I nodded and went back to the kitchen. “Let’s run home and pick up Dixie’s stuff. Keats said he’d take care of her.”
Bailey chuckled. “Whatever you say, babe.”
I promptly grabbed all my gear and gave a wave to everyone before stopping at Denise’s desk. “I’ll be out for a few days. I’ll call in regularly. Those guys said they’ve got things here, and Keats is taking care of Dixie. If there’s anything I can do up north, call me. Bailey and I are going to Carson City.”
“Sure, Jagger. Safe travels.” Denise winked before gathering up the recently delivered mail for processing.
As I was about to leave, I turned to Keats, who was standing in the kitchen doorway, petting Dixie. “I’ll drop the stuff off on our way out of town.”
Bailey stepped next to me. “Oh, Greeley, we saw Spitzer the other day. He asked where you guys have been. Something about you missing your pool league?”
Keats laughed. “That’s because they want a chance to win their money back. Most of them are cops, and they suck at pool. Thanks for passing along the word. We’ll call the asshole.”
“Oh, Keats, I think he’s interested in dating your little cousin who works at Steuben’s,” Greeley teased. Steuben’s was a restaurant-bar with twenty-four-hour gambling, much like many other places in Las Vegas.
“The fuck he is. It’s that guy Lola works with. Everybody knows Spitz is all cock, all the time.” Keats didn’t seem too keen on the idea of Spitzer hooking up with his cousin.
Before we got caught in the middle of their bullshit, I turned to Bailey. “You ready to hit the road? We’ll run home and grab our stuff. We can drop back by here to leave Dixie’s food and toys, and then I’ll drive first shift.”
“You’re the boss.” If only he knew how untrue that statement was. He owned my soul.
We waved. “See ya.”
As we pulled up to my duplex, my phone buzzed on the console of my truck. I shifted into park and picked it up to see a text from Detective Spitzer.
Call me when you can. Spitzer
I turned to Bailey. “It’s the detective. He wants me to call him.”
“Okay. Why not?”
I scrolled through my contacts, finding his number. I turned in my seat toward Bailey and tapped his name. It rang once.
“Spitzer.”
“It’s Jagger. What’s up?”
“I’m at a crime scene. Danny Bolls was found dead in his apartment. Overdose. Looks like someone worked him over pretty good before. Where’s your boy Bailey Gregory?”
My eyes were as large as saucers. No way would I let Spitzer pin anything on Bailey. “He’s with me. He’s been with me all day at the office. He’s been helping us out for the last couple of days. How long has Bolls been dead?”
Bailey leaned forward. “I’m right here, Detective. Do I need to come to the station? You think I had something to do with this?”
“My snitch, Boyd Newton, came looking for Danny because the guy missed a shoot at Glory Hole. Found the body at three this morning. I suspect you have an alibi for last night?”
“Yeah. He was fucking me.” Spitzer pissed me off. No way did Bailey have anything to do with Danny’s murder.
Spitzer was quiet for a moment before he gave a quick laugh. “Okay, uh, that was blunt.”
Bailey got out of the truck and pulled out his phone, putting it to his ear and pacing in my front yard. This was a huge mess for sure. But if the cops thought he was guilty, they might not look for whoever actually killed Bolls. I couldn’t let that happen.
“You there?”
“Yep. What do you want Bailey to do?”
“I got the coroner’s report back on Maria Ramirez, and it’s inconclusive whether it was suicide or homicide. She had enough X cut with ED meds and caffeine in her system to take down a fucking wildebeest. Her stomach was empty, which indicates she didn’t take pills. The coroner found a puncture wound in her neck that he couldn’t account for, but he’s listingthe cause of death as a heart attack. By the way, she was pregnant. Doc says about eight weeks.”
I’d heard of that drug combination before… Boyd Newton used to sell the same mix to other actors at Glory Hole Studio. He’d told us that he and Marcelo Garcia had a deal for Boyd to also sell on The Old Strip and they’d split the profit fifty-fifty.
