Conover had arrived, too, and started his thing. Vera followed Bent back into the room. She might as well watch the show.
The lock on the motel room door hadn’t been tampered with in any obvious manner. Small window in the bathroom was painted shut. Whoever had come in was allowed in by the deceased or was damned good at bypassing cheap locks. Possibly his weird visitor. The motel had no security cameras, and the manager hadn’t seen one damned thing. He’d been working on reports in his office behind the counter. Bent had deputies interviewing any guests available within view of the room.
Collins estimated time of death about forty-five minutes ago—basically five minutes after Vera’s phone conversation with the man.
“Vee.” Bent jerked his head, drawing her to the small closet. He gestured with a gloved hand to the baseball bat in the corner. Vera crouched down and studied the barrel without touching it. She shook her head and pointed to a blond hair.
“I’m calling it.” She stood. “The bat and what is likely my hair. We both know both were planted. The man wasn’t even in Fayetteville at the time Erwin and I were attacked.” Apparently whoever had put the bat here didn’t know that. Vera was fairly certain they had not mentioned this to Erwin.
Bent chuckled. “Unless he came on Monday and went back after he did the killing at the cabin. Then your message brought him back.”
Vera held her hands up in exasperation. “Why would he kill his own brother? Or his ex-girlfriend?” This made no sense. Nothing about this entire week made sense!
“Maybe because of the ex-girlfriend,” Bent suggested. “She was partying with his little brother—or so it seems. Maybe the two got together while Larry was in prison. When he finds out about the business up here, he takes his opportunity for revenge.”
Vera blew out a big breath. Bent was right. It might be a long shot, but it was possible. She wasn’t thinking clearly.
“We need solid proof,” Bent added, “about when the guy left New Orleans to be absolutely certain he wasn’t involved with the murders or with your attacker.”
Vera exhaled a big breath. “I get that. But my gut says this is just another red herring in our wild and crazy case.” She peered deeper into the closet. “Oh and there’s the ski mask and the gloves.” She shook her head. “My only question is, What the hell was Parson doing while our unknown perp was planting these items?”
“Maybe he went into the bathroom while his visitor was here?”
“No, wait.” Vera replayed the brief phone conversation with Parson in her head. “He said it was a woman—one he’d met before—and she was waiting for him when he got back from lunch, so she may have broken into his room and then he came back and she was caught, so she had to pretend to want to talk to him.”
“Yeah,” Bent granted. “I can buy that.”
This close to the bathroom, Vera peeked inside to have a look at the guy’s toiletries. A bottle of Brut aftershave sat on the toilet tank. An oldie, for sure. Even if that was the one Erwin had recognized, Vera still wasn’t buying this too-pat scenario. She turned back to the room and the cast of characters, including the ME prowling through every inch.
“Bent. Vera.” Conover, who had worked his way to the three-drawer cabinet beneath the television, motioned for them to join him.
Vera could just imagine what this would be. A signed confession?
“Have a look,” Conover suggested.
In the middle drawer was a pair of skimpy panties and a bra. Along with a bottle of perfume. Vera studied the labels. Aubade lingerie and a bottle of Miss Dior. Big bucks.
“What do you want to bet”—Vera turned to Bent—“these belong to Alicia Wilton?”
“Since I don’t like to lose, I’ll pass.” He turned to Conover. “I need something, Conover. Anything that proves someone else was in this room recently.”
“Besides the housekeeper and the hundreds of other guests who’ve stayed here before and left DNA,” Vera muttered.
But she got it. This no-doubt-planted evidence was supposed to prove prior contact and that Parson had been here before the big killer weekend. And that maybe Alicia Wilton was playing both brothers.
Except it just didn’t work for Vera.
“Blame it on crime TV,” Collins said as her assistant prepared to bag Parson. “Now they all know how to cover their tracks and steer guilt where they choose.”
Valeri Erwin watched crime TV, Vera mused. Maybe Erwin should be nudged back up to the top suspect spot. Vera thought of the news about the Xanax in Nola Childers’s autopsy report. And now this. A shiver worked its way through her. She would bet money that whatever was in that coke killed Larry Parson. Coincidence? Highly doubtful.
“All I can say,” Vera tossed back to the ME, “is we better close this case fast, or there’s not going to be anyone left to arrest.”
“By the way”—Collins looked Vera up and down—“you were careful what you touched, right? Even him?”
Vera nodded. “I only did the chest compressions.” Worry trickled through her. “I did check his carotid pulse and his pupils, but that’s it.”
“Good. Because if this is fentanyl poisoning as I suspect,” Collins went on, “you could have ended up in a body bag too.”
