Nightwalker. Heather Graham
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swell of protest emanated from the crowd, but no one moved. Not even the casino employees. “Payouts. Now. I want the tables closed up. I want some order here,” Cheever announced.
At last things began to happen. The M.E.—it was Doug Tarleton, a decent guy and an expert in his field, Dillon thought—was sliding his gloved hands over the dead man’s face, closing the staring eyes.
“Lord!” Tarleton said, startled. “It’s Tanner Green.”
“Yes,” Dillon said simply.
Cheever turned to the redhead. “And you are…?”
“Jessy Sparhawk,” she said quietly.
“Exactly what happened?” he asked.
She arched a brow but answered levelly. “I was leaving the table. I don’t know where this man came from. He fell on me and knocked me onto the table. I was trapped under him until he—” she pointed at Dillon “—got me out. And that’s all I know.”
“So you don’t know him?”
“No,” she said firmly.
Cheever’s officers were good, and the floor had quietly filled with them.
Dillon knew there were men already stationed at the doors, and he knew that the others would soon begin questioning the hundreds of people who had been in the casino. Crime-scene tape was already being stretched around the table.
Cheever suddenly stared at Jessy Sparhawk again. “The surveillance cameras will have picked up everything, you know.”
“I told you exactly what happened,” she said, adding, “And I had nothing to do with it.”
“Lieutenant Cheever,” Dillon said, taking a step forward, “Miss Sparhawk is a victim here, and undoubtedly pretty damn uncomfortable right now.”
“That man is uncomfortable,” Cheever said irritably, pointing to Tanner Green.
“No,” Dr. Tarleton said. “That man isn’t feeling a thing. He’s dead. Knife wound to the back, short-hilted, long-bladed weapon, which is why no one noticed it—that, and the fact that they were all staring at the tables.”
“You’re sure on the weapon?” Cheever asked.
Tarleton cleared his throat and looked daggers at the detective. He wasn’t fond of Cheever. “Oh, yeah. I’m sure. It’s still sticking out of his back.”
“Shouldn’t there be a blood trail to show where he was stabbed?” Cheever asked, frowning.
“There might be a few specks somewhere. The knife acted like a cork,” Doug explained patiently. “When Tanner fell, the knife was knocked aside and the blood began to gush. That’s why Miss Sparhawk is covered in it.”
“Bring in the crime unit—I want fingerprints ASAP,” Cheever said huffily. He was embarrassed, Dillon knew, that he hadn’t figured out that the knife would have kept the blood from flowing. “All right, get everyone cleared out of here, and let the crime unit have the area from the door to the table.” He glared at Dillon suspiciously. “You, too, Wolf. Let the crime-scene team get in here, and let Tarleton do his job.”
Dillon stuck like glue to Jessy Sparhawk, who didn’t protest when he led her away. He gave his own name, credentials and address to one of the officers, and watched as Jessy did the same. He noted that her address was in Henderson, a suburb just outside the city, and her occupation was entertainer. She was working at the newly opened Big Easy—casino. When a uniformed officer came over to interrogate her, she answered his questions calmly, even though she was still trembling.
No wonder. She was still bathed in the dead man’s blood.
“Hey! How long are we going to be kept here?” a florid man in a plaid jacket shouted angrily.
“Until the lieutenant says you can go,” one of the officers said.
Jessy Sparhawk looked at her watch and bit her lower lip.
“Are you late for work?” Wolf asked her.
She shook her head. “No, it’s Timothy…. I didn’t expect to be away from him this long,” she murmured.
“Your…son?” he asked. She couldn’t possibly have a kid over ten, and she didn’t look like the kind who would leave a child at home alone while she went out and gambled.
She shook her head. “Timothy’s my grandfather.”
“I see. Give me a minute.”
He strode across the room, to where Lieutenant Cheever was bullying a couple of the players who had been by the door when Green had entered. “Excuse me, Lieutenant,” he said politely.
Cheever stared at him and controlled his hostility. “What?”
“The woman who was caught under the corpse, Jessy Sparhawk. She’s miserable. Why not have a heart?” Dillon asked, as if there had never been the least animosity between them. “Let her go home and get cleaned up.”
Cheever frowned and pointed at Dillon. “I need to talk to you.”
“At your convenience. But let her go home. I can see that you’ve started releasing people once you’ve questioned them.”
For a moment Cheever appeared to be almost human. He shook his head in frustration. “I’m trying to prevent an all-out riot here and not let a murderer slip through my fingers,” he said.
“From what I understand, Green entered the casino, staggered through the crowd and crashed down dead on top of Ms. Sparhawk,” Dillon said. “It’s probable that he was stabbed outside the casino. Even a bunch of hard-core gamblers would probably notice someone going after someone else with a knife that big.”
“So you say. He was a bodyguard for Emil Landon, wasn’t he? Just like you.”
“I’m not a bodyguard. Landon is convinced that someone is trying to kill him. I’m supposed to be finding out who. I just took the case, and I wasn’t pals with Tanner Green. I knew him, yes, but that was it.”
“So where the hell were you, if you weren’t at the table?”
“I’d been playing at the table, but I had just wandered into the high-stakes area over there,” Dillon said, pointing toward the far left.
“Oh?” Cheever said, his eyes narrowing. His tone and his look clearly asked, What were you doing in the high-stakes area?
“I was checking out what players are in Vegas right now,” Dillon said. “Like I said, I just accepted Emil Landon’s offer. This morning, in fact. Plus, I was nowhere near the front door. And he was stabbed outside. I’d bet ten years that the crime-scene team will find specks of blood somewhere along the way.”
Cheever stared at him, knowing he was right.
“The girl obviously didn’t kill him,” Dillon said flatly. “And she takes care of her grandfather. You need to let her get home.”
“Lieutenant?” an officer said, approaching Cheever quickly through the crowd. “The security tapes are ready.”
Cheever started to move.
“Lieutenant?” Dillon said, calling him back.
“All right, take her home. But you—I want you in my office tomorrow morning, eight o’clock sharp.”
“I’ll be there,” Dillon assured him. “Emil Landon will want to know everything possible about this.”
“And he will—when I have something to share.”
“He’ll want me to see those tapes.”
“I don’t like repeating myself, Wolf, so I’ll only say this once. I know you know someone who knows the damn governor, but you’ll still wait