Zombie Cash Run in Las Vegas

by WINTERS, A. R.

  "We were really shocked about Brenna's death," I said gingerly. "I only got to meet her for a few minutes before the show started, but she seemed like a nice person."

  Jake nodded. "I hate that I couldn't be there for the show’s taping. I just… I feel like, maybe if I could've been there…"

  His voice trailed off, and Ian and I exchanged a quick glance. Jake was obviously upset by Brenna's death, and I highly doubted that he could’ve had anything to do with it.

  "Don't beat yourself up," Ian said. "Nobody was allowed backstage after the show's taping finished. It was just the people on the crew."

  And anyone who might have entered through the back entrance, I thought silently.

  "I would have been there," Jake said, "but one of our important clients had a car emergency, and the boss wanted me to work on it. And I asked Brenna if she wanted me to go, but she said she might feel too much pressure if I was there, and that she preferred to compete alone."

  "And it didn't surprise you that she didn't want you to watch her perform?"

  Jake shook his head. "She's always been like that. She says the pressure gets to her, and she likes to work on things by herself."

  "It seems odd that she would enter a reality TV shows then," Ian said.

  Jake smiled suddenly. "She was full of contradictions. In the last few months, she'd gotten really interested in reality TV, and I think she just decided to see what it was like."

  "I like reality TV shows too," Ian said. "I've been on to other shows before this, but I didn't get through the first round."

  Jake nodded. "Brenna's been on another reality TV show before this one, about nine months ago. It was some kind of cooking show–You Can Cook, or The Great Cook-Off, or something like that. I can't remember the name. Anyway, she entered the preliminary round, but she didn't get through. I think that's why she wanted to get into this show–she practiced a lot so she could do well. I don't think she practiced enough for the cooking show. Or maybe I just wasn't home to watch her learn techniques, or whatever it is you have to do to cook well."

  "So Brenna wasn't a good cook?"

  Jake shrugged. "We’re both decent cooks, but I didn't think Brenna was particularly interested in cooking. I think she just wanted to enter a reality TV show, and see how it went."

  "How long have you been living in Vegas?" I asked, even though I knew the answer. I needed to get him talking about Brenna, and I didn't want to seem insensitive by asking things outright.

  "It's been three years," Jake said. "We moved here after our mom died. We settled her affairs, and then we both decided we wanted a bit of fun. I'm a mechanic, so I can get a job pretty much anywhere, and Brenna is a waitress, so she can–could–get a job anywhere, too. We thought that living in Vegas for a few years might be interesting, and if we liked it, we could stay longer."

  "You and your sister were very close," Ian said.

  Jake nodded. "Our dad died when we were very young. I was eight, and Brenna was eleven. After that, the three of us–Brenna, me, our mom–we became really close-knit. When mom died, Brenna and I decided we should shake up our lives a bit. We've always done things together, and it's nice having a friend who’s always got your back."

  "Did Brenna have any close friends here in Vegas?"

  Jake twisted his lips in a facial shrug. "She's never been good at making friends. I think she hangs out with people at the bistro where she works, but that's about it. She's never been an extrovert."

  "What about any boyfriends?"

  "I think Brenna's never been that serious about anyone, not since she broke up with her high-school sweetheart. The last boyfriend I knew of was Steve, but I don't think he and Brenna were all that serious. They broke up after a few months."

  "Do you know why?"

  Jake shrugged. "The relationship had probably just run its course. Neither of them wanted to get serious, and I think Brenna just got to the point where she didn’t want to have anything more to do with him."

  "Do you know about any other exes, maybe someone she dislikes?"

  Jack shook his head. "I think Brenna went out with two other guys in Vegas before Steve, but those relationships weren’t serious either. And I can't think of anyone she disliked, or who hated her. I can give you a list with details of her three exes, and the people from her café."

  "If it's not too much trouble."

  “I already gave the cops that list, so everything’s fresh in my mind. I’ll write it all out for you."

