The Eyes Die Last (33 page)

“Hey man, call me Elvis.”  Elvis held out his hands, palms up.  “There’s no funny business going on here.  The gaming commission keeps close tabs on all the casinos and dealers.  I’ve been working here for—”

Elvis took a good look at Kennedy and stopped mid-sentence.  “Wow, lady, you’ve got the coolest color of eyes I’ve ever seen.  They’re purple.  You could so get a gig as Liz.  The hair is the right color.  You’re a little tall, a little thin, but you’d do.” 

Apparently Elvis was a crazy man.  “What in the hell are you talking about?” 

He circled her.  “You could be young Liz.  Throw a little beauty mark on, a stunning Liz wardrobe, and wah-la!  You’re Liz.  Can you deal cards, Lizzy?” 

“I’m a cop, Elvis.  Not some damn kid who wants to play dress up.” 

“You’d be surprised at the kind of money you could make as a Liz Dealertainer.  Tips alone would keep a knockout like you in the lap of luxury for a long, long time.” 

“Can it, Elvis.  I’m not interested.  We’ve got questions for you, so do you mind letting us talk?”  The excitement of the place had definitely worn off. 

Wilder laughed.  “That’s harsh, Detective.  Elvis is just making an observation.  Ain’t that right, kid?” 

“Sorry, Detective O’Brien.  I’m easily distracted when I see great impersonator possibilities.  Your eyes are ‘to die for eyes’, you know what I mean?” 

Kennedy felt like she’d just peed in Elvis’ new Cadillac.  “I...  well...  I...  thanks for the compliment.”  Damn, she hated when people flattered her. 

“You’re welcome.  What can I help you with, Detective Gorgeous Eyes?” 

Detective Gorgeous Eyes?  Gag. 

Wilder pulled out his notebook. 

“First off, would you state your full name for the record?” 

“Elvis.  Just Elvis.  No last name.  You know, like Cher, Prince and Liberace.  One name only.” 

“That’s your legal name?” 

“Yes.  I had it legally changed years ago.” 

“I have a picture I’d like to show you.”  She held out the picture.  “Are you the

Elvis in this photo?  We’re trying to find out w
ho this woman is.  Do you know
her?” 

Elvis looked closely at the photo. 

“Priscilla.  This is my Priscilla.  Why?” 

“Is there any chance you noticed anyone hanging around, snapping pictures in the last few days?” 

“You’re not allowed to take pictures in the casino.”  He waited a beat, obviously thinking back.  “But, you know, there was this dude out front last Monday.  He was snapping a few pictures outside and got a little too close to the front doors.  Priscilla noticed him and pointed him out to me.  She thought he might be snapping photos of us.  I thought he was someone considering us for a possible gig.” 

“You pretty sure on the day?”  Elvis looked a bit confused.  “Take your time, think it out.” 

“I’m sure of the day.  We’d cashed a check from an Elvis gig we’d had over the weekend.” 

“Could you ID the man if you saw him again?”  “I’m not sure.  I guess I could try.” 

“We’ve got a few pictures we’d like to run past you, maybe early tomorrow, if you’ve got time to come down to Metro.” 

“Okay with me.” 

“Are you her boyfriend?”  Kennedy asked, even though she would’ve bet her next paycheck Elvis was queer as a three-dollar bill. 

“Oh heavens no, Detective Gorgeous Eyes.  I swing the other way.” 

Bingo. 

“Priscilla’s my best friend.  Why, we’re practically family.” 

“Does Priscilla have any other family?  Maybe some blood relation?” 

“No.  Just me.  Why?”  She heard suspicion creep into his voice. 

Kennedy looked at Wilder and he gave her a nod.  She took a cleansing breath.
             

“There’s no easy way to say this, but I’m sorry to inform you, the woman in this photo is dead.” 

He looked down at the photo for another minute, then back and forth between Wilder and Kennedy, and then took another look at the picture.  Elvis lifted his head one final time, his eyes rolled like the cherries on a slot machine, and he fainted flat out onto the floor. 

