I turned one photo over. There was nothing on the back. “Did she seem upset?” I asked.
“No. She found it funny.”
I passed the photos over to Samantha who looked at a few and shook her head. “No. Crystal never said anything about a stalker.”
“I wonder…” Max paused. “Do you think she was just trying to make me feel better by saying it was a joke? These photos look pretty… stalkerish.”
We were all looking at the photos thinking the same thing: if someone was really stalking Crystal, maybe this person had also killed her. And if they hadn’t killed her, but were watching, maybe they’d seen who had.
Chapter Six
I squinted at one of the photos. “Where was this taken?”
Max went through the photos slowly. “All of them were taken here in Vegas.”
“Did anyone know about the stalker?”
He shook his head again, looking helplessly at Samantha. “I thought you were Crystal’s best friend. If she didn’t mention it to you, I don’t think she told anyone else.”
“He’s right,” Samantha told me. “She didn’t tell me anything. Either it wasn’t important enough to her, or she was keeping it secret.”
I nodded, and gathered up the photos.
“What about her work?” I asked. “What was Crystal doing here?”
Samantha had already told me, but I wanted to see if Max’s version of the story matched up with Samantha’s. It did, and I listened while Max told me all about how Crystal was trying to make contacts at the Indie Movie Convention, and how the role in Casino Kings might’ve been her big break.
“Did she have any other friends in Vegas? Maybe other actors at the convention, or working in Casino Kings?”
Max frowned. “She did talk to me about work, but I can’t remember names. She was pretty close with this one girl who worked on the set… Maggie, Marjory, Macey-”
“Minnie,” said Samantha. “She’s a makeup artist on set.”
“How come they’re already shooting the movie?” I asked. “I thought roles were always decided ages in advance?”
“It’s an indie movie,” Max said. “Low-budget, but expected to win some prizes. Crystal would’ve gotten a side-role. Sally Herbert was meant to play it, but she got sick, so they needed a quick replacement. Crystal was all set to be it.”
I frowned. “Do you think someone might’ve been jealous that Crystal got the role?”
Max shook his head. “It wasn’t a done deal, but she’d probably have signed on in a few days. I’m not sure who would be jealous – it was just a supporting role in an indie move. Though Crystal had high hopes.”
“But you never know with these Hollywood types,” Samantha added, and I agreed. Not that I knew any Hollywood types in person – but what little I’d seen in OK! and People made me think they weren’t very nice people. Although the role didn’t sound like much to kill for.
“Anyway,” Max said, getting up and walking over to the desk again, “These are her papers. Mail and stuff – in case it helps.”
“Thanks.” I was a little surprised by how organized he was, but pleased that he’d put the papers aside for me. As I shoved them into my purse, I wondered if his helpfulness was genuine. Had he sorted through the papers since we’d called, putting away something that might incriminate him? Was his naïve, heart-on-sleeve misery just a big act?
Looking at him, I found it hard to believe he’d ever yell at a person, let alone kill them. But I still asked, “Did you and Crystal have any fights recently? Any major disagreements?”
He shook his head. “We never fought. If I disagreed with her, it was always about something minor, so I let it pass.”
Whipped, I thought, and tried not to smirk; I groaned, and tried to get Elwood’s voice out of my head.
Samantha and Max both stared at me.
“What’s wrong?” Samantha said.
Max looked concerned. “Was it a bad thing we never fought? Should I have disagreed with her more often? Some people say you need to fight to keep a relationship healthy, but I never saw it that way.”
“Nothing’s wrong,” I said, staring at Max, and tried to stop the voice inside my head from making a reappearance.“Umm… did Crystal seem any different recently? Stressed? Afraid?”
Max and Samantha both shook their heads. “No,” Max said, “If anything, she was more upbeat than ever, because she thought she was getting her big break.”
“Yeah,” said Samantha, “she said this might be her last time coming down to Vegas.”