  I waited patiently while he wrote down the details, and once again, I thought to myself that this was a man who was grieving. I couldn't imagine him ever wanting to hurt Brenna, and I appreciated how cooperative he was being.

  When Jake handed us the list, I thanked him, and then Ian said, "It must've been tough, growing up without a dad."

  Jack nodded. "It was difficult, but life happens."

  "How did he die?"

  "Pancreatic cancer. It was tough–I think it might have been tougher for Brenna, since she was older and she understood things better. I was too young to understand very well."

  "Did Brenna have any hobbies?"

  Jake smiled. "Other than reality shows recently? No, not really. She liked to read, but that was it. She was a quiet person who kept to herself."

  I handed him my card, and asked him to give me a call if he thought of anything else.

  "I don't think there’s anything else to think of," he said. "I've already talked to the police twice. But I'll keep your card handy."

  Chapter 24

  Once we’d said our goodbyes to Brenna’s brother and were back in the car, I turned on the air conditioner and looked through the list of names that Jake had given us.

  I decided to start with Brenna's ex-boyfriend–his name was Steve Pinkerton and he lived all the way on the other side of town, near North Las Vegas. It made sense to start with the person who had been the most recently involved in Brenna's life. Jake had said that Steve and Brenna had broken up amicably, but perhaps he didn't know everything that had happened between them. There was always the chance that Steve would turn out to be a jealous ex who’d been overcome by passion when he last saw Brenna.

  I tapped Steve's address into the GPS on my phone, and began driving.

  A few minutes later, I noticed a black sedan with tinted windows in my rearview mirror every now and then. I wouldn't have been sure that it was the same car, except for the fact that its license plate was obscured by a splattering of mud.

  I kept driving for a few more minutes, but after I'd driven almost halfway to Steve's address, I decided that I couldn't take it anymore. This car–and whoever was driving it–was still on my tail, and I didn't like it.

  During the case we’d worked on together, Stone had shown me how to take clever detours and take sharp angles in order to lose a tail. I drove off into a side street, and did exactly what he taught me when we'd first worked together, haphazardly taking roundabouts and doing U-turns, ‘til I was satisfied that I’d done my share of driving like a maniac for the day.

  When I finally got back onto Mojave Road, I checked my rearview mirror–to my relief, the trick seemed to have worked, and I could no longer spot a car following me.

  Stone had also told me that a professional who does surveillance will usually work in a team of two or more people. So just to be on the safe side, I drove up to North Las Vegas, and took a few more tricky detours, before driving up to Steve's house.

  It was only when I parked my car that the full impact of what had just happened hit me.

  My arms began to shake, and I forced myself to take big gulps of air.

  "What's wrong?" Ian said. "And why were you driving all funny?"

  I took another long, deep breath and sat on my hands to keep from shaking. I exhaled loudly, and said, "There was a car following us."

  "Are you sure?" Ian looked concerned, and he glanced back over his shoulder.

  I nodded. "It was a black sedan, but the license plate was co
vered by mud. I’ve managed to lose it, don't worry."

  "Do you think whoever was following us had something to do with Brenna's death?"

  "I don't know," I said honestly.

  I'd solved a number of serious cases, which meant that perhaps a suspect had gotten out on bail and was angry with me. Plus, there was now Eli Cohen, who wanted to get to Tariq before Stone and I did.

  "My gut says it probably was someone to do with this case. Otherwise, why follow us now? If it was anyone else, they'd have followed me to and from work, or maybe tried something else."

  Ian nodded rapidly. "I think it was someone to do with Brenna's death too. But who could it be? We just left Jake's place, you don’t think he could have something to do with it?"

  I shook my head. "Jake seemed really broken up. Although, we can't rule him out. And I wasn't paying much attention when I drove over to his house. It could be anyone else who followed us from my place to Jake’s, and then tried to follow us again."

  "It's okay," Ian said. "We've lost whoever it was, and I don't think they're going to create any trouble for us."

