Night of the Living Dandelion (14 page)

In a minute, her information printed out, and Marco put it into a folder. “I’ll give her a call Monday morning. Dr. Holloway will be harder to pin down. Cardiac surgeons are usually either in surgery or running back to their offices to see patients in between surgeries.”

“Dr. Holloway found time in between surgeries for Courtney Anne.” I fingered the top button of my sweater. “He might find time to talk to me.”

“I’m sure your crutches will make quite an impression, especially when you tell Holloway he’s a suspect in a murder investigation.”

Rats.
“Then I’ll have one of my brothers set up a meeting with him. He wouldn’t refuse a fellow surgeon’s request.” I scrolled through the address book until I found Jordan’s name, hit the green button, and put the phone to my ear. “Jordan will help me,” I assured Marco.

Marco leaned back in his chair while I explained what I needed to my brother. Jordan and I had always been closer than Jonathan and I, because Jordan was the closer to me in age. He was also Tara’s father. “So would you set up a meeting between us and Holloway?” I asked.

“No freaking way, Ab. I’m the new surgeon on the block here. I keep a low profile around seasoned veterans like Holloway. Mentioning Lori Willis would be a bad move on my part. All the doctors know what she did to his career. In fact, if you’re going to call to set up a meeting, I highly recommend you not mention her name either.”

“But I told Marco you’d come through for me,” I whispered. “Don’t embarrass me.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, Ab, but I’m not asking Holloway for any favors. Why don’t you pretend you’re a heart patient in need of a consult? Tell him you’ve heard he’s the premier heart surgeon in the country, and I’ll bet he’ll see you ASAP. Just don’t use our last name. Do you remember any of your high school French?”

“
Oui
. Why?”

“You’re a heart patient from Paris. And be sure to show up in something low-cut.”

Was there ever a doubt that Jordan was my brother? “Way ahead of you on that one, bro.” I thanked Jordan for the suggestions and immediately dialed Nikki’s number.

“Who are you calling now?” Marco asked.

“I need to leave a message for Nikki,
s’il vous plait.
”

When Nikki’s voice mail kicked in, I said, “Would you talk to whoever sets up Dr. Speedo’s appointments and make one for Gabriella La Cour? Gabriella needs a second opinion from the top heart surgeon in the country. She’s flying here from France and will be in town tomorrow. Thanks, Nik.”

Marco was sitting on a corner of the desk, the crutches leaning against his legs. “Who is Gabriella La Cour?”

“That was my name in high school French class. Gabriella, or Gabby, was as close to Abby as we could get.”

“Gabby. Yeah, I can see that. And La Cour?”

I got up, wedged the crutches beneath my armpits, and started toward the door. “I’d rather not talk about it. Ready to go?”

Marco got there first and put his hand on the doorknob. “I’ll open the door if you tell me what La Cour means.”

“It’s just a French name.”

“I could look it up online.”

“Fine. I’ll tell you if you promise to never tell anyone else. Nikki is the only one who knows.”

“You mean other than your entire French class?”

Like they’d even remember me. “It means
the short one
.”

Marco rubbed his thumb over his lower lip, trying not to smile. “It sounds better in French.”

“Can we go now?”

He opened the door to let me through. “You know, I think I’d like to meet Gabriella. What is she doing around midnight?”

“If you’re lucky,
le cancan
.”

 

The Calumet Casino Boat was docked on the Little Calumet River, about a forty-minute drive from New Chapel. Compared to big-name casinos like Blue Chip or Horseshoe, it was small, but that didn’t stop people from all over the area from flocking to it.

Marco circled the full parking lot and stopped in front of a covered boat ramp, waving off the parking attendants. He helped me out of the car, then went to find a place to park while I tried to navigate the ramp. It was tricky enough trying to keep the triangle configuration on a level surface—crutches, foot, crutches, foot—but throw in an incline and I had a whole new set of problems. Finally, one of the parking attendants took pity on me and followed me up the ramp, one hand on my back to keep me from falling.

While I waited in a line inside the reception area, I noticed a surveillance camera pointed in my direction. It was a eureka moment. If Vlad had come onto the boat, he would show up on the security video.

