Chapter 23 Noah
NOAH
The Bellanova’s underground security room hums with the electric tension of a dozen surveillance systems working in concert.
Wall-to-wall monitors bathe the windowless space in a blue-white glow that makes even Morrison’s bald head look slightly otherworldly—which, given his personality, might actually be an improvement.
Each screen offers a different slice of casino life—elderly couples feeding retirement funds into hungry slot machines, dealers running cards with ballet-like precision, and drunk bachelor parties one cocktail away from security intervention.
“You have to admit it looks suspicious,” Morrison says, leaning back in his chair while keeping his eyes locked on the screen showing the baking competition as if he’s watching a particularly intense sporting event. “Two murders with the same weapon, and you with connections to both victims.”
“If I were killing people, Detective,” I reply, keeping my voice level despite the needling that would make a lesser man reach for his weapon, “I’d be smart enough not to use the same weapon twice. And I certainly wouldn’t have arguments with my intended victims in front of witnesses.”
It’s basic Criminal Behavior 101—don’t leave a trail of breadcrumbs leading directly to your own front door.
The fact that I have to explain this to a supposedly experienced detective makes me question either his competence or his commitment to actual police work.
Personally, I’m shocked he hasn’t asked to see my weapon yet. He’s not as sharp as he thinks.
Morrison grunts—not quite agreement, but not an outright dismissal either. Progress, of sorts, like getting a confession from a suspect who’s only willing to admit they were in the general vicinity of the crime scene around the time it happened.
“Besides,” I continue because apparently, I need to provide a primer on basic investigative technique, “the partial print on the bullet that killed Jolene will clear this up. I’ve never fired that gun, touched that gun, or even looked at that gun with romantic interest.”
“Convenient that you volunteered your prints so quickly,” Morrison points out, though his tone has lost some of its earlier hostility like he’s slowly realizing I might not be the criminal mastermind he was hoping to arrest. Twenty hours of reviewing security footage together has created a reluctant professional respect between us, the kind that develops when two cops realize they’re both stuck in the same impossible situation with the same lack of useful evidence.
“When you’ve got nothing to hide, you’ve got nothing to hide.
” I shrug, watching the monitor that shows Lottie speaking with a red-haired competitor who’s either discussing baking techniques or plotting world domination.
Even through the grainy security feed, her animated expressions make me smile involuntarily.
The woman could make reading a phone book look like performance art.
“Any word on when those results are coming in?”
As if summoned by the question like some kind of forensic genie, Morrison’s phone buzzes with an incoming message. He glances down, and I notice the instant shift in his posture—the subtle straightening of his spine that every cop develops when evidence breaks like a hunting dog catching a scent.
“We got a match,” he says, turning his phone screen toward me.
The name on the display sends a jolt through my system like touching a live wire.
My brain processes the information in that split second of clarity that comes right before everything goes to hell, and I realize two things simultaneously—first, I know exactly who killed Jolene and Dirty Joe, and second, I have a feeling Lottie is about to walk directly into a confrontation with a murderer because that woman is always one step ahead of me.
“Son of a—” I start, then cut myself off as my eyes dart to the monitor showing the baking competition where Lottie is moving across the ballroom floor with that distinctive stride I know all too well—the determined walk of a woman who’s figured something out and is about to confront someone very dangerous without considering the potential consequences for her own personal safety.
Knew it.
“We gotta go now,” I say, already pushing back from the desk and heading toward the door. “She knows who the killer is.”
Because if there’s one constant in this chaotic universe, it’s that Lottie Lemon will always find the killer—usually about thirty seconds before the killer finds her.