Connor's Gamble (16 page)

The pill bottle.  It still sat on the nightstand where Bethany put it down to disable the phone.  Bethany's back was to Molly, as the evil woman bent to pick up the notebook from the floor where it had fallen earlier.  If Molly could just raise her hand up enough . . .

Bethany straightened and Molly knew it was now or never, her last chance.   Reaching up, inch by inch toward the bottle, the struggle nearly overwhelmed her.  Her hand, her entire arm, felt like it weighed five hundred pounds.  Time was running out.  With a last agonizing push, Molly's fingers wrapped around the pill bottle, clasping the brown plastic in her grasp.

“Molly, I'd like to say it's been a pleasure, but I don't want to lie to a dying woman.  Instead, I just want you to know that your death won't be in vain.  It will hurt Connor, and I can't begin to tell you how happy that makes me.  That son of a bitch is finally going to get everything he deserves.  But don't worry, you won't be alone for too long.  He'll be joining you shortly.”

Molly wanted to scream, but her body wouldn't listen to her brain.  The words wouldn't come, the only sounds a garbled gibberish.

“Bye bye.  I've gotta go.  Got a big date with your grandson.  It's party time.”

With the notebook in hand, and the gun shoved into her purse, Bethany left, quietly closing the door with a final soft snick.

Molly lay on the bed in silence, screaming in her head, silently crying because she couldn't stop Bethany.  Her eyes closed one last time, and her fingers loosened their grip on the pill bottle.  It fell to the floor, rolling to a final stop in the fold of the bedspread puddling onto the floor.

Chapter Twenty-One

Sunday

T
he damned itch between his shoulder blades was back and it was driving him nuts.  Connor surveyed the crowded hotel lobby, trying to spot whoever it was.  Gran said she'd meet him here and they'd grab a cab and get her to the riverboat.  Then he'd have the driver take him to his house so he could pick up his car.  But somebody watched him; he knew the feeling and couldn't shake it.  Hell, it felt like they were stalking him.

The lobby teamed with throngs of happily chatting out-of-towners, tourists visiting New Orleans's famous riverboat casino for the big Texas hold 'em tournament.  The hotels took advantage of the massive influx, holding their own smaller, yet equally lucrative, semiannual tournaments.

The din from the slot machines and loud 1980s classic rock wafting through discretely hidden speakers grated on his nerves. 
Can't breathe in this zoo.  Too damn many people
.

Still, he felt eyes boring into the back of his skull.  An unmistakable presence of evil assailed his senses and he turned in a slow, ever-widening circle, took note of everyone and everything.  Nothing popped.  There was no giant flashing arrow over the head of whoever watched him, pointing and saying, “It's me.  I'm stalking you, buddy.”

Bethany Banks strode out of the elevator, straight to the lobby check-in desk, and began chatting with the concierge. 
Damn, I can't wait till this crap is over and done.  What the hell was Gran thinking, getting involved with a TV news show anyway?
Connor knew reality TV was all the rage, but this news piece wasn't anything like those shows.

Bethany Banks reminded him of bulldog with a bone.  She'd dug in her heels, wanting an exclusive interview.  She tried asking, demanding, flirting and even attempted seducing him into giving her exclusivity to Mickey Trejo's story.  Ha!  Too bad, so sad.  Not a bat's chance in hell she'd get anything from him.  As far as he was concerned, if he never talked to another reporter again for the rest of his life, he was completely and totally on board with that.

Bethany snatched a key card out of the concierge's hand, and headed straight for him.  She plastered a huge white-toothed smile across her face and Connor cringed, looking for the closest exit.  He spotted his pal, Gladys, over by the bank of elevators, waving excitedly at him.  Yes, he thought, the perfect excuse to ditch the bitch.

“Connor.”  Bethany's polished tone carried across the carpeted lobby.  He cringed, continuing toward Gladys—and getting as far away from Bethany as he could get.

“Sorry,” he called over his shoulder, “I see somebody I need to talk to.  Later, Bethany.”

“Wait, Connor, please.  I want to apologize for my behavior.  It's been appalling, I know.  The possibility of gaining an interview with you, breaking such a big story . . . I let the bright lights, big city syndrome overrule my brain.  I've turned into exactly the type of reporter I swore I'd never be.”

