Page 45 of Murder and Marzipan in Las Vegas
NOAH
The Bellanova’s security room is a techno-cave buried deep in the bowels of the resort, far from the chiming slot machines and oxygen-pumped gaming floors designed to keep tourists awake and spending until their retirement funds evaporate.
The harsh blue glow from twenty-seven monitors bathes everything in a clinical light that makes even the most innocent hotel guests look like potential perps plotting their next felony.
Each screen shows a different slice of casino life—elderly couples pushing walkers between penny slots like they’re on a treasure hunt for loose change, bachelor parties one drink away from requiring bail bonds, and honeymooners who can’t keep their hands off each other long enough to realize they’re losing their life savings to glorified mathematics.
By some miracle of professional courtesy—or perhaps pity for a fellow cop who’s about to become unemployed—Detective Morrison granted me limited access to review the security footage.
“Don’t make me regret this, Fox,” he grumbled with his head gleaming under the fluorescent lights. “One hour, tops. That’s it.” That was three hours ago, which says something about either my dedication to police work or my complete inability to tell time without natural light.
Yes, I’ve been reviewing footage for three hours straight, and my eyes burn from the strain of watching the same seventeen-minutewindow from six different angles. The coffee beside me has gone cold, long forgotten in my hunt for the one thing that will clear my name and possibly save my career—concrete evidence that I was nowhere near Dirty Joe when he met his maker. So far, the only thing I’ve proved is that hotel security cameras have the clarity of a toddler’s finger painting.
“Find anything yet, Detective?” Rodney, the night shift security supervisor, asks from his ergonomic chair that’s seen better decades. His mustache twitches with each word like it’s trying to escape his face.
“Nothing conclusive,” I admit, rubbing my eyes hard enough to see stars. “There’s still that seventeen-minute gap in all the kitchen corridor footage.”
“It’s a system glitch,” Rodney says, but his eyes slide away when he says it, focusing on a monitor showing the high-stakes poker room where someone’s about to lose their daughter’s college fund. “It happens sometimes. Technology, you know?”
“On all cameras covering that specific area? At that specific time?” I don’t bother hiding my skepticism, because I’ve been a cop long enough to know the difference between coincidence and conspiracy. “That’s not a glitch, Rodney. That’s tampering with the kind of precision that requires advance planning and intimate knowledge of the system.”
Rodney shrugs, his polyester uniform stretching across shoulders hunched from decades of watching other people’s dramas unfold in high definition. “That’s above my pay grade, Detective. I just push buttons and pretend I don’t see what happens in the honeymoon suites.”
Before I can press further, the security room door swings open, and my personal drama walks in wearing a sparkling dress that catches the monitor light like a flare gun. Lottie—my wife, my ex-wife, though I refuse to think of her that way—stands framed in the doorway, flanked by Carlotta and my mother, a trio of trouble that would make even the most hardened Vegas security professional consider a career change to something safer, like bomb disposal.
“There you are!” Lottie says, her caramel wavesbouncing as she marches toward me. “We’ve been looking everywhere. You were supposed to meet up with us an hour ago at the blackjack tables.”
I check my watch and wince. Time slips away differently in the windowless security bunker, minutes bleeding into hours without natural light to mark their passing. It’s like being trapped in a casino designed by vampires with control issues.
“Sorry, got caught up in something.” I gesture vaguely at the monitors, hoping she can’t read the desperation in my eyes.
“Something more important than gambling away your retirement fund?” my mother asks, her eyes narrowing as she takes in the security setup. “Though I see you’re still playing the odds, just with evidence instead of cards.”
“I think Foxy is hunting for his get-out-of-jail-free card,” Carlotta points out, leaning over to peer at the monitors with alarming interest. Her sequined outfit threatens to blind us all each time she moves under the fluorescent lights. “Ooh, is that the honeymoon suite? That couple should charge admission for that show. Where’s my phone?”
“Don’t you dare.” Lottie levels her with the threat just as Rodney hastily switches the monitor to a view of the lobby.
“Lot, what are you doing here?” I ask, trying to steer the conversation away from both my investigation and whatever that honeymoon couple was doing that required audience participation.
“We came to rescue you from yourself,” Lottie says, perching on the edge of the desk. The faint scent of vanilla and cinnamon that perpetually clings to her—one of the benefits of being a baker—cuts through the stale air of the security room and casts its spell on me. “And to make sure you haven’t been arrested yet.”
“Your confidence in me is moving.”
“I’m confident you didn’t kill anyone,” she clarifies, which is more than I can say for Detective Morrison. “I’m less confident about your ability to prove that without my help.”
My mother circles the room, appraising the security setup with the critical eye of someone who’s raised a detective and knows enough to be dangerous. “Quite an operation you’ve got here,” she tells Rodney, who looks increasingly uncomfortable with each passing second. “All these cameras... Must be hard to keep track of everything. Or everyone.”
“We do our best, ma’am,” Rodney replies with the careful politeness of an armed guard who suddenly realizes he’s in over his head.
“Do you?” She peers at a monitor showing the hotel kitchen. “Because someone killed two people in your establishment, and my son is being blamed for it. That suggests either incompetence or complicity, and I’m hoping it’s just incompetence for your sake.”
“Mom,” I warn, but she’s in full mama bear mode now, which means subtlety has left the building along with common sense.
“Don’tMomme, Noah Corbin Fox. I’ve watched you solve dozens of cases back home with nothing but determination and that annoying habit of yours of asking the right questions until people crack. If these people had half your investigative skills, they’d have caught the real killer by now instead of harassing my sweet, innocent boy.”
Lottie smothers a smile. “To be fair, the Las Vegas Sheriff’s Department has slightly more resources than the entire force in Ashford County combined.”
“More resources, less results,” my mother sniffs.
