I slurped down the dregs of melted gelato, momentarily considered buying a second cup—chocolate? lemon?—but then resisted the urge and headed back near the hotel lobby where the gift shop was and bought myself a black Bellagio baseball cap. It actually looked pretty damned good on me, if I do say so myself. The lobby was bustling. It was that time of day where masses of businesspeople were beginning to check in for all of the conventions and meetings that were beginning on Monday. At the moment the men all looked so prim and proper in their collared shirts, but I knew more than a few of them had saved room in their suitcases for an outfit appropriate to wear to a certain strip club.
I headed into the casino and avoided the main thoroughfare, just in case Aaron was up and about, and snaked my way back to the Sports Book which, like all sports books, was buried deep in the rear of the casino near the poker room. I think the casinos were trying to go for the man cave effect, creating huge and cavernous rooms with TVs the size of movie screens. By putting them in the back of the casino, they were subtly creating a space where men could act like apes without getting scolded for drinking too much beer and yelling at the television. The rear of the casino was the closest thing a hotel had to a ratty basement.
Aaron was still planted in his seat, although another man had joined him now. The man looked like he should be playing professional football, rather than watching it, with thick, broad shoulders stretching out a ratty T-shirt and a neck fit for a rhinoceros. His face was strangely delicate for his massive frame, with fine features and no facial hair. Aaron, now wearing reading glasses, was studying a notebook lying out on the table in front of him, going line by line with a metal pen. The hunk was nodding silently at whatever Aaron was saying.
I knew I couldn’t just stand where I was and watch them for God-knows-how-long. Given that it was an NFL Sunday, it was standing room only in the Sports Book, so I’d need to find another spot. That left me sitting at a slot machine with a view of the Sports Book. I couldn’t watch Aaron from that vantage point, but since there was only one way in and out, I’d be able to see him when he left.
It wasn’t long before boredom set in. It was by now a familiar feeling, a mixture of tedium and self-doubt that I experienced every time I staked anybody out. Wasn’t there a better way to make money? And anyway, I felt weird about it. I figured I was probably the first investor in history to give someone money to invest and then secretly stake him out. Was I getting too paranoid? Why couldn’t I just enjoy the money rolling in like any other sane person?
Needless to say, when the cocktail waitress stopped by, I pounced. The free wine at the Bellagio was the best in town, and when you’re bored, there’s nothing like free chardonnay. Luckily for me, she hadn’t noticed (or didn’t care) that I hadn’t been playing the machine at all, that instead I was just sitting there staring blankly out at the casino and questioning my metaphysical position in life. When my drink arrived, I tipped her three bucks, just to make sure she came back.
I don’t know exactly what time Aaron finally emerged from the Sports Book, but it was three and one-half glasses of chardonnay later. And, predictably, I had to pee at that exact moment. When I drink, it sometimes has a way of sneaking up on me, and then bam, it hits me. This was one of those moments. I hoped desperately that Aaron would have to stop and use the restroom, too, but it didn’t happen. His friend had disappeared.
His gait seemed normal to me, not the stumbly or hitched walk you’d expect from someone who’d been tippling tequila for three hours. I stayed about fifty yards behind him, hoping he’d lead me straight to his car. And then a sudden fear struck me. He wasn’t heading to the parking lot—he was heading towards the lobby. That meant either he was taking a cab or he wasn’t finished for the night and was heading out on the town somewhere. I wasn’t in the mood to tail him around Las Vegas, especially since, in addition to having to pee, I was getting ravenously hungry.
He made his way through the lobby, under the colorful Dale Chihuly glass sculpture, weaving through throngs of people waiting in line to check in. There was a dull hum of chatter echoing throughout the big room, with high-pitched notes from the nearby piano bar piercing the din every now and then. Aaron found his way toward the exit, with me lagging just a few dozen feet behind, knowing he had no reason to turn around. I didn’t want to lose him in all the hubbub.
I had half expected him to set out on foot up the long, colonnaded moving walkway that ferried tourists out to the Strip, but instead he made a beeline across the bustling taxi lane and stood on an island, turning his head left and right as though looking for a car. Crap, I realized, probably too late. He had hailed an Uber or Lyft car, which would be impossible to follow. Unless.
I turned to examine the taxi line, which had a half dozen people in it, all of them decked out in evening attire. I reached in my bag and found a twenty and discreetly approached the guy running the taxi stand. Like most guys in that line of work, he had a sixth sense that detected I had something palmed in my right hand, something with his name on it. He grabbed my hand delicately, making quick eye contact, and then removed the twenty with the deft movement of a magician secreting an ace of spades up his sleeve.
“Right this way, ma’am,” he murmured, escorting me to a spot next to the front of the line. Within seconds another cab pulled up, unloaded its passengers, and then the guy whisked me into the back seat with a wink. I heard a muffled protest from someone in line and then his perfect, well-worn explanation for the preferred treatment I had received: she’s late for a show, he explained. I smiled. There was always something seamy about flashing money, but then again, a favor in exchange for cold hard cash was one of the most honest interactions a person could ever expect to experience.