  I took a deep breath, and smiled at Ian. "I agree."

  I didn't agree.

  I thought back to the sensation of being watched in the parking lot–and now this. Whoever had followed us was concerned about our investigations, and pretty soon, they wouldn't limit their activities to spying on us; they’d take more direct action.

  They'd already killed Brenna, and they wouldn't hesitate to get violent again.

  Steve's house turned out to be one that looked exactly like a few dozen others nearby–clearly built by a volume builder, with the same beige walls, and the same desert-scaped lawn. When Ian and I knocked on the front door, a man answered and stared out at us with vacant eyes.

  He was wearing shorts and a white T-shirt, and his dark brown hair was tousled and looked like it hadn’t been brushed this morning. I detected a whiff of BO, and forced myself not to take a step back.

  Ian noticed that I was suffering from a mild bout of being frozen in place, and said, "Steve Pinkerton?"

  Steve nodded. "Yeah. Who are you?"

  "Friends of Brenna’s," I said, deciding to go the subtle route. "Can we come in?"

  Steve narrowed his eyes at us. "You're not from the DEA, are you?"

  Ian and I shook our heads rapidly.

  Steve thought about it for a minute, and then he nodded. "I don't know what DEA officers look like, but I'm sure they don't look like you. You guys look kinda scruffy."

  He turned and headed inside, leaving us to follow him in.

  The living room we walked into looked like it hadn't been cleaned in months. There were takeout containers lying everywhere, and the carpet had accumulated its fair share of discarded wrappers and crumbs.

  The smell of pot hung in the air, and Ian and I exchanged a glance. We sat down, and then Ian said, "Terrible about Brenna's death."

  Steve nodded. "Cops came around to talk to me. They asked me what I was doing when she died, and I told them I was right here, hanging out with my roommates, Joe and Lachlan."

  "And were you?"

  Steve laughed, and then he stopped abruptly and looked at us. "Yeah. I was."

  "Hanging out?"

  Steve grinned. "Yeah. We all got stoned, but don't tell the cops that. Shh."

  He lifted a finger to his lips, and Ian and I smiled and nodded in agreement.

  "It'll be a secret," I told him.

  He narrowed his eyes at me. "Yeah."

  He sounded like he didn't quite trust me, and Ian said, "What else did they ask?"

  "All about Brenna. Why are you two here again?"

  "We’re investigating Brenna's death," I said. I wondered if I should tell him that we were private investigators, but that might make him more suspicious again. "We think the cops might have missed something."

  "Did you two work with Brenna?"

  "Yes," I said, thinking that pretending to be her co-workers might head off a couple of his questions. "But we weren’t that close. How did you and Brenna meet?"

  "I went to the bistro a couple of times. I used to be a barista at the Blue Horse Café–but they fired me. Anyway, I met her when I was a barista. We talked, and then I asked her out. Too bad I had to dump her."

  "What you mean?"

  "Found out that she was cheating on me with Billy."

  I frowned. "Who's Billy?"

  Steve looked at me suspiciously again. "I thought you worked with Brenna?"

  "Oh," I said, bluffing quickly, "you mean that Billy, who works with Brenna and us?"

  Steve relaxed and nodded. "Yeah. I didn't want to go out with her and be cheated on. What kind of loser does that?"

  "So, you broke up with her?"

  "Yeah. It was no skin off my back. We weren't ever that serious, and it was going nowhere."

  "And was it going somewhere with Billy?"

  Steve shook his head. "I don't know. I don't think so."

  "Did you know much else about Brenna? Like anyone who could’ve wanted to hurt her?"

  Steve shook his head, no. "She was all right. I mean, she seemed really normal. Not the kind of person who goes and gets herself killed."

  "What did you think of Jake, Brenna's brother?"

  Steve shrugged. "Never met him."

  "Did you keep in touch with Brenna after you broke up?"

  "Nah, we broke up three months ago. Never talked to her after that."

