Page 14 of Murder and Marzipan in Las Vegas
“That was about—” Noah starts, then stops himself, his jaw clenching in a way that tells me he’s keeping something significant to himself.
“About what, exactly?” Morrison presses, stepping closer to Noah with the predatory instincts of a detective who smellsweakness and possibly fear. “What did Dirty Joe Tuggle owe you that was worth threatening his life over? Money? Information? His autograph collection of discount Elvis memorabilia?”
“I didn’t threaten his life,” Noah says, each word precise and controlled with the careful diction of a person who understands that law enforcement conversations tend to be recorded. “I threatened his comfort. There’s a significant legal difference.”
“Not much of one when the man ends up with a bullet in his chest.” Morrison pulls out his phone. “I need to call this in and get another full crime scene team down here.” He steps away, already barking orders into his device.
I turn to Noah, determined to keep my voice low. “What exactly did Dirty Joe owe you?”
Noah’s eyes meet mine, and for a moment, I see genuine conflict there. “It’s complicated.”
“Everything with you is complicated,” I reply. “But we’re beyond that now. This isn’t about your pride or your privacy anymore. This is about you being the most obvious suspect in a homicide.”
He runs a hand through his hair, messing up the carefully styled look he maintains even in crisis. “He had something that belongs to me. Something important.”
That catches me off guard. Noah is typically straightforward, especially in high-stakes situations. This evasiveness is unusual, even for him.
“What exactly did he have?”
Noah’s eyes dart toward Morrison, who’s still occupied with his phone call. “Not here. Not now. I promise I’ll explain everything, but right now, we need to focus on finding who actually killed him before I become the prime suspect in a double homicide.”
I’m about to press further when Morrison returns, all business and considerably less patience than he started with. “Another crime scene unit is en route. The coroner’s office has been notified. In the meantime”—he points at Noah with all the drama of a courtroom accusation—”you’re not going anywhere. I want a full statement, Detective Fox. And then I strongly suggest you don’t leave town, book any flights, or make any sudden movements that might be interpreted as fleeing justice.”
“I’m here with my family for a culinary competition,” Noah says, his tone tinged with frustration. “I’m not exactly planning to make a run for the border. Like I mentioned earlier, my wife is competing in a baking contest, not running a criminal enterprise.”
Wife. It never ends.
Morrison nods. “Good. Because right now, you’re looking like suspect number one in what appears to be a double homicide.” His lips curl into what might generously be called a smile but looks more like someone practicing intimidation techniques in front of a mirror. “Must be a refreshing change of perspective for you, being on the other side of the interrogation table for once.”
“I’ve been here before,” Noah says, surprising me. “And I didn’t do it then, either.”
Morrison raises a bright red eyebrow. “A man with a history. Even better. We’ll definitely be exploring that in detail.”
A commotion at the end of the hallway draws our attention. Two uniformed officers are attempting to hold back an increasingly large crowd of onlookers, their faces alight with the morbid curiosity that seems to be a universal human trait.
“Clear the area!” Morrison barks at his officers. “This is now asecondcrime scene. Nobody in or out without my say-so.” He turns back to us. “You two stay put. I need statements from both of you, and I want them detailed, accurate, and preferably truthful.”
As Morrison strides toward the gathering crowd, I turn to Noah with the patience of a judge who’s spent years dealing with evasive witnesses and creative interpretations of the truth. “Be straight with me. Is there anything else I should know before this turns into an even bigger mess? Because right now, we’re looking at a situation that could charitably be described as suboptimal and more accurately described as completely cooked.”
Noah’s expression is unreadable, which in my experience usually means he’s calculating how much truth he can get away with revealing. “You mean besides the fact that I’m about to be accused of a double homicide in a city notorious for its creative approaches to justice and its tendency to make problems disappear in the desert? No, I think that covers the highlights.”
“This isn’t a joke,” I say, lowering my voice to thetone I typically reserve for sentencing proceedings. “Lemon is upstairs nursing the twins, blissfully unaware that the father of her daughter is about to be hauled in for questioning in a murder investigation that could potentially result in life imprisonment or worse.”
“You think I don’t know that?” Noah’s voice is equally quiet but intense, suggesting he’s fully aware of how bad this looks. “You think I want her dragged into this? Or that I want Morrison questioning her about me, our relationship, and possibly our entire romantic history?”
“Then give me something to work with here,” I press. “What was so important that you nearly came to blows with an Elvis impersonator in the middle of a baking competition? And please make it something that doesn’t involve organized crime, international espionage, or a secret gambling addiction.”
Noah’s eyes meet mine, and for a moment, I can see the weight he’s carrying. “This isn’t for you to handle.”
Before I can respond with the obvious follow-up questions, Morrison returns, his face set in stern lines that suggest the investigation has officially moved from preliminary inquiry to serious criminal matter.
“The scene is secure. CSI is on its way. Now, Detective Fox, I think it’s time you and I had a proper chat.” He gestures toward the ballroom with the sort of invitation that isn’t really a request. “Shall we? And, Judge Baxter, you’re welcome to join us. In fact, I insist.”
Noah glances at me, and I give him a slight nod. Whatever he’s hiding, now isn’t the time to force it out of him. Not with Las Vegas law enforcement breathing down our necks.
“Fine,” Noah says to Morrison as if he just realized he’s out of options. “But I want it on record that I had nothing to do with this.”
“Oh, we’ll put everything on record,” Morrison assures him with the sort of smile that suggests he’s already planning the press conference. “Every last detail, every inconsistency, every reason you might have had to want both victims dead.”
