Casino Girl: A Gripping Las Vegas Thriller

by Leslie Wolfe

  Footsteps broke my train of thought; I turned and saw Mrs. Steele approaching, elegantly dressed in a cashmere suit in dark green with a black turtleneck and matching pumps. But it was difficult to see past the giant Hermes Porosus Birkin bag on her arm; crocodile skin in such a dark green it was almost black but shone in the bright light. I stopped myself from whistling; that bag had worn a fifty-thousand-dollar price tag. That simple factoid changed the way I thought about the fifty grand she’d apparently given Roxanne. To her, it must’ve been peanuts.

  “How can I help you, Detectives?”

  She sat on the edge of a white leather armchair and invited us to take a seat with a charming gesture of her hand and a matching smile. She removed her Chanel sunglasses and placed them on the glass-top coffee table, keeping the bag in her lap.

  The housekeeper appeared with a tray and served coffee with fascinating effectiveness. I took a sip from a cup she’d poured, without adding sugar or milk, curious to taste the flavor; it was amazing.

  “Thank you for seeing us, Mrs. Steele,” Holt said, and she smiled at him, a friendly, open smile filled with class and sex appeal at the same time. “We won’t be long.”

  A pang of jealousy reminded me I was alive; she was a beautiful brunette, her shoulder-length hair styled in a sophisticated bob, and her hazel eyes glimmering with gold when the light reflected in them.

  “This is in regard to the young woman who was killed at your husband’s casino,” Holt continued. “I’m sure you must’ve heard about it by now?”

  “Yes,” she replied calmly. “Such an unfortunate situation. How can I help?”

  I looked at Holt briefly, inviting him to continue, while I studied her reactions in detail. Money had changed hands between her and her husband’s mistress; that made her more than a person of interest.

  Holt cleared his throat quietly, seemingly uncomfortable. “This is probably going to upset you, Mrs. Steele, and I apologize for having to ask this question, but are you aware your husband was having an affair?”

  She breathed; not gasped, like I would’ve done in her place. No, just breathed and straightened her back, then looked away, seemingly embarrassed.

  “Was he sleeping with the girl who died?” she asked, just a whisper I barely caught.

  “No, with her roommate, Roxanne Omelas,” Holt replied. He paused for a moment, giving her time to react, but other than her hand clasping her handbag spasmodically, nothing happened. “But you already knew that, Mrs. Steele,” Holt continued in a gentle tone of voice, “because you met her. In person.”

  Deliberately, as if it were a movie in slow motion, she turned toward Holt and looked straight at him, then at me. She wasn’t shocked; not even surprised.

  “Yes, we know you met Roxanne Omelas, and we know how much money you gave her,” Holt pressed on, his voice still gentle, friendly. “The only thing we can’t figure out is why.”

  She pressed her lips together with the gesture women make after applying lipstick. A slight frown put minimal lines on her perfect forehead. “Do I need an attorney present?”

  “Do you believe you’ve done something wrong?” Holt asked. “We’re not arresting you, if that’s your question, nor do we believe you’ve done anything wrong.”

  He was smooth, my partner, I thought while I watched Mrs. Steele drop her shoulders just a tiny bit, a sign that his demeanor was helping her relax and trust.

  But she didn’t say anything for a long moment, and I had to summon my will to keep from fidgeting and asking questions; we didn’t have all day. When she finally spoke, it wasn’t what I’d expected.

  “I need to get out of this marriage,” she said, lowering her voice and looking briefly toward the kitchen, but the housekeeper wasn’t there anymore.

  Holt caught the hint and pulled his chair closer to her, and I did the same.

  “You don’t know Paul like I do,” she continued, weakly. “No one does. All people see is this powerhouse man, an ambitious overachiever, who rebuilt the Scala from the smoldering remnants of his father’s bad management. He pulled the company from the brink of bankruptcy, and look where he is now. Right?”

  I nodded, and Holt whispered, “Yes.”

  “But Paul Steele is also a distant, harsh man who expects me to stay locked in here every day, alone, doing nothing but prepare his next gala, organize another reception for the mayor, or create a birthday party for the governor’s daughter. To him, I’m a resource, little more than an employee.”

