What Happens in Vegas

by Halliday, Gemma

  “You don’t really have a dog, do you?” I said.

  “What an odd thing to say.”

  “Only odd if it’s not true.”

  She studied me a moment longer. “It’s motion-activated. A security measure installed by my paranoid husband—God rest his soul—a few years ago. It drives me ape shit. How did you know?”

  “Because it was driving me ape shit, too.”

  She smiled. Ah, camaraderie. She was quite a beautiful woman, actually. About twenty years my junior. Her long, slender nose was red. Her cheeks were red. Everything on her face was red and swollen and puffy. Days of crying. Actually, she looked a little like me after days of drinking.

  Still, she wasn’t impressed enough to let me in. “Clarke said you find missing children,” she said.

  “I do my best,” I said.

  “Even adult missing children?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Even adult missing children.”

  “Do you have any of your own?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you know,” she said. “Or, you can imagine....” her voice trailed off.

  “Yes,” I said. “I can imagine the hell you are going through.”

  “Will you help me find my daughter, Mr. King?”

  “I will do everything in my power, ma’am. I promise you. No stone unturned and all that.”

  She looked at me some more...and a weak smile appeared. “Do I know you? You look familiar.”

  “I get that a lot. Most people say I remind them of their grandfathers.”

  “Yes, maybe that’s probably it.”

  “May I come in, ma’am?”

  “Please, call me Dana. And, yes, of course, where’s my manners?”

  She stepped aside and I was finally permitted entry. She closed the door behind me and I followed her through an ornate foyer and into a massive sitting room. Nice place. Back in the day, I could have lived quite well here, thank you very much.

  “Would you like something to drink, Mr. King?”

  “Coffee would be fine.”

  She showed me into the sitting room before stepping through an arched doorway and down a hallway. Her feet padded for a while along the polished wooden floor. Long hallway.

  The sitting room was cozy. A central hearth dominated the room, surrounded by an elaborate wrought-iron grate in a creeping ivy design. With this being southern California in late March, there was, of course, no fire. But if there had been, it would have been damn cozy. I moved around the room, lightly touching the fine furniture as I went. I stopped in the far corner at an ornate, and slightly abused, Steinway piano. The keys were exposed and I pressed one or two, each sound sending a thrill straight through my soul. My God, I loved music. I believe it’s the closest thing humans have to real magic, and I was happy to have contributed to it.

  “My mother gave me that piano,” Dana said. She was standing in the doorway, holding a silver tray of steaming mugs. “It’s been in the family for nearly eighty years. I know it’s an eyesore, but I still play it.”

  “Oh, really,” I said, genuinely intrigued. “What can you play?”

  “Anything, really. But mostly songs from the fifties and sixties, from my teens.”

  Do you know any Elvis? I wanted to ask, but didn’t.

  She set the tray down on the coffee table, then crossed over to the piano, where she sat on the bench. She motioned for me to sit next to her and I did. She absently pressed one or two keys. Somber notes. Our legs touched.

  “Do you play an instrument, Aaron? I’m sorry, may I call you Aaron?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Please, call me Dana.”

  “Yes. You said that.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m not thinking straight these days,” she took in some air, doing her best at small talk, “You’re from the South, you say?”

  “Near there, yes.”

  “So you’re a true Southern gentleman.”

  “I try.”

  “And do you play an instrument?”

  “Yes, a little guitar.” I said, then admitted to something I hadn’t admitted to in nearly thirty years. “But mostly I used to sing.”

  “Oh, really? Where?”

  Now my heart was really pounding, but, dammit, it felt good talking about singing again.

  “You know, mostly church choir stuff.”

  “I bet you have a beautiful voice.”

  “Had. That was long ago.”

  “Perhaps you should take it up again,” she said, pressing more keys. “You’re never too old, you know.”

  I smiled. “Perhaps.”

  Chapter Twelve

  We moved over to the couch, Where Dana told me more about her missing daughter, Miranda.

  Mother and daughter were inseparable, closer than best friends. Miranda was a rising film star and had just wrapped shooting her fourth movie in New York, which should be out in time for summer. She had lived a charmed life up to this point.

  “Do the police have any suspects?” I asked.

  “None that I’m aware of. You’ll have to ask them.”

  Dana picked up a metal picture frame and handed it to me. It was her daughter, and she was gorgeous. A spitting image of her mother, only younger and more vibrant. She instantly reminded me of my own daughter.

  “Describe the day she went missing,” I said to Dana with-out taking my eyes off the picture. “What were you doing?”

  “I was home painting, which I do as a sort of hobby, although sometimes I sell them on eBay.”

  I nodded politely. People ramble, especially under stress.

  “Miranda was in and out all day, as usual. Tanning salon, shopping, grabbing some food. I was happy to see it, because she had been moping around here for the past few days prior to that. After-filming blues, I figured, as the movie had wrapped a month or so earlier and I think she was feeling lonely and out-of-touch. The last time I saw her—” Dana paused, sucking some air, willing herself forward, “The last time I saw her she had popped into my art studio upstairs and asked if I wanted anything from Trader Joe’s. I barely looked up. I told her no, and then she was gone. Outside, I heard her car start up and leave and I haven’t seen or heard from her since.”

