Zombie Cash Run in Las Vegas
A.R. Winters
Contents
Zombie Cash Run in Las Vegas
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Zombie Cash Run in Las Vegas
By
A. R. Winters
Zombie Cash Run in Las Vegas
Copyright 2018 by A. R. Winters
www.arwinters.com
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.
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Zombie Cash Run in Las Vegas (A Tiffany Black Story)
Who could've wanted to kill the reality show contestant? Was it someone on the crew - the womanizing director, the secretive producer, the helpful consultant, or a rival contestant?
When Tiffany's friend Ian insists on entering a zombie-themed reality TV show, the duo stumble onto an unexpected murder.
Before they know it, they're embroiled in the investigation, and uncovering all kinds of secrets - and being followed by a mysterious assailant. Ian and Tiffany must track down the killer before it's too late!
Prologue
Brenna sat in one of the chairs in her dressing room.
It wasn’t really a dressing room–it was just one of those extra rooms in the conference center that the production staff had decided to call "dressing rooms." They were probably used as backstage rooms where the speakers or participants in conferences prepares and rehearses their speeches.
There were no dressing tables, but Brenna didn't mind. She hadn't expected to have a dressing room at all, and she was happy to have gotten this far in the competition.
The walls of the dressing room were a dreary beige; there were no windows. There was a desk pushed against one wall, and Brenna sat at it now, her back to the door. She had her e-reader in front of her, but she couldn’t concentrate on the words that filled the screen. Instead, she thought about what she would have to do.
This was a slightly unusual game show, and Brenna wasn’t sure what would happen next. She needed to concentrate, and she needed to craft a plan. Of course, she’d thought she had a plan the first time, but that hadn't gone all that well, or how she'd expected. This time would be different.
The door to the dressing room opened, and a figure stepped in and silently closed the door.
Brenna turned around; her eyes widened with surprise.
"I wasn't expecting you," she said nervously.
The person smiled at her thinly, taking a few steps forward. "We should talk."
Brenna nodded rapidly, and gulped. Professional–that's what she needed to be. She needed to stand her ground, and she couldn't show any of the apprehension that was balling in the pit of her stomach. She had a sudden feeling of fear, of her blood running cold.
"That's a good idea," Brenna said. She forced herself to smile, as the figure took a few more steps toward her.
The unexpected flash of silver heading toward her stomach was the last thing she saw.
Chapter 1
The lights in the casino were as bright as ever, belying the fact that it was well beyond midnight.
Gamblers laughed and chatted, the chimes of the slot machines rang out, and every now and then there was a whoop of delight from the craps table. The partygoers were in full swing, and there were seven people–five men and two women–sitting at the table opposite me. I concentrated on the cards as I dealt them out, and made small talk with the players.
So far, my shift at the Treasury Casino had been rather uneventful. I hadn't had to deal with any mean drunks, and only one small fistfight had broken out at the other end of the pit.
The gamblers sitting in front of me were all quite pleasant and we laughed and chatted politely. Most of them already had a bit to drink, enough to make them feel happy and warm inside, but not enough to make them belligerent and angry at the dealer whose fault it was whenever bad cards came up.
As I dealt the cards, my mind drifted over to my friend Ian, who was constantly coming up with harebrained schemes to pursue. His obsession du jour had become reality TV shows; he'd recently entered a dance reality show with my nanna, and had enjoyed every moment of it.
After he and Nanna failed to make it through to the next round of the show, Ian had been contacted by the producer of a new survival–style reality TV show, and Ian was excited about getting in front of the cameras again.
Personally, I thought this idea of Ian's to become a reality TV celebrity was ridiculous, but I tried not to say so aloud. It was my job to support my friend, and though I didn't think anything good would come from his entering this show, I wanted to be a good friend.
When you live in Vegas, it's hard to make friends or have stable relationships–people move around a lot, and nobody seems to stay in this town for very long. When I first met Ian, I’d found his presence and constant excitement about life somewhat tiring. But over time, Ian had transformed from that annoying creature who kept wanting to help out on my private investigator cases to the annoying but loyal younger brother I'd never had.
And then there was the matter of my friend Stone.
That was a whole other issue unto itself, and as I thought about his situation, I noticed that one of the security guys was talking into his earpiece rapidly, and glancing at my table every now and then.
