"What do you mean, kind of?"
"Well, they aren't really dating anymore. He is just sort of around, you know? She can get a little lonely, and I think he preys on that. But it's not like he'd ever take her out or buy her flowers or anything like that."
There were a lot of guys like that in this town. "Is he a violent guy?"
"Not really. He's probably too lazy for violence. But I'd give him a look if you're going down this road. James Devine. He's got some kind of shack near the airport. And don't call him Jim."
"Thanks," I said. "I'll check into it."
Ethan leaned back and folded his hands behind his head. "This is still a long shot though, right? I mean, I don't actually think she had the guy whacked. I'm just saying it's possible."
"Right," I said. Although I was beginning to think it might be a bit more possible than Ethan thought. "Obviously we're not going to go around accusing your mom of murder just on a hunch. You don't happen to have access to your mom's bank accounts, do you?"
Ethan blinked. "Well, yeah. We share the same account. She hasn't worked in three years, so my checks all get direct-deposited in an account that we both have access to. Why?"
"Well, you said this would be about money. Maybe your mom paid this guy to do it. I don't know. I'd just like to check it out."
"All right. If you go in my bedroom, the bank's page is bookmarked in my browser. I think you have to use that computer, or it makes you answer a whole bunch of other questions. My password is—do you promise not to laugh?—Ethan The Voice 89, all one word."
I spelled it out to make sure I got it right. EthanTheVoice89. I didn't have a pencil—or any sharp objects—so I had to commit it to memory. It was a little on the vain side, but it was definitely a more secure password than 123456ABC, which was what I typically used.
The lights in the room flashed. Apparently our time was up, as Ethan stood up.
"Thanks for the visit," he said. "I'm sure you appreciate that we can't just go accusing my mom of something like this. If things take you in that direction, fine. But go easy, okay?"
I nodded. "Understood." I was turning to leave when it hit me. "Oh, Ethan? One more thing. How can I get into your house?"
He smiled. "Good point. If you go around back, there's a door going into the garage. Hanging on the wall next to it is a planter. If you dig your fingers in the dirt, you should find a little plastic baggie with a key in it."
"Got it."
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Driving home from the jail, I indulged in a little ego-boosting reflection. I had been fearing a backlash from Ethan, but he had essentially green-lighted my investigation into his mom and fingered her boyfriend as a possibility as well. The only question was when I could get on his computer without his mother knowing. I knew Ethan had a court appearance at two o'clock, and I figured his mom would be there for support. That gave me just enough time to grab a proper lunch.
I lucked out and found a little corner place that sold pho, the Vietnamese noodle soup I had become addicted to a few years earlier. The best pho place in town was in Las Vegas's burgeoning Chinatown. You could get a fantastic meal in Chinatown for six bucks and not have to deal with throngs of tourists, even though Chinatown was only a mile west of the Strip. My lunch spot proved to be a close second place, with large heaps of Asian basil garnishing the bowl. I lingered over green tea for a while and caught up on my e-mail in a vain effort to try to get my phone to stop blinking at me. By one thirty I figured the coast should be clear to check out Ethan's bank account.
I made my way through surprisingly tight traffic down to Ethan's subdivision south of town and parked in front of his neighbor's house. I hadn't seen any activity in Ethan's house when I'd driven by, but I decided to play it safe and approach from the garage side in case Patty was still at home.
I doubted anyone was looking, but I tried to look nonchalant as I walked up behind the shrubs separating the two properties and casually slid between two junipers a dozen or so feet from Ethan's garage. I passed some garbage and recycling bins and found the planter Ethan had told me about.
I dug around in the dirt for a few seconds and soon wished I had brought a glove or napkin or something to keep the dirt from getting lodged deep under my nails. I had no idea how I was going to get that out, but I would have to worry about that later. I finally managed to find the little plastic bag buried deep in the roots of some pink geraniums.
