Casino Girl

by Leslie Wolfe

  “New phone, Baxter?” he asked, a crooked grin stretching his lip. But there was no humor in his smile, and not a trace of his boyish charm.

  “You noticed,” I replied casually. “You a detective or something?” I asked, and we both laughed, a little tense and insincere, but the ice was definitely starting to crack. It was about bloody time; I hated his coldness, his distance, his distrust.

  Moments later, we entered the high-limit gaming room on the upper level of the Scala Casino. It was open for business as if nothing had happened, with the same lights, the same music, and two of the same players as the day before. Only five players were there that night, not surprising for a Tuesday evening when business was slow.

  No one had taken Crystal’s place yet, although Brandi was most likely eager to leave the world of craps and retake her old spot. Roxanne danced on her usual stage, near the roulette tables, and we approached quickly. I looked around and saw Farley across the room, in the lounge, talking to a woman in a strapless, sequined lavender gown.

  Roxanne stopped dancing when she saw us approach and climbed off the stage. She arranged the straps of her top and smiled shyly. “Hello,” she said, not loud enough to cover the music, although it wasn’t exactly blaring. She seemed faint, tired, and dark circles surrounded her eyes despite generous amounts of pro grade concealer.

  I took out my work phone and showed her Ellis MacPherson’s photo. “Is this the man Crystal was dating?” I asked.

  “Yes, that’s him,” she replied.

  “Have you seen him since, um, when’s the last time you saw him?” Holt asked.

  “I haven’t seen him in a couple of weeks, but I know for sure Crystal was meeting with him Sunday night. The chopper was here for her, remember?”

  “Yes, exactly, that’s right,” I replied. Then I flipped to the next photo attached to the email from Fletcher. The image was a screenshot taken from the video surveillance showing the unknown man approaching Crystal, moments before he’d shoved that chip in her bra. “How about him?”

  When she saw the photo her eyes turned dark, an illusion given by the dilation of her pupils, an unmistakable sign of intense emotion. Then her gaze veered away from the photo, and she instinctively hugged herself, without realizing. She took a small step back, seemingly a bit unsure on her feet, and leaned against the edge of the elevated stage.

  “How about this one?” I said, shifting to another screenshot showing the unknown man grabbing Crystal. “Maybe you can recognize him in this photo?”

  She looked with wide-open eyes but didn’t say a word. I flipped to the next file, the video of the fifty-five second interaction between the man and Crystal. She watched the entire clip without breathing, without moving, without making a single sound. When the video ended, she continued to stare at the screen for a while, as if stunned.

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t know who that is,” she said, barely above a whisper. “Is there anything else?”

  Her lips were pale under the lip gloss and she seemed to tremble slightly, as if she were in shock.

  I thanked her for her help, and she excused herself and vanished behind a curtain hiding the “Authorized Personnel Only” door leading to the dressing rooms.

  “She’s lying,” I told Holt as soon as she was gone.

  “You think?” he asked with a short laugh. “Hey, I got an idea,” he added, grabbing my elbow. “Isn’t that our friend, Mr. Farley?”

  “The one and only,” I replied, walking toward the lounge area.

  The woman in the lavender gown was still there, her long, tan legs crossed artistically, allowing her skirt to part generously, showing a lot of skin. I found myself envying her, everything about her, almost. I was younger and more attractive than her, but it had been a while since I wore a decent outfit, not the shirt-and-slacks-with-flats that had become my unofficial uniform, dictated by common sense, reason, and the detective Code of Conduct. The woman’s heels were to die for, in the exact same shade of lavender as her gown. I missed going out, having men fawn all over me, size me up, trying to hit on me. Yeah, I knew that was shallow of me, but still, I so needed to get out more.

  The moment we approached Farley, the woman stood and quickly disappeared, and Farley shot us a disappointed glance that spoke volumes of his recent luck with the ladies.

  “Detectives,” he greeted us with a professional smile he forced on his lips. “What can I do for you now?” he added, emphasis on the word “now” as if he’d constantly been doing things for us in the past two days.