  I nodded sympathetically, looking away from the picture. “When did you suspect something was wrong?”

  “I called her two hours later. We almost always keep in close contact with each other, like an old married couple. But she didn’t pick up. I tried again twenty minutes later, and then kept on trying until I thought the worst. I think I called the police sometime in the middle of the night.”

  I waited a few seconds as she gathered herself.

  “That was six days ago,” she said.

  “And what happens when you call her cell phone now?” I asked.

  “It goes straight to voicemail. Only now her voicemail is full—mostly with messages from me, sounding more and more hysterical, no doubt.”

  “Does Miranda have a boyfriend?”

  “No, but she had been texting one of her co-stars in her new movie. They seemed to have hit it off rather well.”

  “Where does he live?”

  “New York.”

  Dana looked like she was on something, and she probably was, and I didn’t blame her one bit. Anything to get through this nightmare.

  “How long have you been a private investigator?” she asked.

  “Thirty years or so.”

  “What did you do before?”

  “Oh, I was in the entertainment industry.”

  “My daughter’s in the entertainment industry.”

  “I know,” I said, and thought: So is mine.

  “You are older than the other detectives,” she said.

  “I’m older than most.”

  She grinned. “But maybe that’s a good thing, maybe you can bring your experience to this. Yes, I like that. Instead of worrying about your age, I can focus on your experience. Maybe your age will, in fact, be an asset.”


  “Sure,” I said gently.

  She was nodding vigorously, as if she had just discovered the key that could unlock this whole investigation: an older PI with years of experience behind him.

  “Will you help me find her, Mr. King?”

  “So I’m hired?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Then, I will do everything in my power to bring her home,” I said.

  Her emotions reversed on a dime. Now she sank in on herself. Literally. She instantly looked deflated and withered, like a plant without water. A mother without her daughter. She sat there on the couch looking at me, her chin pressing against her sternum, her head too heavy to support.

  “I’d like to see her room now,” I said.

  Dana nodded and showed me the way up.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I followed her up a wide curving staircase, moving past a great expanse of wall which was covered in family portraits. Ever alert for clues, I studied closely as we ascended.

  There was a wedding portrait of a younger version of Dana, looking beautiful and radiant and far too tan. She was hanging happily onto the arm of a dark-haired, bright-eyed young man dressed to the nines in a spiffy tux. I assumed this to be her deceased husband. More pictures of the newlyweds and some family members no doubt long since departed, and then the upper half of the wall, as we continued up, was completely dominated by Miranda in various stages of growing up. There was Miranda missing a tooth, with eyes so big to seem almost unreal, and one of the cutest, roundest faces I’d ever seen. Destined to be a star. Miranda in the Girl Scouts. Miranda riding a horse. Miranda on a class field trip, already head and shoulders cuter than any of the other kids. Miranda in junior high and beginning to look like a young lady. Miranda in high school, but now the cute little girl was gone as she began blossoming into the striking woman she would soon become.

  The pictures tapered off, and we presently reached the upstairs landing. Dana led me down a surprisingly narrow hallway, made even more narrow by the placement of bookshelves and small ornate tables. Expensive-looking vases filled with fresh flowers adorned the tables. Or rather, upon second glance, they had been fresh a few days ago. Now they were wilted. She stopped at the last door to the right.

  “Here it is,” she said. “Take as long as you need.”

  “Has anyone else been through this room?” I asked.

  “Yes, the police.”

  “And no one since?”

  “No.”

  She looked up at me some more, her eyes searching my face, and I saw the profound depth of her desperation and pain. She nodded for reasons known only to her, then turned and went back down the hallway and on down the stairs.

  I let myself into Miranda’s bedroom.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Fresh air and warm sunshine poured in through the open bedroom window. The room itself was large and bright and cheery. No clothes were strewn across the floor, no jeans draped over the backs of sitting chairs. Nothing was knocked over or spilled. Someone had tidied the place up. I had known a few starlets in my day. Their rooms didn’t look like this.

  The fresh air was also suffused with a combination of lotions, sprays, ointments and whatever else it took to look glamorous in Hollywood today.

  Dominating the room was a four-poster bed with sheer gossamer curtains, pulled back and tied with red velvet ropes. The first thing I did was cross the room and heft the mattress. Nothing underneath. No revealing Polaroids. Not even a pea. I haphazardly poked the sheets back into place, and moved on.

  Next was an antique vanity desk with a hand-carved ornate mirror and matching stool. A neat row of cut glass bottles lined the base of the mirror. I opened the vanity’s three tiny drawers. The first two were empty, and the third contained an expired driver’s license. I studied it. Younger, perhaps just out of high school, very pretty. I put it back, shaking my head.

  Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful.

  I turned and scanned the room. Against the far wall was a closed door. Like a well-used deer trail through a thicket of forest, the polished wooden floor leading up to it was heavily worn and faded.

  Miranda’s closet, I presume.

  I presumed correctly. Under the inadequate light of a single dusty bulb, a sea of tiny clothing stretched as far as the eye could see. Well, at least as far as these old eyes could see. In actuality, the closet itself was about the size of my bedroom at home—and smelled a whole lot nicer.