The coast was clear. Ethan's BMW was parked in the garage, but the other spot was empty. The inner garage door opened into the kitchen, and I quickly found my way upstairs to Ethan's bedroom. My heart was pumping, and for once I actually felt like a real-live detective, although I wasn't sure how many real detectives actually broke into houses. I turned on Ethan's computer and paced around the room while it booted up.
Overall, the room wasn't much different than you'd expect for a fifteen-year-old boy, except that most of the posters on the wall were of Ethan himself. He had a few soccer trophies resting on the cabinet, but there weren't any books. I was always a little suspicious about people who didn't read books, but I figured maybe Ethan had a Kindle or a Nook. Then again, probably not.
The computer let me click through the log-in without entering a password, so I fired up Internet Explorer and checked Ethan's bookmarks. It looked like he had more than one page of them. There were the expected links to Facebook and Twitter, and a couple of links that looked like fan pages. I didn't feel too much like snooping around my own client's personal matters, though. And although there was definitely a little thrill about being alone in someone else's house (even though Ethan had given me permission), I didn't feel like lingering any longer than I had to. I found the link for the Bank of Nevada and clicked on it.
As the page loaded, a tremor shot through me: I had Ethan's password, but no idea what his log-in name was. Luckily, the browser filled it in for me, so all I had to do was enter EthanTheVoice89 and press enter. A couple of clicks got me to a thirty-day statement of Ethan's account. The inflows were impressive: two identical deposits of $11,684.11 from Coastal Resorts LLC, which I assumed was the owner of the Copacabana Casino where Ethan worked. The problem was the outflows. There was what looked like a mortgage payment of $3,316.40, various utility payments, and a payment to BMW of North America. That was not much different from what my own statements looked like, even down to the monthly check to a German car company. The difference was the cash withdrawal. Actually, there were two of them. The first, of $9,000, occurred about three weeks ago. The second occurred only yesterday, and it was a whopper: $71,000.
Jackpot, I thought. Nine grand is small potatoes in Vegas, but eighty is an eyepopper. Hit man money. The withdrawal left the balance north of twenty thousand, enough for Patty to live on for a while without breaking a sweat. I clicked a few more links to get a three-month statement, but there were only a few other sizable withdrawals. A few thousand here and there for gambling money, I figured. I fired up the printer and made myself a hard copy of the statement.
I shut off the printer, and as it was wheezing down, I heard what sounded like the click of a door opening. Was I hearing things, or was it just a noise from the printer? It was only two minutes past two o'clock, so Patty couldn't be back from the hearing already. Or had they cancelled it? It wouldn't be the first time a hearing was delayed.
I tiptoed to the bedroom door and closed it most of the way. My ears were perked up to bionic levels, but I didn't hear anything else. I decided to give it a minute, just to be safe. Unfortunately, it didn't take that long.
"Fuck!" It was a man's voice. An angry man's voice. "Where the hell is it?"
I held as still as a mummy, hoping against all hope that I wouldn't be discovered. I didn't hear anyone else, so I was hopeful that the man was just blowing off steam and talking to himself. Maybe he would stay downstairs and find whatever he was looking for and then go away.
"Fuck!" It seemed to be his favorite word. I could hear him opening and slamming cabinet doors
, stomping around the kitchen and dining room, where there were hardwood floors. I couldn't believe my luck. I sneak into one house, one time, and some crazed psycho decides to go on a rampage while I'm there.
After a few minutes of standing frozen like an ice sculpture, I had to shift my weight. Naturally, the floor creaked. It wasn't loud, but it was something. My interloper downstairs had been quiet for a few minutes, so I figured he was probably searching around in the carpeted living room or in the rooms out of my earshot. A second creak told me I was wrong.
Through the crack in the door I spotted the man as he reached the landing upstairs. Fortyish, a nice head of long, brown hair, and a little on the short side. From a distance he was good looking, in a weasely sort of way. He didn't look like he was bent on murdering anyone at the moment, so that was a good sign. He gave a cursory scan of the upstairs and headed into the master bedroom, which Ethan had apparently granted to his mother.
