A Killing at the Creek (8 page)

 

Chapter 14

A
FRIGID BLAS
T
of air-­conditioning struck Elsie as she and Chuck entered the Jackpot Casino.

Coming in from the midday sun of a cloudless Oklahoma summer sky, she was temporarily blinded by the darkness inside the casino. As her eyes adjusted, they took in glittering colored lights from rows of slot machines.

Though it was only noon, the Jackpot was doing a brisk business. The musical play of the machines rang in Elsie's ears. She waved her hand through a cloud of smoke emanating from players nearby.

“I guess they have a smoking section,” she said to Chuck.

He barked a short laugh. “This is an Indian casino, sweetheart. The whole place is a smoking section. The American Indian introduced us to the tobacco leaf.”

Elsie followed Chuck as he threaded his way past gaming tables and through jangling machines occupied by gray-­haired women, some with walkers and oxygen tanks in tow. When he walked up to the bar and slid onto a stool, she followed suit.

“I'll have a Boston Lager,” he told the bartender.

Elsie gasped. “You can't have a drink.”

“Watch me.”

“But we're working.”

“I'm taking a lunch break.”

He paid for the beer and slipped a twenty-­dollar bill from his wallet.

“We're way outside the McCown County line, pal,” he said to Elsie. “I'm going to play some slots. If you see Ashlock before I do, come look for me. I'll be out on the floor.”

With that, he walked off, leaving Elsie alone on a bar stool.

She would've followed, but he clearly didn't seek her company. She wasn't sure what she should do. Twirling on the stool, she sniffed the air of the casino. It wasn't so bad. Pretty smoky, but combined with a nice air freshener smell. She'd been in worse places.

The bartender approached. “Can I get you something, ma'am?” He was a good-­looking young man with jet black hair.

Elsie sighed, propping her elbow on the bar. “I could use a soda, I guess.”

“Soda's free. On the house,” he said, filling a plastic cup with ice. “Coke or Diet Coke?”

“Give me a real one,” Elsie said. “Maybe I'll live a little.” She was morose; maybe a shot of corn syrup would lift her spirits.
Goddamned case
, she thought.
The suspect's a kid, and I'm odd man out on the prosecution team, but it doesn't matter—­because I'm afraid of the sight of blood. I'm a total loser.

As the bartender set down the Coke, he pointed out a customer ser­vice area. “See that over there? If you go register with them, they'll give you free play.”

“What do you mean?”

“Sign up for your Jackpot account, and they'll give you a ten-­dollar credit. You can play on the house.”

Elsie blinked. “No kidding?” She looked over at the customer ser­vice booth. She had nothing else to do, and no one to talk to. Chuck was immersed in a game of Flaming Sevens. And she was not too happy, being left alone with her private reflections.

“Thanks for the tip,” she said, and put fifty cents by her napkin. Wandering over to the customer ser­vice window, she obtained a J card in her name, with a ten-­dollar credit.

She had to put money in the machine to initiate the credit account. Checking her purse, she saw that all she had was a five-­dollar-­bill. She counted on Ashlock to pick up her lunch tab. With a shrug, she pulled out the lonely bill and slipped it into the machine. After carefully viewing the buttons, she made a twenty-­cent bet.

Which she lost.

“This is no fun,” she muttered, but she pushed the button again, nonetheless. This time, her twenty-­cent bet earned her six cents.

She laughed ruefully. “Why does anyone play these games?” Looking around at her fellow inhabitants of the dark casino, she shook her head, feeling a little superior. Glad she was playing on the casino's dime, she doubled her bet and pushed the button again.

Nothing. A waitress in a black rayon miniskirt sauntered by, calling, “Beverages. Cocktails. Beverages.”

Elsie saw that she was bearing a tray of icy colas.

“Are those free?”

The woman nodded. Elsie took one from the tray. She would have tipped the woman, but every penny she had was locked up in the Triple Diamonds slot machine. She gulped a mouthful of Coke and hit the button again.

The machine lit up. Happy music played. Fireworks and flying coins appeared on the computer screen.

“What the fuck,” Elsie pondered, clutching her plastic cup.

“Look there,” said a man sitting nearby, pointing at her game screen. “You won one hundred and seventy dollars.”

“No,” Elsie said.

“Yes, ma'am.”

“No way,” she countered, but she studied the screen; the numbers confirmed her neighbor's words. The words
BIG WINNER
danced before her eyes.

“Oh my gosh,” she said, registering the thrill. “Oh my goodness gracious sakes.” She turned to her new friend at the nearby machine. “What do I do now?”

He said, “Do whatever you want. You can keep playing, or you can push that button to print out your ticket. Then you can play with the ticket or cash it in.”

