They strolled to a paneled, wood door. Printed on a black nameplate: STILE.
Donovan knocked once and walked inside.
Riga piloted the stroller into an office, the carriage wheels sinking into deep, white carpet.
A middle-aged receptionist adjusted her glasses. Her blue cardigan strained across her ample girth, and she tugged down the hem. “Mr. Mosse. And…” She frowned at the twins. “I tried calling you, but your phone went straight to voice mail.”
“Did it?” he asked.
Jack leaned toward Emma and babbled, unintelligible. Emma kicked her heels and jabbered back.
“The senator will not be able to meet with you today,” the receptionist said.
Donovan’s expression hardened. “Oh? We had an appointment. My wife and I flew here from Tahoe.”
The receptionist rose, crimson staining her cheeks. “I’m very sorry, but he had an emergency.”
“What sort of emergency?” Donovan’s brow quirked.
“It’s in the news. I’m surprised you didn’t see it.”
“Ba!” Emma pointed at the receptionist.
“See what?” Riga asked. Donovan had a television on his private plane, but they’d been otherwise occupied. The twins did not like flying.
“He’s at the Stenger Farm.” Her mouth narrowed. “The law is the law, and the senator has taken a strong stand against domestic sovereign-citizen groups.”
“Sovereign citizen?” Riga asked.
“Right-wing extremists who think they can ignore laws that attack their individual rights. That said, the senator sympathizes with Mr. Stenger’s plight. He’s currently working to negotiate a stand-down.”
“We’ll find him there,” Donovan said, brusque. “Let’s go, Riga.” Turning on his heel, he strode from the room.
Riga followed, pushing the stroller.
“Oh, but you can’t!” The secretary hurried after them and stood, hovering in the open doorway. “He’s negotiating,” she called down the hall.
Donovan stabbed the down button with his thumb.
The elevator doors slid open, and they stepped inside. The babies heads nearly touched in their strollers, and they ba-ba-ba’ed excitedly.
“I knew this was too easy,” she said. The solstice was tomorrow, and all they’d gotten for their trouble was Verdun’s divorce records. “Maybe we should stop by—”
“I’m not done with Stile yet.” He pressed the ground floor button.
“You can’t… Do you really think Stile will give us the time of day if we show up at that organic farm?”
“How important is it to you that we meet him?”
“A senator’s aide invited a demon to take his skin for a ride,” she said. “And the senator is a possible presidential candidate. Vinnie said whatever was coming was big. We need to know if the senator is involved.” And she was running out of other avenues to pursue.
“Then we go. Besides, Stile blew two constituents off for a photo opp. That’s just annoying.”
“I didn’t vote for him.”
“Neither did I, but he doesn’t know that.” His phone pinged, and Donovan drew it from his breast pocket. His nostrils flared. “The message from his secretary. Damned cell phone service. I’m changing carriers.”
“How are we going to get close to Stile at this farm?”
“We’ll get him,” Donovan said. “One way or another."
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Riga stepped from the black SUV, its motor running. A blast of furnace-like heat lifted the hair around her shoulders.
A portable metal fence blocked the road. People milled behind the fence — joking men and women in tank tops, t-shirts, and cowboy hats. Behind them shifted a row of people on horseback, a living barricade.
The protesters waved picket signs. HONOR YOUR COMMITMENT. NO TAKING WITHOUT COMPENSATION. DON’T TREAD ON ME. The atmosphere was festive, coolers and beach umbrellas and lawn chairs. Country music drifted from a tinny speaker.
A cowboy waved at Riga. “Come on over, honey! This side is where the party is!”
A red Honda parked on Riga’s side of the fence. Leaning against the hood, a dust-coated reporter with a camera around his neck used a cowboy hat for a fan. A trio of white, Sheriff’s SUVs bunched together, facing the temporary fence. Grim-faced cops stood in small groups. One ambled to Donovan.
Riga glanced over her shoulder at low, rolling green hills, unfolding as far as the eye could see. Thin clouds scattered across a blue bowl of sky.
