Hunting for Poison

By M. Elaine Shirley

When private investigator Lainey Hunter finds casino entrepreneur Thomas King dead in her office, his pants around his ankles,all signs point to Lainey as the murderer.

With a vindictive detective and a bounty hunter looking for revenge, can Lainey save herself by finding the killer, or will her drinking undo her?

• Language: English
• Publisher: M. Elaine Shirley
• Release date: Nov 11, 2014
• ISBN: 9781502209207

Book preview

Prologue

How about this one? Nathan asks, squinting at the fine print on the back of the box. It says results are ninety-nine percent accurate. He shakes the box, frowns and reaches for another. The store’s air conditioner grunts and strains against the unusual October heat wave. My hands are greasy with sweat.

If we make it to eighty, she’ll be forty, I say.

We’ll be grandparents by then, he says.

I’m going to get fat. I tug at my halter-top.

Then I’ll get fat with you.

What if she won’t come out?

Lainey, I’m going to be right there for all of it. And if our son chooses not to come out, then we’ll just have to talk him into the world. He bends down, whiskers tickling my bare stomach. Nathan Junior, you’re not to cause your mother any trouble.

It’s only been three weeks. What if…?

He stands and places a finger on my lips. Then maybe we should try for real.

Nathan hums. I picture him holding a baby. Our baby. He plucks another box from the shelf.

We walk to the front of the store. My fingers trace the Browning tucked under his shirt in the small of his back. His secondary weapon. My own rests against my ankle, hidden under my jeans. Even off duty Nathan insists we be armed. Lots of things will change with the baby.

I leave him close to the counter and walk over to the coolers. The store’s selection is poor, but I find a semi-decent chardonnay. I hold it up, so Nathan can see. He’s studying a package of diapers. Setting the wine back, I exchange it for a sparkling water.

The front door chimes. A kid strides over to the register, his raincoat swings out behind him. The counter attendant glances up then returns to his paper. The kid looks back over his shoulder and fixes Nathan and me with a glassy-eyed stare. Nathan makes eye contact with me. I nod and slip into the next aisle. Nathan’s hands are at his back. He winks, trying to tell me it’s probably nothing. Sweat trickles down the kid’s face. I know the coat is not nothing.

The kid leaps the counter. A flash of metal, the barrel of a shotgun under the clerk’s jaw.

Nathan draws the Browning. Las Vegas police. Drop the gun.

The kid’s eyes roll. He pushes the gun until the clerk rises on tiptoe. I reach for my ankle. Pull the Glock. The steel slides through my moist hand. Metal clatters. The kid shifts focus. The chip rack beside me explodes. Nathan fires, his shot wide to avoid the clerk. I reclaim my gun. The kid turns. Another shotgun blast. A spray of blood and flesh. Someone screams.

I fire.

One.

Two.

Three.

I fire until the chamber clicks empty. I can’t see the kid anymore.

Chapter One

The fucking door was locked.

Let me try, Frank said, pushing me aside. He pulled on the handle and booted the door, each kick in time with the warning blasts of the approaching train. Flecks of rust and paint littered his shoes. It’s locked.

If my eyeballs didn’t feel like I’d bathed them in sand, I’d have rolled them. Where’s Jodi?

Frank stepped back, kicked at the gravel, his feet churning up dust, and leaned against the side of his Mustang. He’d parked next to the door; the front bumper nudged the brick wall. He waited for the nine-thirty freight to rumble past before he spoke. I gave her the day off.

You sign the paychecks now? I asked.

She had some personal stuff to take care of.

During a weak moment in February, I’d hired Jodi Flynn sight unseen after my brother tossed her resume at me. He owed somebody a favor. I believed him when he said she was a single mother and a hard worker. She’d walked in the next day carrying a teapot, a bag full of candles, a framed photo of her son, and fifty percent of her body weight on her chest. She plunked herself down behind the desk and declared the immediate area hers. In four weeks, she’d become guardian of my inner office, blocking time-wasters and rescheduling clients when I couldn’t handle them. I let her burn the sage-scented candles whenever I wasn’t in, and she never scheduled an appointment before noon or brought the kid to work. Things were working. And I’d wanted her here today.