I looked out the window to see Aaron climb inside a black Nissan, his door held open by a dreadlocked guy who looked thoroughly and authentically Jamaican. I checked out my own driver in his mirror. She had a pale, sunken face, flabby cheeks and neck, but a kindly smile for me when our eyes met.
“Where we headed?” she asked.
“Um,” I hesitated. “See that black Nissan right there?”
“Oh lordy,” she sighed, “here we go.” The kindly smile had vanished.
“It’s nothing serious, I swear,” I said, trying to assuage her obvious disdain for what she knew I was about to propose. “I just need to know where that guy lives. That’s all.”
“Keep talking,” she said, putting the car in drive and inching out of the taxi lane. Her eyes were flicking back and forth between the road and her mirror. “Why do you need to know where he lives?”
“He was trying to pick me up,” I lied, “and he told me he lived in a big house. I gave him my number, so I want to see if he’s telling the truth before I go out with him.” All told, I think it was a pretty decent lie. Not as good as the taxi line guy’s lie but in the same league.
“Huh,” the driver grunted. “That’s a new one. But, whatever. It’s your fare.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“I just didn’t want to get myself into a dicey situation, you understand? I’ve heard stories. Believe me,” she said, pulling in behind Aaron’s car.
We were headed south on Las Vegas Boulevard and were waiting for the light to change on Tropicana Avenue. When the green arrow finally illuminated, we followed Aaron’s car through a left-hand turn and then trailed behind him as we passed the airport on our right. A few miles went by, and then Aaron’s car slowed. Without needing to be told, my driver slowed too, keeping our distance.
“They’re pulling into that strip mall,” she said.
“Let’s drive by slowly and then circle around,” I whispered.
She turned her head halfway back. “Why are you whispering?”
I chuckled. “Old habit, I guess.”
We watched the car pull up into the strip mall parking lot. My driver then drove another half block and did a U-turn. When we passed by the mall again, Aaron was standing next to a red BMW convertible
. He was talking on his cell phone, seemingly distracted, but then for some reason he turned and looked directly at our cab. Instinctively, I put a hand over my face and hoped that the baseball cap I was still wearing helped disguise me. We were a good hundred feet away, and the sun was going down, so I wasn’t too worried about being busted.
“You think he saw us?” the driver asked.
Apparently, she was more worried than I was. “Doubtful,” I said. “But still. Maybe we better call this off, right?”
She nodded. “Smart girl. A little advice? If you’re doubting this guy already, and you just met him, maybe he’s not the one for you.”
I was only half paying attention to her since I was fumbling around in my bag to find a pen. I kept repeating his license plate aloud. 834-ZVP, 834-ZVP, 834-ZVP. I whispered those numbers and letters over and over to myself until I finally found something to write with, and then I wrote it on my hand. Aaron’s license plate would be a good enough place to start. Plus, I knew he parked his car at a strip mall for some reason. That might prove useful too.
“All right, let’s call it off. You can take me back to the Strip.”
She nodded. “Back to Bellagio?” she asked.
“I’ll show you. I live pretty close,” I said.
We drove in silence as the sun began to set in the west. Finally, she cleared her throat.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “but…”
“But what?”
She smiled sheepishly. “That guy? You gave that guy your number?”
I slunk back in my seat. “Yeah, I know. I shouldn’t have.”
“He’s one ugly dude, and you’re so…let’s just say, you can do better than him. Even if he really does live in a big mansion or whatever.”
I smiled back at her in the mirror. “Thanks,” I said. “You’re probably right.”
CHAPTER SIX
834-ZVP. I had written it down on a notepad in my apartment, just in case the license plate number washed off my hand before I had a chance to check it out. It was a good thing, too, since I had gone through my normal bedtime routine without giving my hand a second thought. All that was left on Monday morning was an inky, blue smudge on my left palm.
I was sitting in my office turning the little piece of paper over and over in my hands, mad at myself for coming in so early. Mike, the full-fledged private investigator I shared an office with, never showed up until ten. He was the one who could access the State of Nevada’s online driver’s license information, and he was late.
I looked at the office around me. It was starting to come together, I grudgingly admitted. After having a hissy fit about it, Mike had finally agreed to split the cost of some new furniture with me, and we had sprung for a guy to come and put lettering on the clear glass door. Now it said Michael Madsen, Private Investigator. Raven McShane, Private Investigator. I’d voted to have it read Michael Madsen/Raven McShane, Private Investigators, but Mike had vetoed that idea on the grounds that customers might mistakenly think we were a team. Heaven forbid. For him, I imagined, I was just a nuisance, a rookie PI who the state said needed his supervision for my first year in practice. The office-sharing business was simple economics and nothing more. For my part I had entertained more aggressive plans for the two of us, but he had proved either inept or uninterested in the romantic arts. Except for that one time I managed to get him a little drunk.
A rattle at the door told me he was finally here.
“That you, Mike? I need a favor,” I said.
“What, no ‘good morning’ or ‘how was your weekend?’” he asked, pretending to be offended. “Right down to business for the famous detective, eh?” He was looking dashing in a gray sport coat with a black tie.
