The Eyes Die Last (32 page)

She did a double take.  “Looks like our victim was friends with Elvis.”  “Elvis?  As in the Elvis?”  Wilder swiveled his hips. 

“Here have a look for yourself.”  Kennedy handed Wilder the BEFORE picture of a beautiful woman with long dark hair teased to towering heights, welldecorated with heavy eye makeup, snuggled next to Elvis. 

He studied it, and then whistled.  “A close friend, I’d say.  Looks like this was taken at the Imperial Palace.” 

“How in the hell can you tell that?”  She took the photo back from him. 

“Look at the background in the photo.  What do you see to the left of our smiling couple?  Or make that, who do you see?” 

“Oh look.  It’s John Travolta.”  Kennedy squinted, eyed the photo closely.  “John Travolta dealing Black Jack?” 

“No, it’s one of the “Dealertainers” at the Imperial Palace.  As far as I know, it’s the only casino in Vegas that has Black Jack dealers-slash-impersonators.  Probably, the only casino anywhere, for that matter.” 

“Thank God for small favors.  Not only have we got a picture, but we’ve got one the decomp fluids didn’t ruin.” 

“We got lucky.” 

“How’d the killer get away with taking a picture in the casino?  I thought the Excalibur was the only casino you could take pictures in.” 

“I don’t think the killer was trying to get a picture of the casino.  It looks like Elvis is standing with the victim at the entrance and the black jack tables just ended up in the background.” 

Kennedy couldn’t argue that.  “You’re right—will miracles never cease?”  “Smart mouth.”  Wilder nudged her. 

“So let’s find this Elvis.  Maybe he saw who took this photo and can ID the victim.” 

“We’ll head over to the Imperial Palace when we finish up here and check out the Elvis dealers.” 

He gave the photo back to Kennedy.  She slipped it into an evidence bag and placed it in her purse just as the ME entered the building and made a bee-line to the body.  CSU was right behind. 

“What do you have?” 

Kennedy nodded.  “Another dead body, courtesy of our killer.”  “Decomp wasted no time sinking its ugly claws into her.” 

“Her color is so distorted Wilder and I are having trouble figuring out if she was strangled like the others.  We think this is a thumb mark to the left side of her neck.”  She pointed to the mark. 

Dr.  Hoff leaned in close to the body.  He turned the head gently with his gloved hand.  “I’d say you’re right on the money.  This bruise is definitely shaped like a thumb.  Good catch.” 

“Wilder caught it.” 

The ME looked up at Wilder.  “You’re awfully quiet for a change.”  “Just watching an expert do his thing.” 

“Okay, I’m waiting for the smart ass comment that is sure to follow.”  “Jack-Off, you wound me.”  He held a hand over his heart. 

“You know, Hoff, there’s no way Wilder will rag you now.  I’m afraid you’ve ruined his fun by telling him you expect it.” 

The ME spotted Mandi Clifton.  “Can you get the forensic photographer working on the pictures so we can get the body out of here?” 

Wilder gestured for Mandi to get started, and Dr.  Hoff made his initial examination of the body as the photographer worked around him.  “We’ll need to be careful moving the body.  With this much decomp, there’s always a chance the skin will slide off in our hands when we lift her.” 

Wilder’s face twisted into a grimace.  “That’s not a pleasant picture to paint.” 

“I’ve seen it more times than I care to remember.  Once we get the bo
dy loaded
into the body bag, we can process the ground beneath her.” 

Two hours later, Kennedy and Wilder left the crime scene for Metro.  There, they could shower, scrub the foul smell off and change into clothes that didn’t reek of death. 

Then they would check out the Imperial Palace. 

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

NICK STORMED INTO HIS CAMPAIGN HEADQUARTERS, GLAD ALL OF THE VOLUNTEERS HAD LEFT FOR THE DAY.
  He’d tried to work after Kennedy had left his office.  After biting off one too many of his employees’ heads, he’d given up and gone out for a drink.  Two rounds of Glenfiddich later, he was still pissed as hell.  The woman burned his ass.  Maybe his meeting with John would take his mind off the hard-headed female cop.

