Panty Raid Page 4

  “Detective, Lydia was supposed to get married today. They kept their engagement quiet. Her fiancé probably doesn’t even know where she is. His name is Marc Rico—”

  “What’s going on?” asked a male voice. I turned around and saw Marc in the doorway. He was dressed in a tuxedo, but the shirt was undone at the collar and his bowtie was draped around it. He didn’t look anywhere near as bad as Nick had this morning. Rich people must have good hangover cures.

  “Marc,” I said. “Nick. It’s Marc. Detective, that’s Marc. That’s the fiancé.”

  Nick stood up. The two men stared at each other. Marc spoke first. “Guess what? You’re looking at a married man.”

  “I thought the wedding was today? This afternoon?” Nick asked.

  And just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse, Marc replied. “Spontaneous decision when I got home last night. I went to her room and convinced her not to wait another minute.” He grinned. “We paid off the couple in the hotel chapel and took their spot.”

  “Marc, do you know where your wife is now?” Nick asked.

  “No. Why? She must have gotten up early to surprise me. She was gone when I woke, but that’s just like her. Come on up and join us for a celebration. I’ve got a case of Taittinger in the tub. We need to celebrate!”

  As I listened to Marc, I felt numb. How could this have happened? Who was going to tell him? I looked at Nick. Nick looked at Detective Marbury. Detective Marbury watched Marc Rico. I’d be willing to bet we were all thinking the same thing: how was it possible he didn’t know?

  7

  “Marc,” I said. Detective Marbury put out his arm to keep me from moving forward. I looked at him, and his expression silenced me.

  “Mr. Marc Rico?” the detective asked.

  “Yes.” Marc looked around the room, at the uniformed police officers and the hotel manager. “What’s going on?”

  Detective Marbury spoke. “Mr. Rico, I’d like to talk to you privately.”

  An emotionless cloak dropped over Marc’s facial expression. A normal person would have shown signs of nervousness, of a growing awareness that something bad had happened. But this wasn’t a normal person. Marc was a media mogul who knew how to negotiate. He knew how to play his cards close to his chest. While he couldn’t possibly be the only person in Vegas to have a good poker face, I’d bet his was in the top five.

  Detective Marbury led Marc out of the room. I remained next to Nick. Again, he was checking something on his phone. I watched him study the screen and tip it at an angle that only he could see. That one tiny gesture bothered me more than Nick getting drunk with Marc last night.

  Here’s the thing about me. I notice things. Even when I’m not looking for them. I notice how people act around each other, when they seem to have something to hide, and when they totally aren’t paying attention. You could say I’m a keen observer of human nature. Actually, you should say that, because it sounds better than the flat-out truth: I’m nosy. Not nosy for the sake of gossip, but for the sake of protecting people.

  Nick thrust his phone into his back pocket. I touched his arm gently and he wrapped it around me and whispered in my hair. I wrapped my arms around him and nestled my head against his chest.

  “Did you know?” I asked softly. “That they were getting married last night instead of waiting for today?”

  “No,” Nick said. “When I left, Marc was as blotto as I was. I just assumed he went to his room and passed out. I have no idea what happened after that. I went to our original room, and when you didn’t answer the door, I called down to the front desk and asked them to ring the room for me. They told me you changed rooms again.”

  “I’ll explain about the room later,” I said.

  The detective came to us. “Ms. Kidd, once I go over everyone’s statements, I may have some follow up questions for you. You too, Mr. Taylor.” He held out two business cards. “Here’s my card. Don’t hesitate to call if you remember anything pertinent.”

  I took both cards and handed one to Nick. “Ms. Kidd,” the detective said. “When you were with the victim yesterday, how did she seem?”

  “I’d only just met her, so I don’t know if I can give you an accurate description.”

  “First impression. Was Ms. Moss happy? Anxious? Depressed? Nervous? It was the day before her wedding. I imagine she might have felt just about every emotion there is.”

  “Do you mean was she suicidal?”