“We both know you’re not much for small talk, so I figured I was doing you a favor,” I said, looking up at his six-foot-two figure from my chair. He liked to make fun of my so-called fame, which had only amounted to a few news stories and a profile in an online magazine. I figured it was his way of dealing with any professional jealousy resulting from the fact that usually I had more decent PI work than he did.
“And now I get to return that favor by…?” He was folding his arms across his chest, wary as ever.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I just need to run a license plate.”
“Oh, that’s easy enough,” he said, noticeably relieved. “I was worried you wanted me to spring for new carpeting or something. Maybe buy an aquarium?”
“Not a bad idea, actually,” I said. “I’ve always liked fish. And since it’s in the office, we could write it off as a business expense, right?”
Ever the tightwad, he was shaking his head at me. “Give me a minute, and I’ll fire up my computer.”
I gave him half that time and then joined him in his office, which was devoid of all ornamentation. No photos, trinkets, stacks of paper, or posters with annoyingly cheerful sayings. Not even a calendar.
“You ever going to put anything in here besides the desk and the computer? It’s downright depressing,” I muttered.
“Baby steps, Raven,” he said, his eyes remaining locked on the computer screen.
He clicked onto his browser’s favorites bar and then found the site he needed. Before granting access, the state’s database required him to click I Agree to a bunch of legal mumbo jumbo.
“You swear this is for a legitimate investigative purpose?” he asked.
I thought about it for a second. It was a tough question because I wasn’t actually working any kind of official investigation. I was just snooping on a guy I’d given money to. But I knew I wasn’t going to get the information if Mike didn’t click on the I Agree button, so I nodded at him to proceed.
I handed him the license number, and he punched it into the database.
“Okay, here we go,” he said to himself. “Car’s registered to Esther Vandenhoovel of 2947 Palisade Parkway in Henderson.”
I’m sure I had a big old frown on my face because Mike was grinning. “Not your girl, huh?”
I looked at him, wondering if he was actually happy that I’d hit a stone wall or whether he was just acting the part.
“No, that’s definitely not my girl. I was looking for a guy named Aaron, actually,” I explained.
“What’s the gag?” he asked. “Cheating on his wife? Pocketing the boss’s money?”
I shrugged and moved over to his window, which had a decent view of the Las Vegas downtown district.
“Actually, it’s not really a case, just something I’m working for myself. I guess I’m a little paranoid,” I said.
Now it was Mike’s turn to frown. “But we just accessed the state database on the grounds that this was a legit investigation,” he scolded. “It’s not for personal stuff. They could revoke my license if they—”
“They won’t find out,” I said. “How would anyone ever know? Plus, it is an investigation. I think the guy might be a fraud.”
Now that I had his attention, I took the occasion to explain my little investment ring and Aaron’s outsized role in it. Mike had stood up and was pacing around our lobby, listening to me try to rationalize investing ten thousand dollars with a complete stranger.
“Well, now it’s only eight grand,” I said, trying to answer his questioning looks.
“What do you mean?”
“He paid me two grand of the profits already,” I explained. “So if he up and disappears, I’m only out the eight.”
He was shaking his head again, not buying it. “I don’t know anything about oil and gas exploration, or whatever you said it is. But why would they rely on someone like you to fund the whole thing? I mean, no offense, but people like you and me don’t usually get first dibs on amazing investments like this.”
I cringed. Mike didn’t know the half of it. Despite being a private investigator, Mike was one of the few people in the entire state who apparently hadn’t seen my nearly nude body plastered around Las Vegas. Five years ago I was everywhere—billboards, glossy adve
rtising magazines, and even the sides of big trucks that did nothing but drive up and down the Strip all day to lure customers to my club. But Mike, being Mike, had never looked up at those billboards, and I hadn’t seen the need to tell him about my night job where I made most of my money. I wasn’t about to do it now, especially since he had already adopted a judgmental tone about my choice of investments.
“It was through a friend,” I said, vaguely. “And she vouched for the guy.”
“And now you’re having second thoughts,” he said, stating the obvious. “Did he give you any reason to doubt him? I mean, apart from the fact that the whole thing is ridiculously shady,” he added, laughing at his own joke.
“Actually, no,” I murmured. “Everybody’s getting paid. Everybody’s happy. Like I said, maybe I’m just a little paranoid.”
Mike scratched absentmindedly at his clean-shaven face. “Well, it makes sense to be paranoid under the circumstances. One time I got involved with a gang who was promising twenty-five percent returns every month. They claimed to have a system for learning the winners of horse races before everyone else did, and so they needed lots of cash to make big bets.”
I sniffed. “Um, that makes no sense. They simulcast those horse races, don’t they?”
He smiled. “Of course. But if you’re greedy and your friends are making lots of money, you don’t ask too many questions. It took off like wildfire here because so many people are into the action, of course.”
I stewed for a minute, the little voice inside me saying that our concerns were real. Especially the “why me?” question. Why would little people like me and the other dancers be given such a golden, no-brainer opportunity to make money? These kinds of things were usually reserved for Wall Street fat cats and Arkansas politicians.
“Well, I can lose eight thousand, and it won’t kill me,” I muttered.
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