There was security gate blocking the entrance, with a bored–looking security guard standing in the booth. He was tall and lanky with limp brown hair, listless brown eyes, and pasty skin that indicated a lack of time spent out in the sun.
When we told him that we were here to see Samantha Wells, his thin brown eyebrows jumped up slightly. “Is your name on the list?”
“Tiffany Black.”
He picked up a clipboard and his eyes scrolled down the page slowly. “Here you are. She called last night and put your name down.” He looked at me and Ian curiously, taking in our non–designer clothes, and the fact that my car wasn’t a luxury European model.
We probably looked more like the help than the kind of visitors people living in this estate had over. I half–expected him to say something, given the apparent curiosity in his eyes, but he simply pressed the button to open the gates, and Ian and I drove in.
“You’ve got all your gear, don’t you?” said Ian as I headed toward Samantha’s house.
“Of course.”
“Lock–picking set, wigs, energy bars, bottled water, blankets, emergency toolbox, first aid kit.”
I tried not to roll my eyes. Ian was adamant that a proper PI should have proper gear. “It’s not the stuff that makes you a good investigator,” I said. “It’s the bits between your ears.”
“Yes, but you couldn’t build a house with only your brains, could you? You need tools and materials.”
“What we do isn’t exactly building a house.”
“Still. It never hurts to be prepared. You do have the zombie attack preparedness bag, don’t you?”
“It’s in the trunk,” I said dutifully. And it was—a bag full of dried food, bottled water, zombie repellent powder, and a change of clothes and a warm blanket. “You do know that the zombie apocalypse isn’t about to happen anytime soon. You’ve just been watching too many horror movies.”
“Maybe,” said Ian, “but if the zombies do take over, do you want to get eaten, or do you want to survive?”
“I guess I want to survive.”
“Then you need to be prepared.”
“I’m not sure the zombie–repellant powder actually works.”
“I bought it off a guy online who swore it would. And if it doesn’t, you can just use your gun to shoot the zombies.”
“Mm–hmm,” I mumbled noncommittally.
“And it’s always good to be prepared,” Ian repeated, “especially since we’re coming to meet a new client. You never know what she might ask you to do.”
“I’m sure it’ll be a relatively easy case,” I said. “If she’s a rich socialite, it’s probably some other silly socialite who’s trying to play a prank on her and doesn’t know how to hide their tracks properly.”
Ian and I stepped out of the car and looked around us. The neighborhood was expensive and well maintained, with lush palm trees lining the streets, and luxury cars parked in every couple of the driveways. Half the houses were right on the banks of Lake Las Vegas, but Samantha’s was on the other side of the road, with a large backyard instead.
Her house loomed over us, a faux European–style mini–castle, with two steps leading up to the front door. There was a man standing before the door, and as we came closer, I realized that it was Lieutenant Andy Peralta, from the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department. He was a short, dark–haired man in his late twenties with a perpetually concerned look in his eyes. I knew that he’d worked with Detective Elwood on a couple of cases, because I’d heard Elwood complaining about him every now and then.
He looked surprised—almost as surprised as we were to see him.
“What are you guys doing here?” he said.
“Samantha asked us to come here.” I checked my watch: it was just a few minutes past noon. “I hope we’re not too late.”
“Is that supposed to be funny?” said Lieutenant Peralta, looking at me in confusion. “Because I don’t get it.”
“No,” I said. “I really hope I’m not too late.”
“Detective Elwood never told me that he was expecting you.”
It was my turn to look at Lieutenant Peralta in confusion. “Elwood’s here? What’s he doing here?”
“I thought that’s why you were here,” said Lieutenant Peralta. “So Elwood didn’t tell you to come here?”
“No,” I said.
Detective Peralta crossed his arms over his chest. “If you’re not here to see Elwood, I can’t let you in. I’m not supposed to let anybody in.”
Beside me, Ian laughed a forced, awkward laugh. “Tiffany’s just trying to be funny! Of course we’re here to see Detective Elwood, why else would we be here?”
Lieutenant Peralta looked from Ian to me. His brown eyes were wary, as though he knew we’d been stealing cookies from the cookie jar but couldn’t prove it. “It wasn’t a very funny joke.”
“You know Tiffany,” said Ian. “She’s never very funny. She keeps trying to make these jokes, and I keep telling her to stop, but she won’t.”
Lieutenant Peralta looked at me. “Is that true?”
“That I make bad jokes? No, I think my jokes are actually pretty funny.”
“I mean, are you really here to see Elwood?”
I didn’t feel comfortable lying, so I just repeated, “Why else would I be here? Ian and I don’t want to be too late, so why don’t we just go in now?”
Lieutenant Peralta stepped to one side, watching us mistrustfully as we opened the door and walked inside. I smiled politely and closed the door behind us, blocking out Lieutenant Peralta’s suspicious mug.
It was at least ten degrees cooler inside the house, and a couple of shades darker. The walls were painted the color of coffee–flavored ice cream, and the floors were a smooth, shiny mahogany.
