“So you talked to Samantha on his behalf as well?”
Julie nodded. “But that didn’t do any good. I told Andrew that he was better off trying to break into the New York scene. He’s so talented, I figured he’d be able to succeed one way or the other.”
“Is he really talented?” said Ian. “I don’t understand his art at all! What does it mean?”
Julie looked at Ian in surprise. “You’ve seen his art?”
Ian nodded. “But it doesn’t make any sense.”
Julie raised her hands into the air as though she was offering a gift up to the heavens. “His art is so beautiful. It’s loud, but it’s quiet at the same time. It’s colorful but it’s also pale and muted. He paints emotions, he paints pain and joy and frustration. His art represents the world around us.”
Ian frowned. “None of that makes any sense.”
Julie shook her head. “It makes sense to me. Perhaps you’re just not an art person.”
“Perhaps you’re not an art person,” said Ian. “I think you’re making all that stuff up, and you don’t really understand what Andrew’s art means either.”
Julie leaned back, and her mouth formed a little O. Her eyes grew very wide, and her face started to turn purple; she looked like she was about to get up and snap Ian in half.
I quickly said, “You’re right, Ian has no idea about art. He wouldn’t understand great art if it hit him in the head—and he doesn’t even understand when people talk about art. You have to forgive him.”
Julie closed her mouth and took a deep breath. I watched as she visibly calmed down, and finally she said, “Of course. Not everyone can appreciate art.”
I tried to change the subject and said, “Did you ever meet Samantha’s housekeeper, Carmela?”
Julie frowned. “I must’ve met her once or twice, when I went to see Samantha. But I don’t really remember what she was like. Why?”
“We were just wondering if you had any opinion about her.”
“You don’t think the housekeeper had anything to do with Samantha’s death, do you?”
I shook my head. “We’re looking into all possibilities. Speaking of which, are you sure that you had nothing to do with the death threats Samantha was receiving? Perhaps you were bored and thought it would be a fun prank. If that was it, we’d understand.”
For a split second, Julie looked like she was about to admit something, but then her eyes grew expressionless, and she shook her head. “I have no idea how you could think it was me, sending those death threats. What a ridiculous idea!”
Ian and I looked at each other. Julie was clearly hiding something, and I couldn’t shake the possibility that perhaps she had indeed called Samantha and left her scary voice messages as a prank. But if she didn’t want to admit it, it would be hard to force a confession out of her.
“And where were you,” I said, “on the morning when Samantha died?”
“She died at ten, right? I was having a brunch. I asked five of my girlfriends to come over at ten, and one of them came by fifteen minutes early. I’ll give you their names and numbers; you’re welcome to call them and check.”
I nodded and took down Julie’s friends’ details, and then Ian and I chatted with her a bit more about what it was like to live in the Lake Las Vegas estate, and why she hated travel. Before we said goodbye, I handed her one of my business cards and asked her to call me if she thought of anything else.
I knew that Julie would never call me, and I wondered what she was hiding.
Chapter Sixteen
When Ian and I got home, I gave him the list of Julie’s friends and told him to call them and check her alibi. I got the feeling that Julie was telling the truth about being busy when Samantha had died, and I wanted to take a nap before I headed out later.
My shift at the casino was going to start after midnight, and I intended to use my free time before work wisely by meeting up with Detective Ryan for a date.
Ryan and I had gone out on two dates so far, and every time I saw him, my pulse sped up a little. He had wavy, tousled brown hair and piercing gray eyes.
When he came to pick me up at exactly 7:45, he was wearing khakis and a blue–and–white checked shirt that set off his tan. The shirt hinted at some serious muscle underneath, and his smile made my knees go weak. “You look lovely,” he said. “I hope I’m not too early?”
He was just in time, and we drove over to Tom’s Bistro, a small off–Strip restaurant that I knew served excellent steak. I had been there before to interview a suspect on a previous case—the mistress of a politician who’d been murdered in Vegas—and my first visit had taught me that the food was great.