  I put my phone under his eyes and showed him the screenshot of Crystal and the unknown male. “Do you know this man, Mr. Farley?”

  He looked at the screen for a brief moment, then at me, while his eyebrows curved in disbelief.

  “What, are you kidding me?” he asked.

  “Do you see me laughing?” I snapped. It was late, and I wasn’t in the mood for wiseass humor.

  “Sorry,” he said quickly, checking the surroundings with quick, fearful glances. “That’s Paul Steele,” he clarified, lowering his voice.

  “And that should mean something to us?” Holt asked.

  “Yeah,” he replied, “it should. He owns this joint.”

  “The Scala?” I reacted, while countless more questions flooded my brain.

  “Precisely,” he replied, still keeping his voice low. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go back to work.”

  He disappeared without waiting for our reply. Holt and I headed for the exit, walking quickly, me half a step ahead of him. I was the one pressed for time, thinking of everything else I still had to do that night. But I also couldn’t help thinking about Crystal.

  “Why would the owner of a billion-dollar hotel give a stripper half a million bucks wrapped in wrath?” I asked, and to my surprise, Holt laughed quietly.

  “You said stripper, not dancer,” he explained.

  I rolled my eyes. “Force of habit, I guess. I do resent the word, though.”

  “I don’t find it offensive,” Holt replied. “To me, it’s like a dance specialty. There are carpenters out there, but only some are cabinet makers.”

  “Yes, but exotic dancing comes with social stigma, which doesn’t happen with cabinet making. Society doesn’t respect these girls, although most of them are honest, decent, and work really hard for the money. I just feel I convey that stigma by using the word stripper, especially when I think of Crystal.”

  “Because she’s dead?”

  “Yeah, maybe because she’s dead I’m more sensitive, more keenly aware of that undeserved stigma. But I don’t like to use that label with anyone, dead or alive, especially with a smart, ambitious kid like Crystal. In any case, how would this hot shot Paul Steele know her, anyway? They don’t exactly belong to the same country club.”

  “That’s the million-dollar question, or half a mil,” he said, grinning. “My guess is it’s hush money. That would explain the tension on his face as he delivered the threat or whatever it was he said to Crystal.”

  “No news on that yet?”

  “Nope. Fletcher’s friends seem to agree it was some kind of threat, more from the body language than from reading any actual words on the man’s lips. They’re still trying to figure it out. There’s an expert in lip-reading out there; one of the girls knows him personally. They’ll show him the tape tonight.”

  We exited the hotel and I stopped at the curb, stepping to the side to avoid the constant flow of tourists.

  “Perhaps she saw something she wasn’t supposed to,” I offered.

  “Maybe she was sleeping with him?”

  “With Paul Steele and with Ellis MacPherson?” I asked, the pitch of my voice climbing to a higher tone. “What was this chick, a billionaire magnet?”

  “Or a high-end escort?”

  “People like Paul Steele and Ellis MacPherson don’t use escorts,” I replied. “They’re too smart for it, and they don’t need the service either. That kind of money gets them all the companio
nship they need, and more.”

  “I don’t agree,” Holt said. “I’ve seen worse lapses in judgment with the Vegas wealthy elite, enough to make me think anything is possible. Especially if the client is into, um, unusual stuff, if you catch my drift.”

  I shrugged and signaled a parking valet to get me a cab. He was right; we couldn’t assume we had the two billionaires figured out.

  “I can drive you,” Holt offered.

  “No need,” I replied, eager to get rid of him. “We’re due in court first thing tomorrow, and we both need rest and time to think.”

  A taxi pulled up at the curb moments later, and I climbed in the back of the white sedan wearing the insignia of Ace Cab. I waved at Holt, but he just stood there, watching me leave without saying a word.

