Pesky Politicians in Las Vegas

by A. R. Winters

  But before that, I went to check the cell phone Stone had given me.

  As usual, there were no messages on it.

  Just then, my own cell phone rang, and the number was one I didn’t recognize.

  “This is Russell Zimmerman,” said the voice on the other end of the line. “You left a message with my secretary asking to talk about Stone?”

  My heartbeat picked up a little. Perhaps Russell would have nothing new to tell me about Stone, but he was one of the few ex-clients of Stone whom I hadn’t talked to yet. “Yes. When would you be able to meet me for a quick chat?”

  Russell and I discussed a time and date to meet up to chat about Stone, and I hung up, feeling like I’d made a little bit more progress today.

  I tried not to get my hopes up, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that Russell knew something about Stone that I hadn’t learned yet.

  Chapter Four

  One of the best things about working the graveyard shift was that I didn’t have to start the shift with an “encouraging” meeting led by Brian Wesley.

  Brian is our latest manager, recruited from the casino across the street. He’s come up with all kinds of impractical and hard-to-implement ideas for increasing the casino’s profitability, and because he’s never worked in the pit himself, he has no idea about reality. He’s an annoying, smug, corporate guy with no sympathy for the people who work hard on the floor every day.

  Instead, he sits in his cushy air-conditioned office, where he doesn’t have to deal with angry or drunken gamblers, and he makes up stupid rules. He’s the guy who convinced management that they should introduce weight controls at the Treasury Casino. His argument was that visitors to the casino would be more impressed if they saw attractive women dealing out the cards. And, of course, for him, “attractive” meant “skinny.”

  Rather than a long rah-rah meeting led by Brian, we attended a meeting run by Bill, one of the pit bosses, who spent less than a minute telling us that the casino was very busy tonight, and there had already been a couple of instances of drunk and belligerent players, and that we should notify security as soon as we suspected something was wrong.

  We all headed out to our tables after that, and I let the familiar bright lights and happy, loud noises of the casino embrace me. The casino is like Ian in some ways—a loud, enthusiastic friend who seems kind of annoying at first, but then grows on you.

  When I’d first started working here, the garish carpets, bright lights, and constant jingle from the slot machines had seemed over-the-top and cheesy. But the longer I worked here, the more I appreciated why things were set up the way they were. Plus, the cheery atmosphere made working in a casino more fun. It was definitely better than the bland, boring environment in many of the traditional offices I had to visit during my PI jobs.

  As I clapped my hands out behind the blackjack table, I took a good look at the players sitting opposite me. All of them seemed to have had a few drinks already—and who could blame them, given the free cocktails available at the Treasury tonight? However, they all seem to be holding their alcohol quite well, and I knew I wouldn’t have any reason to call security on them.

  Play proceeded smoothly at first, but within a few minutes, an extremely drunk man decided to join the table. He was bald, with watery gray eyes, and stared off into the distance. When it was his turn to play, he continued to sit frozen and unmoving. I repeated my request for him to call his play at least twice before security arrived to gently escort him off.

  I smiled, shook my head, and apologized to the other players. I didn’t mind people who became drunk and overly quiet—it was the “fun-loving” drunks who made things difficult for us. They were the ones who insisted on seeing other players’ cards, giving advice to everyone else at the table, and trying to take the dealer and every female at the table out on a date.

  As the night went on, I met a number of those “fun-loving” drunks, but I refused to get annoyed. I was still riding high on the hope that Russell Zimmerman would tell me something new about Stone.

  Once in a while, I thought back to what I’d learned about Ellen Wareheim, Carl’s wife; from what I’d read of her, she seemed like an unlikely match for Carl—unless he had just married her with the intention of making her an appropriate politician’s wife.

  Before I knew it, it was time for my break, and I went to the employees’ break room, where I shared my freshly baked cupcakes with the other dealers and bit into one myself.

  “I’ve been offered a job at Greasy’s Casino,” said Sandra, a petite blonde dealer. “I think I might as well accept it.”

  “Weight controls are supposed to be introduced in two weeks,” said Jemima, a tall, dark-skinned dealer who was usually stationed at the craps table. “Maybe they won’t be implemented after all. I’d wait until then before accepting a new job.”

  “Yeah,” said Leona, a slim brunette who looked too young to be allowed inside the casino, let alone to be a dealer. “All of those casinos are on Fremont Street. None of the Strip casinos are hiring at the moment. And the Fremont Street casinos pay worse; the gamblers are worse as well. I’m not really looking forward to working over there.”

  “I’ve been offered a job at the Cattleman’s Casino,” I offered. “But yeah, the pay is worse. Plus it’s so far from here. I’d have to drive there instead of walking to work.”

  “You’re an investigator,” said Sandra, looking at me. “Maybe someone will kill Brian, and then you’ll have to investigate who did it.”

  Everyone laughed.

  “I’d be happy to be a suspect,” said Leona. “But I don’t think killing Brian would kill the weight controls. Management would still want to go ahead with them.”

  “I love how dealers are judged on the basis of their weight, not their skills or experience,” grumbled Jemima.

