My cellphone buzzed. It was an unfamiliar number.
“Hello?”
I thought I heard panting. Oh God, some creep from Cougar’s had found my number somehow. But then it was a voice. A woman’s voice. “Raven?”
“Yes?” More heavy breathing.
“I’m sorry. It’s just—” she cut herself off. “I thought of you immediately and had to call you.”
I was growing impatient. “Who is this?” I demanded.
“This is Kayla. Raven, Miranda’s dead.”
“Dead? How?”
Carlos had stiffened at the word dead. I made eye contact with Carlos across the table.
“We don’t know yet, but everyone’s talking about it here. I just got in to work, and Brianna told me. They were best friends.”
Brianna. Was she the brunette who sometimes wore pigtails or the one who always wore pink yoga pants? They were all so young, and I never talked to them. I realized it didn’t matter.
“Was she, you know, using drugs or anything like that?”
There was a pause. “Nothing out of the ordinary,” Kayla said vaguely, hinting at the kind of minor recreational drug use that wasn’t uncommon among performers.
“And how do you know she’s actually dead?” I asked.
“That was the sense we got from the police. They said there was a video or something showing a body being removed from her apartment.”
“Where does she live?” I asked. There was something about this news that was setting off alarm bells. I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep that night if I didn’t get to the bottom of it.
“She’s in one of those time-share condos by the MGM,” Kayla said.
“Can you text me her address?”
Another pause. “Yeah, no problem. You’re going to go over there?” Kayla sounded hopeful.
“Sometimes I can’t help myself,” I said.
“I was kind of hoping you’d get to the bottom of it. Nobody knows anything,” she said.
“Just get me her address, and I’ll see if I can find anything.”
I hung up and looked at Carlos who was fixing me with a curious look. “Who died?”
“Miranda. You know her?”
His eyes got big. “Yeah, of course. She’s been dancing more than a year. What happened?”
“No idea. Kayla sounded nervous, though. I mean, she called me. Which means…” I trailed off.
Carlos anticipated my thought. “I’m guessing they were the ones who got you into this whole scam?”
“Yup,” I admitted.
“And now she’s calling you.”
“Yup.”
“So she thinks—”
“Yup,” I said, cutting him off. “She must think it’s related to our investment in some way.”
“Damn,” he said. Damn was right. In fact, it was the understatement of the week.
Our food arrived. Even though I was distracted and shouldn’t have been in the mood to eat, the part of my brain that senses hunger took over and decided that I would gorge on the Reuben sandwich in front of me. Carlos was digging into his salad, too, equally uninhibited and unmoved by the news of Miranda’s death.
“No sense trying to solve a murder on an empty stomach,” I muttered, my mouth half full, in an effort to make myself feel better.
He smiled. “You don’t need to rationalize it to me,” he said, reading my mind. “She’s already dead. She’s not gonna get any deader.”
“You have a real way with words,” I said, grimly finishing my sandwich and dipping the remaining crusts in the secret sauce. My phone buzzed with a text from Kayla containing Miranda’s address.
With my hunger assuaged, I was impatient to get going. Carlos was still eating his salad.
“You coming with?” I asked, knowing the answer.
He smiled, victorious. “I thought you’d never ask.”
CHAPTER NINE
“I wasn’t planning on investigating a death today,” Carlos said, with his typical knack for stating the obvious. We’d gone snooping in an old lady’s house—a seemingly innocuous undertaking—only to wind up on the thirty-eighth floor of a luxury high-rise near the Strip where a woman had been killed. It was a building occupied by a mix of hotel suites, condos, and time-share apartments. Somewhere down below, it was connected to the MGM Grand through a series of tunnels and walkways, but it felt a world away from the Strip.
The scene in the hallway was grim. An officer was interviewing a young woman who lived, or was staying, in room 3834, which was two doors down from Miranda’s place. When we tried to pass, he turned his attention away from her and towards us.
“Crime scene,” he said matter-of-factly.
“She was a friend,” I tried.
He shrugged, unmoved. “Sorry, miss. We’re going to be in possession of the apartment for a few days.”
“Is there someone I could talk to?” I asked, trying not to sound annoyed.
He grimaced and then eyed Carlos suspiciously. “The detective is still in there, I think. But make sure you knock first. Got it?”
“Okay, thanks.”
Carlos and I made our way past them down the hall. A roll of police tape was lying on the floor of the apartment, but the door was open. A crime technician was on her hands and knees examining something on the carpet. She seemed not to notice us.
Carlos knocked loudly.
The woman looked up, surprised. “Crime scene,” she said, parroting her cop friend.
“I’m looking for the detective,” I said.
She looked at me searchingly, as though no one had ever made such a request before.
“Jim!” she shouted. “People to see you.” She gave us a fake smile. “Wait here, please.”
I tried to see it from their perspective. They were trying to do their jobs, and we were a couple of nosey interlopers getting in their way.
In a minute a rail-thin man with balding white hair emerged from around the corner. He was staring down at a notebook, oblivious to everyone else.
“What was that?” he asked.
She looked at him and then nodded her head at us without comment.