I tried to pull my T-shirt sleeves down; the morning sun seemed determined to suck out last night’s fluids through my pores. It hurt. And she couldn’t ask me for time off?

Lainey, it’s no big deal. I told her I’d cover for her.

From where? The Chance? We’d all started last night at the slots, toasting a mutual friend’s birthday. Frank and Jodi had disappeared, and I’d ended the night at the bar.

He scratched at the overnight shadow on his face. "Maybe if my brother hadn’t needed a ride this morning, I might have made it here on time."

I stuck my tongue out at him. At Frank’s insistence, I’d opened the doors to Hunter Investigations in January. Casinos employ nearly two hundred thousand people in Las Vegas. Turnover is high, and background checks are required on all new employees. The work involved is minimal, but to prevent insider corruption, casinos hire outside agencies to do the checks.

It took me six months to realize I’d never gain access to casino security contracts. Men run Las Vegas, and I didn’t have anything dangling between my legs. So, I hired Frank and changed the name to Hunter Brothers’ Investigations. He went after the contracts and I ran the business. A few of the smaller, non-Strip casinos had already signed on, but today I had a shot at Thomas J. King. The King Corporation managed five small Vegas hotels and employed two thousand workers, but this fall King would open a three thousand-room South American-themed hotel complete with the Amazon River raging through the lobby. Six thousand new employees would be hired, enough to give my business a much needed boost. If we could get the fucking door open before King arrived for his ten o’clock appointment.

I slammed my hand against the door. Where’s your key?

Frank shrugged. Where’s yours?

Do you have to yell?

Want me to drive to the bar and pick your keys up?

It’ll take too long. King will be here any minute. I dug through my purse.

Who took you home last night?

None of your business.

Was that his car parked on your lawn this morning?

I dumped my purse out on the ground, searching for the key I knew wasn’t there and cursing myself for staying at the bar too long again. How much money did you take from me last night?

I said I’d pay you back. He moved off the car. Did you sleep with him?

I ignored my brother. Some things I didn’t share.

John, or was it Mike, last night? Awkward kiss. Rum breath. Quick fumble. And snoring. I didn’t mind. Sex wasn’t the reason I took men home.

Frank helped me rifle through the spilled contents, palming the casino chips. I don’t know why you’re so hot over Thomas J. King. Dad never liked him.

Dad never liked anyone, I said, closing my fingers around a metal case the size of a cigarette package.

He liked you.

Not in the mood for this today, Frank. I picked out a plastic bottle from the debris and dry swallowed a couple of aspirin. You sleep in those clothes? I asked. He tucked in his shirt and straightened his tie. I swept everything back into my purse, including some grit and a few stones.

Opening the metal box, I took out one pick and a miniature version of a flathead screwdriver. Frank, I need you.

He jumped up, and mock saluted. Yes, sir.

Hold this right here, I said, taking his hand and putting it on the screwdriver I’d positioned in the lock. I tried to manipulate the pins with the pick, listening for the slight click as each pin fell into position.

Thought you were good at this?

I am.

Can’t you just shoot the lock?

I don’t carry a gun anymore. The pick kept slipping from my hand.

Careful, you’re nicking my ring. Frank inspected the gold band on his right hand. With a minor buffing to the initials, he’d been able to recycle his old wedding ring.

Then take it off.

Maybe it’s time you took yours off.

Obscenities threatened to fall from my lips. I dropped the pick and stood up, twisting my ring. Feeling it dig into the worn groove in my skin, precious metal against flesh. I snatched the flathead tool from his hand. It wasn’t what I wanted to do. I wanted to hit him, go home, and crawl into my bed, hoping Mike or John was gone. But I needed this job. Sucking in the dry desert air, I went back to work on the lock.

Frank placed a hand on my shoulder. I’m sorry. It just came out.

I know. The pins clicked into place, and I pulled the door open.

A flood of air-conditioned air laced with sage-scented soot from Jodi’s candles poured through the open doorway. Frank knocked me out of the way and stepped inside calling, Jodi?

A flame flickered on the center of her desk. Frank licked his finger and snuffed the candle out. Maybe she had to get something from here and forgot the candle.

Maybe.

