“But what if—”
“Then I’d have taken his head and drowned him in his own toilet. Is that what you want me to say?” Carlos seemed amused.
I shrugged. “I was just wondering. And what are all those papers?” I asked, finally noticing that Carlos was carrying a handful of hundreds of papers in his left hand.
He smiled. “I figured, as long as we were there, we might as well get some evidence.”
“You what?”
We made it to his car. I was still sucking wind from our escape, but he wasn’t. We climbed in, and he put the papers on his back seat. “I just figured we could examine all these papers more carefully in the safety of your apartment.”
I issued a knowing chuckle. “I get it. Maybe a bottle of something, some romantic music on the radio?”
He spread his hands apart innocently. “Raven, you know I’m nothing but a consummate professional.”
I snorted. “A professional horndog, maybe.” He revved up the engine, and we made our way out of the neighborhood.
We drove in silence for a few minutes, and then he cleared his throat. “You noticed the car, I assume?”
I nodded. “Yes, there was a car in the driveway, now that you mention it.”
He let out a low-pitched chuckle. “Yes, but did you notice which car it was?”
“A red BMW, of course,” I said with false confidence. The truth was, I was so preoccupied with getting the hell out of there that I hadn’t noticed any cars in the driveway, much less a make or model.
“Huh,” he said, mildly disappointed. That meant I was right. “Our friend gets around. You think he lives there?”
“I don’t know. It doesn’t look like anyone lives there, really.”
“Well, men are different. If there’s a fridge and a couch, you can pretty much live anywhere. Although I didn’t see a TV in there. Did you?” he asked.
“No, but we didn’t pay much attention to the other rooms. There was a bedroom on the other side of the kitchen. And another bathroom? I forget,” I said, drifting off. I was staring out the window at the increasingly scuzzy neighborhood we’d entered on our way back to the Strip. Boarded up buildings, gas stations, payday loan stores, and refuse blowing across expansive street corners and bus stops. Most of the town had been in a long-term boom, apart from the recession of 2008-2009, for twenty-five years, but some parts had been left behind, apparently.
“Let’s go to my office,” I blurted out. I had been distracted, struggling with the aftermath of our narrow heart-pounding escape, and the distraction was fueled by a nagging sense that it wasn’t a good idea for Carlos to come to my apartment. I was vulnerable and needy, and I knew he would be hard to resist. My office was a much more sterile environment, a place where I could be trusted.
Carlos turned and made a face. “I thought you said we’d have some romantic music and a bottle of something. It makes the work much easier.”
I shot him a look that said no way which drew a pout from him. Unfortunately he looked adorable when he pouted, like a puppy who’d been startled by a butterfly. We drove in silence downtown, fighting the last remnants of rush hour traffic. At that hour parking was a snap, so he pulled into a spot outside my building, and we headed up the stairs. A light was on inside. Strange.
The mystery was revealed almost immediately when Mike peered out from around the corner to see who his unexpected visitors were. He was eyeing Carlos curiously, his gaze not entirely friendly or welcoming.
“Hi Mike,” I said. “You know Carlos, right?”
He came into the lobby and clasped his hands behind his back. “Not exactly,” he said. “I think you’ve mentioned him before.” He flashed a thin smile at Carlos who returned it with a toothy smirk. Men. What was going through their minds?
“Late night for you,” Mike observed, no doubt a reference to the fact that I seldom worked past four or five, mostly on account of my firm view that a proper cocktail hour should always be observed. Being a mostly observant Mormon, Mike had no such hang-ups.
“We just snuck out of a house, and Mister Grabby Hands here couldn’t help taking some paperwork with him, so we’re going to pore over this stuff. You want to help?” I asked.
Mike folded his arms across his chest, a classic defensive move. “What kind of papers?” he asked skeptically.
“Remember that scam I told you about?” I asked.
He nodded, a slight smile creeping across his face. “So you’ve lost your money after all, huh?”