  He nodded.

  “She was…angry. She didn’t know Nick—didn’t know he and Marc were old friends. She thought Nick was going to hit Marc up for money and I got the feeling she spent a lot of time protecting him from what she called sob stories.”

  “Is that all?”

  I looked at Nick. I couldn’t lie about what had happened, even if the truth made Nick look bad. “She was also mad at Marc for getting drunk the night before their wedding. She said he promised not to do the bachelor party thing, and when she saw Marc and Nick get escorted out of the bar at Flush Casino, she was furious.”

  He nodded. “What about you, Ms. Kidd? Were you angry at your fiancé for getting drunk last night?”

  “It’s not the same thing. Nick and Marc didn’t expect to run into each other. They haven’t seen each other for decades. Marc was the one about to get married. Nick and I haven’t even set a date.”

  “But you had no negative reaction to the men’s behavior?”

  I shrugged with as much maturity as I could summon. “Nick’s an adult. I trust him.”

  Detective Marbury nodded again. He turned away from us to leave, but not before scanning the room and pausing at the sight of the evidence—that Nick and I had slept in separate beds.

  ***

  Two hours later, Nick and I were checked into our fifth room. (The fourth was a two-room suite, which the hotel no doubt considered an upgrade and a gesture to keep us from badmouthing them, but the view of the Eiffel Tower was less attractive now that I’d seen Lydia’s body underneath it. I asked to be moved. Again.) This was the Napoleon Room but should have been called the Napoleon Apartment. It had a kitchen, bedroom, living room, bathroom, and lounging area. We could get lost in this place.

  I unzipped my suitcase and removed a few toiletries. I wasn’t going to jinx things by unpacking again.

  Nick pulled out his phone and checked the screen. “Is everything okay?” I asked.

  “I’m trying to cancel the appointments I set up,” he said. He kept the phone in his palm. “How about we head down to Flush and get you registered for Intimate Mode?”

  “We don’t have to waste our together time on that. I’ll go early tomorrow morning.”

  “Come on,” he said, ignoring my protest.

  I knew Nick didn’t have that many appointments to cancel. I knew I should let it go. There were things I was going to have to accept and I wouldn’t know the intimate details of everything Nick did but his evasive behavior was like waving a red flag in front of a bull, and Nick already knew I was a Taurus.

  I’d kept in mind that we would be spending our day walking and had dressed appropriately. Today I wore a black and white striped boatneck T-shirt, wide legged white sailor pants, and lavender ballerina flats. My heels were in reserve for tomorrow. We wandered a few blocks before I sold Nick on the convenience of the Deuce. He bought a pass from Chubby Elvis (the later years) and we quickly arrived at our destination.

  “Do you want to wait for me in the casino? It shouldn’t take me long.”

  “No, I’ll come with you,” Nick said.

  We reached Registration. The line was shorter than yesterday. Nick pulled out his phone, tapped the screen, and then looked up. “I’ll wait for you in the café around the corner, okay? Take your time.”

  “Okay,” I said. I wasn’t even sure he heard both syllables based on how quickly he left.

  I registered and collected my lanyard, program, and swag bag. The employees seemed to be w
orking at peak efficiency. I wondered if the news of Lydia’s death had reached the venue, and if so, what the reaction had been. I didn’t want to believe it was still business as usual around the convention center, but sadly, even if they knew, Lydia’s death might not be all that surprising.

  After checking to make sure I had all the necessary paperwork to attend the show tomorrow, I retraced my steps to the café to meet Nick. He wasn’t among the patrons. I turned around to leave and overheard a female voice.

  “You have to tell her,” the woman said. There was something familiar about her voice, but the speaker controlled her volume and that made it harder to place. “You know how she gets.”

  “I can’t tell her. Not after all we’ve been through. She doesn’t deserve to get pulled into this.”

  There was no doubt in my mind that the male voice was Nick’s.