“Crap, Kenny.”  Wilder got down on the floor and felt his pulse. 

“I had to tell him.  There’s no easy way to break that kind of news.”  “I know that.  All I said was crap.” 

Wilder gave Elvis a glass of water when he came to, then they helped him to a couch, and gave him a few more minutes to compose himself. 

“You okay, kid?”  Wilder handed him the glass. 

“That’s my Priscilla, my best friend.  We work together, conventions, parties, and any other gigs that Elvis needs Priscilla to serve as arm candy.  We’re good together.  She’s the best Priscilla I’ve ever worked with.”  He was babbling.  “What...  what happened to her?” 

“It appears she was murdered, her body found on Washington Street.  Did Priscilla work other jobs besides her Priscilla appearances?” 

“If you’re asking if she worked as a prostitute, yes.” 

“That’s what we figured.” 

“She was legal and as far as I know, always worked the Nye County side of Washington Street.  I’ve been begging her to give it up.  We’ve been getting a lot of gigs and have a busy convention season coming up.  I’m going part-time here.”  A sob caught in his throat. 

“Drink some more water.”  Wilder offered him another drink. 

“Oh, God, are you sure she’s dead?  She was just here last Thursday.”  “Is that the last time you saw her?” 

“Yes.  She stopped by around noon to show me the new wig she’d picked up earlier.  She used the money from the check we cashed Monday to buy it.  It was gorgeous, she was gorgeous.”  He began to cry. 

Wilder handed Elvis a napkin from the lounge table.  “We’re sorry for your loss.” 

“Thank you.” 

“We know this is hard, but if you could just hang in there with us a little longer, we’d appreciate it.” 

“Sure, I want to help.”  He blew his nose long and hard into the napkin.  “What happened to her?” 

“We’re still gathering our facts.  When we have details we’re allowed to share, we’ll let you know.” 

“I can look at those pictures right now, if you want.  I want to help.” 

“We know you do, but you’ve just had a big shock.  We need to get them together and then we’ll let you look.” 

Wilder always makes this comforting thing look so easy. 

“We have some more questions.” 

Elvis drank the water and handed the glass back to Wilder.  “I’m ready when you are.” 

Kennedy sat by Elvis and spoke gently.  “Can you tell us where Priscilla bought her wigs?” 

“She always bought them at the wig shop on Washington Street.  A place called Wigged Out, I believe.  Does it matter?” 

“I’m not sure yet.” 

“Do you know who killed her?  Did she suffer?”  He broke down again. 

“We don’t have all the details yet.  Sorry.  You’ve been a big help.  Did Priscilla have another name?  I assume Priscilla was her stage name.” 

“Her real name was Claire Westin.  She was such a special person.  I loved her like a sister.  I’m going to miss her.” 

“And you’re sure she didn’t have any other family?” 

“No one but me.  I was her Elvis.  We were best friends.” 

Wilder asked him, “Can we call someone for you?  Someone who can take you home?” 

Elvis shook his head, looked numb.  “I’ll be fine.  I just need to let this sink in.”  Kennedy said, “You really shouldn’t be alone.” 

“I’d rather be alone.  I need some time.” 

“Okay, whatever you think is best.”  She couldn’t argue with that.  If she were in his shoes, she’d want to be alone too. 

“Would you like to come to our apartment and go through her things?  We were roommates too.” 

We’ll have someone from the crime lab come by and take a look around.  Again, we’re sorry for your loss.” 

Wilder took down all his information and they both went with him to tell his boss he was going to need a few days off. 

They stood outside with him while he waited for a cab. 

Wilder asked her in a quiet voice, “You caught the wig thing?” 

“Oh yeah.  The killer doesn’t have a wig fetish, he just finds his victims at a wig shop.” 

“There’s got to be a connection.” 

Kennedy’s heart started beating faster as adrenalin flooded her body.  Finally they had a decent break.  “Liz Clayton was wearing a brand new wig.  Wendy Prentice had an apartment full of wigs.  I saw wigs at Phoebe Mixer’s apartment too.  I’m thinking we’d best get moving and have a look-see at that wig shop.” 

