All the Best Lies--A Mystery Read online

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  For Garrett, who saw my scars and did not care.

  I love you more.

  Acknowledgments

  It takes a village to publish a novel, and I am fortunate that my village has such brilliant, fun, and insightful citizens. I am indebted as always to the great folks at Minotaur, especially my discerning, thoughtful editor, Daniela Rapp, who saves me from myself. This book is stronger for her input. If you heard of this book and found it somewhere, that’s probably due to the hard work of Kayla Janas and Danielle Prielipp. They are creative and amazing!

  Thanks also to my terrific agent, Jill Marsal, for her ongoing wise counsel and support.

  My deepest gratitude to #TeamBump, for your feedback and encouragement. You help keep me sane in what is sometimes a crazy business. Thank you, Katie Bradley, Stacie Brooks, Ethan Cusick, Rayshell Reddick Daniels, Jason Grenier, Suzanne Holliday, Shannon Howl, Michelle Kiefer, Rebecca Gullotti LeBlanc, Robbie McGraw, Jill Svihovec, Dawn Volkart, Amanda Wilde, and Paula Woolman.

  I owe many thanks as well to several talented writers who have assisted me with this book and others. Elisabeth Elo, Hallie Ephron, and Hank Phillippi Ryan, I am grateful for your advice and your friendship.

  Thanks as always to my wonderful family, especially Brian and Stephanie Schaffhausen, and Larry and Cherry Rooney, for love and support. A special shout-out to my fellow crime-junkie cousin, Loni Rooney, who cheerfully discusses serial murderers with me and is available for Spanish-language consultations on the fly.

  Finally, thanks to the two intrepid humans who must put up with me day and night: my dear husband, Garrett, who hangs on all my stories even when he’s heard them a hundred times already, and our daughter, Eleanor, who is more excited to attend book events than most nine-year-olds I know. Honorable mention goes to our basset hound, Winston, who is no help at all when it comes to getting the writing done, as his preference is to sit on my lap at all times, but he provides endless cheer and perfect characterization notes for Speed Bump.

  Las Vegas, 1974

  Camilla Flores had always been in the wrong place at the wrong time, starting with the day she was born, six weeks early, in Puerto Rico, before her mother could cross the ocean and land on continental American shores. If Cammie had just stayed in the womb a few more days, people would understand she’s an ordinary citizen with as much right to this country as anyone else. Instead, she’d had to move to Las Vegas eighteen years later to make her own kind of luck. So far, she had a crappy “garden” apartment with a view of some faded pink rocks and dented aluminum garbage cans, a rusted-out electric stove that only worked on one side, and a seven-year-old car with a broken alternator. Cammie’s checking account currently had twenty-two dollars in it, and the repair bill for the car totaled almost a hundred. This time, though, maybe she had caught a break.

  “You sure they won’t care it’s me and not you?” she said to Angela as she shimmied into the tight skirt with its flashy gold sequins.

  Across the room in bed, Angie paused her shivering long enough to look Cammie over from head to high-heeled toe. “Are you kidding? Look at you. I wish I had your ass. Besides, they probably won’t even notice the difference. You know how it is—brown’s the only color they ever see.”

  Cammie briefly met Angie’s eyes in the full-length mirror, and she had to smile. The chills and 102-degree fever hadn’t dulled her friend’s acerbic wit. Cammie was born in Puerto Rico and Angie in Colombia, but in Vegas everyone assumed they were both Mexican, the nearest source of brown people. Mr. Crocker, their creepy landlord, hung around pretending to do maintenance work whenever Cammie and Angie had a few moments to lie out in the sun. He always got their names mixed up, and he didn’t care if they corrected him. “One chalupa’s as good as another,” he liked to say.

