Acadia Le Duc had been interviewed about it, and she said she’d asked Sunday the same thing on repeated occasions. Some of the time he’d replied that he was using me as living proof of his philosophical theories, and other times he’d told her he was doing it to me simply because he could.
Both reasons upset me. They still do.
But I’d been talking with Dr. Adele Finaly, an old and dear friend as well as a shrink of the highest caliber. It helped. And Bree had also found someone to talk to. So had the kids. And my grandmother had her priest.
For the most part, we were good. In ways, we’d never been closer, and as the starter called the athletes to their marks, I chose to embrace the good in my life and push all thoughts of Marcus Sunday aside.
All our focus went to Jannie when he called, “Set.”
The gun cracked, and they took off.
We screamed and cheered, and it was as if all the terrible things that had happened to my family no longer existed, because when the other girls on the track ran like the wind, our Jannie believed and came on like a hurricane.
WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS … ENDS IN MURDER.
FOR AN EXCERPT, READ ON.
SPRINKLERS SHOT BROKEN jets of water over the lush gardens in back of the Beverly Hills Hotel. Night was coming on. I was armed, waiting behind a clump of shrubbery a hundred feet from bungalow six when I heard footsteps come up the path. Captain Luke Warren of the LAPD with a gang of six cops right behind him, came toward me.
For once, I was glad to see the LAPD.
I had information that Gozan Remari and Khezir Mazul, two heinous cruds who were suspected of multiple rapes, but hadn’t been charged, were behind door number six. But unless there was evidence of a crime in progress, I had no authority to break in.
I called out to the captain, presented my badge, and handed him my card, which read Jack Morgan, CEO, Private Investigations.
Warren looked up at me, said, “I know who you are, Morgan. Friend of the chief. The go-to guy for the one percent.”
“I get around,” I said.
Cops don’t like private investigators. PIs don’t play by the same rules as city employees and our clients, in particular, hire Private because of our top-gun expertise and our discretion.
Captain Warren was saying, “Okay, since you called this in. What’s the story?”
“A friend of mine in the hotel business called me to say that these two were bounced out of the Constellation for assaulting a chambermaid. They checked in here two hours ago. I’ve got a couple of spider cams on the windows, but the drapes are closed. I’ve made out two male voices and one female over the music and the TV, but no calls for help.”
“And your interest in this?”
I said, “I’m a concerned citizen.”
Warren said, “Okay. Thanks for the tip. Now I’ve got to ask you to step back and let us do our job.”
I told him of course, no problem.
And it was no problem.
I wasn’t on assignment and I didn’t want the credit. I was glad to be there for the takedown.
Captain Warren sent two men around the bungalow to cover the back and garden exits, then he and I went up the steps and across the veranda to the front door along with two detectives from the Beverly Hills PD. Warren knocked and announced.
We heard a shout through the front door; sounded like “Go away.”
I said, “He said, ‘Come in,’ right?”
The captain smiled to show me that he liked my way of thinking. Then he swiped the lock with a card key, cocked his leg, and kicked in the door.
It blew open, and we all got a good view of what utter depravity looks like.
THE LIVING ROOM was done up in silk and satin in the colors peaches and cream. Logs flickered in the marble fireplace and atonal music oozed from the CD player. Empty glasses, liquor bottles, and many articles of clothing littered the floor. A room-service cart had been tipped over, spilling food and broken china across the Persian carpet.