She gave the cash-­out button a jolly tap with her index finger. “I'm cashing it in,” she said jubilantly. “I want to hold that money in my hand.”

Elsie ran up to the cashier's window, where they paid out the money. She shut it up in her purse and walked up to Chuck.

“I won. Can you believe it?”

“Well, sit down here and rub some luck off on me. I can't win shit.”

She sat down at the machine next to him, smiling expansively as the cocktail waitress approached them. It was the same woman who provided Elsie her soda earlier, a trim woman in her early forties with frosted highlights in her lacquered hair.

“Can I get you guys something?”

Chuck looked up at her, morose. “I'll take a bottled water.”

“You want another Coke, honey?” the woman asked Elsie.

“No, I think I'll have something else. Bring me a gin and tonic.” She turned back to the slot machine, slipped a twenty-­dollar bill into it, and watched it light up.

 

Chapter 15

W
HEN
A
SHLOCK ARRIVED
after two, Elsie jumped from her red vinyl casino chair and flung herself on him.

“I'm winning,” she cried. “Look, I'm up thirty bucks. Isn't that cool? I'll buy your lunch.”

He held her at arm's length, scrutinizing her. “How much have you had to drink?”

Her hundred-­watt smile faltered. “I had a victory drink. Or two.”

“Two times what?” Ashlock swung on Chuck Harris, who was standing nearby. “What the hell are you two doing?”

Chuck shook his head. “I'm just killing time, playing some penny slots. But I think your girlfriend's on a toot.”

Elsie gasped with outrage. “You liar! You ordered the first beer.”

Chuck picked up his jacket, neatly draped over the vinyl back of a red chair, and put it on. “I had a beer—­about two hours ago,” he said, buttoning the top button of his coat.

Elsie blinked with surprise. Could so much time have actually passed? She said, “That could not have been two hours ago. It feels like it's been thirty minutes. Maybe twenty.” Sneaking a glance at the half-­full plastic tumbler nearby, she tried to calculate whether it was her second or third, but her recall was a shade fuzzy. The Jackpot poured a strong cocktail.

Ashlock shook his head, disapproval lining his face. “You smell like gin. I can't believe this.” He turned to go, with Chuck Harris at his heels.

“Where are you guys going?” she cried.

“I'm going to talk with the manager, see what witnesses he drummed up.”

Elsie punched a button on the slot machine. “Let me cash out. I'll come with you.”

Chuck turned back to her. With reproach, he said, “You can't take a statement, not in the shape you're in. Why don't you just stay here and sober up?”

Elsie watched them as they walked away and ducked into the customer ser­vice booth. She dropped back onto her red chair, deflated.

This is all Chuck's fault
, she tried to tell herself, but she couldn't truly believe it. She knew it was her own fault; she'd thrown her professional obligations out the window. Though she would like to blame her slipup on the tensions regarding the case, or her reaction to the bloody bus, she knew either was a shabby excuse.

Gambling was stupid, a vice she could ill afford; and she could hardly believe she had trifled with it. The gin helped.
Guess that's
why they're so obliging with the drinks
, she thought, shamefaced.

Sighing, she read the voucher she held in her hand. How had she managed to turn one hundred and seventy dollars into thirty-­seven dollars? “Easy come, easy go,” she said aloud.

The friendly cocktail waitress walked by again, stopping when she saw Elsie.

“You want another G&T, hon?”

“No, don't think so,” Elsie said with an embarrassed laugh. “Hey, is there a snack bar in here?”

“Sure thing, right behind the Wheel of Fortune. Buffet is on the other wall.”

Elsie cashed in her ticket and headed to the snack bar with her fistful of small bills. Sitting with a hot dog and chips, she ruminated over her bad behavior. She'd messed up, big-­time, she knew.

Chuck might tattle on her to Madeleine, which would further complicate Elsie's relationship with her boss. But he couldn't do so without incriminating himself, she reasoned. At any rate, Elsie and Madeleine never enjoyed mutual admiration. If Elsie could whistle “The Missouri Waltz” while tap dancing and drinking a glass of water, Madeleine would still fail to be impressed.

But aside from the specter of Madeleine's displeasure, she knew for a fact that Ashlock was mad at her; that stung. She valued Ashlock's good opinion almost as much as his affection, and as she moped over her hot dog, she feared she had threatened both.

“Your luck run out, hon?”

Startled, Elsie looked up to see who had spoken. Her cocktail friend stood at the snack bar, eating a soft pretzel.

“Give me a little cup of Velveeta, Earl,” the woman told the man at the counter.

“No,” Elsie said, in reply to her question. “I mean, I made some money on the slots.”