  Cammie slathered on the foundation and eye shadow like they were war paint, as though she were going into battle. The false eyelashes, rouged cheeks, and teased-up hair all made her look like a first-class hooker, and she said a brief prayer of thanksgiving that her mother wasn’t alive to see her now. She wouldn’t recognize her. Probably even the girls down at her usual job, waiting tables at the Howard Johnson’s, wouldn’t know her, either. That was the idea, after all. Tonight, she wasn’t Cammie. She was going to be Angie, and she would make three hundred dollars.

  A frisson of excitement went through her at the thought, making her bare shoulders shiver. “Tell me again what I have to do,” she said to the reflection in the mirror.

  Angie coughed, a rickety, wheezing sound that vaguely alarmed Cammie whenever she heard it. Maybe she could use some of that three hundred dollars to make Angie see a doctor. “You go to room 611,” Angie said from amid the pile of pillows. “You knock on the door. Mark will be there with the others. It’s past ten already, so they’ll be drunk off their asses. Just put on some music and wiggle around in your underwear. Maybe, if you feel like it, grind on ’em a little. You get more money that way.”

  Cammie made a face at herself, considering it. “But no going all the way, right? I don’t have to get naked or…” She left the most distasteful part hanging there in the room.

  Angie raised up her head. “No! Jeez, Cammie—you think I’m turning tricks now? I’m a dancer, not a hooker. The most they get is a little feel. Mark knows the routine. I’ve done this for him many times.”

  “Great. I’m glad somebody knows what they’re doing,” Cammie muttered, tugging at her short skirt, forcing it toward her knees. Like it mattered how much she was showing now when she was going to have to take the whole thing off soon.

  “You’d better get going.”

  As if on cue, the cab honked outside. Cammie wiped her damp palms on her hips. No one wanted a clammy stripper. With a last look in the mirror, she raised her chin and forced herself into a confidence she didn’t feel. In two hours, it would be over and she’d have three hundred bucks in her pocket. Eyes on the prize, chica, she told herself. “Get some sleep,” she said to Angie, tucking the blankets around her friend. Angie snuggled in, her eyes already closed.

  Cammie climbed into the waiting cab and ordered the driver to the new crown jewel of The Strip, the MGM Grand Hotel and Casino. Her stomach did a little flip of excitement at the thought of going inside. After Caesars opened almost a decade ago, it had seemed like there would be no more big, brash hotels. Now the newly opened MGM towered over everything, the biggest of all, with its enormous stack of suites and the pyramid-like entrance on Las Vegas Boulevard. Cammie had read that celebrities were flocking to stay there. She felt like a movie star herself as she entered the lush, dazzling lobby. Crystal chandeliers glittered overhead and gleaming white statues gave an ambience of total class. She could almost smell the money.

  By the time she reached room 611, she had her smile in place, ready to do business. “Hey, it’s about time,” said the man who opened the door. Angie had said Mark was a fifty-something banker with thick glasses and a beer gut, but this guy was younger, dressed in a powder-blue leisure suit, with a Rolex watch sticking out at the end of one sleeve. “Come on in, honey.”

  Cammie’s smile faltered at the hungry look in his eyes, but he ushered her forcefully across the threshold.

  “Gather round, gentlemen,” he announced from behind her. “It’s showtime!”

  Cammie froze at the sight of them, the half-dozen men in various shapes and sizes who all turned to look at her. The room lived up to every bit of her imagination, with its rich tapestry drapes, thick rug, and plush chairs. There was a big TV console and a low coffee table that held a mix of alcohol and half-eaten shrimp cocktails. “Are you Mark?” she asked the nearest one.

  The man behind her touched her naked back, making her jump. “Mark’s not here tonight, honey. He let us have the suite instead. You can call me Rob.”

  From the way the other men chuckled, she knew Rob wasn’t his real name. She didn’t care, really, as long as his money was green. “I’m Angie.”

  “Well then, Angie … the floor is yours.”