  Just like that, I understood why I’d felt coldness in that house; because it was there, expressed through visual cues that the rational mind doesn’t consciously interpret and acknowledge, but the subconscious analyzes and delivers a result in the form of gut feelings. It was in the fabulous pool, silently still, no laughter and no splashing of water to ripple its perfect surface. It was in the complete absence of anything that suggested people lived there; a book left open on a coffee table, a TV on, some music, or anything to break that terrible silence.

  I felt sorry for Mrs. Steele, despite her high-end handbag and fabulous looks.

  “Do you have children, Mrs. Steele?” I asked, thinking of another thing that seemed to be missing from that house.

  She smiled, that smile touching her eyes with a hint of sadness, of longing. “Yes, two boys, both of them gone to college now.” She interpreted my look correctly, because she immediately added, “I had them young.”

  Then she stopped talking again, her eyes lost in the distance, focused on something on the horizon line, far beyond the massive windows overlooking the lake.

  “Please continue,” Holt said.

  “I wanted to continue my career, once the boys were old enough, but Paul wouldn’t hear of it. I have a master’s degree in advertising, but practicing, even if it meant a job at our hotel, was out of the question for my husband.” Her voice had turned fraught, with hidden tears threatening to break the floodgates open. She fell silent again, her gaze turned away from us and lost in that serene distance.

  “Have you thought of divorcing him?” I asked gently.

  “There’s a prenuptial agreement in place,” she replied, her voice tinged with embarrassment. “If I initiate the separation, I get nothing, and that’s after twenty-two years of working with my husband to make the Scala into what it is today.”

  She stopped for a moment and breathed, a long breath of air inhaled, then exhaled slowly, presumably an attempt to control her emotions.

  “But if he initiates the separation, if he wants to get rid of me, I get what’s rightfully mine. It wasn’t only Paul who built this empire. I worked side by side with him, day after day, year after year,” she added, reiterating what she’d said before, only more bitterly.

  “Or, if he dies or goes away for murder, you get it all, don’t you, Mrs. Steele?” Holt asked, his tone harsh, all his previous sympathy and understanding gone and replaced by something I couldn’t exactly name. Was that one of his interrogation tactics? He had great talent across the table from a suspect, playing at the suspect’s emotions, but I believed I discerned more than that in the tone of his voice.

  “Oh, no, absolutely not,” Mrs. Steele reacted, “I’d never do that to the father of my sons.”

  “Then what did fifty grand buy you, Mrs. Steele?” Holt asked coldly.

  “It was two hundred and fifty, Detective, and it bought me his indiscretions, my freedom. Nothing else.”

  “Walk us through the details of your arrangement,” he asked, increasingly aggressive with her. I glanced at him, trying to get him to put a lid on whatever was crawling up his arse, but he veered his eyes away from mine, pretending he didn’t see me.

  Mrs. Steele stared at the shiny, marble floor for a while, then cleared her throat, keeping her hand pressed against her chest. “Roxanne was paid to seduce my husband. I paid her fifty thousand to start. I was going to pay fifty thousand more when she brought me evidence they were sleeping together, then fifty more when he filed for divorce
, and the final hundred thousand when the divorce papers were signed and sealed.”

  “How is that deal going for you, Mrs. Steele?” Holt snapped harshly.

  “Pardon my partner, Mrs. Steele,” I intervened. “Sometimes men have issues understanding that we women have to get creative to break the chains of our slavery.”

  “Or men just hate it when the women they trust manipulate and lie to them,” Holt reacted, turning toward me, as if I were the source of his anger. “Have you thought of that?” He drilled his dilated pupils into my eyes, making me wonder what he was so riled up about. Was he really having a problem with me? Was it that IAB issue?

  I pushed that thought to the side and turned to Mrs. Steele with a sympathetic smile.

  “Has Roxanne told you anything recently, about how this arrangement was going?”

  Mrs. Steele frowned and fidgeted in place, tucking her bag to the side and taking a sip of coffee.