I frowned at him, annoyed that he seemed to be taking some kind of pleasure in my bad fortune. “No, actually. Well, not yet, I should say. But an acquaintance of mine has died, or at least disappeared, under unusual circumstances, and she was in this thing, too. So we’re trying to unravel it before it gets any bigger.”
“Or more dangerous,” he added unnecessarily. Mike then unfolded his arms and reached his hand out to me. “Sure, I’ll take a look. What am I looking for?”
Carlos and I made eye contact, and I nodded an OK at him. He laid out a few of the handwritten sheets of paper on the lobby desk and began explaining what the numbers meant.
“Eventually they moved to computerized records,” I explained.
“So they got bigger than they expected, maybe?” Mike surmised.
“That’s my guess, too,” I said. “They started out very casual, keeping track of things with a few scribbles on some loose paper, and then the thing got so big that they needed to start keeping better records.”
Mike helped himself to a handful of paperwork while Carlos and I kept the rest. The three of us found seats in the lobby and spread out. A few minutes in, Mike held one of them up.
“This one’s different,” he announced. I leaned over to have a look, and Carlos got up and joined us.
“It’s a balance sheet,” Carlos said. He seemed to be getting excited. “This isn’t for any individual investor. Look here,” he said, pointing at a column on the left, “this shows all the deposits they’re getting, and over here is the running balance. Like a checkbook.”
I couldn’t help noticing the entry on the bottom right of the page. “Seven million, four hundred thousand, nine hundred and twenty-eight dollars,” I read.
“And six cents,” Mike chimed in.
Carlos seized the paper and studied it.
“What’s the date on that thing?” I asked.
“Two weeks ago,” he said.
Mike whistled. “That’s a pretty nice scam, I have to admit. Seven million. Any idea how many people are involved? It’s gotta be hundreds.”
Carlos and I nodded in unison. Carlos was still poring over the page, so I grabbed another handful of papers. And then I found a page that looked very similar to the balance sheet.
“Here’s another one,” I said. “It’s from just last week.”
Carlos came over and looked. “Woah,” he said. “Check out the end balance.”
It was just under eight thousand dollars. “You mean they went from seven million to eight grand in a single week?” I asked.
“Look here,” Mike said. “There’s a massive withdrawal right here,” he said, pointing. He pondered for a minute. “That was just last Thursday, I think.”
“Wow,” I whispered. “I wonder what his plan is.” I began pacing around the room and fidgeting with the pen in my right hand. This wasn’t the picture I’d expected. Based on the recent expansion of their recruitment efforts, I had basically assumed that things were going badly and that the scheme was in its last death throes. But from the looks of it, the opposite was true. They had kept the money, and maybe even invested it wisely, and now Aaron had withdrawn it all.
“Have you seen this guy lately?” Mike asked. “Maybe he’s planning to skip town. Just take the money and leave. Seven million goes a long way.”
Carlos nodded. “And if he had anything to do with a murder, it would be very tempting to get the hell out of here.”
My mind was swimming with the possibilities.
/> “Or he could actually be sending the money to our investment in Kazakhstan,” I said hopefully.
Mike and Carlos looked at each other and grinned. “Yes, I’m sure that’s it,” Carlos said. There was sarcasm dripping down his mouth.
I sighed. “Does it say where he made the withdrawal?” I asked.
“Nope,” Carlos said. “This is an internal balance sheet that they kept themselves, not a bank statement. So it tells us how much money they had coming and going but not where the money actually was.”
“Our timing sucks,” I muttered. “I mean, if he took all that money out a few days ago, then he’s probably long gone by now.”
“If we get the feds involved, they could run a trace,” Mike suggested.
“The trouble is, I still don’t even know the guy’s real name!” I announced in frustration. “This has all been smoke and mirrors.”
Carlos piped in. “Well, who was the guy at the house tonight? He’s connected to this in some way. You have to believe, right?”