  I went to work, methodically checking every pocket of every jeans, shirt, slacks, short, dress and things indescribable, at least indescribable to guys like me. I didn’t find much. One partially open cough drop, a handful of change, a wadded up five-dollar bill and one bar receipt. I left the cough drops and money behind, but I put the receipt into a pocket of my own. Although I didn’t step out of a magical wardrobe, I felt as if I were exiting a fantastical, Narnia-like world of sparkly tops, sparkly blue jeans and sparkly shoes.

  Don’t knock it. You used to sparkle, too.

  Back in the bedroom, I next went to all paintings and pictures hanging on her bedroom walls, checking behind each, hoping for a clue, but finding none.

  The final piece of untouched furniture was a cherry wood dresser in the far corner of the room. The top was mostly covered with dozens of picture frames featuring Miranda and many of her friends. Miranda had beautiful friends. Like attracts like. In one of the picture frames—a Minnie Mouse picture frame, in fact—Miranda was smiling for the camera, showing her perfect teeth. Chin slightly dimpled. Light in her eyes. Cheekbones kissed by the gods. A nice picture, certainly, if not for the haunted look in her eyes.

  The same look my daughter sometimes had.

  I pocketed the small frame to keep for my files. No one would miss it. I next worked my way down through all the dresser drawers, rummaging through shorts and mittens and socks and tank tops and undergarments. I felt each of the socks, looking for anything hidden; nothing. The bottom drawer was empty save for a lacquered cigar box. I lifted it out and cleared a space on top of the shelf and set it down. I opened it. Inside was a ticking Minnie Mouse watch and dozens and dozens of love letters, many dating back to what would have been Miranda’s high school years, which, if my math was correct, would have pre-dated text messaging.

  I read through some of them since Miranda’s privacy had disappeared the moment she disappeared. Most of the letters were written by a kid named Flip. Yeah, Flip. Apparently he and Miranda had been an item back in the day. A clue? Maybe, maybe not. At any rate, I rummaged through the letters until I found one with the kid’s last name on it. Flip Barowski. I confiscated it and a couple of others, tucking them behind the picture frame in my back pocket.

  I was just putting the cigar box away in the bottom drawer when a voice spoke behind me.

  “I can assure you, Mr. King, that you won’t find Miranda in there.”

  Dana was standing in the doorway. I stood, perhaps a little too quickly. Immediately lightheaded, I steadied myself on the dresser.

  “No, ma’am, I don’t suppose I would.”

  “But you’re very thorough, I’ll give you that.”

  “You’re paying me to be thorough.”

  She frowned at that, but said, “I have guests arriving soon, Mr. King. Will you be much longer?”

  I scanned Miranda’s bedroom a final time. The afternoon sun was angling down through the western window. Dust motes caught some of the sunlight, flaring brilliant and then disappearing. Other than her love for clothing and maybe even Flip, nothing else stood out, nothing tell-tale.

  I hate when that happens.

  I turned back to Dana, who was watching me closely with bloodshot eyes. Her pain was real and her hurt was deep, but I couldn’t help but wonder why she was hurrying me along.

  “No,” I said. “I’m done here.”

  She showed me down the hallway and down the stairs and then through the front door, which she shut quietly behind me. I stood there a moment on the front porch an
d sensed her presence just behind me. I think I heard her weeping, but I couldn’t be sure since I had activated the faux dog alarm again.

  I moved down the crushed shell drive, got in my car and drove around the block and parked further down the road with a clear view of Dana’s big house. I waited an hour but no guests arrived.

  Maybe they were late.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Kelly and I were in Best Buy looking at a lot of stuff I couldn’t afford. I was hoping to get a new printer, but I wasn’t liking the prices. Luckily, there was always Craigslist.

  “I could buy you a new printer, you know,” said Kelly, holding my hand. “We can call it an early birthday present.”

  “Thank you, but no thank you.”

  “You’re a stubborn bastard.”

  “It’s called being old-fashioned.”

  “But I make more money than you, and I want to help you. What’s wrong with that?”

  “Nothing, but that’s where the old-fashioned part comes in.”

  “You can’t let a woman buy you something that you need.”

  “Something like that,” I said.

  “The guy is supposed to be strong, the provider.”

  “You got it.”

  “Even when the provider hasn’t done much providing, even for himself.”

  “Even then,” I said.

  “I think it’s just silly pride,” said Kelly.

  “Silly pride is all I have left,” I said.

  We were now strolling through the TV section, admiring big screen TVs that looked wider than my apartment wall, and clearer than my windows. I should really clean my windows.

  And that’s when I heard it. One of my old songs. Hearing an old song of mine, anywhere, always had an effect on me. And what sort of effect depended on my mood. If I was feeling happy and at peace with the world, hearing one of my old songs always put a smile on my face and reminded me of the good ole days. If I was in a shitty mood, hearing one of my old songs was the absolute last thing I wanted to hear. And, apparently, this Elvis chap was everywhere, and so it was a rare day that I wasn’t reminded of my past.