Read Selling Scarlett for Free Online

private eye, Dave, put together. I turn the tablet sideways, frowning.
'To Catch a Criminal'. I flick a withering glance his way. “Enjoying the drama, Radcliffe?”
“Not enjoying,” he says, his voice faintly defensive as he kicks his feet out and crosses his long legs at the ankles. “Just making do. I figured we should have a project name.”
“Right.” I look it over, curious to see the revised list of suspects. I note the absence of two names I'd hoped to see: Bill Percy and James Meyers, both deviant little fucks who've bruised some of the girls before.
“Percy wasn't there,” Marchant says, reading my mind—or more likely, my face. Bill Percy was a prick from college turned prick lobbyist for the gaming industry. He left bruises on Juniper once; he claimed he was drunk, and Juniper decided not to press charges. “His wife caught him boinking the housekeeper that night,” March tells me. “He checked into Bellagio around three. Meyers was at an electronic cigarette convention in Virginia.”
Marchant takes a swig of his whiskey, then rolls up the sleeves of his button-up, looking serious for once. “All in all there are twenty-six suspects, including you and I. Eleven of the other fucks stand out.”
I scan the eleven bolded names. “My guy's been on Rutherford and Kriss for going on sixteen days. He says they're both clean as a whistle.”
Marchant passes his almost-empty glass from one hand to the other, looking moody and restless. “I say we drop Rutherford. He likes it weird, but I think that’s only when he fucks Brad. Everyone seems to like it weird with him. Devotion to the pacifier does not a kidnapper make,” Marchant mutters.
I lift my head, brows arched. “A pacifier ?”
March shrugs. “That's what Brad says.”
“That goes on the list of kinks I’ll never understand.”
“So now it’s a list of one?”
“Funny. And we’ve got a more important list to worry about.” I bring each name up as a slide, and flip through one at a time. Name. Picture. Possible motive. “Let's keep the tail on Kriss. There’s just something about him.”
Marchant nods, punching something into his iPhone.
I flip through a few more slides. “Are we still on the ex-boyfriend and the stepbrother?”
We've spent almost two months now paying a couple of Vegas PIs to track people of interest. So far all we've found is Vegas has a total of three decent PIs—and there's no limit to the number of affairs a determined man of means can have. That, and one of Priscilla Heat's screenwriters looks at kiddie porn. We're hoping Dave, a Vegas local and ex-FBI dude, can help us cover some new ground. Hence this revised list.
“Ex-boyfriend doesn't do anything but a waitress,” Marchant says blandly. “Sarabelle's stepbrother doesn't do anything but Oxy.”
“Tell Dave to keep tracking them. I'll add Michael Lockwood to my list, you add Caleb Zeuss to yours.” Michael Lockwood was one of Priscilla's film crew; he quit his job just a few days after that night; he's come up clean so far, but something about him smells off. Caleb Zeuss is one of the cooks Marchant employs. He was on the clock that night, but no one seems to have seen him. The cameras are useless, because while March was fucking Priscilla for Pimps and Princesses , someone turned them off. The woman working the cameras just assumed the system was down. Naturally, when she tried to convey this to Marchant, he did not want to be interrupted.
I hand Marchant his iPad and pull out my smart phone, blinking at a new text.
“ Cumming to your place tonight. Bringing a surprise. ~P”
I squeeze my eyes shut, opening them some seconds later to find Marchant out of his leather chair and standing in front of my desk. He leans over, pressing his palm against the sleek oak. "You doing alright? You look amped.”
I glower. “Thanks.” I'm not doing coke, which March should know, but I'm sure as shit not justifying anything to him.
“You sleeping okay?”
I snicker.