Carlos had a good point. There was still someone in the country we could connect to Aaron, or whatever his real name was. And then another idea struck me.
“What about Mrs. Vandenhoovel?” I blurted out.
Carlos and Mike looked at each other, confused. “Who?” Mike asked.
“It’s her house,” I explained. “And that red BMW is her car. Or at least it’s registered to her.”
“That’s right,” Mike said.
“Mike, you can’t register a car to a ghost, can you?” I asked.
He thought for a minute. “No, those state databases are all connected these days. It has to be a living person.”
“So what are we waiting for?” I asked.
Both of them were still hesitant. “What exactly would that accomplish?” Carlos finally asked.
“Hell if I know,” I responded. “But we’ve got to start somewhere.”
They were both skeptical. “How are we going to find her?” Carlos asked.
Mike was pensive, as though the glimmer of an idea had begun forming in his brain.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Well, let’s start with what you have, which is her drivers’ license information, right?” he said. “From that, who knows where it will lead?”
I went into my office, and the two of them followed. I fired up my computer and logged into the state driver ID database as Mike had shown me. He leaned in and typed the password and then without hesitation clicked the box that swore we were engaged in a bona fide investigation.
I pulled up the file on Esther Vandenhoovel. “Date of birth 7-19-30,” Carlos whispered. “So she’s either very old or very dead.”
“Google the obits,” Mike said.
“With a name like Esther Vandenhoovel, you can’t expect very much,” I said, misspelling her last name three times before I typed it correctly.
Mike and Carlos were both leaning over me, staring at the screen. I allowed myself to enjoy the sensation of having two attractive men in such close proximity.
“No hits,” Carlos muttered.
“Which probably means she’s alive,” I said hopefully. “Unless she had no obituary at all.”
“We can check the death records at the county easily enough,” Mike said.
As nice as it was to have Carlos along for muscle, it was even nicer to have a real detective helping us out.
“They’re not open now, I assume,” I said, eyeing the clock. It was approaching seven.
“Technically, no,” Mike said cryptically. And then he disappeared into his office. Carlos and I looked at each other, shrugged, and followed behind him.
He already had the phone in his hand, and soon found himself talking to someone. When he hung up, he wore a satisfied expression on his face.
“No one with that name has been at the county morgue. Ever,” he announced.
“That was fast,” Carlos said.
“Computers,” Mike retorted.
“So,” I began, “if she’s alive, where would she be?”
“We should check other Vandenhoovels in the area. Probably relatives of some kind. They might know,” Mike said.
I caught a glimpse of Carlos out of my eye. Nothing Mike had said so far was exactly rocket science, but it was clear that he knew what he was doing. Carlos seemed a touch impressed, something I had not considered possible.
Mike began typing on his computer and then hit the Print key. He got up and handed us each a piece of paper.
“I’ll take the first five, Raven can do the next, and…” he paused.
“Carlos,” I supplied, sensing that Mike had forgotten his name already.
“I was getting there,” Mike said, annoyed that I’d jumped in so quickly. “Carlos, you can do the bottom few names there.”
“What’s our gag?” I asked.
“Huh?” Mike asked.
“I mean who are we, and why are we calling? Strangers don’t usually just tell you things on the phone like where granny is stashed.”
He smiled. “Okay. So we’re calling from the Palms Casino and wondering why granny hasn’t played our slots in a while. We have some comps to entice her back.”
I looked at Carlos who shrugged.
“Chances are she gambles. It’s worth a shot,” I said.
We split up, with Carlos going into the lobby to use the phone there. I returned to my shabby excuse of an office.
The first call was a no-answer. No answering machine or voicemail, either. Second call went straight to voicemail, so I gave a little spiel about how I was a VIP hostess and wanted to locate Mrs. Vandenhoovel. It wasn’t my best effort, but it wasn’t bad for a first try. I probably should have rehearsed it, though.