I flicked the lights, turned the coffee on and slipped into the washroom. I’d talk to Jodi about the candle tomorrow and make sure the fire insurance was paid. I shed my T-shirt and jeans for the business suit I always kept at the office. I look my best in jeans; suits sag on me. I inherited my English mother’s small stature and my Irish father’s sinewy body. I brushed my teeth, ran my fingers through my hair and swallowed a few more aspirin. I declared myself presentable, ignoring the true reflection in the mirror.

Frank whistled when I came out. I gave him the finger and went into my private office. The smell hit me before I’d taken two steps. Sweet. Musky.

Thomas J. King was behind my desk, partially hidden by the computer. His tailored jacket hung slack on bony shoulders. His mouth was open in an accusing scream, stringy ropes of drool at the corners.

Shit.

I ran around the desk. His head rolled to the side as I searched for a pulse on his neck; his skin blanched at my touch. You son of a bitch. I shook him, as if the act of laying hands on him would bring life. You can’t be dead.

I’m not, I’m right here. And I resent you calling me a dog’s son. You should be kinder to Mom. Frank had come into the office and stood beside me.

I hit him then, the body not my brother. A full on, open palm, hand to the face. He had no right to die in my office. King did not wake up. Damn. It wasn’t the money I needed—it was the work. Something to keep me away from myself.

Jesus, Frank, he’s dead. And so was my business. Go and call the police.

My brother remained rooted to the floor, eyes on King, face neutral. I waited. No scream. No shock. Nothing. For the first time I wondered if I really did know Frank that well.

Looks to me like the old man had a heart attack. Frank shoved the office chair with his foot. Beautiful Shiptons.

It wasn’t King’s expensive shoes I found interesting. His pants were around his ankles, along with his striped boxers.

That must have hurt, Frank said, and pointed.

When someone points, I have to look. King had a tiny three-pointed crown tattooed on his penis.

Frank grabbed a toothpaste-shaped tube from the desk. Slide and Glide. He uncapped it. Smells weird.

My gaze strayed back to the crown. King’s dangling participle was oily with lubricant goop. From what I could tell, he was left-handed. Some of the sunflower-yellow cream had settled under his manicured nails.

Give me a hand, I said, struggling to pull the dead man’s pants up. Why? Frank studied the instructions on the tube.

I don’t want anyone to see this. I nodded at the body. Imagine the headlines. ‘Casino entrepreneur, Thomas J. King, dies while five-knuckle shuffling in the offices of Hunter Brothers’ Investigations.’ Let’s give the man some dignity; I don’t want a repeat of Dad. I’d managed to get the boxers up past King’s knees.

This stuff is supposed to be banana flavored.

Frank. The boxers were stuck, and I couldn’t pull and tuck the crown in at the same time.

He shook his head. I’m not touching anything that’s not mine. I rubbed my forehead, looking for the invisible knife carving into my frontal lobe. King looked sad sitting there, his pants down, his tattoo naked to the world. Letting go of the underwear, I sat on the desk facing away from the body.

Something isn’t right, Frank said.

What? The half-naked dead man behind my desk? I snapped.

He frowned, and handed the tube to me. This isn’t the kind you use for a one-man show.

Beneath the picture of a banana were the words: Edible, Tasty, and Hot. On the back of the tube was a partial list of ingredients. Aloe vera and ginseng. And a brief note stating the lubrication cream did not contain aspartame. An odor crawled up through the banana scent. Almonds.

I let my breath out slowly. Cyanide is tasteless and few people can smell it. I set the tube on the desk.

Did you touch any of it? I asked, keeping my voice even.

No.

Frank reached for the lubricant. I grabbed his arm; my hand shook. What is it? he asked.

I opened and shut my mouth, but couldn’t form a coherent response. Cyanide is easily absorbed through the skin. King didn’t strike me as the sort who would kill himself, or lock himself away in an office for a quick one. Someone had been here with him. And I had touched things, moved things. Destroyed a crime scene. I wanted to throw the tube away, make Frank help me rearrange the body, but I couldn’t do it. We have to call the police.

Frank shook free of my grasp. Are you going to tell me what’s going on?

I pretended not to hear him, but deaf will only get you so far. He asked again. I explained the poison, and something hidden glided behind his eyes. Jodi had nothing to do with this, he said.

Someone was here with him.

I need air. Frank left the office.

