Chapter 6 Everett #2
Noah’s expression is unreadable, which in my experience usually means he’s calculating how much truth he can get away with revealing.
“You mean besides the fact that I’m about to be accused of a double homicide in a city notorious for its creative approaches to justice and its tendency to make problems disappear in the desert?
No, I think that covers the highlights.”
“This isn’t a joke,” I say, lowering my voice to the tone I typically reserve for sentencing proceedings.
“Lemon is upstairs nursing the twins, blissfully unaware that the father of her daughter is about to be hauled in for questioning in a murder investigation that could potentially result in life imprisonment or worse.”
“You think I don’t know that?” Noah’s voice is equally quiet but intense, suggesting he’s fully aware of how bad this looks. “You think I want her dragged into this? Or that I want Morrison questioning her about me, our relationship, and possibly our entire romantic history?”
“Then give me something to work with here,” I press. “What was so important that you nearly came to blows with an Elvis impersonator in the middle of a baking competition? And please make it something that doesn’t involve organized crime, international espionage, or a secret gambling addiction.”
Noah’s eyes meet mine, and for a moment, I can see the weight he’s carrying. “This isn’t for you to handle.”
Before I can respond with the obvious follow-up questions, Morrison returns, his face set in stern lines that suggest the investigation has officially moved from preliminary inquiry to serious criminal matter.
“The scene is secure. CSI is on its way. Now, Detective Fox, I think it’s time you and I had a proper chat.” He gestures toward the ballroom with the sort of invitation that isn’t really a request. “Shall we? And, Judge Baxter, you’re welcome to join us. In fact, I insist.”
Noah glances at me, and I give him a slight nod. Whatever he’s hiding, now isn’t the time to force it out of him. Not with Las Vegas law enforcement breathing down our necks.
“Fine,” Noah says to Morrison as if he just realized he’s out of options. “But I want it on record that I had nothing to do with this.”
“Oh, we’ll put everything on record,” Morrison assures him with the sort of smile that suggests he’s already planning the press conference. “Every last detail, every inconsistency, every reason you might have had to want both victims dead.”
As soon as they walk away, I pull out my phone to call Lemon. She needs to know what’s happening before she hears it from someone else—or worse, sees Noah being led away for questioning. But before I can dial, a text comes through from her.
The twins are finally asleep. Everything okay down there?
I stare at the message, weighing my response with the careful consideration typically reserved for Supreme Court decisions.
How exactly does one text Your ex-husband and father of your child is being questioned for murder, but don’t worry, I’m sure he didn’t do it, and also we might need to start researching criminal defense attorneys in a way that won’t send her rushing down here in a panic?
I’m contemplating my reply when another officer approaches with a demeanor that suggests my evening is about to become a heck of a lot more interesting.
“Judge Baxter? Detective Morrison would like you to join them for questioning.”
Perfect. From courtroom to interrogation room in the span of a single day, with a brief detour through what can only be described as the world’s most deadly baking competition.
This Vegas vacation is turning out to be everything the brochures promised, assuming those brochures advertised sun, fun, and criminal proceedings in a casino setting.
I follow the officer through the ballroom, now largely empty except for law enforcement personnel and a few stragglers being interviewed by officers.
Among them, I spot Sherry Smoot, her red curls as vibrant as her gesticulations as she speaks to a detective who’s taking notes with sincere dedication as if he’s transcribing the Dead Sea Scrolls.
Chuck Longnecker stands near the entrance, his face set in the professional mask of concern that seems to be his default expression when dealing with situations that might affect the hotel’s liability insurance.
And Pacy Morgan is directing his security team, pointing toward exits and speaking rapidly into his radio with the efficiency of someone coordinating either a security operation or a very elaborate cover-up.
Each of them has a story. Each of them has secrets. And somewhere among them is a killer who’s claimed two lives in a matter of hours and shows no signs of stopping.
The officer leads me to a small conference room off the main ballroom where Noah sits across from Morrison, his posture rigid but composed. He glances up as I enter, a flicker of relief crossing his face.