She leaned into the SUV and shifted a stack of manila folders – the results of the background checks. The staff at the Towers appeared clean as freshly fallen snow. And that brought her back to her three prime suspects.
Unstrapping Emma from her car seat, she put a hat on her daughter’s head. Emma picked at it, her face scrunching.
Across from her, Donovan freed Jack. “I’m going to have a word with the authorities.”
“I’ll take the opposition.” Balancing Emma on her hip, she walked to the protesters.
“What an adorable baby! Boy or a girl?” A smiling, grandmotherly woman draped a towel over the metal fence and braced her arms on it. An American flag t-shirt stretched across her round stomach.
“Girl,” Riga said. “Her brother’s with his father.” She angled her head toward Donovan, chatting with one of the cops. “What’s going on here? I heard about the protest—”
The woman’s dark eyes flashed. “If you heard about it on the news, then you didn’t hear the whole story.”
“Tell me,” Riga said.
“I can see you’re no reporter. Not even they’re low down enough to use a baby as a prop.”
Riga grinned. “I wouldn’t bet on that. But no, I’m not a reporter.”
The woman shrugged. “Too bad. Bill Stenger’s family owned this land for over a hundred years. About thirty years back, some developers came sniffing around, trying to buy up land. They figured this would be a bedroom community to Vegas. They had a lot of pull. There was talk of the government just taking it and giving it to them, using eminent domain.”
“I thought Stenger was leasing this farmland from the government.”
Emma kicked, heels thumping Riga’s thighs.
“Well, he is now. That’s the story. Like I said, developers were sniffing around, powerful ones. Mr. Stenger wanted to preserve the land. He and his neighbors went to Senator Eagel, and he helped them turn the land into a government-owned nature preserve. Eagel didn’t like the idea of seeing this beautiful piece of country turned into a housing project. So he helped him cut a deal. Stenger would sell the land to the government, in exchange for the right to lease it in perpetuity, preserving it as farm land.”
“And now the government’s going back on its deal?”
A bead of sweat snaked down the woman’s swarthy forehead, embedding itself in the creases around her eyes. “The National Park Service is trying to kick him out. It isn’t right. Even Senator Eagel says it’s wrong, but he’s retired now, and I guess no one cares about his opinion. The government and Bill Stenger had a deal.”
And deals were made to be broken.
The man with the camera stared hard at Donovan and Jack.
“What’s Senator Stile’s angle?” Riga asked.
The woman’s eyes narrowed. “Good question. Stile has been out here often enough, speechifying about rule of law.” The woman snorted. “Rule of law! The government’s violating its own contract, and they’re screaming about the rule of law?”
“It doesn’t seem fair,” Riga agreed.
Emma grasped her hair and tugged.
Riga bent her head, wincing.
“You sure you’re not a reporter? You seem familiar.”
“I’m a private investigator.” Riga dug her wallet out of her satchel, handed the woman a card.
“Riga Hayworth! Just like that actress, though she was Rita, wasn’t she?” She snapped her fingers. “And you’re married to Donovan Mosse. I knew
I recognized you. When I was a girl, I worked in one of his father’s casinos as a waitress. Remarkable man. He knew every one of his employees by name. I didn’t quite believe it when the other employees told me. We all wore name tags, you see, so calling me by name wasn’t exactly a stroke of genius. But one day, I ran into him in the grocery store of all places, and he said, ‘Good morning, Miss Hernandez.’ He knew me, even out of my waitress uniform! Of course, I’m not Miss Hernandez anymore. Now I’m plain old Mrs. Jones.” She leaned forward, conspiratorial. “I never did believe those awful things people were saying about your husband.”
Riga’s heart warmed. “What will you do if they try to arrest you?”
The woman laughed. “They won’t have to try too hard with me. I guess I’ll just get arrested. I’ve never been in jail before. It should be an interesting experience.”