“Then why are you looking blue?”

“I'm in the doghouse.” Elsie made a face. “Drinking on the job.”

The waitress laughed, walking up to Elsie's table in her high-­heeled shoes, and taking a seat beside her. “Oh my. It feels good to get off my feet for a minute. These old shoes are killers.”

“I bet.”

“If the boss saw me sitting on my butt, I'd be in the doghouse with you. But he's in a closed-­door meeting.” She turned around to see that the door to customer ser­vice was still secured, then whispered to Elsie, “With some cops.”

Elsie nodded, pulling her chair closer to the woman as her brain clicked into investigative mode. “What's up?”

The woman shrugged. “No one knows. Some big secret deal. Probably about that bloody bus.”

Elsie smiled to encourage her. “Tell me about that.”

The woman said, “It hasn't even hit the papers around here, but there was this kid, living in a bloody school bus parked right out there in the parking lot. At the Jackpot. Can you believe that?”

Elsie inched closer, trying to keep her expression neutral, and continued to dig. “Did you ever see the kid?”

The woman shifted in her seat. “You better believe I saw him. He hit me up on two different days, trying to get served. Nervy little shit. Didn't look a day over sixteen. Wouldn't take no for an answer.”

“Was he alone?”

“Yeah. When I saw him.”

Inwardly, Elsie cheered as she calculated the impact the waitress's testimony would have on the boy's “mystery kidnapper” claims. Nodding, her eyes glued to the woman, Elsie said, “What did he look like?”

“Nothing special. Not that big. Strong, though. Stronger than he looked.”

“How do you know that?”

The waitress dipped a hunk of the pretzel in the bright orange cheese sauce, stirring the bread around the cup.

“Because he hit on me. Here I am, old enough to be his mother. But when I was walking to my car after my shift last week, he sure enough hit on me.”

She sucked the cheese off the pretzel, leaning in to whisper in Elsie's ear. Elsie could smell Velveeta on her breath.

“Wouldn't take no for an answer.”

An expression flickered over the woman's face, but disappeared so quickly, Elsie couldn't read it. Was it a look of simple annoyance? Or had Elsie seen a gleam of pride?

 

Chapter 16

N
O ONE SPOKE
as the Barton police vehicle made its way back toward Missouri. Behind sunglasses, Ashlock's eyes were trained on the road. In the backseat, Chuck Harris worked the crossword from the
Tulsa World
newspaper.

Elsie held a legal pad on her lap, smoothing the top page. The gin and tonic buzz was gone, replaced by a guilty sense of accomplishment. A triumphant smile played on her mouth.

She broke the silence. “Good thing I found that cocktail waitress. She's the only witness we nailed down.”

Her companions maintained an unhappy reticence.

She continued, “It's not your fault that the Jackpot manager wouldn't cooperate. Looks like he led you guys on a wild-­goose chase.”

No response.

Elsie was determined to wrest an acknowledgment of her coup from her companions in the vehicle. She held up the notepad containing the woman's signed statement. Tucked inside the pages, a copy of the juvenile's mug shot bore the waitress's initials, marked in blue ink.

Displaying the statement so that Ashlock could not ignore it, she said, “Do you think I missed my calling? Maybe I should've been a cop.”

“Maybe you should've been a barfly,” Chuck offered from the backseat.

Elsie paused, waiting in vain for Ashlock to come to her defense. When no retort came, she turned partway around in her seat to face Harris.

“The grapes. The grapes are very sour, I think.”

“The grapes at the winery? Fermented grapes?” Chuck quipped.

“Damn,” she said, turning back around and facing forward in the passenger seat. “Give me a fucking break. I saved the day.”

Ashlock still didn't speak. Elsie fidgeted for several long moments, considering how to best break the ice. She decided to do the right thing, and admit her gaffe. Surely if she owned up to her misconduct, he would relax and be restored to good humor.

At length, she said, “Hey, Ash. Sorry about the slipup. The gin. You know I'd never want to let you down.”

He spoke at last, keeping his eyes on the road. “You lucked out. But it was stupid and irresponsible.”

Uncomfortable, she shifted in her seat. “I know. I said it was.”

“Maybe you should stick to the courtroom.”

Maybe you should stick it up your ass
, she thought. After all, everything had turned out okay. And he could hardly be totally surprised at her blunder; she had a history of looking for trouble, as Ashlock knew perfectly well. Exhaling a frustrated breath, she asked, “How long do you want me to grovel?”

“I just want you to understand.”

“I do. I understand.” With a rush of anger, mixed with guilt, she said, “You used to be nicer to me. You know that?”

When he didn't acknowledge her, she knew she should back off. But she turned to him and increased the volume of her voice. “You used to be nicer to me, before I was sleeping with you.”