  ###

  As soon as Baxter’s cab turned the corner and joined the heavy traffic on South Las Vegas Boulevard, Holt peeled off in his Interceptor. After fourteen years on the force, he didn’t need any fancy Scotland Yard training to know his partner was lying. Every other word she’d said all night had been a lie.

  He followed the white cab from a safe distance, a little closer on the highway and falling carefully behind on smaller streets. It seemed that Baxter was going home after all, but his gut told him that her day wasn’t over yet.

  “She needs time to think, my ass,” he muttered, as he pulled over short of turning onto Baxter’s street. “Not buying a single, damn word the woman is saying.”

  28

  Ready

  With the growing distance between Holt and me, the effect of his grim, anxious mood on my spirits seemed to fade away, making room for some excitement, although I had to admit I hated leaving Holt like that, in front of the Scala; it just felt wrong, and I could see the dismay in his eyes, even the lack of trust blooming in there. If I were in his shoes, I’d probably feel the same, unable to trust the partner who had been sitting on that IAB investigation information for a while without so much as giving me a heads-up. If he didn’t trust me anymore, I’d earned that.

  It still made me feel bad, though.

  We made a great team together, but no two cops can really function as a team in the absence of trust. Something to think about later, after the looming threat of tomorrow’s testimony would become a thing of the past.

  I unlocked the door but felt the urge to look around me before stepping inside. I felt a little paranoid, my instincts riled up, as if there was someone watching me from the darkness, from behind the shrubs that marked the edge of my property. Maybe it was the residual memory from the day’s earlier scare Holt had given me, right there on my lawn.

  I finally entered and locked the door behind me and set the chain. I kicked off my shoes and got undressed while speed-dialing Anne. I hadn’t heard a word from her the entire day. Her phone went to voicemail. I left her a quick message, apologizing for the late hour, then went straight to the shower.

  I let the water run over me for a few minutes, not moving, not doing anything, just enjoying the relaxing drops of warmth, feeling my sore muscles soothed, refreshed. I washed my hair thoroughly, although I was painfully aware of how late it was. By the time I was finished with the shower and my hair was dry and shiny, it was eleven thirty.

  Bollocks… Time to hustle.

  I chose my bra carefully, being that I needed to clip on an underbra holster. I slipped on Fleur du Mal lingerie, one of my favorites, smiling to myself at the soft touch of the exquisite fabric. While the cop dress code had limited what I could wear at work, it had left my passion for sexy lingerie untouched, unrestricted. Half my colleagues would be shocked to see what I normally wore underneath the boring, buttoned-up shirts and Anne Klein slacks; the other half would either be envious or aroused, depending on gender, mostly.

  I applied makeup, hesitating for a moment between two styles, then I proceeded with a slightly darker-than-usual eyeshadow, in harmony with the part I was going to play. Eyeliner and mascara completed the job, but the final touches were the deep red, shiny lip gloss and the silk spray I applied generously on my hair, glad to see its natural shine enhanced to a shimmer.

  I checked my image in the mirror and smiled. I might’ve been a thirty-something cop, but I could still make myself look like a drop-dead, gorgeous, twenty-something lady of the night.

  The first stop after that was the master bedroom closet, where I pulled all the hangers to the side and accessed the rear panel. The fake back wall slid open and exposed a hidden storage compartment, one that held all the goodies I needed to get the job done.

  First, I had to take care of my fingerprints. Standing in front of the shelves stocked with everything a cop could ever dream of, I hesitated between two small plastic containers, one white and one blue, then finally opted for the white one. It didn’t contain fake fingerprints, like the blue one did; it contained silicone fingerprint prosthetics that left no marks whatsoever except for some carefully designed smudges. I took a small bottle of adhesive from a drawer and took the two items to the dining room table. Before doing anything else, I checked to make sure all curtains were shut, all windows and doors completely covered. I applied the glue and, one finger at a time, put the layers of silicone on the tips of my fingers, thus making sure I’d leave no usable prints, no matter what I touched.

