he asked the tech.

This time Dillon kept his eyes on Darrell Frye. He went through the motions of his job competently, but he seemed nervous. Hell, he looked like a ferret, Dillon thought.

And he was constantly watching the time.

But Dillon knew that he just didn’t like the guy, and that could be behind his impression of what was going on.

“Wait,” he said again. “Back up again, then play it again, but slowly this time.”

“He ordered a drink. Not exactly unusual at a casino,” Cheever said.

“Play it again,” Dillon insisted.

“There is something odd there. I see it, too,” Tarleton said.

“What?” Cheever asked, apparently annoyed that he wasn’t seeing what the other two did.

Barton, the tech, said slowly, “It’s like one of those pictures where you see something different depending on how you look at it, or one of those ‘what’s different in picture B from picture A?’ things.”

“Play it one more time, please,” Dillon said.

The tape began to roll.

“Stop!” Dillon said. “That’s it.”

“What?” Even Tarleton looked confused this time.

“The cocktail waitress,” he said.

“What about her? She’s cute—they try to hire cute girls,” Cheever said.

“No, no. There’s another woman in the background. They’re both wearing little sarong things, but look at the difference.”

The two outfits looked the same at first. On second glance, though, the waitress serving Tanner Green was wearing a slightly different version. On one, the parrots in the pattern were dark green and in perfect alignment with one another. On the other, they were more of a lime color and arranged at odd angles. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">