  And as I went behind the partition that blocked the speakers from my view, I knew exactly why I was spending so much time trying to pretend I trusted Nick while the signs indicated the opposite. The female voice was the person whose relationship to him had never been pinned down: Amanda Ries.

  8

  Nick stepped backward. “Samantha,” he said.

  Not “Kidd.” Not “Honey.” Not “This isn’t what you think.”

  “This isn’t what you think,” Amanda said.

  At least one of them had the decency to say it.

  They’re friends. They lived through a tragedy together. Nick has his own life. Their friendship isn’t going to go away. The thoughts pummeled my brain while things like “did you know she was here?” and “stay away from my man!” tried to filter through.

  “Somebody say something,” I said. “Because I’m pretty sure you don’t want me to be the one to talk first.”

  Amanda turned to Nick. “Tell her.” She looked at me. “She might be able to help.”

  I turned to Nick too. Not talking was taking every ounce of energy I had and if I opened my mouth to speak, I couldn’t be held responsible for what came out.

  “Amanda, give us a second, would you?” Nick said.

  “Sure.” She put her hand on my forearm, gave me a bittersweet smile, and left.

  That reaction didn’t say, “He’s mine.” It said, “Please understand” with a splash of “I’m sorry.” If that woman was having an affair with Nick, she had audacity. I’d give her that.

  I turned back to Nick. “I’m going to say three things. Number one: I trust you. Number two: I know you have a past. And number three: Amanda? That’s who you turned to instead of me?”

  “Kidd, sit down. This is going to take a while.”

  If there was one person I wished had remained in Nick’s past, it was Amanda Ries. She was gorgeous and talented and, after what Nick had told me about his relationship with her roommate and the jumble of their lives in the ensuing aftermath, was in his life to stay. My jealousy of her was as unfounded as Nick’s jealousy of Dante Lestes, a sometimes photographer, sometimes private investigator who occasionally popped up in my life. When I said yes to Nick’s proposal, I closed the door to any possibilities with Dante. I’d expected Nick had closed his doors as well.

  The difference was Nick hadn’t just walked in on a conversation about secrets between me and Dante.

  Nick went to the counter and came back with two cups of coffee. (I wouldn’t have complained if mine had been spiked.) “How much did you hear?”

  “Why don’t you start at the beginning just to be safe?”

  “I already told you the beginning. College. Pamela. Marc. If you check my story and you looked the whole thing up, that’s what you’d read.”

  “I have no reason to check your story.” I felt my brows draw together. “Do I?”

  “My point is, I told you what everybody who knows about that situation thinks. But because Amanda and I were there, because we were closely involved, because of a whole lot of things, we’ve both always wondered if what everybody thinks happened is what really happened.”

  I blew on my coffee. Took a sip. Set the cup down. Watched Nick tap his fingers on the tabletop. Looked up and caught his root-beer-barrel brown eyes watching me. Those eyes had distracted me on more than one occasion. This time was different. This time I understood what he wasn’t saying as much as what he was, and it scared me.

  “You don’t think Pamela killed herself, do you?”

  “No,” he said softly.

  “You think Marc may have had something to do with her death.” He nodded. “That’s a big accusation. Can you tell me why you think that?”

  He kept drumming his fingers on the table. “Pamela wasn’t unstable. Not when we were dating, and not when we broke up. When she came to me the night Marc broke up with her, she was upset in a way I’d never seen. That’s why I had her stay with me that night—I was worried she’d do something crazy or get into an accident, maybe that someone would take advantage of her. I knew she’d be safe at my place.”

  I could tell Nick had run that night over and over in his mind. He’d never mentioned it, and while memories fade in time, this one must nag at him when he least expected it.

  “Tell me about Marc. How did he react to Pamela’s death?”

  “Marc was always driven to get started on his empire. He wasn’t much of a classroom guy. He dropped out of I-FAD the month after Pamela died and made his first million within the year.”

  “Did you two keep in touch?”

  “No. Marc’s name popped up a lot at first because of his wild financial success. He was one of the original dot-com millionaires, and for a school filled with designers who needed backing, everybody wanted a way to get in touch with him.”

