Chapter 16 Noah
NOAH
The Bellanova’s security room is a techno-cave buried deep in the bowels of the resort, far from the chiming slot machines and oxygen-pumped gaming floors designed to keep tourists awake and spending until their retirement funds evaporate.
The harsh blue glow from twenty-seven monitors bathes everything in a clinical light that makes even the most innocent hotel guests look like potential perps plotting their next felony.
Each screen shows a different slice of casino life—elderly couples pushing walkers between penny slots like they’re on a treasure hunt for loose change, bachelor parties one drink away from requiring bail bonds, and honeymooners who can’t keep their hands off each other long enough to realize they’re losing their life savings to glorified mathematics.
By some miracle of professional courtesy—or perhaps pity for a fellow cop who’s about to become unemployed—Detective Morrison granted me limited access to review the security footage.
“Don’t make me regret this, Fox,” he grumbled with his head gleaming under the fluorescent lights. “One hour, tops. That’s it.” That was three hours ago, which says something about either my dedication to police work or my complete inability to tell time without natural light.
Yes, I’ve been reviewing footage for three hours straight, and my eyes burn from the strain of watching the same seventeen-minute window from six different angles.
The coffee beside me has gone cold, long forgotten in my hunt for the one thing that will clear my name and possibly save my career—concrete evidence that I was nowhere near Dirty Joe when he met his maker.
So far, the only thing I’ve proved is that hotel security cameras have the clarity of a toddler’s finger painting.
“Find anything yet, Detective?” Rodney, the night shift security supervisor, asks from his ergonomic chair that’s seen better decades. His mustache twitches with each word like it’s trying to escape his face.
“Nothing conclusive,” I admit, rubbing my eyes hard enough to see stars. “There’s still that seventeen-minute gap in all the kitchen corridor footage.”
“It’s a system glitch,” Rodney says, but his eyes slide away when he says it, focusing on a monitor showing the high-stakes poker room where someone’s about to lose their daughter’s college fund. “It happens sometimes. Technology, you know?”
“On all cameras covering that specific area? At that specific time?” I don’t bother hiding my skepticism, because I’ve been a cop long enough to know the difference between coincidence and conspiracy.
“That’s not a glitch, Rodney. That’s tampering with the kind of precision that requires advance planning and intimate knowledge of the system. ”
Rodney shrugs, his polyester uniform stretching across shoulders hunched from decades of watching other people’s dramas unfold in high definition. “That’s above my pay grade, Detective. I just push buttons and pretend I don’t see what happens in the honeymoon suites.”
Before I can press further, the security room door swings open, and my personal drama walks in wearing a sparkling dress that catches the monitor light like a flare gun.
Lottie—my wife, my ex-wife, though I refuse to think of her that way—stands framed in the doorway, flanked by Carlotta and my mother, a trio of trouble that would make even the most hardened Vegas security professional consider a career change to something safer, like bomb disposal.
“There you are!” Lottie says, her caramel waves bouncing as she marches toward me. “We’ve been looking everywhere. You were supposed to meet up with us an hour ago at the blackjack tables.”
I check my watch and wince. Time slips away differently in the windowless security bunker, minutes bleeding into hours without natural light to mark their passing. It’s like being trapped in a casino designed by vampires with control issues.
“Sorry, got caught up in something.” I gesture vaguely at the monitors, hoping she can’t read the desperation in my eyes.
“Something more important than gambling away your retirement fund?” my mother asks, her eyes narrowing as she takes in the security setup. “Though I see you’re still playing the odds, just with evidence instead of cards.”
“I think Foxy is hunting for his get-out-of-jail-free card,” Carlotta points out, leaning over to peer at the monitors with alarming interest. Her sequined outfit threatens to blind us all each time she moves under the fluorescent lights.
“Ooh, is that the honeymoon suite? That couple should charge admission for that show. Where’s my phone? ”
“Don’t you dare.” Lottie levels her with the threat just as Rodney hastily switches the monitor to a view of the lobby.
“Lot, what are you doing here?” I ask, trying to steer the conversation away from both my investigation and whatever that honeymoon couple was doing that required audience participation.
“We came to rescue you from yourself,” Lottie says, perching on the edge of the desk.
The faint scent of vanilla and cinnamon that perpetually clings to her—one of the benefits of being a baker—cuts through the stale air of the security room and casts its spell on me.
“And to make sure you haven’t been arrested yet. ”
“Your confidence in me is moving.”
“I’m confident you didn’t kill anyone,” she clarifies, which is more than I can say for Detective Morrison. “I’m less confident about your ability to prove that without my help.”
My mother circles the room, appraising the security setup with the critical eye of someone who’s raised a detective and knows enough to be dangerous.
“Quite an operation you’ve got here,” she tells Rodney, who looks increasingly uncomfortable with each passing second.
“All these cameras... Must be hard to keep track of everything. Or everyone.”
“We do our best, ma’am,” Rodney replies with the careful politeness of an armed guard who suddenly realizes he’s in over his head.
“Do you?” She peers at a monitor showing the hotel kitchen. “Because someone killed two people in your establishment, and my son is being blamed for it. That suggests either incompetence or complicity, and I’m hoping it’s just incompetence for your sake.”
“Mom,” I warn, but she’s in full mama bear mode now, which means subtlety has left the building along with common sense.