When we entered, the place looked as nice as I’d remembered. The walls were exposed brick, the floor was a glossy mahogany hardwood, and soft jazz music piped through the room. White tablecloths covered the small tables, and each table had a small vase with a single red rose in it.
Ryan and I settled down at one of the tables toward the back, and we each ordered a steak, medium rare, and a glass of red wine. We chatted about our day, and I told him a bit about Ian, and how he always said the wrong thing when interviewing people.
Our wines arrived, and I took a small sip, as Ryan told me a funny story about a suspect he’d had to interview, when out of the corner of my eye, I noticed someone familiar walking in through the restaurant door.
It was my friend Stone.
I was so shocked to see him that I froze, my wineglass held midair.
Our eyes met.
Stone looked the same as usual—strong inside and out. His movements were smooth and athletic; his eyes dark and smoldering, hinting at the enigma he was.
I forced myself to put down my wineglass and look away from Stone’s dark eyes. I smiled at Ryan, but I could no longer understand a word he said. I nodded, as though everything he said made sense and I was paying attention, but then I looked at Stone again.
Stone gave me a barely perceptible nod, and walked out of the restaurant.
I wasn’t about to let him get away.
Quickly I pushed back my chair and said to Ryan, “Ohmygosh, that was The Rock. I have to get his autograph!”
By the time Ryan had processed what I’d said and started to give me a quizzical look, I’d already dashed out of my chair and gotten halfway to the door.
I stepped out into the quiet Vegas night. The temperature had dropped suddenly, and a chilly breeze made me wish I had a jacket or cardigan. I looked from one end of the street to the other, but there was no sign of Stone.
He couldn’t have just disappeared; I knew for a fact that he wasn’t a ghost or a vampire.
I took a few steps down the street, unwilling to give up, when the headlights blinked on a small black hatchback parked a few paces away.
I quickened my pace and heard the doors unlocking as I approached.
And then I was sitting in the passenger seat, pulling the door shut behind me.
Stone’s car was small, comfy, and a far cry from the Porsche he used to drive when he’d lived in Vegas. In the coziness of his hatchback, I could feel the magnetic pull of Stone’s strange charisma, and his oceanic scent made my nerves tingle.
Stone looked at me inquisitively. “Bad time?”
“You know I’m on a date.” The words came more snappish than I’d intended. “Why did you show up now?”
“Didn’t mean to interrupt. I was going to talk to you after your shift, but I saw you leave your apartment. Detective Ryan know you came to talk to me?”
“No, but we need to make this quick or he’ll get suspicious.”
“Where did you tell him you were going?”
“I said I’d seen The Rock. I wanted an autograph.”
Stone rarely smiled, but now the corners of his lips twitched upwards. “Really? The Rock?”
“He was the first person who came to mind.”
“And you’re a huge fan. I’d never have thought.”
“I’ve neve
r seen him in Vegas,” I said defensively. “I was just wondering if he might come down to the Treasury Casino sometime.”
Stone’s eyes glimmered in the darkness, and I knew that if we’d been preschoolers, by now he would’ve been singing about me and The Rock sitting in a tree, K–I–S–S–I–N–G.
“You didn’t come all the way out here to talk to me about The Rock.”
“No. Can you still get time off from the Treasury if you need to?”
A prickle of worry worked its way down my spine. “Of course, what’s going on?”
“I’ll need you to follow someone. Probably bug his hotel room. Johnson will help you out.”
“Consider it done. Who is this guy?”
“Eli Barsky. He lives in D.C. He’s coming here to talk to my former clients, trying to learn something about me.”
“When is he coming here?”
“We’re not sure yet. Could be tomorrow, could be next week, could be the week after.”
“And that’s it—just follow him?”
“I need you to contact my ex–clients. I know you’ve got a list and you’ve been calling them. Tell them not to talk to this guy, not to tell him anything.”