“And she wasn’t always running around anymore,” Max added. “She used to spend all her time updating social media, trying to get in touch with people, making phone calls and texting. But the day before she died, we spent the whole day together. Didn’t even leave the hotel – just hung out in the spa, spent time together, relaxed. I can’t believe…” He shook his head. “I just can’t believe it.”
I nodded, trying to think of things I might be overlooking. “What about her family?” I asked. “Was it just her sister?”
“Yeah,” said Max. “Christine. She’s a couple years older than Crystal, married to her high school sweetheart and lives out in Nebraska – Crystal and I visit go see her on holidays.”
I nodded. “And did they get along?”
Max shrugged. “They weren’t besties, but Crystal told me they grew closer after their mom died a few years ago. Their dad died when they were teenagers.”
“Any other family? Uncles and aunts, cousins?”
“A handful – but they don’t live in Nebraska or the West Coast, so I’ve never met them. I know Crystal adored her sister and little nieces and nephews, but she didn’t want her sister ever coming to Vegas, just in case…”
“How ’bout you? Did you and Christine get along?”
Max shrugged again. “Decently enough. She’s pretty conservative. And she wanted to have the funeral in Nebraska, but of course that’s not possible – all Crystal’s friends are in LA.”
I turned to Samantha and said, “Did you ever meet Christine? Or any of Crystal’s other relatives?” She shook her head and I took a deep breath. “Right. Well…” I wasn’t looking forward to having to talk to someone about the death of their only sister, but it had to be done. I manned up and asked Max for Christine’s phone number, and then said, “Could you give her a call tonight, please? Let her know that I’ll be calling tomorrow.”
“Sure thing.”
I couldn’t think of anything more to ask, so I gave Max my card and told him to get in touch with me if he thought of anything else.
As Samantha and I headed out and down to the parking lot, I asked her what she thought of Max.
“He seems sweet,” she said. “Pretty upset.”
“Seems like he really loved her.”
“Yeah.” She nodded. “It’s every stripper’s dream – marry a rich guy and settle down. But not Crystal’s dream. And he’s not even that rich.”
“But he treated her well.”
“And she never had anything bad to say about him. Loved him, I guess.”
But not enough to tell him that she was a stripper.
***
I gave Emily a quick call, and headed back to the station. As per my luck, the first person I saw when I stepped inside the building was Elwood. He must’ve just been returning from a cigarette break, because he stank like a chimney. A fat, grumpy chimney.
“Hey!” he said, frowning at me. “What’re you doing here again?”
“I’m an investigator, remember? I needed to look at some papers.”
He stared at me blankly, like he was processing something hugely complicated. “I thought you were a dealer. I remember you saying that, ’cause my wife’s a dealer, too.”
“I thought she was your ex.”
“Whatever.” He waved the inaccuracy away with one hand. “I’ve never heard of a PI named Tiffany Black.”
“Really? Because I helped solve the Ethan B
ecker murder. Put my life at risk and all that. I was in the papers.” Well, ok, just the local paper, but still.
Elwood frowned at me, and I knew he had no clue what I was talking about. But I used this opportunity to slip away and find Emily.
It was good to see Emily again, even though she was busy with work and I didn’t want to waste her time. We spent a few seconds complaining about our lives to each other, and then I said, “What’s wrong with Elwood?”
Emily laughed. “He’s really not that bad. Better than some of the pigs here.”
I had to agree. LVMPD officers tend to be overworked and underpaid, and most of them are wonderful people. But some of them – like cops everywhere – really are just pigs. Corrupt, greedy and high on power.
“Did you ever meet the former Mrs. Elwood?”
Emily nodded and I followed her as she walked down the hall. “Yeah, at the LEO’s ball last year. Gorgeous woman – all Amazonian curves and beautiful blonde waves.”
“Huh. Elwood said I looked like her.”
Emily made a face. “Elwood thinks every woman looks like her, now that she’s left him. Wait here.”