Well, hell.  As much as he wanted to keep walking, he couldn't ignore her.  She seemed sincere in her apology.  Maybe he could overlook everything, if she'd back off.

“Bethany, it's okay.  I'll accept your apology if, and I'm dead serious about this, you back off about the story.  I'm not giving an interview to anybody.  I couldn't even if I wanted to.  Can't say anything before the trial—you know that.”  He scowled at the thought of being dragged into court to testify but putting Trejo behind bars took precedent over his being uncomfortable.  That bastard needed to be locked away for so long he'd never see the light of day again.

Bethany raised her left hand, her right placed across her heart, a coy smile playing at the edge of her red-tinted lips.  “I give you my solemn word I won't ask you again to discuss on or off the record, in any form or fashion, or to comment on Michael Trejo, his capture, his arrest or his pending trial and hopefully conviction.  So swear I, Bethany Banks, ace reporter.”

Connor chuckled, giving in to her joking tone.  If she truly backed off, things might actually get back on an even footing, and he could concentrate on winning Alyssa back.

“Ah ha, I know that look.”  Bethany's voice broke into his thoughts.

“What look?”

“The I'm-thinking-about-my-ex-wife look.  The same look you've worn ever since I met up with this group in Alabama.  She's got you tied up in knots, hasn't she?”

Connor sighed. 
Am I that obvious?

“Yep.”  Bethany answered the question he hadn't realized he'd spoken aloud.  “It'd be obvious to a blind person you're still ass over teakettle in love with her.  And I'm not blind.”

Connor felt the weight of Bethany's words sink in, reveling in the truth of them.  There would never be another woman for him.  Alyssa was it, the beginning, middle, and end.  Nobody else felt
right
.  Without her in his life he felt incomplete, unfinished and unfulfilled.  Movement at the edge of his peripheral vision brought his attention back to Gladys, still standing over by the elevator waving frantically.  Her red curly wig wobbled precariously atop her head at her jerky movements.

“I'm sorry, Bethany, I really need to speak with someone.  Excuse me.”  Again he started toward Gladys, reading the panic clearly written across her face even from halfway across the lobby.

“Connor, if you change your mind . . .”

He stopped and spun around.  “I thought we just cleared this up.  No interview.”

“I'm not talking about the damn story.  I meant if you change your mind about us, call me.”

Us?  What the hell?  There was no us, never had been.  One lousy dinner where he'd spent the entire time watching Alyssa and her boss.  Where'd Bethany get the crazy idea that there was anything going on between them?

“I won't, Bethany.  There's only one woman I want and that's Alyssa.”

A look passed across Bethany's face, there for an instant and then gone.  Connor had no clue what it was, but a knot in the pit of his stomach warned him to cut and run.

“I've got to go, Bethany.  Good luck with the tour groups' story.  See you around.”  Connor turned and started toward the elevators, where he'd last seen Gladys, but she wasn't there any more.

# # # # #

“You'll definitely see me around, Connor.”  Hate filled the dagger-filled glare Bethany shot at his retreating back.  “Much sooner than you think.”

Turning on her heel, she headed for her room.  She needed to change clothes and head to the gym.  She needed to be seen, mingle with people.  That way she'd have an airtight alibi when Molly's body was found.

Connor's pain was just beginning.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Sunday

T
rudy huddled up against the headboard of her bed, puffing out a harsh breath.  She was alone in the room she shared with Esther.  Esther, of course, was nowhere to be found, probably down with the rest of the ladies, gossiping about Abby's death, while Trudy hid here in their room, scared spitless she'd be thrown in prison.  All because she'd lied to a cop.

That policeman, Detective Taglier, he'd terrified her.  With his pointed questions and his sharp, intelligent eyes that bored right through her and seemed to see straight to her soul.

He knew
.  He was smart, plus he was a detective.  And he seemed like the kind of man who never gave up until he'd figured out all the pieces of the puzzle.  What were they going to do?

Maybe if he'd allowed Esther to stay when he asked his questions, but he'd only allowed Alyssa in the room.  The activities director was sweet, but she wasn't Esther.  Esther was her best friend; she kept Trudy focused.  Trudy knew she tended to be scattered, heck fire, she'd been that way all her life.  Scatterbrained, forgetful, incompetent—people always made fun of her.  She couldn't help it if her mind wandered.