When Marco came in and joined me in line, I pointed to the camera, and he nodded. We stepped up to the counter to register and show our IDs, then entered a gigantic room filled with slot machines, roulette wheels, craps tables, and more slot machines. The room was noisy, with bells going off and people laughing and talking, and one-armed bandits clanking, so Marco merely pointed toward a marquee for the Tumbling Dice Restaurant at the far end.

We made our way through the crowded casino into an area Marco said was for high rollers. Beyond was the restaurant, where a brunette in a revealing black dress, gargantuan silver hoop earrings, and silver heels stood at a podium just outside the entrance.

“Would you like to dine with us this evening?” she asked, as we walked up.

“No, thanks. I’m here to see the manager,” Marco said. “I phoned earlier.”

“Just a minute.” She stepped into the restaurant and came back a few moments later with a trim, fortyish man in a snazzy gray suit and an orange-and-purple tie. Marco stepped forward and held out his wallet to display his PI license. “Marco Salvare. This is my assistant, Abby Knight.”

“Grant Gambol,” the manager said, extending his hand to Marco.

That was a fitting name for a casino employee. Had he felt compelled to work there?

“As I explained on the phone,” Marco said, “we’re working on an investigation and would appreciate ten minutes of your time.” He flashed a fifty-dollar bill, then tucked it back in his pocket. “Somewhere private.”

The manager immediately showed us to an elegantly appointed private dining room with walnut wainscoting, giltframed paintings, and a crystal chandelier. He offered us drinks, but we turned them down. When Marco was in his PI mode, he wouldn’t let anything ruin his focus. I simply wasn’t thirsty.

We were sitting at a white linen-covered table for eight, with burgundy crushed velvet chairs, flatware rolled inside burgundy linen napkins, and a crystal bud vase in the center of the table with a single stem in it. I identified the flower as an alstroemeria, a standard in every florist’s shop, and thought the restaurant management could have done a single calla in blush pink, given the money they’d put into the decor.

Marco touched his knee to mine under the table, apparently noticing my wandering attention. He had taken an envelope from the inside pocket of his leather jacket and laid out a newspaper photo of Lori Willis and a photo of Vlad from his army days. With a low, flat building in the background, Vlad was standing beside a tan jeep, one shoe on the bumper, a rifle in his arms. Although the photo wasn’t recent, Vlad’s distinctive good looks hadn’t changed a bit.

“Do you remember seeing either of these two people here Tuesday evening?” Marco asked.

Gambol tapped the black-and-white photo of Lori. “I heard about her murder. What a shame. She used to come to the boat quite a bit to play the slot machines. But to answer your question, I know she wasn’t in the restaurant Tuesday evening. I checked for the detectives when they came around to talk to us.”

“Was she on the boat at all that evening?” I asked.

“For that, you’d have to talk to the casino staff.”

“What about this man?” Marco asked, moving Vlad’s picture forward.

“Ah. The vampire.” Gambol shook his head. “He wasn’t here. I’d remember him.”

“Would you be willing to sign a statement to that effect?” Marco asked.

“I don’t have any problem doing that,” Gambol said.

“Do you have a security camera inside the restaurant?” Marco asked, putting the photos away.

“No. But the cameras in the game rooms cover a wide area.”

“What would it take for us to be able to review the security videos taken Tuesday evening?” Marco asked, sliding the fifty-dollar bill toward Gambol, but not releasing it.

“I can set that up for you. It’ll have to be during the day, when Paul Van Cleef, the head of security, is here.”

“How about on Monday, half past twelve?” Marco asked, taking his hand off the money.

“I’ll take care of it.” Gambol pocketed the money; then they shook hands.

 

Back in Marco’s Prius, I worked my finger beneath the layers of Ace bandage around my ankle, trying to reach an itch. “It should be simple to prove that Vlad wasn’t here Tuesday evening by looking at the security video.”

“The video might prove he wasn’t here,” Marco said, “but if Willis’s death occurred after Vlad got off work, it won’t prove he didn’t kill her. And we won’t know the exact time of her death until the coroner releases his official report. So I’m hoping the tapes show Lori leaving the casino with one of the other suspects.”

“If they
do
,” I said, “we can show them to Reilly and get Vlad off the suspect list.”

“I won’t do that until I can tell Reilly who really killed Lori Willis. Never tip your hand too early. Remember that for the future.”