Shaking his head, he said, “Not the time or the place.” Signaling a right turn, he took an exit off I–44.

“Why are you pulling off? You said no one at this McDonald's could identify him, when you asked them this morning.”

Ashlock parked the car near the entrance of the McDonald's they had visited earlier in the day. Unbuckling his seat belt, he said, “There was a McDonald's cup in the bus. Just a hunch. I'm going in to check it out.” Looking through his mirrored glasses, he said, “I won't need any assistance. You two can stay in the car.”

He slammed the door shut and strode toward the entrance.

Elsie and Chuck looked at each other.

“Trouble in paradise?”

“Yeah. Afraid so,” Elsie said.

“He'll get over it.”

Elsie nodded in agreement, surprised at Chuck's sympathetic tone.

After a brief silence, Chuck observed, “He's kind of controlling, huh? Typical cop.”

“He's not, really,” Elsie said, thinking,
Is he?
Didn't used to be.

Chuck clucked his tongue. With a grimace, he said, “Typical. I've been around a lot of cops. They're not bad guys, they're just bad for women. Not very good relationship material.”

Shifting in her seat, Elsie searched for a response to defend Ashlock. “I don't think you can make a blanket generalization like that. About an entire profession.”

Troubled, she perused the waitress's witness statement again. It was a lucky find, because the woman established that she had encountered the juvenile on multiple occasions, and the boy was always alone. No mystery man, no kidnapper, no hulking figure with a knife at the boy's back. The waitress's testimony would contradict Tanner Monroe's claim that he was a prisoner of the “other dude” who purportedly committed the murder.

Despite the tension with Ashlock, holding the witness statement in her hands gave Elsie a sense of relief. It lessened the anxiety that had been nagging at her, when she wondered whether it was possible that Tanner Monroe was innocent of the crime. She skimmed the casino waitress's statement yet again. It did not mesh with the story provided by Monroe. And they couldn't both be telling the truth. Either Tanner Monroe was, as he claimed, the prisoner of the “other dude” who killed Glenda Fielder; or Monroe was the “nervy little shit” that the waitress described, acting alone.

“So the other casino employees had nothing to say?” she asked Chuck.

“Got nothing. Zip.”

The casino employees who met with Ashlock and Chuck in the manager's office told a different story from the waitress; they maintained, individually and collectively, that they could not identify the juvenile. Although the manager acknowledged that the bus sat in the casino lot for several days, he steadfastly refused to provide further information.

Ashlock's search of the bus had netted an important find, however. In addition to blood and hair samples on the bus, he discovered a bloody knife wedged under the driver's seat. The weapon was bagged and tagged, soon to undergo testing at the Barton Police Department.

Elsie slipped the waitress's witness statement into a file folder as she thought about the knife. The knife would tell the tale, she thought. It was surely the weapon used to cut Glenda Fielder's throat; and the forensic results would determine that with certainty. If that knife could also be tied to Tanner Monroe, through prints or other tests, she would put all her doubts to bed and shut the door on them. She would set herself to the task of convicting the boy of murder, and go after that conviction, whole hog.

While Elsie and Chuck waited for Ashlock to return from the Oklahoma McDonald's, Elsie opened the passenger side door, hoping to catch a passing afternoon breeze. Glancing in the backseat, she saw that Chuck appeared to be asleep. She dug ice from the bottom of her Coke cup, and rubbed a melting cube along her neck. It seemed that Ashlock had been gone a long time.

She considered going in after him, but then he appeared, walking to the car with a leisurely stride. She couldn't read his face, partially hidden by the sunglasses.

He opened the car door, slid inside, and put the key in the ignition.

“Well?” she said.

He started the car and put it in gear.

“Any luck?” she asked.

He nodded. “There's a little dark-­haired girl, works at the counter. She didn't positively ID the mug shot. But she said it resembled a kid who was in last week.”

In the backseat, Chuck roused himself. “Good job, Ashlock. What about a second passenger? The ‘other dude'?”

“She said the kid she remembers was alone. Hung around after he ate, played video games.”

Elsie reached over and gave Ashlock's arm a happy squeeze. “Ash, that's great. It knocks the stuffings out of his claim. Does anybody back her up?”

“Her coworker, the blonde I talked to this morning, still claims she can't remember. The girl acts like a scared rabbit. But I got another witness, a guy who works in the kitchen.”

“What did he say?” Elsie asked.

“He identified the bus. He said he was on break, smoking a cigarette in the parking lot, and noticed that school bus had blood stains down the back. Thought it was strange.”

“What else does he know?”

“Nothing. Never saw the driver.”