Ashes to Dust (Las Vegas Mystery)

“My daughter was murdered,” he said. “Somebody bashed her head in with a baseball bat and burned her to a crisp out in the desert.” He took in a breath, held it, and clenched his teeth, staring across the desk at Alice James. His eyes were red and swollen, his face bloated and pale. He was a big man, six-foot, barrel-chested, with wide shoulders. He appeared to be in his late forties. His hair was gray and cut short.
    Sitting erect in her padded swivel chair, her fingers interlaced on the desk in front of her, Alice met his gaze. “I read about it in the paper, Mr. Roberts. I’m sorry. I can’t imagine what you’re going through.”
    Roberts nodded. “Well, shit happens. And then it happens again.”
    Alice offered a solemn nod, though she could only guess at his meaning. “And what is it we can do for you, Mr. Roberts?”
    “Jack,” he said. “That’s what you can call me to start with. I don’t like being formal.”
    “Alright, Jack.” She waited.
    Roberts swallowed and looked down at his hands where they lay resting in his lap. He blinked, fighting back tears. “It’s been three days,” he said. “The cops aren’t doing anything. They’re both a couple of morons—couldn’t find their asses with both hands.” He brought his eyes up and stared hard at Alice. “I want something done. I want that son of a bitch behind bars. I want to see some progress!”
    “Three days isn’t that long. A murder investigation can take months or even years—”
    He nodded and then shook his head in disgust. “You too.” He stood up. “I should have known as soon as I walked in here.”
    She looked up at him. “What is that supposed to mean, Jack?”
    He put his hands on his hips. “That detective who gave me the name of your agency—James and James. I asked him if it was a father and son outfit or two brothers. He said no. Not even a brother and sister. He said, ‘A white guy and a sister.’ I thought he was joking, and when I walked in here a minute ago, I realized he was.”
    Alice’s voice remained calm and even. “If you have a problem with the fact that I’m a black woman, I can easily step aside and let my partner handle the case. He has more experience than me as a former homicide detective—plus, like you say, he’s a white guy.”
    Blowing out a breath, Roberts looked down at his cowboy boots. He shifted his gaze to the door, turned, and walked toward it. Placing his hand on the knob, he hesitated for a moment, then turned facing Alice. “Look. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean what I said. I haven’t been thinking straight since this happened. I haven’t had a clear mind in twenty-six years. You want me to leave?”
    Alice waved her hand toward the chair in front of her desk. “Have a seat, Jack,” she said. “Let’s talk.”

    Jim Snow lifted his beer mug from the soggy napkin that was stuck to the bar and took a drink. He swallowed, belched softly, and set the mug back down. He rested his elbows on the tarnished surface of the bar, his hands hanging limp in front of him, and studied the bartender where he stood in front of the sink washing glasses. He had a baby face, early twenties, short black hair, and a natural smile.
    From where he sat at the corner of the bar, Snow had an unobstructed view of the entire area behind the bar, including the bartender’s worn sneakers and the rubber mats covering the floor.
    He glanced at his watch. Five ten p.m. He’d been sitting here for four hours. That was it—time to go. But what the hell, he thought. One more beer. He was contemplating the purchase of another pickled egg when his cell phone chirped. He stood up, dug it out of his front jeans pocket, flipped it open, and put it to his ear.
    “Yeah, Alice. What’s up?”
    “Anything?”
    “No.” Snow shoved his barstool back, turned, and ambled unsteadily toward the men’s room. “I haven’t seen anything,” he mumbled, keeping his voice low. “I never saw his hands go anywhere near his pockets, not even to get his comb out. All the money has gone into the cash register, his tips into the jar next to it.”
    “How much longer are you planning to stay?”
    Snow pulled the door to the men’s room open and stepped inside. It was small. The single stall, a sink, and two urinals were unoccupied.
    He sighed. “Well, the client’s paying for four hours. I was thinking of giving him an extra half hour as a bonus.”
    “Why?”
    “The beer’s going down good, and I’m going