That was one word for it. Extracting her phone, Riga skimmed through photos. She stopped on one she’d copied off the Internet – the senator’s aide, Connor Tanhauser. “Have you seen this man around here?” She handed the phone to the woman.
Donovan shook hands with the police officer.
The reporter straightened off the hood of his car and strode toward them.
“Oh, yes,” the woman said. “That’s Mr. Tanhauser. He’s been here quite a bit, talking to people. I think he was gathering information for Senator Stile.”
Which Riga supposed was logical. After all, he was the senator’s aide. What else was an aide supposed to do?
“Was he here today?” Riga asked.
“I didn’t see his aide, but the senator stopped by to lecture us on civic responsibility.”
“I’m sorry I missed that.”
“Don’t be.” The woman returned the phone, and Riga slipped it into the pocket of her slacks.
Donovan raised Jack up and sat the baby on his shoulders. Gleeful, Jack clutched fistfuls of his father’s hair. Donovan strode to Riga.
The reporter hurried behind them, firing off questions.
“Riga?” Donovan asked.
“Mrs. Jones knew your father,” Riga said. “She worked as a waitress in one of his casinos.”
Donovan stopped beside the fence. “Really? Which one?”
“Las Vegas,” Mrs. Jones said. “It was terribly exciting for a young girl. You look a good bit like your father, you know. So does that little fellow.” She waggled her fingers at Jack.
Donovan took her hand. “I’ll take that as a compliment, Mrs. Jones.”
She pinked. “You should. He was an impressive man.”
“Las Vegas,” Donovan said. “You must have met him not long before he died. Vegas was the last casino he opened.”
Jack pulled his baseball cap off and dropped it to the ground. Riga bent and picked it up.
Mrs. Jones’s eyes brightened. “Such a beautiful new casino. We were all devastated when it went under. I’m so glad it’s in your family again. Are you here to help Mr. Stenger?”
The reporter edged closer.
“Unfortunately, I don’t have much pull with the National Park Service. I came here to see Senator Stile. My wife and I had an appointment with him, but he ditched us to fly here. What got you involved in this protest?”
The reporter’s camera clicked.
Riga’s mouth snapped shut. Donovan was admitting in front of a reporter that he was meeting with the senator? And his comment about not having pull with the Park Service implied he did have pull with Senator Stile. What was her husband up to? She slipped her arm around Donovan’s waist.
“I’ve known the Stenger family for years,” Mrs. Jones said. “It’s just so unfair.” She raised her voice for the benefit of the reporter. “The government promised him if he sold his land to the Park Service, his family could lease it in perpetuity. Now they’ve gone back on the deal.”
His back to the reporter, Donovan winked at the woman.
She smiled, pressing a finger to the side of her nose.
“It was delightful meeting you, Mrs. Jones. Riga, would you mind? My card case is in my jacket pocket.”
Riga reached inside his jacket, drew the silver case from his inside pocket, and handed Mrs. Jones his card.
“Thanks,” he said. “If you’re ever in South Shore, please call us. I’d love to hear more about your time at the Vegas property.” He looked down at Riga. “Ready?”
“Yep.”
They walked back to their SUV. Donovan aimed his key chain at the car, and it hummed to life.
“Mr. Mosse, what’s your business with the senator?” the reporter asked.
Donovan ignored him, strapping Jack into his car seat while Riga did the same with Emma. She got inside and shut the door. The air conditioner pumped out cool air, and she leaned toward the vents.
Donovan got in on the other side and slammed the door closed.
“Well?” she asked. “Tell me this wasn’t a total bust.”
Outside, one of the protesters had turned up the music, and the strains of a country song drifted into the car.
“We’re shifting the stakeout.” He started the SUV and backed from the crowd. “Stile will likely come out the south entrance.”
“Why did you say you were meeting with him in front of the reporter?”
Donovan chuckled. “To piss him off. Secret meetings with casino owners are par for the course, but they don’t fly well in the press. Too bad for Stile, he can’t afford to tell me to go to hell.”
They bumped down a long dirt road.