  I moved to choose my weapons. Because of the little black dress I was planning to wear, I had to settle for two subcompact weapons. I chose a Smith & Wesson Bodyguard to go in my bra holster, and a Sig 365 for my purse. I made sure both weapons were loaded and had one in the pipe, then put the Smith & Wesson in its holster and clipped it to the middle of my bra, so it hung down below the cups. I could easily slide my hand in the deep cowl neckline of my dress and pull my backup weapon in case of trouble.

  I chose a lock picking kit and closed the panel. I arranged the hangers back as they normally were and grabbed the dress I was wearing, suitable for what I had in mind for the night: a black, metallic, shiny, spandex number that covered my butt by a measly two to three inches, showing my long legs and making me look just a tad slutty, the exact look I was aiming for. The rich, cowl décolletage with its many folds showed the promise of my curvy breasts but hid the Smith & Wesson impeccably.

  Shoes came next, and I opted for a pair of Zanotti open-toe heels I rarely got to wear. I pondered a little before slipping those on, unsure what kind of terrain I’d have to deal with while trying to gain access to Marcus Jones, aka TwoCent, but my longing for wearing sassy, four-inch heels sealed the deal. Worst that could happen, I would kick them off and do the job barefooted.

  Finally, I added jewelry to the overall look, also hinting toward the high-end call girl appearance. The generous folds of the cowl neckline didn’t tolerate a necklace, but I added long, shimmering earrings in sterling silver and matching bracelets. I smiled at myself again, ran another brush through my hair, touched up my lip gloss, and applied a generous amount of hairspray.

  I was ready.

  I pulled my work and personal cell phones from my bag and put them in the microwave and took the burner and texted Fletcher’s phone.

  “Still no guests at the crib?” my message said.

  “None. Our man is sawing wood.”

  I locked the door behind me, having the same uneasy feeling that I wasn’t alone, although not a single light was on at the neighboring homes and the night was as quiet as could be. I shrugged it off and climbed behind the wheel of my Toyota, while the smile on my face continued to bloom, fueled by the anticipation of the hunt and mumbling curses mixed with solemn promises to deliver justice for a dead cop and deliverance for two live ones.

  “I’ll get you this time, you bag o’ shite, cop-killing wanker.”

  29

  Roulette

  Roxanne climbed off the stage with a long sigh of relief; her shift was finally over. She’d had the hardest time keeping a smile on her lips the entire night and the appearance of dancing nonchalantly, while she was dying inside. She wanted to hide somewh
ere and cry bitter tears of jealousy, of betrayal, of the deepest grief she’d ever felt.

  She made her way quickly to the dressing room, and let another sigh escape her trembling lips when she saw the room was empty. Brandi was still working, and Crystal… She was gone.

  Roxanne threw her tips on the counter and sat in front of her vanity. She buried her face in her hands, letting the sobs she’d been stifling for hours finally come out. Her shoulders heaved with every shattered breath carrying cries that resounded and echoed in the empty room.

  “You lying, cheating bastard,” she shouted, lifting her eyes and looking at herself in the mirror as if she were the one responsible for her heartbreak. “You son of a bitch… I’ll make you pay,” she threatened, “if it’s the last thing I do on this earth.”

  As she spoke the words loaded with venom, her eyes dried under the flame of anger, of a pure, unfiltered desire for vengeance. She stared at her image for a minute and made her decision.

  Quickly, without hesitation, she wiped the stained makeup off her face, removing every last trace of her stage persona. She treated her skin with a high-end serum to enhance the smoothness of its appearance and started applying fresh makeup slowly, deliberately.

  Thinking.

  Planning.

  A smudged eyeliner contour later, she had to admit she was still rattled; she needed some time for herself before she could decide what to do with the two-bit piece of lying, cheating shit she’d fallen in love with. She corrected the smudge and reapplied eyeshadow discreetly, to enhance the color of her eyes and make her look sophisticated, wealthy, self-assured, like one of the high-limit gamblers she saw every night.

  That was who she wanted to be, if even for an hour.