I stood outside the Records Room and waited for a few minutes, taking in the noise and bustle of the station. The place was well-ventilated and studiously bland, but I could still catch a whiff of gun oil, a hint of cigarette smoke and sweat.
Two young officers were standing in a corner, laughing about something, and a group of five older men stood around a desk arguing.
I was trying to guess what they were arguing about – interrogation tactics? Who their lead suspect was? The Bears game? – when Emily walked out of the room with a file in her hand.
She passed it over to me and said, “It’s the file you asked for. Crystal Macombe’s case was only closed a few days ago, so you can sit over there and go through the file, but you can’t copy anything or take notes.”
I thanked her and headed toward the tiny conference room she’d pointed out. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, but I thumbed through all the pages of the file anyway, desperately hoping something would jump out at me.
There were photos of Crystal’s lifeless body, gory and tough to look at. There was the autopsy report, which I deciphered as concluding that she was “stabbed to death, probably by one person.” And there were the obligatory interviews – with her boyfriend, Max; with her flatmate, Samantha; with the director of the Casino Kings, Sam Rampell; with people living in houses on the street where she was killed. But the neighbors had heard nothing that night, and neither Max nor Sam said anything interesting or revealing.
I went over the file once more, frowning and biting my lip as I tried to find something I’d missed, but there was nothing. Nada. Whoever was behind Crystal’s death, I wouldn’t find him by reading this report.
I closed the file with a sigh and left reluctantly when the clock hands had moved too far. I’d be late for my shift, so I said a hurried goodbye to Emily, and sped home to change.
The moment I opened my front door, I noticed the envelope lying on the floor. I thought it was just junk mail, so I locked the door behind me and picked it up.
There was a sheet of letter size paper folded inside the envelope, and I unfolded it to read the single line of printed text.
It said, “You ruin my life, I’ll ruin yours.”
I looked up and glanced around quickly, as though whoever wrote it might be lurking, watching me.
My condo is small and sparsely furnished. The front door opens into a tiny sitting area, with an open-space kitchen and dining area behind it. There was nobody in this room, so I crept to the bedroom door and glanced inside. It was empty.
I couldn’t hear any sounds either – no sounds of somebody breathing, or trying not to make any noise. I checked under the bed, inside the closet, and inside the bathroom. I opened up the curtains and glanced at the tiny verandah that was accessed through the window. Nothing.
My breath came out in a rush, and I realized my ears were pounding with the sound of my blood. I took a moment to sit down on the edge of the bed, and tried to get my heart rate down to normal.
Who could’ve sent this letter? My brain raced around, trying to think of people who hated me, but I couldn’t come up with much. Green Eyes might hate me if he thought I was trying to cause trouble for him, but he had no way of knowing that I’d talked to the cops. He didn’t even know who I was or where I lived, which was really quite a shame.
If Crystal had really been murdered, her killer might hate me, but I’d barely even talked to anyone yet. When I’d worked for my previous client, Sophia, I’d uncovered a casino fraud ring at The Riverbelle Casino—a group of twelve casino employees whose members included Mr. Beard and Beady Eyes, the two thugs who’d backroomed me earlier. All the guys involved probably hated me, but they were all behind bars now. In short, there was no reason for anyone to send me a strange, one-line hate letter.
I glanced at it again. It must be a joke. Or maybe it was meant for somebody else and got slipped under my door by mistake.
Yeah, that made sense. It was probably meant for old Mrs. Weebly, who lived two doors down. She was eighty-four years old, an overly-active member of the Home Owners’ Association, and constantly poking her nose in other people’s business, so the “you ruined my life” line made sense. She’d probably tattled about someone’s extra-marital affair, or given someone advice they didn’t want to hear. She was always giving people stupid advice – just last week, she’d told me that any job which required a woman to stay out till four in the morning was probably the Devil’s work.