“Sure thing. Eli Barsky,” I repeated. “Who is he?”
Stone’s dark eyes grew narrow. “He was on my team in Afghanistan. He’s still got close contacts with the CIA. I’m probably in this mess because of him.”
“How so?”
Stone glanced at me, and for the first time, I saw a hint of vulnerability in his eyes. “We don’t have time to get into that now. Detective Ryan will get suspicious—Johnson will meet you someday on your way home from the casino and tell you all the details.”
I nodded, wondering if I should text Ryan and let him know that something had come up, and I couldn’t finish the date. On the other hand, I needed to give this relationship a proper try. Perhaps it was better to try to salvage the date: Stone’s past would always be there. I’d learn about it another day.
“It was nice seeing you,” I said, unable to keep the wistfulness out of my voice.
Stone smiled wryly. “Enjoy your date.”
I didn’t think I’d been gone for more than five minutes, but by the time I got back to the restaurant, our steaks had been served.
Ryan looked at me curiously. “How was The Rock?”
I hacked at my steak with my knife. “It turned out to be someone else. It was all a bit awkward.”
I wasn’t sure if Ryan believed me, but he didn’t press the issue. Instead, we talked about celebrities, and favorite movies, and I was only slightly disappointed when we managed to finish our dinner without any more appearances by Stone.
Chapter Seventeen
My shift at the casino passed uneventfully, and as the bright lights and loud jingles of the casino enveloped me like a warm, fuzzy blanket, I tried to concentrate on the cards. Instead, my mind kept drifting back to my meeting with Stone, replaying our conversation over and over again.
I remembered how dark and intriguing his eyes were, and how good he smelled. He looked more like an action movie star than a man on the run from the government, and I wondered what he’d been up to over the last couple of days.
This Eli character worried me. I had no idea who he was or what he was like, but if he was even partly responsible for Stone’s having to disappear, he was my mortal enemy. I worried about what he was trying to do to Stone, and what he was trying to find out.
By the time I got home, it was almost eleven o’clock, but I decided I had no time to waste.
I had no idea when this Eli person would be coming to Vegas. Stone had said that it might be today, it might be next week, or it might be a month later. And what if he did actually turn up in Vegas today? What if he ended up talking to one of Stone’s clients, who told him everything they knew about Stone?
I couldn’t let that happen, so instead of heading straight to bed, I called up every single person I knew who Stone had worked for in the past. I got in touch with almost everyone, warning them that a dangerous stranger named Eli Barsky was going to try to get in touch with them and would be asking all kinds of questions about Stone; under no circumstances whatsoever were they to tell this man anything about Stone.
Unsurprisingly, all of Stone’s clients were happy to stay silent about him. Everyone I talked to agreed that they would say they had no idea who Stone was, or what he was like, and they could barely even remember him working for them.
There were only a few people I was unable to get in touch with, and I left messages with all of their secretaries, saying that they should get in touch with me, and that if an Eli Barsky tried to get in touch with them, they were to draw a blank about Stone.
Two and a half hours later, I’d almost lost my voice, and felt like I had just run a twenty–mile marathon. I hit the sack, not bothering to change or take off my makeup, and set the alarm for ninety minutes later.
I didn’t waste time lying in bed once my alarm went off. I had a busy day ahead of me, so as soon as I was dressed, I headed over to Ian’s.
“I thought you would sleep some more,” said Ian when he saw me. “Didn’t you have a late shift last night?”
“I don’t want to talk about it. Do you have anything to eat? I’m out of food.”
“I thought you were going to learn to cook.”
“That might take some time,” I said. “I meant to buy some groceries so that I could make a lasagna, but I forgot.”
I opened Ian’s refrigerator and spied takeout containers that looked relatively fresh. One of them contained stir–fried noodles with vegetables and beef, and I nuked the noodles and began to devour them.