  “Lydia said something about that,” I said. I looked away and searched for the memory. “When she saw you two getting escorted out of the casino, she was mad. She accused you being the kind of friend who comes out of the woodwork to get Marc to invest in your company. I got the feeling it happened more often than not.”

  “It probably does, and there’s nothing wrong with the practice. Part of Marc’s life is investing in small businesses. Lydia may not have liked it, but that’s what he does. His life wasn’t going to change because they got married. It’s just as possible that she wanted that money for herself.”

  “Maybe.” I thought about Lydia in front of Flush after the men had been tossed. “She didn’t act like she was in love. She was so mad that he got drunk. She said she had no intention of being his mommy. Maybe that’s why they worked—because she treated him as an equal. But if she wanted a special day, it seems strange that she’d agree to a rush wedding last night. When she left me, she was headed to the bar herself. Maybe she got drunk too, and when Marc suggested a spontaneous ceremony, she thought the sooner the better? She could have woken up this morning and been Mrs. Marc Rico.”

  “Instead she didn’t wake up at all,” Nick said.

  Nick was right. Something was off. If Lydia and Marc had gotten married last night, wouldn’t they have followed the ceremony up the way most newlyweds did? She was a sexy, uninhibited lingerie model. There was no way physical attraction hadn’t played into their relationship. I didn’t know if love or money was behind Lydia’s desire to marry Marc—maybe love of money—but a woman who marries the man she wants to marry probably wouldn’t leave him alone on their wedding night. And if she did, the man would probably notice.

  (I’d want Nick to notice.)

  “Kidd, here’s the thing. You’re here to do a job. I don’t want what happened to be a distraction for you.”

  “When the shows start tomorrow, I am going to be busy,” I added.

  “There’s nothing you can do for Lydia.”

  “It’s in the hands of the police.”

  “Right.” He took my hands in his. “And if Marc had something to do with Lydia’s death, then I want you as far away from him as possible.”

  “You too.” I chewed my lip. “Except…”
<
br />   “What?” Nick stared at me. His eyes were intense, and his square jawline rigid. He’d taken to wearing glasses of late, and the black frames only added to the seriousness in his expression.

  “Except if you’re right, and if Marc had something to do with Lydia’s death, then you’re involved. Nick, you barely remembered what you two did last night. If anybody checks, you’re going to turn up as his alibi.”

  9

  As awful as it felt to say that to Nick, his lack of response told me he’d already traveled down this road and reached the same conclusion. In the ensuing silence, I reached a few curious thoughts and conclusions myself.

  “That’s why you’ve been talking to Amanda,” I said. “If you say nothing and Marc was responsible, he gets away with murder. But if you speak up, you open old wounds. You told her what happened.”

  “I told her about Lydia.”

  “Does she know Lydia?”

  “Kidd, I haven’t been a hundred percent straight with you. Amanda is…” his voice trailed off, “conflicted. You’re going to find this next part out soon enough, so I might as well tell you. The reason Amanda is here is to work Intimate Mode.”

  I felt my shoulders slump. Now I had to make nice with a woman who preferred salad to pizza. “I should have known that. Why didn’t I know that? I checked out the entire vendor lineup when Tradava asked me to attend. She wasn’t on the website.”

  “It’s not her collection anymore. She’s acting advisor. It was all very last minute. Her new financial backer thought it would be a good idea for her to attend, so he pulled some strings.”

  “Don’t tell me—”

  “Yes. Marc now owns her company.”

  Amanda had been labeled one to watch in the local fashion community, but her lack of business acumen had led to decisions that just about destroyed her. I wasn’t going to question this latest in a string of bad decisions, because if I shifted the lens, I could see that Amanda had probably approached Marc with this goal in mind. He was financially successful. If she were looking for a sound investor, on paper, he’d be an excellent choice. Still, if I suspected someone of murdering my college roommate, would I be able to turn to them for help?