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I know I sound like a smart-ass. Like I think I’m the smartest contestant on Wheel of Fortune. (Actually, I probably would be. I lived in one place once where we watched that show over dinner, and I swear I saw a lady miss “A dog’s life,” when the only letters missing were the d and the f. A cog’s lime? Really?)
But sometimes I miss the most obvious stuff and make the dumbest mistakes.
Like when Frankie picked me up after school. Instead of getting on the school bus, I got right in the car with him. Didn’t think twice.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Crissy
So far, there had been nothing on the news that linked me to Yevgeny Orlov’s death—nor had there been an obituary—but I feared it was only a matter of time. Anchors had mentioned him on TV, and I’d seen a brief in the newspaper about the tourist who had died at Red Rocks, but the implication was that it was an accident or, conceivably, a suicide. No one, even the TV reporters or anchors who thought mentioning his homes in Montauk and Manhattan added a layer of tony glamour to the tale, suggested he might be a spy. Still, as soon as the police were gone, I went to see Eddie Cantone, possibly the most senior executive left standing at the BP.
After I’d told him everything I thought the LVPD knew, Eddie sat forward in his chair and picked up two of the gold-plated dice he kept in an ashtray on his desk. He didn’t smoke, but the dice looked fabulous in the obsidian dish.
“I’m glad you’re here now,” he said. “But I was expecting you last night. I kinda wish you’d called as soon as the police came knocking on your door about this Yevgeny Orlov.”
“I did call. I didn’t leave a message. It seemed like a lot for a message.”
“I already knew.”
“You did?”
“Hell, yeah. Everyone knows. Harvey Nardozzi brought the two cops to your suite. He called me right away.”
Of course. The front desk manager Sunday evening. Harvey. The whole Buckingham Palace management team—whatever was left of it—was watching this.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have waited until this morning.”
“A guy flies west to sleep with you and then dies out at Red Rocks? You’re on our video getting your car from our garage, and then your car is out there at the park? Damn straight, you shouldn’t have waited.”
“I told you. That was my sister on the video. Not me.”
“Fine. You or your sister.” He rolled the dice into the dish and rubbed his eyes. His annoyance was palpable, and he was working hard to keep his exasperation in check. “So, you have an alibi,” he said. “You were at that shithouse restaurant off the strip with some writer. That’s the proof that it’s your sister on the camera, not you. And that’s your proof you weren’t even out at Red Rocks.”
“That’s correct. She said her name was Britt Collins.”
“Good. But how in holy fuck did your sister get the key to your car and take it from the garage?”
“I don’t know. But Eddie?” He waited. “How deeply are you involved in this—whatever this is?”
“What do you mean?” His antennae were now raised. I had piqued not his curiosity, but his animal desire for self-preservation. I hadn’t meant to, but I had perfumed the air with the aroma of hungry wolves in the woods.
“I mean,” I continued, “you were present when Artie asked me to call Erika Schweiker. You know whatever Artie knew. You—”
“And that’s over. I told you. Let that go.”
“I think I need a lawyer.”
“I think you do, too.”
“Because I did call Schweiker. Like you asked—”
“No one—”
“She called back and I did what you said, Eddie. I said it was a wrong number.”
“She believe you?”
I sighed. “Unsure. But when the police were in my suite a little while ago, they told me not to leave town. So, I don’t know whether I should be worried I’m going to be framed for killing Yevgeny Orlov or because Erika Schweiker is going to accuse me of something crazy.”