  The rest of us all chimed in. The way the casino was proceeding was completely unfair, and none of us were happy.

  I had enjoyed working at the casino for the past few years, and I hated to think that this was how I would be leaving.

  A few hours later, we had another short break, and once again, all of us dealers chatted about how unfair the weight restrictions were.

  I got home just after 10:30 in the morning, my head still buzzing with the chimes of the slot machines and the loud jingle that had played out after a big jackpot had been won tonight.

  I mentally replayed the conversations I’d had with the other dealers. It wasn’t fair for the casino to ask me to choose between my job and cupcakes, and I didn’t see why I should have to leave just because I refused to give up desserts.

  A few weeks ago, Karma had told me that writing an email when you’re angry helps to get the negative emotions out. She said that it was a good idea to write an explanation of how you felt, and then to delete it.

  So after I changed out of my dealer’s uniform and into my pajamas, I fired up my laptop and typed up an angry email to management. I explained how weight controls were completely absurd, and though they were being applied to both male and female employees, the female requirements were more stringent, and possibly violated equal opportunity laws.

  More importantly, it was ridiculous for the casino to value attractive, slender dealers over those who were more experienced and better at their jobs. An experienced dealer would help the casino make more money. They would know how to deal with the players, and anyway, all of us dealers made an effort to look presentable when we went into work, so it didn’t really matter if we were a few pounds overweight. These new weight controls would end up harming the Treasury Casino in the long run.

  I read over what I had written, and the more I read it, the more it seemed to make sense. Instead of deleting it, I pressed “send.”

  And then, I went to bed, refusing to think about the impact that my email might have. I was going to get fired anyway; I didn’t see the harm in sending management an angry email explaining exactly what I thought of the new policy.

  As
I drifted off to sleep, I mused over what I’d learned so far about Carl Wareheim and his death.

  Whoever had killed Carl must’ve thought he was doing everybody a favor. It couldn’t be any of his political adversaries, I decided—Carl hadn’t yet announced that he was running, and no politician in their right mind would get involved in criminal activities.

  I thought again about Ellen, and just before I drifted off to sleep, I wondered about the interesting tidbit I had uncovered during my research on her.

  Chapter Five

  By the time I went to bed, it was past noon, and I knew I would have to survive on just a few hours’ sleep. I set my alarm for 3:30 and jumped out of bed as soon as it went off. I didn’t have a minute to spare. I dressed rapidly and grabbed a cupcake on my way out, then drove straight to the Las Vegas police station.

  I visited the station frequently enough that the officers there knew me, and the woman at reception nodded me through. I walked briskly through the sterile modern hallways to the open-space work area where Detective Elwood’s desk was.

  When he saw me, Detective Elwood scowled and said, “I was just about to leave. Why couldn’t you show up a half hour later?”

  I smiled. I knew Detective Elwood well enough not to be offended by his surly greeting. He was a short, chubby man with a perpetual scowl who was constantly unhappy with his life and the world around him. I suppose a few years of dealing with criminals all day long does that to you. On top of that, a few weeks ago, he had told me he thought his wife was cheating on him. I wasn’t sure how his marriage was going these days, and I was too scared to ask.

  “It’s good to see you too,” I said.

  Detective Elwood and I had run into each other on quite a few cases so far, and I liked to think that we had a grudging respect for each other.

  “What do you want?” said Detective Elwood. “Have you at least brought a few cupcakes to bribe me with?”

  “I thought cops weren’t allowed to take bribes,” I teased.

  “You know what I mean,” Detective Elwood growled. “So?”

  I shook my head. “Sorry, I’ve given away the last batch we baked. But I’ll make sure to bring some over next time.”

  “There doesn’t have to be a next time,” Detective Elwood reminded me.

  I smiled. “But till then, do you know who’s working on the Carl Wareheim murder?”

  Detective Elwood’s scowl deepened. “Why do you ask? You’re not poking your nose around there, are you?”

  “It’s you, isn’t it? You’re the one assigned to the case.”

  “So what if I am?” Detective Elwood grumbled. “It’s an open case, and I don’t have to answer any of your questions.”

  I leaned back in my seat. “Gary Wilkerson and I went to high school together. He’s not a killer.”

  “We’re looking into everything.”

  “I heard Carl Wareheim had a long line of enemies.”

  “He was a strange fish,” Detective Elwood admitted. “This whole case is strange.”

  “I know. That whole thing about the back door not having a working surveillance camera over it?”

  Detective Elwood leaned forward. “Okay. I’m not supposed to tell you this, but it’s been gnawing at me. Not only was the back door not monitored, but it was unlocked as well.”

  “Wow. That’s really odd.”

  Elwood nodded. “I don’t believe in coincidences, and I’m sure something fishy happened with that door.”

  “Gary said that the house sits on a corner lot, and there’s a small side gate leading in from the other street. We know nobody walked in through the front gate since that was monitored, but maybe someone walked in through the side gate, and then made their way in through the back door? The neighbors across the street might know if anyone walked in through that gate.”

  Detective Elwood shook his head. “That was one of the first things I looked into. We canvassed all of the neighbors across the street. Twice. Nobody saw anyone going in that way, or coming out.”