  “I know Paul’s been sleeping with her, and I know since when; I could see the signs. I don’t know why she hasn’t contacted me for her next payment. I hope she’s not backing out on our deal.”

  “You know what I believe?” Holt snapped. “That you heard Crystal was threatening to tell Paul about it, and you decided to eliminate the risk.”

  She gasped, then quickly covered her mouth with her hand.

  “Roxanne didn’t tell you of that little wrinkle in your plan?” Holt added coldly.

  “No… I didn’t even know that other girl existed.” She looked around panicked, as if searching for someone who could help her. “You mean, someone out there knows of this, um, arrangement? Oh, no…” she whispered, starting to whimper quietly.

  “Well, someone else out there knew about it, and I find it hard to believe it wasn’t you who eliminated the threat that Crystal posed,” Holt added. He stood and started pacing the floor in wide, measured steps, circling the armchair Mrs. Steele took. “Eight hundred million dollars is a hefty motive, Mrs. Steele.”

  “I—I didn’t,” she replied, her words shattered as she struggled to breathe. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  I stood, ready to leave, and grabbed Holt’s sleeve before he could throw another stone. Guilty or not, the woman had talked to us without a lawyer present and that could change anytime. At that moment, I couldn’t wrap my head around Mrs. Steele’s guilt or innocence; all I could think of was that sniveling, conniving, little bitch, Roxanne. She’d lied to us again.

  “We’ll be in touch, Mrs. Steele. Thank you for your time,” I said, turning toward the exit.

  But Holt was standing by the kitchen counter, drawing my attention to where a silver tray held a few, fresh-cut, long-stem roses, pruning shears, and a small pair of fancy gardening gloves.

  Our Mrs. Steele was a gardener.

  44

  Suspects

  “Come on,” Holt said, leaving Rue Mediterra with a tire-squealing turn, “the woman had eight hundred million reasons to poison Crystal, and she gardens!”

  “Just admit you hate her guts,” I replied. “I saw you in there, all nice and friendly, and then you lost it. What’s crawling up your rear, partner?”

  He clenched his jaws and muttered an oath under his breath, then took his anger on the car, slamming his hand against the steering wheel. “Nothing.”

  “Nothing, my arse!” I’d raised my voice and I wasn’t proud of it. I took a deep breath and felt a tad better. “Listen, the woman buys what she needs. I just can’t picture her brewing monkshood leaves to make the tea of death, then sneaking out to murder Crystal; I just didn’t get that vibe from her. But Roxanne, she lied to us again.”

  “She kind of lied,” he pushed back. “She admitted she’d started dating Paul for money but omitted to say whose money. We didn’t know to ask, and she wasn’t under any legal obligation to volunteer that information.”

  “So, now you’re on that harlot’s side?”

  “Harlot?” he laughed. “Can you hear yourself?”

  “Yeah, it means—”

  “I know what it damn means,” he shouted, and I looked at him surprised. I’d never seen him so angry. “One of our lockup guests tonight is a contractor, a killer for hire. Mrs. Steele could’ve easily contracted him, just as she’d contracted Roxanne.”

  “But why hire both? It makes no sense, admit it,” I said, putting a bit of humor in my words.

  “It makes sense, if you think of what she said. Roxanne was sleeping with her husband and wasn’t coming up with evidence of the adultery to get her next installment. What if Mrs. Steele was afraid Roxanne had changed sides? That’s motive, clear as day.”

  “Listen, Fletcher is working on tracking down the money paid to Ronnie Sanford. We’ll find out who paid him. That will put an end to the story; we’ll have our killer.”

  “People like him don’t leave paper trails. I’m not going to sit on my hands and wait for that, because it ain’t going to happen,” he pushed back, still angry.

  “I wasn’t suggesting that… Jeez, Holt, what the hell is wrong with you today?”

  “Fletcher’s never going to find out who paid Sanford,” he said, avoiding the answer I was looking to get. “The likes of Sanford are careful not to leave any evidence behind. I’m willing to bet you a nice dinner in the most expensive joint in Vegas he got caught by accident last time, and he’ll never let that happen again.”

