Touchy-feely shit accomplished, we get back to business. A couple hours later, my favorite detective jumps up. “I think I found something. Let me put it on the big screen. Drumroll please.”
With Catrina threading the needle between her legs, Sam shuts the vertical blinds and starts the projector. “Let’s review the evidence, so far Scooby-Doo. Here is Dahlyla, our most likely suspect. According to her parole officer, she’s MIA.”
I study the polished, thirty-ish bombshell, wondering how she could possibly be our murderer. “Death by amp? You think she’s got those mad electronics skills?”
“Perhaps not, but she could’ve hired someone.” Biting her lower lip, my partner slips the repairman’s image onto our makeshift movie screen. “If Cal’s demise was murder for hire, Tubes is probably our guy.”
“Nah, he’d never risk damaging the love of his life.”
“Well then, we need to find ourselves another electronics expert. Take note, Scooby.”
“I think I’d rather be the cool dude. What was his name? Fred.”
“No, no way. He was gay.”
I think back on all the episodes. “What makes you say that?”
“You ever see him hit on Daphne or Velma? And a red ascot? Seriously?”
Before I can answer, she flashes Andy Quinn’s image onto the screen. “And then there’s him.”
“What the fuck?”
“Don’t get mad, I’m trying to look at this like the DA will. The husband is always a prime suspect.”
“He has a solid alibi. He was negotiating a football contract in South Carolina.”
“But to play devil’s advocate, he has plenty of money. He could’ve hired someone. The prosecution is going to say Andy thought Sienna was cheating on him.”
“Sugar…”
“Hold your thought. Here’s the piècederésistance.” She taps her computer and a grainy video feed pops up with a timestamp of 5:03PM.
A person in one of Sienna’s tour hoodies wheels a handcart into the concert hall. When his face turns, a glare off the sunglasses spreads across the whole image.
“Shit. He’s wearing facial recognition blockers? They’re hi-tech. Can you make the plate on the van?”
“I did and it’s a rental. They used cash and a fake id.”
“Damn. What about inside the hotel? Are there other cameras?”
Sam displays another short video of the roadie exiting but still no face.
“Wait. Go back to the other footage, the one with the brightness and play it real slow-like.”
She does and this time when the person turns her head, I say, “Stop.”
“What is it?”
“Damn. Those are boobs under that sweatshirt.”
Sam squints. “You sure?”
“Y’all got to take my word on this one. I have a very discerning eye for such things.” Grinning, I leer at her until she laughs.
Chapter Fifteen
Sam