  “I’m sure the neighbors weren’t watching the whole time. Perhaps someone walked in when nobody was watching.”

  Detective Elwood nodded. “That’s always a possibility. But the neighbors didn’t see anyone, nor did they see anyone loitering around, looking suspicious.”

  “Well, I guess if someone did walk in that way, they were good at blending into the background. The neighbors might have missed something. Maybe they looked away for a few seconds, and someone walked in.”

  “Perhaps,” said Elwood. “But at this stage, we don’t know of anyone else who went into the house that evening.”

  “Hmm.” I bit my lip pensively. “I read in the paper that he was poisoned with weed killer.”

  Detective Elwood shrugged. “There’s no harm telling you something that’s already been published in the papers.”

  “Carl had mentioned before, in interviews with business magazines, that every evening he liked to make himself a strong pot of decaf coffee in his three-cup coffeemaker. He even traveled with that coffeemaker. He liked to sip his decaf and work until late at night.”

  Elwood nodded. “Anyone could’ve found out that he liked to have his decaf.”

  “So someone added weed killer to the decaf in the coffeemaker that evening, and it ended up killing him.”

  “You got that much right. But there’s not much else I can tell you. I shouldn’t even have told you that about the door, really.”

  “Well, I do appreciate you telling me. Are you sure there’s absolutely nothing else you can share?”

  “Just that you should stay away,” said Detective Elwood. “But I guess that’s not going to deter you, and I suppose you’re better than a lot of other private investigators I’ve met during my time.”

  “What about the alarm system that was turned off?” I said. “Carl’s bodyguard switched it off for a few minutes when Gary entered. Maybe he just forgot to turn it back on again.”

  Elwood shook his head. “No, the bodyguard says he was very particular about turning the alarm system back on. He watched on camera as Gary walked into the study, and then he definitely turned the system back on.”

  I frowned thoughtfully. “Hmm. But it’s not too difficult to learn how to switch off an alarm system. Perhaps one of the bodyguards got a little drunk one night and let it slip. Or perhaps someone monitored the house for a while and figured it out.”

  “That’s what I figure,” said Elwood. “In the grand scheme of things, learning how to turn off an alarm system isn’t that difficult. All these systems have override codes anyway. But no more questions about this case, I really can’t talk about it anymore.”

  “Just one more thing. Please, pretty please.” I smiled what I hoped was a bright, cheery smile implying lots of cupcakes in the future. “What about Ellen? What’s her role in all this?”

  Elwood scowled, pulling his bushy eyebrows together. “I don’t want you going around bothering the poor widow. She’s got a solid alibi, and she’s got absolutely nothing to do with the man’s death.”

  “Okay,” I said. “If you say she’s got an alibi, I believe you.” Plus, I could always ask Ellen myself where she was that night.

  Detective Elwood and I chatted about trivial things for a little longer, and I told him that Nanna would be back in Vegas tomorrow. Before we said goodbye, I promised to stop by the station a few days later and bring him a couple of cupcakes.

  As I was heading out, I ran into Detective Ryan Dimitriou, who was walking into the station by himself. Detective Ryan was wearing a blue-checked shirt that set off his broad shoulders and dark tan. His brown hair was wavy and tousled and looked soft enough to run my fingers through.

  His gray eyes lit up when he saw me. “Hi! I haven’t seen you in a long time—not since we were investigating those death threats.”

  I smiled despite myself. Being around Detective Ryan made my stomach flutter in a strange way, and I could feel a flush rising up my cheeks. “Well
, at least we found out who was sending them.”

  “Of course, it’s a good thing we found that out, but I miss seeing you around.”

  “I miss you too. You’re a lot nicer than most of the cops here.” Plus, a lot more handsome, but I didn’t say that.

  “How’s that ex-boyfriend of yours you were hiding from?”

  I laughed. “Jack? I haven’t seen him in a while. It’s been over between us for a long time.”

  What I didn’t tell him was that I had broken up with Jack because Stone had kissed me, and I had hoped that there would be something serious between Stone and me. Of course, those hopes had been dashed when Stone had disappeared.

  “Well, if you’re not seeing anyone, perhaps you and I could go out for dinner sometime?”

  My heart thudded loudly in my chest, and my grin broadened. I hoped I didn’t look like an idiot, and I said, “Yes, I think that would be nice.”

  “When do you have a day off? You’ve got my phone number, so why don’t you text me what day works for you, and I’ll pick you up and we’ll go somewhere nice.”

  I nodded, pleased with his idea. “That sounds good; I’ll check my calendar and get back to you.”

  I left the station feeling happier than I had in a long time.

  Stone had been gone for a while, and even when he’d been around, he’d always told me that he couldn’t have a girlfriend—and after he’d disappeared and I’d met the CIA men, I’d understood why he’d said that. There was clearly no hope of anything happening between Stone and me, so I might as well go out on a date with a handsome detective who made my heart flutter every time I saw him.

  Of course, in the meantime I needed to call up Carl’s political adversaries and try to convince them to chat with me. Although I didn’t think any of his opponents could have killed him, I needed to find out if they knew anything unusual about Carl.