“Watching you eat is making me hungry,” said Ian, finding himself a box of beef in black bean sauce to munch on.
The two of us ate in silence for a few minutes, and then Ian said, “I called all of Julie’s friends last night, and they said they were with her at the brunch at ten o’clock. Julie was there the whole time, from a quarter to ten to half past twelve. The ladies had tiny sandwiches, scrambled eggs, coffee, tea, and all kinds of Danishes and pastries. Julie seems to throw a lot of fun parties.”
“It’s because her husband isn’t here,” I said. “I think she’s bored.”
“You think she’s the one who called Samantha with those death threats, don’t you?” said Ian.
I shrugged. “I can’t rule that out completely. She’s bored, and she hated Samantha. It makes sense that she would try to put the fear of God into Samantha a little.”
“I called Peter’s friends, too,” said Ian. “Those five guys whose names he gave us. They all said they were with Peter having breakfast at the Northridge Golf Club.”
I nodded. “I thought that would be the case. But we might as well go over to the club and check with the maître d’ that Peter and his friends were really there. We need to check out Patrick’s alibi as well.”
The Northridge Golf Club turned out to be expensive and exclusive, and as soon as we approached the clubhouse, a man in a black suit asked us if our names were on the list.
“Tiffany Black,” I said nervously, seeing no reason why my name should be on the list.
But my answer seemed to satisfy him, and he nodded. “Peter Ross mentioned you would be stopping by one of these days. You can go through.”
Ian and I looked at each other and shrugged. I couldn’t rule out Peter Ross completely as a suspect, but he was certainly going out of his way to make our lives easier.
Inside the clubhouse, it was quiet and air–conditioned, with soft carpeting and high ceilings throughout.
When we entered the dining area, I noticed it was being set up for a fancy British–style afternoon tea—tables covered with white linen; silverware and fancy cutlery being set out. There was an afternoon tea buffet on one side, and just looking at all the scones and croissants and Danishes was making me hungry.
I had barely taken two steps into the dining room when a man accosted
us and said in a stuffy British accent, “Is there somebody you’re meeting here?”
Ian and I stared at the man. He was tall, with thick silver hair and half–rimmed glasses. He had the air of someone who had seen too many things during his time working at the club and could choose to be either disapproving or tolerant, depending on how much he liked you.
“You must be the posh maître d’ Peter told us about,” said Ian. “At least you look like one. And you sound like one, too.”
The maître d’ raised one thick silvery eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
“What my friend Ian here means,” I said quickly, “is that you look like someone who might be able to help us. My name’s Tiffany, and this is Ian. We’re private investigators.”
The man stared back at us, unimpressed. “Is that so?”
“We’re checking the alibis of some people who told us they’d been here last Sunday. Peter Ross, for instance.”
“Generally, we do not divulge details about our members.”
“But you can make an exception this time,” I said, with what I hoped was a charming smile, “can’t you? We’re investigating the death of someone who was a member here, Samantha Wells.”
“I thought that was an earthquake,” said the maître d’.
“It was staged to look like an earthquake accident,” I said. “But Ian and I were hired to look into it, because there was probably more at work.”
The maître d’ rolled his eyes, as if Ian and I were being overly dramatic. “I’ve read a lot of detective fiction in my time,” he said. “I never thought I’d have to talk to a detective about the death of someone I knew.”
“Well, we’d really appreciate your help.” I showed him my private investigator’s badge, which I’d purchased off the Internet but was pretty official–looking, and said, “If you help us out, we can learn what really happened to Samantha.”
The man nodded, headed over to a wooden podium a few steps behind us, and pulled out a thick ledger. He turned the pages until he got to Sunday, and then he ran his finger down the lines. “Here we are, Peter Ross was here with five of his friends, having brunch from ten in the morning to noon.”
A Perfect Murder in Las Vegas: A Humorous Tiffany Black Mystery (Tiffany Black Mysteries Book 8) Page 9