I was split between waiting where I was and sneaking out and bolting to my car. I desperately wanted to get out of there, but I decided to pin my hopes on the chance that whatever the man was looking for wasn't in Ethan's room, where I was. The guy didn't look like he was armed, and if he did come in here, I could probably surprise him. I inched my way over to the shelf and grabbed one of Ethan's soccer trophies. The marble base was heavy enough that it would do a lot of damage, and the fake-bronze statue of the boy kicking a soccer ball made a surprisingly comfortable handle.
The man, who I had to assume was Patty's boyfriend, James, had been quiet for a minute when he let out a loud, sarcastic guffaw. I thought I heard him say, "Nice try, Patty." I hoped that meant he'd found what he came for and was heading out, although a teeny little part of me wanted to try out my trophy-wielding skills. I squatted down and peered out the crack in the door. He stopped at the top of the landing and zipped up a navy-blue backpack. He slung it around his right shoulder as he thumped down the stairs and out of sight.
I held still until I heard the click of the door closing, and then I bolted to the master bedroom to get a look out the front of the house. James was getting into his car, a black Mazda Miata convertible, and he threw the backpack onto the seat next to him. The mini-backseat had two large suitcases stuffed vertically on the seats. He was getting out of town. After he fired up the engine, he backed out and peeled off.
Decision time. My instinct was to jump into my car and tail him, probably to the airport. I had no idea what I'd do then, but I didn't have any time to stand around making intricate plans. He'd already turned the corner, and I was still standing there staring at the empty driveway. It was time for a hot pursuit.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
I bolted down the stairs and huffed it to my Audi parked up the road. For once, I was dressed for the occasion, and my New Balance sneakers didn't let me down. I hopped into the car and made a quick Y-turn—too quick, if the neighbor's formerly pristine mailbox had anything to say about it—and invoked my inner Andrew, spinning my wheels in the process. For a split second I could appreciate the attraction of driving like a maniac, but the feeling quickly passed.
The airport wasn't far: right up the Boulder Highway and then west a mile or so. The Miata was nowhere in sight for the first minute or two. It took a few rolling stops and a not-even-arguable blown red light before I spotted it ahead of me. Luckily, James Devine, if that's who he was, had been making all the right turns to get to the airport, as I suspected. As I eased in about a hundred yards behind him, I could sense that he was not in much of a hurry. Never having been early for a flight myself, I couldn't relate. My flight experiences were usually rushed affairs complete with panic attacks and full-out sprints to the gate, with a mandatory stop at the bar to chug something in a double size. Let's just say I've never won a badge for bravery when it comes to flying on airplanes. I would rather go to the dentist ten times than fly on an airplane. I took a few deep diaphragm breaths and forced myself to relax. I wasn't going to achieve Zen enlightenment at that moment, but the deep breathing helped.
I slowed as we got closer and watched the Miata pull into the airport's extended parking lot. A blue minivan cut me off, which was just fine with me. The extra buffer would be useful if I wanted to remain inconspicuous. I almost gagged when I saw the price for parking, but I sucked it up and followed the Miata and the minivan inside.
Our little mini-caravan wound its way up the ramp, after which we turned left and repeated the process for what felt like another fifty ramps. We finally eased into spots in section E-8. The Miata was able to sneak into a compact-only spot near the exit, but I decided to hang back with the minivan and wait for Devine to move.
I pretended to fiddle with my phone while checking out Devine in my side mirror. Oblivious to my presence, he grabbed his bags and did a thorough scan of the empty car to make sure he hadn't forgotten anything. I climbed out of my Audi after I heard the double beep of his car's security system switch on.
With a backpack, a suitcase in one hand, and another on wheels trailing behind him, Devine wasn't exactly burning up the pavement. His pace made me slow my own to an uncomfortable crawl, forcing me to stop and futz in my purse every time it looked like he might turn around. We were following a pale-blue line through an endless corridor linking the parking structure to another structure, which then connected (finally) with the terminal itself, or at least the check-in gate.