The front door opened onto a long hallway. Off to my left I could make out a small door that I guessed led to a utility room, bathroom or laundry room, and a larger door next to it that I assumed led to a guest bedroom. Beyond the two doors, there was a wide staircase that went up, and at the end of the hallway, I could make out what looked like another living area. To our right, open bifold doors revealed a large formal sitting area, with three sets of sofas and a wall lined with art and display cases.
Even as my eyes were adjusting to the darkness, I saw Elwood’s stout, grumpy figure turn around in the living room and glare at us.
He took a few brisk steps forward. The closer he came, the more apparent it became that he wasn’t happy to see us.
Detective Elwood is a balding, perpetually grumpy old man whom I’ve run into on quite a few cases. Our relationship had started off quite adversarial, but as time has gone by, I like to think that Elwood has developed a grudging respect for my investigating skills. Plus, ever since I started baking cupcakes, I’ve been taking a few along with me to the precinct; if there’s one thing Detective Elwood can’t get enough of, it’s sweet pastries, and my homemade cupcakes mean that every now and then, he greets me with a smile instead of a scowl.
There was no such luck today, however.
“What are you two doing here?” said Elwood. His thick, bushy brows were drawn together as though they were two magnets attracted to each other, and his eyes were angry and suspicious. “How did you get in? Peralta was under strict orders not to let anyone in, no matter what.”
“Peralta doesn’t seem that smart,” Ian said to him. “I thought you wanted to get a new lieutenant to work with you?”
“Yeah,” said Elwood. “I don’t want to work with Peralta, but the precinct is understaffed, and I guess an obtuse lieutenant is better than no lieutenant at all.”
I glanced past Detective Elwood to the living room from where he’d come to accost us. For the first time, I noticed two slim brunettes wearing white lab coats crouched on the floor, dusting away at what looked like a broken statue with long–handled brushes.
The top shelves of the display cases just behind them were empty, though the lower shelves had some
African tribal masks displayed. I took a step inside the living room and craned my neck, peering around to check if there were any more people crouching on the floor that I might have overlooked.
“What’s going on here?” I said. “Are those CSI techs?”
I turned to look at Elwood in time to see him roll his eyes and let out an exaggerated sigh. “Why else would I have people dusting for fingerprints?”
“Fingerprints?” I looked at Elwood, mystified. “What happened here?”
“What you think?” said Elwood. “It’s not like we’d be dusting for prints if we’d been invited to a party here. What are you two doing here? How did you even find out about Samantha?”
“Samantha called me last night,” I said. “She claimed she was getting death threats, and I told her I’d come by at noon to talk to her.”
“Where is she?” said Ian. “She didn’t seem like the kind of person who would want us to be late to an appointment.”
Elwood indicated with the silent jerk of his neck that we should follow him, and Ian and I dutifully trooped behind him down the length of the hallway, till we were at the other end of the house. There was another sitting area here, but this section was furnished with comfy–looking leather armchairs. There was a bookshelf against one wall, piled high with books and board games, and a large flat–screen TV hung from the opposite wall.
Beyond the living area, there was a dining space with an eight–seater dining table; further beyond that, there was a massive kitchen with empty stone countertops and sparkling appliances. The lounge area had glass bifold doors that looked out onto the lush green backyard, and a string of garlic hung over the kitchen island.
Elwood led us over to the leather sofas, where we sat down.
“Now,” said Elwood, “what were you saying about Samantha Wells calling you last night?”
Ian and I filled Elwood in on the details of Samantha’s call—how she thought that someone was threatening her, and she was worried for her life.
“Where is Samantha?” I said finally. “What’s going on?”
Elwood sighed again and leaned back against the sofa. He stared down at the floor, and his face looked drawn and haggard.
“Samantha Wells was found lying unconscious this morning in the living room. Paramedics declared her dead.”
My eyes widened, and I drew in a sharp, shocked breath. “No!”
Elwood nodded his head. “She died entirely of accidental causes. She was standing near the display cabinet when the earthquake struck, and a number of those marble statues fell off the shelf and onto her. The impact of being hit by all those heavy objects all at once… there was severe trauma to her neck and skull.”
“The earthquake happened at ten o’clock,” said Ian. “Wasn’t anybody else home at that time? How can you just die from an earthquake?”
Elwood looked at Ian as though he was being daft on purpose. “That’s how people die in earthquakes; stuff falls on top of them, and they get crushed. Mrs. Wells was lucky that the entire display cabinet didn’t fall on top of her; it was secured to the back of the wall.”
“It can’t have been an accident,” I said. “It’s too much of a coincidence, that she called me last night wanting me to investigate death threats, and then today she was found dead.”
Elwood crossed his arms. “Coincidences do happen.”
“Not that often,” I said. “Don’t you think it’s a bit too much? This woman thought someone was trying to kill her, and then she ended up dead the next day.”
“I’m definitely going to take your report into account,” said Elwood. “But I’ve already talked to her husband. He said that Mrs. Wells was a paranoid person who always complained that people were out to get her. Just because she thought she was getting death threats doesn’t mean that she actually was.”
I narrowed my eyes suspiciously at Elwood. “Did she go to the cops with this death threat information?”
