by AR Winters
Lost Kitten in Las Vegas
By
A. R. Winters
Lost Kitten in Las Vegas
Copyright 2016 by A. R. Winters
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental.
All trademarks mentioned herein are respected.
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Lost Kitten in Las Vegas (A Tiffany Black Story)
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When cupcake-loving croupier and private investigator Tiffany Black is asked to investigate the death of an architect-turned-poker-addict, she stumbles upon a group of unpleasant neighbors, who also happen to be potential killers.
Meanwhile, Tiffany’s friend Stone asks her for a small favor – a tiny task which leads Tiffany into an attempt to unravel Stone’s identity. Unfortunately, some masks only hide more lies…
Table of Contents
Lost Kitten in Las Vegas
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
About The Author
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Chapter One
Las Vegas in the fall wasn’t too terrible. The hordes of summer tourists had left, taking their stingy tipping habits with them, and the temperature had finally dipped below boiling point.
An evening breeze wafted through my half-open bathroom window, and if I closed my eyes, I could almost imagine that my cramped, one-bedroom apartment was a nice place to live.
Unfortunately, I didn’t have time to close my eyes. If I wanted to get to my shift on time, I’d have to leave within the next ten minutes. However, I’d botched my eyeshadow so badly that it looked like someone had given me two black eyes.
I was about to reach for my makeup remover when there was an insistent banging on my front door. Not loud enough to annoy the neighbors, but loud enough to annoy me.
“Tiffany!” There was a hushed urgency to the call. “Tiffany, hurry up!”
I knew that voice and I chose to ignore it. I’d fallen for this trick far too many times, and besides, I had my own crisis to deal with.
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” I called out. That was a big fat lie. I stood absolutely still in front of my bathroom mirror, swiped makeup remover across my eyelids, and breathed a sigh of relief when I looked like myself again.
That would teach me to attempt the “smoky kohl eyes” Linda at work always raved about. She claimed the extra tips she received were all due to her sexy eye makeup. If that were true, I was doomed to a lifetime of mediocre gratuities – all because of my inability to apply more than a swipe or two of mascara. Unless, of course, my work as a private investigator picked up, in which case I could finally quit working as a dealer at the Treasury Casino.
The banging on my door had stopped, but I knew that Ian was standing quietly on the other side with all the persistence of a puppy that’s smelled a bone. I sighed, resigned to my fate.
Ian lives down the hall from me, and is one of the few non-geriatric residents of my building. He’s the human equivalent of a bouncy castle; a curly-red-haired man-child packed to the gills with hope and enthusiasm. He also harbors the mistaken impression that I need to be updated with every “brilliant” idea or brainwave that he gets.
Two days ago, he’d brought over a bunch of ugly wigs he thought we could use as disguises in “our” PI business, and the day before that, he’d barged in, all crazy-eyed, to tell me they were showing reruns of Star Trek. A week ago, he’d wanted to borrow paprika and roasted almonds (I had neither), and a few days before that he’d wanted to know if I had any vampire-ridding strings of garlic. (I didn’t, and I only half-listened to Ian’s claim that our new neighbor down the hall didn’t just have bad teeth, but also had a predilection for human plasma, and why wasn’t I more worried, since it was a known fact that ugly old vampires preferred to feast on the lifeblood of young females?)
“Tiff, hurry up!” Ian’s voice was oddly strained, and I frowned. This did actually sound urgent.
“What is it this time?” I opened the door grudgingly, and then I froze and stared. No wonder Ian had sounded so insistent.
He rushed past me into the living room, and I closed the door.
“You can’t be serious,” I said.
Ian didn’t bother to reply, and instead placed the small bundle of fur he’d been holding against his chest on the floor. I watched, enchanted despite my desire to be cynical, as miniature paws emerged from the fur, and it morphed into a tiny kitten, all white and fluffy and staring at me with big blue eyes.
It mewed once with a voice so tiny I could barely hear it. Its eyes were big and beseeching, and I almost cooed out loud.
But I didn’t. Instead, I shook my head and tried to speak logically. “It might be cute,” – and it was, it was so cute that even Darth Vader would’ve wanted to give it a Roomba to ride on – “but you can’t keep pets in this building.”
“She’s not a pet. She’s my friend.” Ian beamed, pleased to have discovered what he clearly thought was a loophole in our building’s no-pets policy.
The kitten looked around, amazed by my tiny apartment, and I frowned. “Does your friend know how to use the toilet?”
“Urrgh.” Consternation flashed through Ian’s eyes, and he quickly lifted the kitten off the carpeted living area and onto the linoleum floor of the kitchenette. “She’ll learn.”
The kitten nuzzled against Ian’s feet, and he bent down to stroke her. “Her name’s Snowflake.”
