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?“My fingerprints?”
?“Yes and this pipe, with your prints, turned up in the room where Mr. Lawrence was found.”
?DeStadler held out his hand and Elvis put a folder in it. He began to lay out glossy eight-by-ten photos, facedown so only the backs showed.
?“I have no idea,” I avowed. “The last thing I remember, I left it at the podium in the ballroom. Someone must have taken it.”
?I had this terrible feeling that there was a large object hanging over my head, and it was suspended on a very tiny thread.
?DeStadler continued to lay out photos. “Can you tell me where you were last evening between midnight and 2:00 AM?”
?“No,” I said. “I mean…I was asleep…at the hotel.”
?“Anyone to verify that?”
?I sighed. “I was with a girl…in her room…but…I blacked out.”
?“Run that by me again?” Detective Elvis intoned.
?I quickly told the story of going to Candy’s room, and how I ran into Sheryl at the ice machine. Then I told how I blacked out and woke up in my own room the next day.
?Both men listened intently.
?“So this woman lets you into her room, she’s dressed provocatively, and she slips you a mickey?”
?“A mickey?” I said and frowned. “I thought that term was only used in 1940s detective novels.”
?“Okay, she drugged you,” DeStadler fumed.
?“That’s the only conclusion I’ve come up with,” I proclaimed.
?“Don’t explain how that pipe ends up in the victim’s apartment,” Elvis pointed out.
?“Someone placed it there,” I suggested.
?“And who would do that?” DeStadler stressed.
?I thought about it. “I have no idea.”
?“Do you have any enemies?”
?I shook my head. “Not a one.”
?Allen Alexander flashed in my mind, but I dismissed him. I really didn’t think he possessed that level of skill. And why would he kill Randall Lawrence?
?DeStadler turned over several of the pictures. They showed a man in his late thirties, very pale, with a head full of curly hair. He was on a brass bed with a headboard of bent tubes, without a stitch of clothing.
?“So you claim to know nothing about this?” DeStadler surmised.
?I gave a quick perusal of the photos, and I saw that Randall Lawrence was handcuffed to the corners of the bed frame. There were leg irons on each ankle, opening his legs in a spread eagle position.
?“How—how did he die?” I asked.
?“Suffocated,” Elvis revealed. “With one of the pillows.”
?I nodded. My mouth felt dry.
?“The pipe with your prints was found right there.” Elvis pointed to a table in the photo. “Next to a laptop computer.”