What had I done wrong?
Sure, my attention had drifted for a few minutes, but that happens every now and then, and I'm usually able to deal the cards without making any mistakes. None of the players at my table had complained about anything, so I couldn't have been making any obvious mistakes.
I expected the security guy to walk over to my table swiftly, but he did nothing. He just stood there, and said a few more words into his earpiece. When I made eye contact with him, he looked away hastily, and pretended to focus on a different table.
I focused on the cards once again, and a few minutes in, I realized what was going on. So I wasn't surprised when the security guy walked over, and tapped one of the players on his shoulder.
"Excuse me sir," he said politely, "I wonder if I could perhaps have a word with you."
The man in question had dirty blond hair that hung past his shoulders, and bright blue eyes. He seemed to be in his mid-20s, and gave off a surfer dude kind of vibe.
But when he was tapped on the shoulder and asked to leave the table, he looked more disappointed than surprised.
Surfer Dude nodded. "Sure.” He gathered up his chips with obvious trepidation, and followed the dark-suited sec
urity man away from our table, and out of our line of view.
Play had stopped as soon as the security guy had shown up, and all of us, me included, watched the man walk away.
When we could no longer see him, all the players turned and looked at me.
"What was that about?" one of the women asked.
"I'm not sure," I lied. "Maybe his wife's been looking for him and can't find him?"
None of the other gamblers seemed to believe it, but I started doling out the cards again, and pretty soon, they forgot about Surfer Dude.
Of course, I knew that the man's wife wasn’t looking for him – Surfer Dude had just gotten caught counting cards. Counting cards isn't allowed in any of the casinos on the Strip, but every now and then someone decides that it's an easy way to make money. What they don't realize is that pretty much all card counters get caught–the casino doesn't like giving away its profits.
The talk at the table turned back to the various buffets in Vegas, and which ones were absolutely essential to visit, and I smiled and once again let my mind drift off.
Ian had told me that the producer of the reality TV show had asked to meet with both of us, and he'd made an appointment for tomorrow. I had no idea why the producer would want to meet the two of us–or even want to meet Ian before the taping, for that matter.
But I would find out soon enough.
Chapter 2
The next day, Ian and I were standing in the lobby of the Riverbelle Hotel at three in the afternoon.
"We're here to see Dave Colton," Ian said, his voice barely hiding his excitement. "He's expecting us."
I’d told Ian to play it cool, but I don't think that was a concept he understood.
With his large shock of curly red hair and excitable green eyes, Ian was like a little puppy who didn’t understand the harsh realities of the world. You’d think that working as my unpaid assistant on private investigator cases would make him a bit more jaded, but no, that hasn't happened yet. And I've given up all hope of Ian ever being less energetic and optimistic–and now that I've gotten to know him a bit better, I kind of like him the way he is.
"What do you think he wants to talk to us about?" Ian asked for the hundredth time, turning to me with a quizzical look.
I shook my head. "If I knew the answer to that question, I probably wouldn't be here."
Ian laughed, and said, "You're always so skeptical. I'm sure he just wants to welcome us to the team."
"But I'm not part of the team."
The pleasant-looking young blonde at the reception desk finished looking up our details, made a quick call to Dave to tell him we were here, and printed out some plastic card keys.
"You need to press these against the black box in the elevator," she said, "and then press thirty-eight. You’ll be taken straight up to the penthouse."
As we were told, the elevator opened directly into the penthouse suite. We stepped out straight into a large living/dining/kitchen/bar area, which didn't look as gaudy as I'd expected. Instead, this suite was all about understated elegance–smooth, flowing lines and neutral colors. The floor-to-ceiling windows gave us a view of the Strip, and three medium-sized abstract paintings and a large flat screen TV decorated the other walls. A door, which I assumed must've led to one of the bedrooms, opened and out stepped Dave Colton.
"Ian! Tiffany! It's so good to meet you two!"
Dave Colton headed our way, beaming, his face lit up with a huge Cheshire cat grin. His hair was dark and neatly combed, and he was wearing an expensive-looking shirt and Bermuda shorts. He looked like he hit the gym regularly, probably with an overpaid personal trainer, and it was hard to guess his age–given that he was the producer of a brand-new reality TV show, I estimated that he must've been at least fifty, even though skillful Botox and fillers hid his real age. I murmured a polite response, and Ian returned Dave's grin with one of his own.