“In my day,” she’d continued, “a woman like you would stay home and look pretty. A woman needs a man she can rely on, a man she can lean on. Of course, you’ll never find a man like that if you keep working all through the night.”
And then she’d given me a stern, disapproving look and walked away.
I glanced at the clock and snapped back to reality. I had more urgent problems than this stupid letter – if I didn’t rush, I’d be late for work and be docked an hour’s pay. So I pushed the letter to the back of my mind, slid into my stupid red and black dealer’s outfit and raced out the door.
I speed-walked the couple of blocks up to The Treasury Casino, ignoring the bustle of tourists and the noise of their excitement. I was focusing on not being late for work, and whenever I remembered the letter, I reminded myself that it had actually been meant for Mrs. Weebly. Before I knew it, I was standing in the casino pit, taking up my position behind a blackjack table, and allowing myself to sink into the world of twenty-four hour gambling.
I’ve worked as a dealer for many years now, and the sights and sounds of the pit feel like my personal security blanket: the jingle of the slot machines, the loud chatter and laughter. The bright lights and gaudy carpets, the wild-eyed gamblers and the exhausted cocktail waitresses.
The job isn’t as glamorous as many non-locals think, but it’s not as bad as many other jobs out there. Sure, this job’s taught me to deal with belligerent drunks, overly-handsy young men and gamblers who’ve lost their rent money and want to take it out on the dealer – but it pays my bills, and I’m thankful for that.
At least until I have my PI gig sorted out and I can waltz out of this overly bright gambling-addict’s paradise.
As I smiled my fake, happy smile, dealt cards and chatted with the gamblers, only a tiny part of my brain was focusing on work. Another tiny part – the part that I couldn’t control with my near non-existent willpower – was scanning the crowd in the hopes of seeing Green Eyes. If he were a tourist, he’d visit some casino floors, and though I wasn’t sure how I’d recognize him without his ski-mask, I couldn’t help but indulge in a bit of wishful thinking.
The rest of my brain was busy remembering the contents of Crystal Macombe’s police report – was there anything in it I was overlooking?
I mentally replayed the conversation I’d had with Max. There was no big arrow pointing toward
anyone in particular, but I worried about Crystal’s secret life as a stripper. That was something the police hadn’t known about or looked into, and I wondered if Crystal had seen or heard something at the strip club which might have led to someone wanting to get rid of her. And then there were the photos, and her “stalker friend.”
Something about the stalker’s photos was bothering me, and I was determined to find out what it was.
Chapter Seven
My fantasies didn’t become reality during my shift – no matter how often I looked around, I didn’t spot Green Eyes on the casino floor. I took the same route home, but he didn’t fall from the sky again. I hit the sack disappointed, sure that he’d left Vegas and that I’d never see him again.
I woke up the next morning to sound of my cell phone buzzing, once again. The number wasn’t one I knew, so I let it ring out. But then it rang again, and I groaned. The noise was bugging me, and I answered grumpily, expecting it to be someone enquiring about my long-distance calling plan.
Instead, it was a woman claiming her name was Stacey Rosenberg and that she worked for All American Insurance.
Immediately, I said, “I’m not interested.”
There was silence for a second and then she said in a chilly voice, “I’m the Assistant Claims Investigation Manager.”
I yawned and rubbed my eyes. “Are they making managers cold call? Or do they just call everyone a manager, now?”
I heard a deep sigh, and then she spoke slowly, like she was talking to a toddler who only understood very basic words. “We are investigating the theft of the Van Gogh.”
I had no idea what she meant, so I said, “That’s nice.” It was far too early in the morning for me to have a conversation of this length. I needed coffee and breakfast, maybe a slice of cake, before I could talk.
“I spoke to Detective Elwood and he said you may have seen something.”
I heard the words “Detective Elwood” and tried to focus. This might not be a telemarketer. “I’m sorry. Who is this?”
A.R. Winters - Tiffany Black 02 - Green Eyes in Las Vegas Page 3