On her phone, Riga searched the Internet for the number for Verdun’s old apartment building. Finding it, she dialed.
“Vegas Arts Apartments, this is Marigold speaking.”
“Hi, Marigold. My name is Rila Helmsworth. I’m doing a credit check on Morgan Verdun. She lived in your building last year for about three months, and we just want to confirm that her payments were timely.”
Marigold sighed. “I don’t think we can give out that sort of information. But I can tell you that we didn’t have repayment problems with any of our tenants last year. It was a bit of a miracle, if you must know.”
“What can you tell me?”
“Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t tell you much. She kept to herself. No complaints. We even gave her a full refund on the security deposit, and that hardly ever happens.”
“Well, thanks.” Riga hung up, frowning.
“Anything?”
“Useless. No one has a bad word to say about her.”
He grunted. “Disappointing.” Donovan slowed the SUV. Ahead of them, a trail of dust cut the valley floor.
“Stile,” Riga said.
“It’s a caravan, dammit. Senators love to travel in convoys. It makes them feel presidential.”
The string of black SUVs neared, picking up speed. Donovan edged to the side of the road and stopped.
Riga opened the door and slid out. She extended her senses.
The cars roared past, clouds of dust billowing from beneath their wheels.
She slapped her palm on the hood of the SUV, coughing.
Donovan stepped out of the car and pressed his dark glasses closer to his head. “Anything?”
“Nothing! Not a speck of magic, dark or otherwise in any of those cars. Are you sure one belonged to the senator?”
Donovan smirked. “His senator number is on his license plate.”
Riga got into the car, wiping the grit from her eyes. “His number?”
Donovan joined her in the SUV. “A newish tradition. They go back to the 1780s and figure out how many senators served before them. That’s their senator number.”
“You’re a fount of knowledge.”
“I try to keep up.”
The phone rang in Riga’s pocket. Taking it out, she checked the number, didn’t recognize it. She swiped the phone and raised it to her ear. “Riga here.”
“It’s King. I think I’ve got something for you.” In the background, the sound of a passing car rose, faded, died.
“Fantastic.” She covered the speaker with her hand and mouthed to Donovan, “Sheriff King.” She lowered her hand and to the sheriff said, “We’ve reached an impasse here.”
“Where are you?” King asked.
“The Stenger Farm.”
There was a long pause. “Interesting. Why?”
“Senator Stile was here. He just left.”
“You may be on the right track. The—” On the other end of the phone, the sound of a larger vehicle rumbled past, obscuring his words.
“What was that?” Riga asked. “I didn’t catch what you said.”
“I said the senator’s… Just a minute.” A muffled conversation ensued, as if he was covering the phone with his hand.
“What’s going on?” Donovan asked.
She shrugged.
“I’m back,” Sheriff King said. “I stepped outside the station to get some privacy, but work followed me into the parking lot.”
“You can’t get privacy in your office?”
“I found a bug.”
Riga stared out the window. “Someone put a listening device in your office? Is that why I don’t recognize this number? You’re on another phone?”
Donovan wrinkled his forehead.
“Borrowed it off the desk sergeant. That was just him, warning me the battery was low, as if I couldn’t figure it out myself. Listen, I think this is bigger than—”
On the other end of the line there was a loud crack.
Riga jerked, her grip tightening on the phone.
A second crack, a clattering sound.
“Sheriff King?” She stared out the window, unseeing.
No answer.
“Sheriff King? What was that?” she asked.
Through the phone, men’s voices, shouts.
“Sheriff King!” She strained her ears. The sound of car tires. Faint, a woman sobbing. Shouting.
“What’s wrong?” Donovan asked.
Dizzy, she lowered the phone to her lap. “Gunshots.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The hospital nurse consulted her computer, swiveled her chair to face them. “No visitors, I’m afraid.” She prodded her cap of black hair with the eraser end of a pencil. “If you’d like to leave the flowers, you may.”
The Hermetic Detective (A Riga Hayworth Paranormal Mystery Book 7) Page 17