He was about to give up waiting when John finally made an appearance.  “It’s about damn time.  You think I’ve nothing better to do with my time than wait around for you to show?  You’re damn near an hour late.”  He picked up a paper weight from one pile of papers and tossed it onto another stack.

“Sorry, Nick.  I was waiting on this last fax to come through.  It’s the latest polls.  You, my friend, are kicking butt.  You’re up twenty-eight percent.”  John passed him the printout.  “Poor Mayor Hildicam might as well withdraw from the race along with the rest of the candidates.  And
St. Louis
isn’t far behind; he dropped twenty-five percent this month alone.  Every time the man opens his mouth, he loses votes.  Your speech at the Women’s League of Voters scored high.  You did well.”

“Finally, some good news today.”  Nick scanned the sheets, but he was having trouble concentrating on anything that didn’t involve a certain female detective with violet eyes.

John pulled up a chair across from Nick’s desk and sat.  “Sounds like you’re having a bad day.”

“I think being asked to give a sample of my DNA to see if I’m a murdering bastard could be construed as a bad day.”

“Are you talking about the prostitute murders?” 

“Yes, I am.”  He tossed the paper with the poll numbers down. 

“I know how you feel.  I just had Detective O’Brien ask me to give up some  DNA.”

“And did you?”

“Hell no.  Not without talking to a lawyer first.”  John undid the top button on his shirt.  “So, Metro thinks you killed those women?  For real, Nick?”

“For real.” 

“I thought they were just blowing smoke up my ass with all the questions.” 

Nick leaned back in his chair, ran a hand over his face.  “I’m afraid not.” 

The other man scooted closer, leaned in and placed his elbows on the desk.  “I can see why you’re upset.” 

“Damn right I’m upset.  Two rounds of good Scotch haven’t managed to take the edge off.” 

“Maybe a couple more shots would do the trick.”  “I doubt it.” 

“What evidence did the cops use to get the court order for your DNA?” 

Nick let out a breath.  “No court order.  I gave it up voluntarily.” 

John’s hands dropped onto the desk.  “Tell me you’re not serious.  Why in the hell would you do that?  Did you even bother to call one of your lawyers?  You pay a shit load of money for that legal staff of yours.  If they can’t do a better job of—”

“Whoa there, buddy.  I didn’t confer with legal.  I gave the sample because Detective O’Brien asked.”  He blew out a half-laugh.  “And she asked nicely.” 

John slapped a palm on his forehead.  “Well there you go, what was I thinking?  What better reason is there to give your DNA to the cops?  Hell, I guess I should have given mine over.” 

“I have nothing to hide.  I’m just pissed that the damn woman would think me capable of such horrible crimes.” 

“I’m not sure that was the smartest move, but we’ll see soon enough.” 

“I’m innocent.  It can only help to prove it.”  He rocked back in the chair, and crossed his arms over his
che
st
.

“Hey, I’m innocent too, but I didn’t give her my DNA.”  John blew out a breath.  “So tell me, Nick, are you interested in the beautiful Detective O’Brien?  She’s a looker.” 

“Hell, I don’t know.  There’s definitely something about her that attracts me.  Maybe it’s those big eyes of hers.  Or maybe the Irish lilt that slips into her voice when she’s caught off guard.”  Or the body that responds with a single touch.  “Doesn’t matter, though.  She’s made it clear she’s not interested.” 

“You’re not used to being turned down by the opposite gender.  Kind of sucks to be like the rest of us guys.” 

Nick laughed.  “Maybe she’ll change her mind when my DNA sample proves once and for all I’m not a killer.  But I think it takes weeks for the results to come in.  Until then, I guess I’m a suspect.  That should wreak havoc with my numbers at the polls.”
 

“People love this kind of crap.  I think you should look at it as a bit of free publicity.  When the DNA test clears you, you’ll get another round of free press.  You won’t need Jeff doing publicity anymore.” 

Nick snorted.  “Will I still need a campaign manager?” 

“Well of course.  I give you a shit-load of much needed guidance.  That’s why you pay me the big bucks.” 