Like it was doing right now.  That detective, he hadn't come right out and said he knew she was lying, but his eyes, that shark-like gaze missed nothing.  He took notes, writing in his little notebook as she'd told her story, but deep down, Trudy knew the cop had found her out.

It bothered her he'd shown up in New Orleans.  That meant he wasn't closing the case, like Esther said he would.  It had been an accident.  Abby bumped her head and hit it against the nightstand when Esther pushed her.  It bled like a stuck pig, but she'd been alive and kicking when they'd left her room.

Yet the detective followed them to New Orleans and kept asking more questions.  He obviously didn’t buy the accident scenario, but it was the truth!  Why didn't he just leave her alone and go back to his Podunk little hick town and solve cases that really needed solving?

Had he talked to Esther yet, she wondered?  They'd worked on their story over and over until every detail matched.  Yes, sir, they'd seen Mrs. Spencer right before dinner.  She'd talked about how excited she was to get to New Orleans and play the slots.  Trudy smiled, leaning her head back against the headboard and gave a watery sniffle.  Abby sure loved playing the slots.  Started out with the dollar slots and worked her way upward to the bigger money ones.

Now she was gone.  Dead.

It still seemed a bit surreal, like it hadn't really happened.  The last time Trudy saw her was in her room after dinner.  That wasn't a lie.  She and Esther went to reason with her.  But there wasn't any reasoning with the stubborn old battle-axe.  She wanted in on their plans at the casino and wasn't taking no for an answer.  She'd threatened to rat them out to the hotel casino staff if they hadn't cut her in for a piece of the pie.

Esther hadn't liked that one little bit.  It was all her big plan and she didn't want somebody horning in at the last minute, trying to take a cut of the profits.  And there would have been some monstrous profits, if they played their cards right.  Trudy laughed aloud at her pun. 
Played their cards right
.  Esther's foolproof blackjack scheme didn't include a third nosy busybody who could ruin everything.

Why wasn't Esther here?  Trudy needed her friend.

The knock on the door startled her and she jumped, a hand clutched to her massive chest.  Who in the world could that be?  Oh, maybe it was another one of the ladies on the trip, come to invite her to join them in their gab session.  She'd like that.  Trudy always felt like she was on the outside looking in, never included.  She hated feeling that way, but she was too shy to join in without an invitation.

Opening the door, she gasped at the sight of Detective Taglier and a uniformed policewoman standing there.  She clutched at the Saint Christopher medal hanging around her neck, a nervous habit she kept trying to break, unsuccessfully.

“Mrs. Miller?  May we come in?”

Trudy stepped back, motioning them through the door. 
What did they want?  The detective looks really serious.  Does he know I lied?

“Mrs. Miller, I have a few more questions, if you don't mind.  Would you like me to contact Mrs. Scott, have her come and be here with you?”

Trudy's mind whirled.  She didn't want Alyssa here; she wanted Esther.  Esther knew exactly how to calm her down, keep her focused.  But he didn't want Esther there to help her.  He'd only allow Alyssa.  What to do?

“No, it's okay.  I'll answer your questions.”

Her heartbeat thrummed in her chest like a racehorse who'd just run a quarter-mile race.  Breaths came out in little pants.  Focus, she told herself.  Slow deep breaths.  It's just a couple of questions.  Everything will be all right.

“Mrs. Miller, you stated previously that you and Mrs. Esther Shapiro talked to Mrs. Abigail Spencer before dinner, is that correct?”

“Yes, sir.”  Her voice came out a little wheezy, whisper soft.  You've got to do better than that, Trudy, she reminded herself.  Be like Esther; strong, show no fear.

“You never went back to see her again after dinner?”

“Um, no, no, we didn't.”

Detective Taglier shook his head slowly, staring straight through her.  Trudy could feel the drops of sweat rolling down between her ample breasts.  When had it gotten so hot in here?  She kept the room colder than normal because she was always hot lately.  But not this hot.  Whew.

“Mrs. Miller, we know that's not the truth.”

“What?”  Trudy's surprised squeak puffed out between pursed lips.