  “What do you mean, he won’t let that happen? He’s in lockup right now, you know that. It happened already.”

  “He’s beat the court system once before,” he replied. “I saw something in his eyes; I saw determination, skill, and self-confidence. He knows there’s no evidence.”

  My partner, whose impeccable deductive reasoning I’d always respected, was not making too much sense. I studied him briefly, ashamed of thinking he might’ve been high. But he seemed fine, articulate, his hands stable, his grip on the wheel firm. Only his logic was off.

  Maybe he was tired; he wasn’t the only one.

  “Holt, you’re forgetting about the DNA under Anne’s fingernails and her testimony. No way Sanford doesn’t go down for blowing up the morgue, for killing Erika. He’s toast, and he knows it. That’s what I saw in his eyes; panic, despair, the acknowledgment that his journey was over.”

  Holt drove silently for a while, the tension in his jaws still visible as knotted muscles danced under his skin.

  “If I didn’t know better,” I said gently, “I’d say you’re trying to gaslight me.”

  He turned toward me for a brief moment, enough for me to catch a glimpse of that crooked grin I knew too well.

  “Is that so, Baxter?” All his anger was gone, as if it never existed.

  I frowned, “Yes, that’s exactly how it feels.”

  “And you hate that, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I prefer logic to this mumbo jumbo of partial facts and misinterpreted evidence, of dust in my eyes you keep throwing.”

  His phone rang through the Ford’s media center and Fletcher’s name displayed on the screen.

  “Keep that in mind for a while, how much you hate being gaslighted, all right?” he said to me before accepting the call. “What do you have, Fletch?”

  “The special of the day is one helicopter pilot,” he said, and I could hear the smile in his voice. “Mack Eggers, twenty-nine, clean record. He flew choppers for the Army, eight years, honorable discharge. Has been working for BeneFoods for two years.”

  “Where is Mack Eggers now?”

  “I knew you’d ask me that,” Fletch replied. “His phone pings at the corporate headquarters, but you better hurry. He’s filed a flight plan for later this afternoon, going to Los Angeles with one passenger.”

  “You’re the man, Fletch,” I said, feeling the excitement sizzling in my body.

  “Don’t I know it,” Fletcher laughed, and ended the call.

  Holt fired up the lights and siren and floored it.

  “That’s it, Holt, now we’ll kno
w.”

  “Know what?”

  “Where Ellis took Crystal the night she died,” I replied.

  “I thought you liked Roxanne for the murderer,” he replied, not a trace of his earlier angst left in his voice.

  “And I thought you said it’s always the lover or the jilted spouse,” I replied smiling.

  “Okay, stop this,” he reacted. “You used to talk to me, Baxter. What the hell happened?”

  He was right. I’d grown so preoccupied with trying to hide my many secrets from him that I’d forgotten how to share, to collaborate, how to brainstorm with him. He was smart, perceptive; he’d seen that change the moment it crept up on me.

  “I’m sorry; you’re right,” I said, but he didn’t reply. “I honestly believe Roxanne belongs in jail, but I don’t think she killed Crystal. If this makes any sense at all, it’s like I can feel her motive was there, her intention to kill her was there, but someone else beat her to the punch. How about you? Do you really think it was Mrs. Steele?”

  He mulled the question over for a long moment. “She didn’t have the opportunity. From what we were able to figure out, she and Crystal never crossed paths. It’s difficult to murder someone remotely, right? She also didn’t seem to know Crystal existed. That surprise, when we told her someone else knew about the arrangement she had with Roxanne, was genuine.”

  “I agree,” I replied. “Then let’s go back to the basics and finish mapping Crystal’s last twenty-four hours. Sometime during this past Sunday, someone got close enough to poison her.”

  “Deal,” Holt replied, pulling into the BeneFoods corporate parking lot.

  “I still want to bust Roxanne, though.”

  “For what? I don’t believe the DA will be able to bring criminal charges against her for duping Mr. Steele, even if she got paid to do it.”

  “She still lied.”