  Ian and I exchanged a glance. There didn't seem to be much else to ask Steve–if anything, we should probably head over and have a chat with Billy.

  "Did you tell the cops about Billy?" I said.

  "Nah. I told them we broke up because we got tired of seeing each other. I didn't want them to think I was mad at her or anything." He tapped his forehead with a finger. "I had to think that out."

  Ian asked Steve a few random questions about casinos, and how he liked living in Vegas, and then, before Steve started to get suspicious about us again, we said goodbye and headed out.

  "At least that went well," I said. "I'd rather deal with someone who’s had a bit of pot than someone like Bruce, who just won’t talk to us."

  "And he's got the perfect alibi," Ian said. "You don't think he was just acting stoned?"

  "No. Besides, his roommates will back him up."

  "But you didn't get their phone numbers."

  "I didn't want Steve getting suspicious. I can look them up in my database–if I've got the address, I can find out who else lives here, and then I can get their phone numbers. And I really don't think Steve's making up anything."

  Ian nodded. "I think we should go talk to Billy. Maybe the cops haven't talked to him yet–do you think we should tell Ryan before we go?"

  I turned the question over in my mind for a minute.

  "No," I said finally. "If we’re the first to talk to Billy, he won't have time to make up things. If the cops get to him, he might refuse to talk to us about Brenna."

  "I think you're right," Ian said. "But we should be careful. You know what they say about murders—it's usually the spouse."

  Chapter 25

  I didn't know Billy's last name, or even if his first name was Bill or William or something else. But I did know that Brenna used to work at Tom's Bistro, and that's where Ian and I drove to.

  Tom's Bistro was on East Desert Inn Road, near the southern end of Winchester. It was a medium-sized place, with walls that displayed black-and-white posters of jazz legends, and had wooden booths and tables. There was a long counter where cold foods were displayed, and specials of the day were written up on a large blackboard behind the counter.

  There were three wait staff on the floor, and when I saw the handful of customers sitting at the tables, I realized it was almost lunchtime.

  "Table for two?" asked the smiling brunette waitress.

  I glanced behind me to make sure we weren’t holding up anyone, and then I said, "Actually, we’re friends of Brenna’s, and we’
re trying to get in touch with Billy. We were told he works here?"

  A look of mild surprise washed over the waitress's face, and she said, "Billy was fired about a week ago. He kept coming into work late."

  "Do you know where he lives?"

  The waitress shook her head. "But Rand, that's the manager," she said, nodding her head toward a tall, curly-haired man standing behind the counter, "he would know."

  Ian and I thanked her, and headed over to Rand. Once again, we introduced ourselves as friends of Brenna, who were trying to get in touch with Billy.

  Rand raised one eyebrow, and looked from me to Ian steadily. "Are you working with the police? Because they've already been here."

  "We're not working with them."

  Rand shrugged.

  Clearly, he wasn't convinced, but he didn't bother to ask any more questions. Instead, he headed over to a laptop that was sitting next to the cash register, fired it up, and looked up some document. "Here it is. You want his phone number as well?"

  "Yes, please."

  Rand wrote out Billy’s full name–which turned out to be William Smith, along with his phone number and address. "He wasn't the best employee," Rand said. "And if you’re friends of Brenna’s, I don't see why you're trying to get in touch with him. Unless she left something in her will."

  That last bit was said in a joking tone, and I said, "No, I'm just trying to return something that belonged to him."

  The lies were flowing smoothly today, and Rand just nodded his head. He didn't look entirely convinced by my story, and he watched Ian and I as we walked out the bistro and headed back to my car.

  Ian asked, "Are we going to go back to talk to everyone who works at the bistro?"

  "If we need to. But right now, we should focus on Billy. Brenna was dating him, and it was a secret–I wonder if Billy has any other secrets that he's trying to hide."

  The address Rand had given us turned out to be a small block of flats just off the South Maryland Parkway.