  He turned on the music—some big-band number with lots of horn blaring from the expensive stereo—and Cammie got down to business. She shimmied. She swayed. She got almost close enough to touch and then spirited away again. The men grinned and hooted and howled through her act. It was easy to pretend she was someone else because none of them looked at her face. If they wanted to pay her fat money for gyrating her ass at them for a few minutes, well, that would be the easiest cash she’d made in her lifetime.

  Maybe, she thought as she twisted away from Rob’s groping hand, I should think about joining up with Angie full-time.

  She did three songs for a total o
f twenty minutes, just like Angie had told her, ending dewy and breathless, with little more to cover her than a G-string and a demi bra. “Thank you,” she said, reaching down for her skirt. “It’s been a real pleasure, gentlemen, but I’ve got to be going now.” She hoped fervently that this would be enough to prompt payment; Angie hadn’t explained the details of how to collect the fee.

  Relief washed over her when she saw Rob reaching for his wallet. “Let me walk you out,” he said, slurring noticeably, sweeping his hand toward the door.

  She followed him until they stood alone in the narrow alcove just inside the door. Just a few more feet and she would be free on the other side.

  “Mark didn’t tell me you were so pretty,” he said as he touched her cheek with the back of his knuckles.

  She willed herself not to flinch. “Thank you. I’ve really got to get going…”

  He lurched forward unsteadily, and she could smell the liquor on his breath. “Aw, what’s your hurry? Stay awhile. Have some fun.”

  “I can’t. I’m sorry, but—”

  “Butt,” he breathed, reaching around to grab hers. “Yeah, you got a real nice one. Mmm.”

  Cammie tried to sidestep him, but he’d backed her up against the wall. “Rob,” she said, trying to sound reasonable instead of desperate. “I’m on the clock here. It’s business, mmm? I don’t show for my next gig and the boss will come looking for me.”

  “Yeah? He wants the money, does he? I’ve got lots of money. Here, look.” He pulled a wad of cash out of his pocket and sprinkled it over her head like a shower. “What’ll this buy me?”

  He pawed at her breast, squeezing hard, and she yelped, “Stop!” She raised her voice, hoping the men would hear her over the music still blaring from the other room. “Let me go!”

  “In a minute.” He started fumbling under her skirt. “I just want a taste, honey. Just a sweet little taste.”

  Cammie screwed her eyes shut and screamed at the top of her lungs, “Help! Stop it!”

  “Shut up!” He slammed her so hard into the wall she saw stars. “If you quit fightin’ me, this would be done by now!” She kept yelling, pushing at him, but the struggle only seemed to excite him more. His fingers bit into the soft flesh of her thigh as he wrestled for her underwear. “Hold still, dammit.”

  “Get off of me!”

  She heard pounding and it took her a moment to realize it wasn’t inside her head. Someone was beating at the door. Thank you, Jesus. She wilted as Rob backed away, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. He yanked open the door and another man immediately appeared inside, this one big and angry looking. Only he wasn’t angry at her. He took one look at her torn skirt and the tears in her eyes and he pinned Rob up against the closet door, an arm to his throat. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “N—nothing,” Rob wheezed.

  “You okay, darlin’?” Her rescuer had a Southern accent.

  “I’m fine.” She scrambled around, picking up the money that was owed her and then some.

  “We can call security. Have them get the cops.”

  “No! Ah, no, thank you.” She eased past the men on wobbly legs and gasped out a breath when she found herself at last in the safety of the hallway. “I just want to go home.”

  Her savior gave Rob another shove, pushing him deeper into the hotel room. “You’re lucky this time,” he said. “Next time, maybe I’ve got a gun with me.”

  He stalked into the hall and she could see him clearly now that the fear had receded its grip on her sight. He had broad shoulders and thick arms that strained at the cloth of his rolled-up shirtsleeves. His blue eyes were dark with concern. “Are you all right?”

  She nodded, still clutching a fistful of cash. “How did you know I was in trouble?”

