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“It’s possible,” Patrick agreed, and Felicia gave him a brief side-eye so sharp it might have decapitated him.
“We have two Futurium executives and two entertainers—two so far—who swear they talked to you at Fort Knocks last night,” Felicia informed me.
“You know they’re lying in the first case and mistaken in the second.”
“Where were you last night if you weren’t at Fort Knocks?”
“I was in my suite. I read in bed and fell asleep early. There is rather a lot of stress in my life right now, and I need to conserve my energy for my shows.”
“Any proof you were in your room?”
“As in, was I entertaining a gentleman friend? No.”
“No witnesses?”
“You really don’t believe me?” I asked. God, I would have been better off if I’d had room service send up my libations, rather than just reaching into my own little fridge and small bar. “Forgive me, is there a reason why I even need an alibi? Did something happen last night at Fort Knocks?”
“There are a lot of moving pieces. Whether it was you or your sister out at Red Rocks or at Fort Knocks—”
“It was her—at both places!” I had been trying to remain steadfast and serene, and now sounded barmy. But this was maddening.
“Look,” Felicia said, her voice as flat as a still pond. “It doesn’t matter what I believe. I’m just telling you what people are saying.”
“It doesn’t matter what you believe? That’s bollocks! I’m a suspect in the investigation of a man who died!”
She shrugged evasively. “We’ll be in touch in the next day or two. When we know more.”
“Fine,” I said. “I have nothing to hide.”
“Good.”
“May I ask you two something?”
“Of course,” Felicia said.
“Yevgeny Orlov. There hasn’t been an obituary yet—at least one I’ve seen. Was he who he said he was? A compliance person for GEI? Or was he some sort of criminal—or even a spy?”
They looked at each other, weighing precisely how much to share. Perhaps they had discussed this earlier, and now one or the other was having second thoughts.
“You must know,” I went on. “A spy dies in Las Vegas. I’m sure the FBI would tell you.”
“Why would they?”
“Wholehearted involvement behind the scenes? Give you folks a little—and please hear the understatement in my voice—directional guidance?” Looking back, I wasn’t pressing them because I was so confident that I wasn’t going to be arrested for a crime I didn’t commit. Nor was I being cheeky because I wanted to torment Las Vegas detectives for fun. I wanted to know who I had slept with. I wanted to know who this man was who I had liked very much and now was dead.
Which was when Felicia surprised me. “You need to keep your head down,” she said firmly.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me. Accept the reality there are things we can’t tell you and things we won’t tell you. Focus on these salient facts: three people in your orbit—two Morleys and Yevgeny Orlov—are dead. And Orlov? Either you killed him and there will be repercussions—legal or otherwise—or you didn’t kill him and someone wants us to believe that you did. Plus there’s that Cleo Dionne you told us about.”
“You looked into her?”
“Of course. She may be related to this. She may not,” Felicia said. “Either way, you or your sister was at Fort Knocks last night with Oliver Davies and Neri Lombardo. Neri is an officer with the Mastaba crime family. And Oliver has sunk a lot of money into Futurium: paid for the computers on a couple of continents.” She raised her eyebrows. “The point of that photo, if it wasn’t you, may have been to incriminate you: suggest you’re in tight with the Mastaba.”
I took this in, and that tiny strand of DNA that linked me to my sister sent me a jolt. “Maybe someone isn’t trying to frame me,” I said. “Maybe someone is trying to frame Betsy.”
“Maybe. Or maybe someone isn’t trying to frame either of you. Maybe someone is merely using the two of you to get what they want.”