Elwood rolled his eyes. “Yes, about a week ago. But you know that we don’t have the resources to look into every single silly complaint.”
“Did you see the death threat?” I said. “Maybe you’ve got some records on file.”
“I don’t need to look at the file,” said Elwood. “I remember her. She had two messages on her cell phone voicemail from one of those mechanical, robotic voices, and I remember them—they were both similar. Not even proper death threats—all they said was that she should be nice to people, and stop being so petty and mean, or she’d pay with her life. They were both made using one of those apps that scrambles the caller’s number and makes it untraceable. Really, it was the silliest of all things. You can see why we couldn’t take her complaint seriously.”
“Well… wouldn’t a house like this have an elaborate security system—did Samantha have any visitors before she died?”
“The security system ends at the entrance gate in front. Mr. Wells didn’t think it necessary to have cameras in the house itself. And none of the neighbors have street–facing cameras either—everyone seemed pretty confident that intruders wouldn’t be able to make it past the guards and cameras at the entrance.”
“And Mr. Wells agrees with your assessment about it being an accidental death? I’d expect him to be asking for a more detailed investigation after everything that’s happened.”
Just then, a man with silver–grey hair and a square jaw walked into the room.
He was wearing tailored khakis and a white–and–pink–striped shirt that would have looked effeminate on another man, but he had just the combination of confidence and arrogance to pull it off. The man must’ve been in his mid– to late–fifties, and he looked like he went to the gym every now and then. It was obvious that he’d been considered charming and handsome thirty years ago, and even now, he had the air of someone who was used to being admired.
Elwood stood up immediately, and Ian and I followed his lead.
“Tiffany, Ian, this is Patrick Wells, Samantha Wells’s husband.”
Ian and I shook Patrick’s hand and murmured our sympathies, which he acknowledged gracefully before turning to give Elwood an inquisitive look. “Are they with the LVMPD?”
“Tiffany Black is a popular private investigator in Las Vegas,” said Elwood. “It appears that Mrs. Wells had called her last night and made an appointment for noon today. She had told Tiffany about receiving death threats and being worried for her life.”
Patrick Wells laughed shortly. His eyes were humorless, and he turned to Ian and me with a look of despair. “That was just the kind of woman my wife was,” he said. “She was completely paranoid. Always thought someone was out to get her.”
I watched Mr. Wells closely. His shoulders were hunched, as though he carried around a coiled spring of tension inside his body. His eyes were dry and cynical, and while he didn’t seem to be in hysterics over his wife’s death, he clearly looked shocked and unhappy at this turn of events.
Before I could say anything, Ian said, “But don’t you think it’s too much of a coincidence? It’s not paranoia if they’re really out to get you.”
Patrick shook his head. “Even a paranoid person has to pass away at some point. Just because she died doesn’t mean that someone was out to get her.”
I was surprised by Patrick’s lack of sympathy for Samantha’s fears, especially now that perhaps they had come true.
“But isn’t it just too perfect?” Ian persisted undiplomatically. “She was supposed to meet with a private investigator, and she died before she could say anything.”
Patrick shook his head. “It’s ironic, but that’s all.”
“I’m sorry for the situation you’re going through,” I said, trying to sound a bit more polite than Ian. “I’m sure you’re right. We would all hate to think that Mrs. Wells’s death was from malicious intentions. But please, don’t hesitate to call us if you ever need our services.”
I fished a business card out of my handbag and passed it over to him.
Patri
ck nodded curtly and turned to Elwood again. “Will you and your people be a long time? I was hoping to have some friends over for lunch, and it would be nice to get things back to normal.”
“We should be done within a few minutes,” said Elwood. “We’ll take the broken statue pieces with us as evidence—it’s just a formality, of course.”
“I hope you don’t believe her death was anything but accidental?” said Patrick.
Elwood shook his head. “No, we don’t. This is part of a routine investigation that we have to do. We should be able to return the broken statue pieces within a few days, if you’d like us to.”
Patrick shook his head no. “I’m not sure what I would do with them. It was my wife who was into art. Besides, the things are broken, I’d just have to get rid of them.” He flashed a forced smile at the three of us, told Elwood that he was happy to discuss things with him at any time, and then he left the room.
“So you really are going to investigate?” I said as soon as Patrick was gone.
Elwood shook his head. “I was telling the truth. It’s just a routine investigation because Mrs. Wells died during the earthquake, which is rare here. But I’m pretty sure her death was entirely accidental.”
“Wasn’t anyone here when she died?” I said. “Surely a place like this has a housekeeper, staff… what about her husband, where was he?”
Elwood rolled his eyes. “It’s a police investigation, so I don’t have to tell you all these things.”
“I thought it was just a routine investigation into an accidental death,” I countered. “If it’s not a homicide, what’s wrong with telling me what happened? I could always ask Mr. Wells himself.”
“No, don’t do that,” said Elwood. “Mr. Wells is a wealthy man, and he donates to the LVMPD every couple of years. We can’t afford to annoy him by having a pesky investigator ask insensitive questions.”
A Perfect Murder in Las Vegas: A Humorous Tiffany Black Mystery (Tiffany Black Mysteries Book 8) Page 2