“Ah,” he said. “Family?”
“Kind of,” I lied. “We’re very close. Nobody knows what happened. Only that—”
He cut me off. “This is an ongoing investigation. We’re not going to release anything yet.”
“But, I mean, even the basics. Was she murdered, or was it an accident?” Carlos asked.
The detective sighed. “I’m trying not to be rude, but like I said, we’re not releasing anything yet. When we know for sure, we will.”
This was like pounding your head into a brick wall. I secretly wondered if I would have gotten farther if I’d left Carlos behind. Men, and especially cops, sometimes had a weakness for brazen flirtations, but that wasn’t going to work with Mr. Twenty-Inch Biceps by my side.
“I just need to tell the girls something,” I pleaded. “They were already told about the video,” I said. “We drove all the way over here because everyone’s so concerned.”
At this, he frowned. “That was a mistake,” he said. “And what girls are you talking about?” he asked.
I realized my gaffe too late. But I figured if I came clean, he might be more interested. The kinds of questions he might ask could reveal something about his mysterious investigation.
“We’re strippers,” I announced. “Or were. Miranda was very popular, one of the top girls at Cougar’s.”
The woman on the floor stopped in her tracks, obviously eavesdropping on our conversation. The detective scratched at the grayish white stubble beneath his chin.
“I see,” he said. His tone of voice made me wonder if he had already known that and was trying to conceal that fact or whether Miranda’s profession was actually news to him.
“Does that surprise you?” I asked, not expecting an answer.
He paused for a minute, as though turning it over in his mind. “According to her apa
rtment contract, she was in sales. Something about marketing magazines and pamphlets.”
Now we were getting somewhere. “Nope,” I said. “She made about ten times more money wiggling around with her clothes off than she’d make in marketing.”
At this, the detective exchanged glances with Carlos, apparently looking for corroboration.
“And you are?” he asked, holding his gaze on Carlos.
“I’m a bouncer at the club. Also a friend,” he added.
“Hmm,” he said, apparently satisfied. I sensed that he now viewed us as useful individuals rather than as meddling nitwits. The revelation that she was a stripper was a big deal, I guessed.
“There was one more thing,” I said vaguely.
“And that is?” he asked, sighing.
“We were investors together. We put our money into something that maybe we shouldn’t have invested in,” I explained.
The detective cocked his head and crossed one leg in front of the other. “You are being vague on purpose?”
“I wasn’t sure if you were interested. If you are, I could tell you all about it.”
The woman on the ground made eye contact with the detective. He looked back toward us and pointed to the kitchen. We followed him in and sat down at the table at his invitation, after which he introduced himself as Detective Art Dwyer.
“My notebook is open,” he said. “Start with your name and contact information.”
I began slowly, telling him about how much cash I expected Miranda had made, which I estimated from my own experience. Then I told him about the fancy bags which had caused me to get interested. He hadn’t written anything down yet, so I fast-forwarded to my meeting with Aaron and his explanation that we were investing much needed American currency in the Russian oil fields. His pen began dancing.
“And Aaron’s last name?” he asked softly.
“Um, I don’t really know,” I said. I proceeded to explain how I’d been suspicious and had even snooped around a little bit but had been unable to find much information on Aaron.
“You sound pretty paranoid,” he muttered, but his tone had warmed up. I was sensing that what might have been just a run-of-the-mill murder investigation had now become interesting for him. At his age, which I pegged at about sixty, I figured he wasn’t working for a paycheck anymore. He could have retired with full pension. No, this guy was working to solve difficult crimes.
“I should probably mention that I’m a PI,” I announced, trying to sound casual about it.
He put his pen down and directed his steely blue eyes across the table at me. Then he looked at Carlos.
“Is she putting me on?” he asked.
Carlos shook his head. “She’s been in the paper. Remember the Cody Masterson case? She proved him innocent and got the wife to confess.”
The detective turned his gaze back to me and studied my face. “Sorry. Never heard of you. You must have worked with Phelan, though, right?”
I nodded. “Sean and I had a few drinks during that case,” I said, referring to Detective Sean Phelan, LVPD, a hard-drinking, sad sack of a man with a good heart.
“Okay, so you’re skeptical, you’re a damned PI, and you’re apparently not an idiot. But you invested anyway?” he asked.
Carlos stiffened. “It’s not crazy,” he said, rushing to my defense. “Even if it’s a scam, you can make money in these things.”
Detective Dwyer looked down and picked up his pen, which he began twirling around his finger. “And how exactly would you make money if it’s a scam?” he asked.
Carlos shrugged. “A lot of these things can go on for years. Look at Bernie Madoff. Imagine if you put a hundred grand in there in the eighties and then took it out in 2006 or something. You’d be a millionaire a dozen times over.”
“I suppose,” the detective said, losing interest. He returned his eyes to me. “But that’s not what was going through your mind when you invested, I assume.”
“Of course not,” I said. “It’s embarrassing, but I just wanted to make money like everybody else. I didn’t see the harm. And I could afford to lose it if it came to that.”