  “I heard you screaming,” he said with a touch of a smile. “That’s my suite right over there. You want to come in—sit down for a minute? You still look a little shaken.”

  “Oh. I don’t think I’d better…”

  He raised his palms in a gesture of surrender. “No funny stuff—scout’s honor. I just thought you might care for a drink of water.”

  Her free hand went to her throat. It did feel raw on the inside. All of her did.

  “My name is Angus Markham, by the way,” he said, and this time she believed it was the truth.

  “Camilla,” she told him. “Cammie.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Cammie. You’re sure I can’t offer you that water?”

  “What I need is a cigarette,” she confessed in a single breath, and he answered with a grin.

  “I’ve got that, too. Come this way.”

  So she allowed herself to be led along to his suite, which was a mirror image of the one she’d been in earlier. The place was neat, with only his shoes on the floor. He’d rushed to her aid in his stocking feet. “What brings you to town?” she asked automatically, because it was her lifeblood. Talk up the customers, make them like you, and they’ll give you more money.

  “Fund-raiser,” he told her from over by the bar.

  She drifted over to the window, where partially open drapes revealed the lights of the neighboring casinos down below. The repeated flashing was almost hypnotic. He touched her lightly on the arm, and she turned to find him holding a tumbler of ice water and an unlit cigarette. He waited at attention while she drank a liberal few swallows before he handed her the cigarette. “Fund-raiser for what?” she asked.

  He smiled and handed her the cigarette. “If I may?” He withdrew a silver lighter from his trousers that looked like it probably cost a week’s worth of her rent. She nodded and slipped the cigarette between her lips. When he leaned in to light it, she caught the scent of sandalwood on his skin.

  “You’re from the South,” she observed as she blew out the smoke.

  He lit a cigarette for himself and tucked away the lighter. “Virginia, born and raised. And you? Where are you originally from? No, wait. Let me guess.” He looked at her appraisingly and she waited for the inevitable guess of Mexico. “Puerto Rico,” he decided finally, giving an emphatic nod. “Am I right?”

  “Yes,” she said as her cheeks warmed with pleasure. “How did you know?”

  “I’m good at reading people.” Then he leaned into her personal space and dropped his voice in a conspiratorial manner. “Also, it’s well known that all the prettiest girls come from Puerto Rico.”

  “Stop,” she told him, but this time she didn’t mean it. She checked his left hand: no wedding ring, and he had a nicer manicure than she did. “You didn’t tell me what you were here raising all these funds for.”

  “Politics,” he told her as he crossed back to the bar and began making himself a drink. “Boring old politics. You sure I can’t get you something stronger?”

  She evaluated the water in her hand, admiring the heavy crystal. Imagine having all your drinks served this way. “Maybe just one,” she told him. “Vodka rocks, if you have it.”

  “Darlin’, I’ve got some of everything,” he drawled, and her insides thrilled at the rise and fall of his voice. He touched her again when he brought her a fresh drink—just a brush of his warm fingers on her arm. Nothing untoward. “Shall we?” he asked, indicating the couch.

  She decided to sit with him, just for a few moments. She could pretend this was her room, too, that she wasn’t wearing a cheap skirt and carrying a wad of sweaty cash in her purse. Angus Markham sat a respectable eighteen inches away, his body angled toward hers.

  “I’m sorry about that Neanderthal next door,” he said after a beat.

  Her face flamed. “Forget it; it’s over.” She didn’t want him to think she was total trash. “I don’t usually do this, you know. I’m filling in for a friend. She’s sick tonight.”

  “You might want to tell your friend to find a safer line of work. What do you usually do?”

  She hesitated, knowing the truth probably wouldn’t be much better in his eyes. “I’m a waitress.” She forced a bright smile. “I can prove it to you and go freshen up your drink.” She nodded at his glass. “Really, it’s the least I could do.”

  “No, ma’am,” he said with a slow smile. “You sit just where you are and tell me how you got that set of lungs on you.”