“Copy that.” 

Her mind raced with multiple scenarios.  “The wig shop is where the killer chooses his victims.  He follows them, snapping his photos and finding out where they work.  He waits until the timing is right and goes in for the kill.”  She ran a hand through her hair, finger combed the ends. 

“We’re gonna need to check out the area surrounding Wigged Out.”  The Elvis impersonator sniffled and swiped at his nose. 

Her head spun in his direction.  Damn.  She’d almost forgotten he was standing there.  She tipped her head toward him.  “And maybe we should let Elvis settle down before we show him pictures.” 

“I’ll call Sparks and have him get started on warrants for the security tapes around Wigged Out.  He can also pull up a couple good pictures of our suspects for Elvis to view.” 

“Okay.” 

“You’re doing that cop-zone thing again.  I can see the wheels turning.” 

She was.  Her mind went back to the killer and she tried to get inside his head.  “He studies them until he feels safe and waits ‘til no one is around to see him do the deed.  Is it all about calculated timing or does he just hit when he gets the urge?  A little cat and mouse game, maybe?” 

“Not all killers plan out their murders.” 

“This one does.  He’s stalking his victims, taking their pictures and sending them to Hershey.”  She thought it out, made her mind up.  “Yeah, this guy is definitely a planner.” 

“Okay, I’ll go along with that.” 

“He could be an employee at the wig shop or one of the businesses nearby.  Or just uses the place for picking out his victims.” 

“My thoughts exactly.”  The taxi line moved forward and Wilder took Elvis by the elbow, steadied him as they took a step closer to the front. 

Kennedy knew what she wanted to do next.  And she realized by the look on his face, Wilder knew what she was planning.  With a sly grin she ran her hands through her hair again, gave her head a shake. 

“I’m thinking I’m in need of a new wig and a new job.  I’m going to be the newest hooker working and shopping on Washington Street.” 

“Shit, Kenny.  I knew you were going to say that.  Only problem is all our suspects know you.  We’ll have to get another woman in the department to go undercover.  Before we go and place someone on a street corner, let’s at least check out if all four of our victims bought their wigs from the same place.” 

“Of course they did.”  It was the only solid lead they had. 

”If you’re right and you still want to send someone undercover, we’ll need to convince the Lieutenant to let us do it.” 

“Hazelwood wants the Sheriff and the Press off his ass.  He’ll agree.  Save us some time and go show the victims’ pictures to the Wigged Out shop employees.” 

When it was finally Elvis’ turn for a cab, Wilder helped him get in. 

“We’ll be in touch, kid, and if you think of anything else that might help us out, please call me or Detective O’Brien.” 

“I will.” 

Kennedy caught a brief look on Elvis’ face just as the taxi door closed.  Was it grief?  Confusion?  Satisfaction?  Could Elvis be another suspect? 

Damn. 

Kennedy
was pumped.  Lieutenant Hazelwood had agreed to let her run an undercover operation if the clerks at Wigged Out positively identified the victims as customers, and the judge had signed the order within 5 minutes.  The

department had even approved several hours of overtime for her and Wilder.  It took longer to set everything up.  Electronic surveillance equipment had to be requisitioned.  Back up had to be secured, and the Lieutenant wanted an extra patrol car in the area.  Since Kennedy had been seen by most of their suspects, they chose a beat cop to go undercover.  Surprisingly, there was no shortage of cops willing to play hooker. 

Wilder took the murdered women’s photos to the wig shop by himself and when he called back and reported that the clerks had identified the women as regular customers, Kennedy outfitted Officer Alicia Brantley as a hooker, and turned her over to electronics to get her wired, then returned to her desk to try to catch up on some paperwork.  Kennedy shook her head as one of the guys joked about finding “Officer Alli in an Alley”.  The poor woman would never live this down. 

Kennedy’s phone rang and she smiled as she noted the caller ID.  “Hey, Grandpa.” 

“Hi, lass.  How are you?”