I trailed after him, stepping outside in time to see the back end of his Mustang slip around the corner of the building. What had I expected, my brother to support me? It wasn’t too much to ask. He’d been there before.

I dug my cell phone from my purse and punched in the numbers to the Las Vegas Police Central Station. My old station. A desk sergeant grunted while I briefly explained the situation. He promised to send a car around.

I sat inside the doorway to wait. Even now, I could hear the sirens chewing up the Vegas heat. I tried to solidify the story in my head. Reasons why I had mangled a crime scene, smacked a dead man upside the head, forgotten all my training. The answers didn’t appear.

Five cars maneuvered around the corner of the building and stopped in a cloud of dust.

The door on the lead car opened. I watched him heft his bulk from the passenger side. His six-foot frame spurred the limits of the tan suit. Deep crevices formed at his temples and his cheeks sank into gray shadows. He glared at me with eyes the milky blue of a dead fish.

I stared back at the only man I was afraid of.

Chapter Two

The sun became oppressive, cutting through the thin haze of dust in the air. Detective Simon Hawkley stood beside the cruiser, hands hooked through the front of his belt. His face was blank, but a hint of hate graced the corners of his mouth. Simon’s silent army stood rigid beside their cars—enough plainclothes to fill a rack of polyester, and a few uniforms looking pissed off. One of them held a shotgun cradled in his arms. It wasn’t pointed at me, or anyone, but it was there.

Usually, when there’s a call-in for a body, the police will send a couple of cars. But my mistake had been to mention whose body. Still, King didn’t warrant an armed presence. The display of force meant that I had not been forgiven by either Simon or my former colleagues.

Simon moved his elbow, enough to make sure I saw the .10mm Beretta holstered under his left armpit. I rose slowly and made a display of dusting myself off to point out I wasn’t carrying. I kept expecting him to shoot me. A quick bullet in the back and it would be over. Easier for me than him.

I balled my hands into fists and walked to him. I’d always thought of blue eyes as striking, but his were different. Pale. Feral. We stared at each other for a moment, his hatred riding the space between us, attacking my shield of indifference. I blinked first. He hasn’t been dead for long, the body was still warm when I arrived.

Hawkley’s face shadowed and a thick vein throbbed on his forehead. He stepped close enough that if I’d risen on tiptoe we could have kissed. I wanted to step back, away from the smell of Old Spice and sweat. Away from the familiar curves and angles of his face. Instead, I stood my ground, tamping down growing panic. He smiled, not like he was happy, and said, Good to see you again, Lainey. His voice was soft so it wouldn’t carry to the others.

If I’d had balls, they’d have crawled up inside me. If he was waiting for a reaction, I wasn’t about to give him one.

The smile slipped, allowing a brief glimpse of rage before his eyes went past me to the open office door. Snapping on a pair of gloves, he said, Where is he?

Inside.

I followed him into the office. Something burning in here? he asked. I glanced at the empty desk. No, I answered moving quickly toward my office. The body is in here.

Simon hesitated, his gaze fixed on the desk. I dry swallowed and counted the ways I would hurt Frank. I cautioned myself to wait until I found out why he’d taken the candle.

Hawkley stepped into my office, absorbing everything in the room. You touch anything?

Yes. I pointed to the lubricant and at Mr. King. Anyone else here with you?

Frank.

Hawkley’s lips contorted into a shallow grimace, and I knew he’d found the tattoo. Where is your brother?

I sent him to find Jodi, my secretary. No hesitation. No afterthoughts. In the past twelve months, I’d learned how to lie for myself. I’d been lying for my family for years.

Simon motioned me to follow him outside. At the sight of him, his entourage scurried about. A photographer and a few of the suits went inside. Others started setting up a perimeter of wooden barriers and tape. I didn’t get the reason for the barriers until I saw the van pull around the corner. The station’s call letters blazed cherry red on both sides of the vehicle. KTLS, ‘The Voice of Las Vegas.’ They must have been monitoring the police radios. I took a final look at my business. When the news broke, I wouldn’t have an office to come back to.

Simon stripped off his gloves and led me to one of the cars, blocking us from the other cops, and the news van. Where did Frank go? he asked, pulling a package of cigarettes from his jacket.

I told you, he went to look for Jodi. The door was locked when we arrived, and she’s the only other one with a key.

"How did you and