The name suited her. Snowflake was almost succeeding in turning me into a big softie, but one of us needed to act like an adult here, so I said, “Snowflake needs a proper home. You know Mrs. Weebly will send her to the pound as soon as she finds out.”
Snowflake took a few tentative steps away from Ian and sniffed the kitchen floor. Ian looked at me hopefully. “Mrs. Weebly doesn’t need to know. I just rescued Snowflake from the streets, she can’t go to the pound.”
I sighed. Logic wasn’t going to win over somebody enamored by a cute kitten. Just then, Snowflake decided to use my kitchen floor as her bathroom.
“Don’t worry,” Ian said quickly. “You go to work, I’ll clean up.”
“I’m sure you will.” I watched as Snowflake looked
around, wobbled over to the corner, and began licking herself meticulously.
“I could hide her from Mrs. Weebly,” Ian said.
I gathered my things and slung my tote bag over my shoulder. It was getting late, and I couldn’t let a tiny kitten prevent me from getting to work on time. “Her owner’s probably out there looking for her. Can you imagine how much he misses her?”
Ian looked crestfallen.
I hated to be the one spreading disenchantment in the world, but Ian might not be doing the right thing by adopting Snowflake. “Where did you find her?”
“She was wandering down the Strip, all alone. Someone could’ve hurt her.”
“How does a kitten get onto the Strip?”
Ian shrugged.
“Maybe the owner’s still out there,” I said. “You need to give her back.”
I opened my front door, and just before I stepped out, I turned to look back at the kitten. Snowflake had fallen asleep in the corner of my kitchen, the spitting image of beauty and innocence.
Who’d have imagined that such a sweet little creature could lead us into such a horrific mess?
Chapter Two
Visitors to Vegas sometimes think that working as a casino dealer is like having a non-stop party for a job. Your “office” is always brightly lit, full of cheerful holidaymakers, and reverberating with the jingles of slot machines and the chatter of happy people.
What most people don’t know is that the casino is like a giant theatre, and visitors only see the highly synchronized acts on stage. I, on the other hand, am a stagehand – the type that doesn’t get paid very well and does a lot of running around in uncomfortable shoes. Though I might seem like a partier, because I’m handing out blackjack cards or rolling the roulette wheel, I’m having about as much fun as a harried parent hosting a birthday for her toddler and his rambunctious, sugar-high friends.
I like most gamblers. They keep me employed, and they’re generally pretty nice people. Unfortunately, there’s always that one guy who blows through his kid’s college fund at my blackjack table and then blames it all on me. Little Susie lost her chance at becoming an aeronautical engineer: suddenly it’s all my fault. Never mind the fact that I wasn’t the one placing the bets.
My shift didn’t get off to a great start, thanks to Little Susie’s dad, who was the very first person to sit down at my blackjack table. After he was escorted away by security, I was moved over to a craps table, where I was kept company by a group of inebriated bachelor party guests. I wondered how Ian would’ve dealt with the drunk partiers, had he been in my place. He would’ve probably stopped working, tossed back a few drinks with them, and promptly been fired.
While the thought of Ian getting drunk and being fired was amusing, it made me think about Snowflake. And though I wouldn’t admit it to Ian, it would’ve been nice if he could’ve kept the little furball. It was a good thing he’d found her – Snowflake was so tiny and quiet, I had no problem imagining a four-foot wide tourist unknowingly crushing her under his massive, heavy feet as he rushed from one fat-laden buffet to another.
My shift couldn’t end soon enough, but it was past two in the morning when I finally changed out of my dealer’s uniform and into khaki shorts and a t-shirt. I stepped out of the artificially bright and cheery casino and onto the equally bright and cheery Strip. It was getting a little chilly, but most of the tourists outside were warm from all the free drinks they’d imbibed. They posed cheerfully for photos and selfies, and did the Vegas shuffle from one casino to another.
Although the night was well underway, traffic on the Strip was held up by slow-moving limos and taxis, and I was glad I lived a brisk walk away. I maneuvered my way past streetwalkers, holiday-makers, and three men handing out cards pushing their escort services. I was about to walk past a fourth escort-service promoter, when I did a double take.
“Ian?”
“Hey, Tiff!” Ian grinned broadly. “I was hoping I’d see you!”
“Why’re you handing out escort brochures?”
“I’m not! They’re – look.” He handed me a piece of paper, and I looked. In the middle of the page was a large photo of Snowflake; the headline on top said “Is This Your Lost Kitten?”
I had to admit it was a pretty good idea. “It was nice of you to go to so much trouble.”
Ian shrugged and tried to hand a page to some women who were walking by. “Lost kitten,” he said. One of them paused and took a look at the photo, before shaking her head and walking off.
“Whoever lost Snowflake might be nearby,” Ian said, and I nodded. Snowflake was lucky to have him looking out for her. And then he said, “I should’ve asked that woman for her number, right? You think I could meet a girl this way? Maybe after I’ve found Snowflake’s owner, I could keep handing out these brochures and try to meet someone here.”