At last the elevator appeared before us, with a stairwell to the left. As expected, Devine headed straight for the elevator, and I soon realized I'd made a mistake by following so closely. As soon as he got into the elevator, he would turn around and look directly out at the hallway, where I'd be standing sheepishly in plain sight. On the fly I decided to hang back and then rush the stairs during the couple seconds he was getting into the elevator. If I got there quickly enough, I'd be out of sight by the time he turned around.
The elevator made a ding, and I caught a little luck when his luggage got caught on the door getting in. That gave me an extra second to hightail it to the left and toward the stairs while he was fumbling with his suitcase. If he'd been paying attention, I was sure he'd have noticed a person moving quickly, but I was pretty sure he hadn't caught any more than a passing glimpse.
I flew down the five flights, using my arms to vault me down as much as my legs. I managed to make it to the check-in level, where I hung back and peeped through the little window. Still oblivious that he was being followed by a bumbling, half-witted detective, Devine was making his way toward the throngs of people amassing in the little human mazes that passed for lines at the various airline counters.
Devine slowed as he reached the United counter, where about nineteen thousand other people were bunched together and buzzing about like bees doing a ritual dance around the hive. I was tempted to get in line right behind him, which would allow me to eavesdrop on his travel plans when he got to the counter. On the other hand, it was a big counter staffed by a half-dozen gate attendants, and there was a good chance I'd have no way to overhear him once he checked in.
Given Devine's leisurely pace, I decided to avoid the check-in line, and instead I hung back and waited for him to leave his luggage at the baggage drop near the back of the line. That way I had a good chance of spying the tags on his bag to see what his final destination was. Once I had that little piece of information, I could decide how to proceed from there.
I was thinking that the line was moving surprisingly quickly when my cell phone rang. It was Andrew.
"So I talked to that guy who had the lawsuit against Mayfield. I didn't see much to get too excited about. I'm going to write up a little report, and then we can figure out what the next step is. Any ideas?"
I chuckled. "Well, I'm at the airport right now. I was over at Ethan's house checking out his bank account online. With his permission, of course."
"Of course," he said sarcastically.
"Anyway, this guy sneaks in and turns the place upside down looking for something. Whatever it i
s, he found it, and I followed him here. He's on a flight going somewhere."
"You gonna go along for the ride?"
"Not sure. I don't have any clothes or anything else. And I don't even know what he's got. It probably has nothing to do with Ethan."
Andrew grunted. "Do you know who this guy is?"
"I think it's the mom's boyfriend. I can't be sure, but his name's James Devine. He's about forty, lives near—"
"The airport," Andrew said, cutting me off. "A nasty little shack on the second floor of an extended stay hotel."
"How do you know?"
He chuckled. "I was just there about two hours ago. We talked for twenty minutes or so. Must have spooked him."
"That's the guy who sued Mickey Mayfield?"
"Yup. But from the looks of his apartment, he didn't get much out of it. Or else he dropped it all down some slot machines." He paused and said something inaudible. "I gotta go. Call me back when you know where he's headed."
I tried to shake off the surprise and turn my attention back to James Devine, who was next in line. Why had Ethan's mom's boyfriend gotten tangled up with Mickey Mayfield? Strange things were happening, but I couldn't sort it all out on the fly. I had to figure out where Devine was headed and what he was carrying in that backpack.
I moved back near the windows, where I pretended to text on my phone while occasionally looking up to see if Devine was approaching the TSA bag drop. He finally made his way to the drop area, and I scooted in from behind him to catch a glimpse as he set down his luggage past the yellow line on the floor. The tags on his luggage read ORD, which was meaningless to me. Orlando? I moved back and out of the way a couple of steps to allow Devine to pass without noticing me. Once he was gone, I moved back to the windows and typed ORD into the search engine on my phone.
It turns out that ORD meant O'Hare International, Chicago. That would have been my twenty-ninth guess. I pulled up Andrew's number and called him back.
Vegas Stripped (Raven McShane Mysteries Book 2) Page 12