We shook hands, Dave ushered us over to the seating area with the leather sofas, and once we were all comfortably seated, he said, "I’m glad you’re here! It's always good to meet the people I'm going to be working with before the show actually starts."
I tried not to let my suspicions show. What kind of reality show producer wants to meet the contestants before the show even started recording?
Of course, Ian was a bit different from the other typical contestants–Dave had contacted Ian personally and asked him to be a part of the show. He'd seen Ian on other reality TV shows–making a fool of himself, I might add–and he wanted him on his new project. Apparently, he thought Ian would lend a bit of charm that would help the show get off the ground. Personally, I assumed that he wanted Ian behaving in hilarious, immature and unpredictable ways that would make viewers laugh their pants off.
"How many contestants will there be?" Ian said.
"We'll do this show in stages," said Dave. "We'll have various rounds, and then once the elimination rounds are done, there's the grand survival round."
As he spoke, he waved his hands in the air animatedly, doing his best to transfer all his enthusiasm and energy over to us.
I assumed that Dave was used to selling his ideas to others–how else could he have been successful in Hollywood? I didn't share the same enthusiasm for his show, but I smiled politely, and said, "It sounds like a fascinating idea." I didn't really believe that, but I figured there was no point airing my negative opinions aloud.
"It is!" Dave said. "I'm pretty sure we'll go on to be one of the most popular survival reality shows on the networks."
I forced myself to keep smiling and nodding, but I noticed how he toned down his ambitions a bit–he wasn't aiming to be the best reality TV show ever–he just wanted to be the best in his own chosen category. I had to respect the man for that. At least he was practical.
And then, I remembered that he hadn't actually told us how many contestants there were. "So how many contestants in this first round?"
"Five, including Ian," said Dave. "I thought it was important to keep the numbers manageable, at least at first. We've hired the conference center near the airport to do all the shooting–as I've already told Ian. Of course, I'd be happy to make the number of contestants six. You wouldn't consider joining the show, would you, Tiffany?"
My smile stayed frozen in place. Why was he asking me to join his show?
As though he could read my mind, Dave said, "I've heard so much about you from Ian. And I saw you doing that song and dance number on the music show."
I cringed, unable to stop myself. The song and dance number in question was not one of my finest moments. I had gone up on stage, been unable to remember any of the lyrics to a popular pop song, and waved my hands in front of my face while repeating, "P–p–poker face, P–p–p-poker face.”
"I'm not actually a reality show kind of person," I said honestly.
Dave’s smile broadened. "A lot of people think that. Reality TV has some negative connotations, but it doesn't have to be like that. We're not doing some sleazy number out there."
As soon as he said that, I realized I wasn't sure what kind of show he was planning at all.
"It's going to be a really great show," Dave went on. "Millions of people are going to watch it, and they'll all get to know your name. Ian tells me you're a private investigator–imagine how good this could be for your business."
I was going to protest, but Dave decided to lay on the charm thick and strong.
"You're so pretty, and you've clearly got a sparkling personality. A show like this could make you famous–it would make you popular. You'd meet all kinds of wonderful people, and not to mention the money you could earn. You could do anything with your life, once you do this show."
He was great at selling dreams; I had to give the man that. But I was pretty sure I could do anything I wanted with my life right now–and I didn't have to go on a reality show to do it. "I'm sorry," I said firmly but politely. "My answer is still no."
But Dave didn’t seem to understand what "no" meant.
I forced myself to not look at Ian. I knew that if I even shot him a glance, he'd start jumping up and down with excitement. From his perspective, this was a great idea. I was surprised he wasn’t already talking about how wonderful it would be for us to be on the show together, but perhaps he wasn't as big a fan of the idea as I thought he would be.
"Just give it some thought," said Dave, trying to sound sincere and charming all at once. "That's all I ask of you."
I forced myself to look away from Dave's intense, dark eyes. There was something about the man that rubbed me the wrong way–I supposed you had to be pushy and fake in Hollywood, but I didn't like it when someone tried to be fake and pushy toward me. I had no intention of joining a reality TV show, and I didn't like people who thought I was easy to manipulate. But this wasn't about me–I was here to support Ian, and that's what I would do.
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