“Don’t Mom me, Noah Corbin Fox. I’ve watched you solve dozens of cases back home with nothing but determination and that annoying habit of yours of asking the right questions until people crack.
If these people had half your investigative skills, they’d have caught the real killer by now instead of harassing my sweet, innocent boy. ”
Lottie smothers a smile. “To be fair, the Las Vegas Sheriff’s Department has slightly more resources than the entire force in Ashford County combined.”
“More resources, less results,” my mother sniffs.
Carlotta has somehow managed to take control of one of the security joysticks and is panning a camera around the poker room.
“There’s Harry!” she exclaims, zooming in on Mayor Nash, who’s hunched over a dwindling stack of chips.
“Look at him trying to bluff with a pair of twos. Bless his heart, he couldn’t lie his way out of a paper bag even if the exit was marked in neon and had a mariachi band playing beside it. ”
Rodney gently but firmly reclaims the controls. “Ma’am, please don’t touch the equipment. Union rules.”
“Spoilsport.” Carlotta pouts, but her eyes are already roving for her next source of entertainment. “So, Foxy, found any good suspects yet? Besides yourself, obviously. Because from where I’m sitting, you look guilty of everything except good judgment.”
I sigh, glancing at the door and wondering if anyone would notice if I made a run for it.
Probably. Between Lottie’s detective wife instincts, my mother’s supernatural parent radar, and Carlotta’s uncanny ability to be everywhere at once while causing maximum chaos, I’d be caught before I reached the elevator.
“I’m working a few angles,” I say vaguely because the truth is too complicated for present company.
“Angles?” Lottie raises an eyebrow. “Is that what we’re calling secret meetings with Pacy Morgan now?”
Rodney’s eyes snap to me with renewed interest. Great.
“It’s complicated,” I begin, which earns me synchronized eye rolls from all three women.
Mom huffs at the thought. “Honey, if I had a dollar for every time you’ve said that this week, I could buy this casino,” she trills.
“And if I had a dollar for every time he’s actually explained what’s complicated, I’d have exactly zero dollars,” Lottie adds because apparently, we’re keeping score of my communication failures.
“Maybe we should help uncomplicate things,” Carlotta suggests, eyeing the security monitors like a kid in a candy store. “I’ve always wanted to be a detective. I’ve got the trench coat and everything.”
“You have a faux leopard print trench coat that’s three sizes too small,” Lottie points out.
“It’s called fashion, Lot Lot. Look it up sometime.”
“I have, considering the trench coat was excavated from my closet.”
I run a hand through my hair, a habit when I’m stressed that Lottie once claimed made me look like I’d stuck my finger in an electrical socket. “Look, I appreciate the offer to help, but—”
“Before you finish that sentence with something dismissive,” Lottie interrupts, “remember that I’ve solved more murders than most detectives see in their entire careers. And I do it while baking perfect cinnamon rolls and raising three children, one of whom belongs to you.”
“I’m making progress,” I insist while gesturing toward the monitors as if they contain the secrets of the universe instead of hours of mind-numbing surveillance footage. “I just need more time.”
“That’s what they all say right before disaster strikes,” Lottie observes with wisdom, because let’s face it, she’s witnessed my decision-making process up close.
“And that’s usually followed by ‘what could possibly go wrong?’ And then, inevitably, everything goes spectacularly wrong in ways that defy probability. ”
“Don’t forget the ghost Elvis,” Carlotta stage-whispers, loud enough for Rodney to hear. “Ray-Ray’s been spilling all the postmortem tea.”
“Carlotta!” Lottie hisses.
Thankfully, my mother is too absorbed in studying the bells and whistles this room has to offer to care about any conversation that might contain a ghost in it.
Rodney looks between us with the expression of a man who’s seen enough Vegas weirdness that nothing surprises him anymore. “I’m going to check the perimeter cameras,” he announces, clearly eager for an excuse to escape. “I’ll be back in ten.”
The door closes behind him, and I turn to Lottie. “Ray-Ray? As in, Raymond Tupowski? Jolene’s father?”
“And Dirty Joe’s former manager,” she confirms. “He’s been surprisingly helpful when he’s not breaking into song mid-sentence.”
“Or appearing during our lady bits steam treatment,” Carlotta adds with a cackle.
I hold up a hand. “I don’t want to know.”
“Trust me, you really don’t,” Lottie agrees. “But the point is, I’ve been gathering information while you’ve been skulking around security rooms and having secret meetings with Pacy Morgan.”
My mother settles into Rodney’s abandoned chair, spinning it to face me. “Noah, whatever you’re hiding, it’s time to come clean. If not for your own sake, then for Lyla Nell’s. That child deserves to have her father around.”
It’s a low blow, but effective.
I sigh, rubbing my temples. “It’s... I can’t talk about it yet. Not until I’m sure.”
“Sure of what?” Lottie presses.
“Sure that I won’t be making things worse by sharing what I know.” I meet her eyes with mine, hoping she can read the sincerity there. “Just trust me a little longer. Please.”
My mother makes a noise somewhere between a snort and a sigh. “Typical Fox man. Always thinking he knows best.”
She’s right, but she doesn’t understand the stakes. Because the alternative—explaining to Lyla Nell why her father won’t be coming home—isn’t an option I’m prepared to consider.