Detective Dwyer nodded as he scribbled down a few notes. “Tell me about Miranda then,” he said softly.
I leaned back in my chair. “Honestly, I didn’t know her well. She was, you know, a lot younger. I’m guessing twenty-three, twenty-four?”
“Twenty,” he corrected.
“Wow,” I muttered. “You know how it is. Each generation these days is like two generations away. The technology, the shows they watch, the music. It’s all so different that I feel like a dinosaur when I’m working.”
He flashed me a half grin. “How do you think I feel?” he asked. “I’ve got officers who could be my grandkids.”
I chuckled. “Anyway, I know Miranda’s friend Kayla a little better because our lockers are near each other. I noticed they were both bringing these amazing purses to work, you know, bags that cost thousands of dollars. It was eating at me for some reason, so I asked about them. And they got me connected with this investment group.”
“They?” he asked. “Which one exactly?”
“Well, since I knew Kayla, I dealt with her. But Miranda seemed to be a little more involved, now that I think about it.”
“Were they recruiting you, you know, trying to get you to invest a lot of money?” he asked.
“Not exactly,” I said. “It was my idea to ask about the handbags. Actually, they seemed reluctant to let me invest with them. I don’t know. Maybe they looked me up and found out I was a PI. But I got the sense they were doing me a favor, that they didn’t particularly need my money.”
Carlos sniffed. “Classic,” he said. He exchanged a knowing look with Detective Dwyer.
“Classic?” I asked.
Carlos leaned back and adopted his annoying professorial pose. “It’s all to make you comfortable. They will bend over backwards to make it seem like they don’t need your money. They’re doing you a favor, like you said. You’ll never suspect something’s up if they’re not hitting you up for your money. The idea is to get you to come to them with the money.”
Dwyer leaned across the table. “They let human nature do its job. It’s as predictable as gravity or the tides. I’m not saying it is or it isn’t a scam, of course. But I’d give you even money it is.”
I sighed.
“They flash these fancy purses around,” he said. “Then they casually mention how they’re making so much money. They don’t have to beg for the money because nine out of ten people are going to open up their pocketbooks to get into that. Easy money is impossible to resist. It’s simply human nature.”
Carlos was smiling, as though impressed with the whole scheme. “Convinced yet?” he asked.
I shrugged. “Probably. But convincing me I’m an investing idiot doesn’t help the detective here solve a murder.”
Dwyer stiffened. “Murder?”
“Well, I just assumed. I mean, you’re a homicide detective and all,” I said. “It seemed a reasonable guess.”
“I’ll let you know what I can when I can,” he said. “For now, let’s call it a missing persons investigation. But I digress. You were perfectly correct when you said that this investing business does not necessarily explain anything about her death, er, or disappearance,” he said, correcting himself.
I nodded. “I don’t know what else to tell you, except that when someone’s involved in criminal activity and then winds up dead, there’s usually a connection.”
At this, Carlos looked down and snorted. He appeared to be stifling a smirk. I elbowed him sharply in the ribs. “What?” I hissed.
I looked up at the detective, who was fixing us with a bemused expression.
Carlos finally looked up and grinned. “You don’t think he knows that, Raven? You don’t have to tell a homicide cop that there might be some sort of connection between criminal activity and her death.”
“I suppose,” I said, relenting.
It was just a stray comment, so I didn’t know what the big deal was. “Is there anything else I can help with?” I asked Dwyer.
He stared down at his notes and pursed his lips. “I don’t think so, no. I’ll definitely keep in touch, though, if it’s all right with you.”
“Absolutely,” I said, following Dwyer’s cue to stand up. “Let me know what you find out, and I’ll do the same.”
We parted ways, receiving a curious glance from the crime technician who was still crawling around on the floor on her hands and knees. I couldn’t help but notice a large bloodstain on the carpet near the kitchen.
“That was weird,” Carlos said. He pressed the down button on the elevator.
I nodded. “Just a minute,” I said, reaching into my purse. My cell phone was buzzing angrily at me. It was Alex, my CEO friend. I hadn’t seen him in a week, and I had begun getting nervous. He’d been one of my best clients at the club for years, but we’d only started seeing each other after his wife filed for divorce a few months earlier.
I held up a finger to Carlos who looked annoyed.
“Who was that?” he asked when I’d hung up.
I smiled. “None of your business.”
“C’mon,” he insisted, unable to hide his curiosity, which I knew was tinged with a healthy dose of jealousy. He couldn’t help overhearing the part about how I was having a late dinner with the person on the other end of the line.
“I’ll tell you, but you won’t like it,” I said, gesturing to the elevator. “Let’s go.”
We got in, and he was staring at me with a new intensity, his dark eyes burning a hole in me. Carlos and I had never exactly dated, but nevertheless he was the possessive type. This wasn’t going to be pretty.
“So?” he asked. “It was that old guy, wasn’t it?” He couldn’t resist needling me about Alex’s age. What he neglected to mention was that Alex was darkly handsome, with black hair tinged with gray, and had the body of a thirty-year-old, despite being in his forties. Oh, and he was rich, the founding president of a regional bank. Not that that mattered.
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