“Judge Baxter,” Morrison says, gesturing to a chair. “Please, join us. Your friend here was just about to explain his relationship with the deceased in detail that will hopefully include actual facts.”
I take a seat beside Noah, noting the tension radiating from him. “I’m sure Detective Fox is cooperating fully,” I say as the stern voice I use in court automatically engages. “As he would expect any witness to do.”
“I didn’t kill Jolene Nelson, and I didn’t kill Dirty Joe Tuggle.
I was nowhere near the kitchen when Jolene died.
I was in full view of dozens of witnesses in the ballroom.
And as for Joe—I had every reason to want him alive.
Dead men can’t pay debts or provide information, and they’re notoriously poor at answering follow-up questions. ”
Morrison considers this, his fingers drumming against the table as if he’s calculating the odds. “Until we determine otherwise, consider yourself a person of interest, Detective Fox. Don’t leave town.”
“We have a hotel suite booked for the week, plane tickets home, and a two-year-old who’s expecting to see the dancing fountains. I’m not exactly planning to disappear into the Nevada desert.”
“Good. Keep it that way.” Morrison rises from his chair.
“We’ll continue this conversation later—after I’ve had a chance to review the evidence, speak with other witnesses, and possibly charge you with double homicide.
” He exits the room, leaving Noah and me alone in a silence that feels heavier than it should.
“Well,” I say finally, “that could have gone worse.”
Noah’s laugh is hollow, like an echo in an empty courtroom. “How exactly? Short of him actually slapping cuffs on me and reading me my rights on live television?”
“He could have insisted on a cavity search,” I offer. “Vegas law enforcement is nothing if not thorough in their approach to criminal investigations.”
This earns a genuine, if brief, smile. “There’s still time for that. The night is young, and Morrison seems like the type who enjoys being thorough.”
I lean back in my chair, studying him. “You know, if you end up arrested for a double homicide, I’m going to be extremely put out.
Do you have any idea how difficult it would be to explain to the twins why their sister’s father is playing with license plates instead of detective badges?
Let alone what it will do to Lyla Nell.”
“I didn’t kill anyone,” Noah insists, rubbing his temples.
“I know that,” I say, my voice softer. “But you’re not making it easy for anyone else to know it. You need to come clean about whatever’s going on with Dirty Joe, and you need to do it before Morrison decides you’re his best suspect and stops looking for alternatives.”
Noah’s eyes meet mine, and there’s a vulnerability there I rarely see—the kind of openness that suggests he’s reached the end of his ability to handle this alone.
“It’s not that simple.”
“It never is with you,” I reply. “But murder investigations have a way of simplifying things rather quickly. Either you killed them or you didn’t. Either you’re hiding something relevant or you’re not. Morrison isn’t interested in nuance or family dynamics. He wants a suspect he can charge.”
I stand up, straightening my jacket. “And if I find out you are the killer, I might just kill you myself. And unlike you, I know how to avoid leaving evidence.”
Noah rises as well. “Your confidence in my innocence is touching.”
“Always happy to provide moral support,” I reply. “Now, let’s go find Lemon before she hears about this from someone else. Preferably someone less panic-inducing than Carlotta, who would no doubt frame the story as Noah Fox: Serial Killer of Men in Purple Pursuits.”
As we exit the conference room, the ballroom beyond is transformed.
Where earlier it buzzed with the energy of competition, now it hums with the methodical efficiency of a crime scene investigation.
Officers move with purpose as crime scene tape creates geometric patterns across the space, and the once-festive atmosphere has been replaced by something colder, more clinical.
Whatever is happening in this casino—whatever has led to two deaths in a single day—I can’t shake the feeling that it’s far from over.
And for a man who prides himself on maintaining control in his courtroom, I find myself distinctly uncomfortable with the realization that here, in this glittering monument to chance and risk, control is nothing but an illusion.
The house always wins. And someone in this casino is playing a game where the stakes are measured in human lives, and the only prize is getting away with murder.