The third call produced a male voice that turned out to be a pinnacle of skepticism. “Why are you asking again?” he asked, sounding thoroughly annoyed.
It was a good start, I realized. If he had no idea whom I was talking about, he’d just hang up. Pushing back meant he might actually know something. I explained that I worked for the Palms and wanted to find Esther to offer her some juicy comps. After fifteen years of living in Las Vegas, I could speak like a local.
“I don’t know if she plays anymore,” he finally conceded. “You can ask her yourself at the home.”
“The home?” I asked, hoping he wouldn’t wriggle off the hook.
My question was met with silence while he debated whether to hang up on me or not.
“I’m sorry,” I broke in. “Is Esther your mother or your aunt?”
“Your number doesn’t check out,” he finally said. “My caller ID shows that you’re calling from a private number,” he said, his voice full of challenge.
“Yes, of course it does. We’re independent contractors,” I lied, pulling that one out of you-know-where.
He wasn’t buying it. “Anyway, good night,” he said, and then the line went dead.
Just then Carlos darkened my doorstep. “No luck,” he reported, not sounding the least bit upset.
I smiled. “I got something at least. A relative who mentioned she lived in a home of some kind. How many nursing homes do you think there are in this town?”
He rolled his eyes. “A hundred? How should I know?”
He stood there while I tried the remaining two numbers. No answers on either, but I left the same innocuous voicemail message and hoped for a callback. I stood up and prodded Carlos to get out of the doorway.
We went back to Mike’s office and found him chatting politely with someone on the other end of the line. He shook his head at us, as if to tell us not to get our hopes up. Eventually he hung up and sighed.
“Nothing there, I’m afraid. Just a chatty woman who wanted to talk,” he said. “You guys have any luck?”
I nodded. “A little. I caught a relative of hers who mentioned she’s in a home of some kind. But he wouldn’t say where or which one.”
Mike chuckled and then stared up at the ceiling. “So a needle in a h
aystack?”
I shook my head. “Not necessarily. If she’s in town, it shouldn’t be too hard to track her down.”
“If she’s in town,” Carlos intoned.
I crossed my arms in front of me. “Fine,” I said. “If you guys are quitters, I’ll just have to do it myself.”
“Sounds good to me,” Carlos said, not taking the bait.
Mike stood up. “Sounds wonderful to me,” he said, grinning. The two of them exchanged fist bumps.
“You guys suck,” I muttered, turning to return to my office.
I sat there pouting at my desk for a few minutes, and then when it was clear that they were just shooting the breeze in the lobby and weren’t going to help me, I began searching the internet for local nursing homes.
It turns out there’s no such thing as a “nursing home” anymore. There are assisted living centers, senior life residences, senior care facilities, senior communities, and any number of senior living facilities that have in common an aversion to using the word nursing in their names. I scribbled down a list of likely candidates, cringing as the list reached ten and then grumbling as the list hit twenty. I looked around in vain for scissors, and then I folded the list in thirds and tore it, trying to produce a clean tear along the folded lines. It didn’t work exactly as I’d planned, but it was good enough.
I found Carlos and Mike lounging in the lobby, each one glued to his smartphone. “Here,” I said, handing each one a torn piece of paper. “You guys call up these places, and see if Mrs. Vanden-whatever lives there.”
“Vandenhoovel,” Carlos supplied helpfully.
“Thanks,” I mouthed. “Now get off your lazy butt, and get to work.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“I found her!” Carlos announced in a voice loud enough to alert the entire building and possibly all of downtown Las Vegas.
Mike and I joined him in our office lobby. “Where the hell is she?” I asked.
Carlos had propped his feet up on my shabby desk and was grinning from ear to ear as though he’d found the Lindbergh baby. “She lives at this one,” he said, pointing to the third entry on his little slip of paper.
“Green Valley Senior Residences,” I read aloud. “Let’s find where that is. I think Mrs. Vanden—”
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