He laughed, glad John had managed to cheer him up.  Now that he was coming out of his funk, he noticed how tired and worn out John looked.  Maybe he was still recovering from his bout of flu.  “Are you doing okay, John?  You look exhausted.”  He noticed the tremble in his friend’s hands.  “Christ, look at your hands, they’re shaking.” 

“I’m fine.  Maybe a little shook up from the cop questioning me earlier.”  He ran a hand over his face.  “Plus I’ve been busy and I have a tendency to forget to eat, even forget to sleep sometimes.  Your business schedule is so busy it takes a lot of work to arrange your political schedule so it coordinates.” 

“Am I overworking you?”  John had lost weight and there were dark circles under his eyes. 

“Not at all.  I love every busy minute.” 

“You do a damn good job.  We’ve been friends for ten years now.  I’d like to

think if you had any problems I could help you with, you’d let me know.” 

“I would.  I appreciate your concern, but I’m okay.”  John pushed his chair back. 

“I’m glad to hear that.” 

“If that’s all, I think I’ll head home.  Maybe I’ll hit the sack early and get a good night’s sleep.” 

“Good.  Get some rest or you’ll end up with another round of the flu.” 

“I sure as hell don’t want that.  I’m not sure my body could stand another bout of playing the porcelain prince.”  He smiled weakly and patted his stomach.  “Catch you later, Nick.” 

“Thanks for coming by.  I’ll check in with you tomorrow, sooner if I hear anything else about the murder investigation.” 

Nick left shortly after, promising himself he would keep an eye on his friend for a few days.  He not only didn’t look good, but Nick could swear he was hiding something from him.  The two men had been friends too long for Nick not to notice his friend was troubled about something. 

But what? 

It
took a lot to impress Kennedy. 

But here she was, eyes wide, hoping her tongue wasn’t hanging out, standing in the middle of the Imperial Palace Casino.  Kennedy watched in awe as Bette Midler quickly dealt a game of blackjack to five players perched on high stools. 

Elton John worked the table next to her and Dolly was next to him dealing with as much grace as her huge bust would allow. 

“Wilder, I’ve never seen anything like this.  They look so real.  And I’m not talking about Dolly’s bosom.  I’m half tempted to ask them for autographs.” 

“They do look real, don’t they?  And I am talking about Dolly’s bosom.”  His eyebrows wiggled up and down.  “After that gruesome murder scene, it’s nice to see a bit of sparkle in your eyes,” he whispered. 

God, the man was getting mushy.  “My eyes don’t sparkle.”  “Whatever you say.” 

“Well, I say they don’t.”  Her eyes turned back to the dealers. 

“I can’t believe you’ve never been here before.”  He nodded at the black jack tables.  “Let’s go.  We’d better find Elvis before you embarrass me and start asking for those autographs.” 

Kennedy looked around.  “Maybe we should just ask somebody if Elvis is working.” 

“Maybe, ladies and gentleman, Elvis has left the building.”  Wilder laughed at his own dumb joke.  Kennedy didn’t. 

“Come on, Kenny, that one was funny.”  “No Wilder, it wasn’t.” 

“Obviously the newness of this place has already worn off.  Where’s all that excitement?” 

“Wilder, I can be excited, but it still doesn’t make your jokes funny.” 

Before she had a chance to ask Dolly if Elvis was around, Kennedy spotted him.  He was young, early to mid-twenties at
mo
st
.
He was about to take over for Michael Jackson at the Black Jack table. 

“Hold on for a second.”  Kennedy showed him and his pit boss her badge.  “We’d like to have a word with Elvis before he starts dealing.” 

Elvis shrugged at his frowning pit boss before he led them across the casino to an employee lounge. 

On the way, Kennedy whispered to Wilder.  “Do you think he’s the same Elvis?  The one in the picture?” 

“I don’t know, Kenny.  They all look alike to me.” 

“Give it up.  Honest to God, you have no future in comedy.” 

They reached the lounge and Wilder held out his badge again.  “Mr.  Presley, I’m Detective James and this is my partner, Detective O’Brien.”  Kennedy followed suit, held out her badge and bit back a grin.  Mr.  Presley?