His “future” reminders were making me nervous, as though he’d had a premonition.

“There’s a Starbucks ahead,” Marco said. “Want to stop for coffee or anything?”

“No, I’m fine. I’d like to come with you Monday to see those surveillance tapes, though.”

Marco reached over for my hand and gave it a squeeze.

“That’s why I made the appointment for twelve thirty, so it would be during your lunch hour.”

That deserved a kiss. I waited until the light turned red, then leaned toward him. Our lips met and lingered; then we reluctantly parted when the light changed. “Thanks, partner,” I said.

He gave me a scorching-hot look. “You can thank me more tonight.”

“Count on it.” My cell phone rang. I checked the screen and saw Nikki’s name.

“What’s the word, Nik?”

“I have to hurry,” she said. “I’m not supposed to be taking a break now but I wanted to tell you two things. First, Mademoiselle Gabriella La Cour has an appointment for a consult with Dr. Holloway this coming Tuesday afternoon at two o’clock.”

“A Tuesday appointment with Dr. Holloway,” I repeated for Marco’s benefit.

“And I’ve got another person for your suspect list. Her name is Diane Rotunno.
R-O-T-U-N-N-O
. She was up for the director of nursing position at Parkview, but Lori Willis got it instead. And from what the nurses told me, Diane was out for blood when she heard the news.”

“Nurse Diane Rotunno. Got it. Good work, Nikki. And very quickly, were you able to find out whether Lori was seeing anyone?”

“I forgot all about that. I’ll see what I can do.”

“We’ve got a new suspect,” I told Marco as I put away my phone. “A nurse with a grudge.”

 

Dugan’s Pharmacy was a small chain operation that had stores throughout northwest Indiana. In New Chapel, the store was located at the busy intersection of Lincoln Street and Concord Avenue, a five-minute walk from the town square. When we arrived, there were only a handful of cars in the parking lot, so Marco was able to pull in close to the door.

Leading the way on my crutches, I headed for the window marked PATIENT CONSULTATIONS, where we saw a man in a white short-sleeved lab coat with a brass pin on the pocket that read JERRY TRUMBLE
,
PHARMACIST
.
He was on the phone taking down a prescription order, giving me a chance to study him.

He had a shaved head that showed a pear-shaped skull, a brown unibrow, deep-set eyes, and a broad nose that had a dent in the middle. He had the huge neck of a weight lifter, and his sleeves bulged with overdeveloped arm muscles.

Trumble ended his phone call and turned toward us with a smile. “Can I help you?”

Marco put his ID on the counter. “I’m investigating Lori Willis’s death and hoped you might be able to provide some helpful information.”

Trumble leaned across the counter to see if anyone was standing nearby, then said in a low, angry voice, “If you’re any kind of investigator, you know Willis caused my wife’s death. Why on earth would I want to help you?”

“I understand your feelings about the deceased, Mr. Trumble,” Marco said, “but—”

“You
can’t
understand unless it happened to you, too, so don’t insult me by pretending you do.”

“Regardless of how you feel about the deceased, an innocent person is being targeted by the police for her murder,” Marco said. “I’m doing what I can to make sure he’s not wrongly accused. Surely you can understand wanting to help a friend in trouble.”

The pharmacist took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I can’t help you.”

“Just ten minutes of your time,” Marco said.

Trumble slammed his fist on the counter. “I don’t care if

Lori Willis is dead. She killed my wife! Her carelessness ruined my life and took my son’s mother from him. Do you know what she said to me when I arrived at the hospital after Dana was pronounced dead? That Dana was better off because she would’ve had brain damage! Can you imagine a nurse saying that to a grieving husband after
her
mistake caused his wife’s death?”

Even after five years, the man’s pain was raw and right below the surface. His helpless fury resonated with me. I wondered if I could tap into that to change his mind.

“We’re sorry for your tragic loss,” I said, stepping up to the window beside Marco. “My dad almost died because of a mistake a surgeon made on the operating table. And even though he lived, he lost the use of his legs. So I can understand your anger, Mr. Trumble. But all we want to do is make sure there’s not a killer on the loose. I’m certain you want a safe community for your son. So why not see if you can help us catch a murderer?”