“I’m sure there are better ways to meet the ladies.” I was about to say something about Ian’s inability to find a girlfriend, when an obviously inebriated man swayed towards us. “Hey man,” he slurred. “I wouldn’t mind a girl.”
“Neither would I,” said Ian. “But I forgot to ask for her number.”
“How come she’s not wearing a bikini?”
The man was staring at me closely, and I took a step back. I didn’t like the way he was leering, and I’d had my share of dealing with drunks for the night.
“She’s not an escort,” Ian said patiently. “And b—”
“She should wear a bikini,” the man slurred. “All women. Should wear bikinis. All the time.”
“And all men should look like Ryan Gosling ,” I said. “All the time.” Before drunken non-Ryan Gosling could irritate me any further, I turned to Ian and said, “I’ll see you around. Good luck finding Snowflake’s owner.”
Five minutes later, I was walking down the dark alley opposite the Cosmo Hotel. As usual, this stretch of road was silent and empty, and pretty soon I was lost in thought. This was where I’d first met my boyfriend, Jack, and I smiled to myself as I remembered his gorgeous green eyes and straight, dark hair. I had a day off tomorrow, and I’d be spending it with Jack. It had been a while since I’d last seen him, and I was day-dreaming about what we’d do on our date when a hand landed lightly on my shoulder.
I jumped six feet into the air, twirled around, and was about to do my best horror movie-style I’ve-seen-the-slasher scream, when I saw who it was.
“You look happy to see me,” said Stone.
Chapter Three
The fear was replaced by mild irritation. “Why’d you scare me like that?”
“You should be more alert.” There was a hint of amusement in his deep voice. “Dark alley – someone else could’ve attacked you.”
Well, no-one else would attack me now, not least because I had no enemies out there. And even if someone did attack me, I knew enough Krav Maga to get out of any scuffle alive. At least that’s what I’d told my Krav Maga instructor when I last made an excuse for not attending class.
We fell into step silently, and Stone shortened his gait to match mine. Walking next to him felt reassuring – he had a tall, muscular presence that warded off darkness even when all the streetlights were broken. Stone was dressed in his usual uniform of navy jeans and a crisp white shirt, and his dark hair fell slightly over his forehead.
“I ran into your nanna at the Riverbelle Casino tonight,” Stone said.
Nanna lives with my parents and plays poker on the sly. “Did she win?”
“Some hands. She said you’ve got a day off tomorrow.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Any plans?”
I thought about Jack. Stone disapproves of him; he thinks he’s unstable and a little bit crazy. I didn’t feel like defending my choices in men, so I shrugged wordlessly.
Stone said, “I might need a favor.”
I turned and looked at him.
I’d met Stone when a client of mine hired him as my bodyguard. Since then, Stone’s always been the one h
elping me out, introducing me to my Krav Maga instructor, and getting in touch with his casino buddies when I needed to look up something in surveillance footage. I’d be happy to get a chance to repay him all those favors, so I said, “Of course. Anything,” and held my breath; I hoped it would be a task that I could actually do. I’d been moonlighting as a PI for a few months now, but I was still a little nervous about my skills.
“I need you to tail a guy.”
That definitely sounded like something I could do, and I breathed out. “Consider it done.”
“Are you sure? It’s an all-day job.”
“I’m sure.”
“You don’t have plans with Moneybags?”
Moneybags was just one of Stone’s fond nicknames for Jack. “I’m happy to do this, Stone. Just tell me who.”
Stone’s pretty much perfected the art of the poker face, but I thought I saw a flash of relief in his dark eyes. “His name’s Michael Schuman. It should be an easy job.”
We reached my apartment, and I invited Stone upstairs. When I flicked on the lights, I noticed that my dark brown carpet was flecked with tiny white kitten hairs. Ian had mopped up the kitchenette floor, but at some point Snowflake must’ve explored the rest of my place.
Stone seemed bemused by the fur. “Are you shedding?”
I smiled wryly. “Ian brought a kitten over.” Stone’s dark eyes seemed reflective as he looked at the fur. “Did you ever have a pet?” I asked.
“When I was six. Golden lab. S— Never mind.”
“No, I’m curious. What were you like when you were six?”
“Incredibly boring. Anyway.” Stone settled down on my couch and pulled out his smartphone. “Let me text you this guy’s photo.” He talked as he fiddled with his phone. “Michael’s an executive from Oklahoma, over on business. His wife’s a little nervous about what he does after work. He’s only in Vegas for a day, so our work isn’t much.”
My phone beeped with the incoming message, and I glanced at the photo. Michael was a square-jawed, dark haired man in a suit and tie. Handsome in a corporate way. “What business is he in?”
