Casino Girl

by Leslie Wolfe

  Fletcher extended his hand for a fist bump, and Holt gave me a high-five and an appreciative smile. I bowed my head as if I were accepting ovations at open stage.

  A moment of perfect silence on the line; Gentry was undoubtedly consulting with Steele.

  “I believe I could squeeze you in at lunch, Detective,” she replied, her tone turned to ice.

  “Wonderful,” I said, smiling widely, then hung up. “One bastard down.”

  “Speaking of this particular bastard, I just got word from the lip-reading expert,” Fletcher said, reading from an email. “They really can’t be sure, it says here, because the video doesn’t have a frontal view of his lips. They conducted several reviews, including one where they analyzed both the lip movements and the emotional conveyance through stance and gestures, and, if they were to guesstimate—”

  “Okay, what did he say, already?” I asked, tapping my foot impatiently.

  “Apparently, Steele told Crystal, ‘Not one single word about this, not ever, you hear me?’”

  “Oh,” I said, deflated. I’d expected more than a confirmation of my earlier suspicions. I already knew Steele had threatened Crystal about something; it was in his body language. I shook my head, disappointed. I needed hard evidence to point us at the killer, not more of this circumstantial, entangled stuff. Bollocks… I wanted names, addresses, social security numbers.

  “Steele’s financials are going to take a while; the dude’s got a lot of accounts,” Fletcher continued, shooting me a side glance. “Moving on to our next contestant, Roxanne. First of all, she’s using a fake ID too. She’s nineteen, not twenty-two. The doer fixed her driver’s license but forgot her birth certificate.”

  I stomped my foot against the thick carpet. “Where do these bloody fakes keep coming from, huh? Now everyone’s got one?”

  “Remember that piece of scum, Kemsley?”

  “Him, I will never forget,” I replied, my voice caustic. “Pedophiles hold a place close to my heart.”

  “His statement said that he got his fake ID from the Dark Web. The feds showed up and grilled him on that,” Holt said. “Per his statement, he went online and used an automated site where he gave a scan of his legitimate ID and a photo, then paid two bitcoins for it. That’s about thirteen grand.”

  “Not bad, considering how well it was done. But who makes them?”

  “The licenses?” Holt asked. “Apparently, a certain DMV worker who was busted this morning.”

  “That’s why they look so real,” I replied. “Because, from the manufacturing process perspective, they are real.” Then I remembered we were talking about Roxanne, who was growing on me by the minute. “You’re saying Roxanne has one too?”

  “Has is the operating keyword here,” Fletch said, peeling the wrapper off a stick of chewing gum and throwing it in his mouth.

  “This chick is aiming for a world record, the longest rap sheet before legal drinking age,” I muttered. “Okay, what else do you have on her?”

  “Her accounts were the easiest to access,” Fletcher replied. “A checking and a savings account, nothing unusual until eight months ago, when she made an out-of-cycle deposit, fifteen thousand in cash.”

  “And that’s unusual for someone who makes thousands per week in cash, if not more?” Holt asked.

  “Tips that aren’t declared on income tax usually get spent outside of the banking system, as cash. Jewelry, vacations, cars, you name it. You’d have to be a complete idiot to not report the tips, then leave a paper trail.”

  “Got it,” I said. “Where did the fifteen grand come from?”

  “That I can’t say, but I can tell you what else happened the same week. She bought herself a brand-new Mustang, paid in full, color blue. That retails for about thirty grand; with the fifteen deposited and five more I’d guess she killed on clothes, shoes, and whatever else these peelers buy, I’d say she came into an unexpected windfall of—”

  “Fifty grand, I got it.”

  “Happy to see your neurons still work with little sleep, Detective,” he said, grinning widely.

  Holt shot me a long look, but I said nothing.

  “With a rich boyfriend like Paul, are we even considering that relevant? Why? He could be shoving chips in her bra too,” I said, thinking that fifty grand wasn’t much to go on.

  “I’m still convinced these girls were running a high-end escort service,” Holt said. “Both of them are teenage strippers using fake IDs and hanging out with married, rich men in their forties? I’m not buying the coincidence.”

  “We’ll figure it out. I don’t believe Crystal was a prostitute; she was a good kid, working hard to get her degree as quickly as possible. Maybe she made some wrong choices, but I just don’t see her turning tricks. Roxanne, on the other hand, anything is possible with that girl,” I said, grabbing my stuff from Fletcher’s desk. “Let’s get going, we’re don’t want to be late for our meeting with Mr. Steele and his lawyer.”

  “Do I keep digging through these accounts?” Fletcher asked.

  “If anyone can find those fifty large ones, that’s you,” I replied. “Look at everyone involved; the men and their wives.”

  “You got it,” he replied morosely. “Expect my call in about two years from now.”

  “Oh, and please dig up her closest college friends; we need to talk to some people at the university. Who knows what else she was up to?”

  Instead of replying, Fletcher mock-saluted with two fingers raised at his temple.

  We arrived a little early for our appointment and decided to cross the street and get some refills of coffee. I felt good, positive about the outcome of the case; I didn’t have a clear suspect yet, but we were peeling the onion, uncovering the truth layer after layer, and soon we’d get to the core.

  I walked by Holt’s side toward the coffee shop across the street, mulling things over in my mind, falling behind with every distracted step I took. Had Crystal told Paul Steele he’d been had? What kind of game had she been playing? Why didn’t she mind her own business? She was doing quite well for herself with Ellis wrapped around her little finger.

  I heard the screeching tires before I saw the SUV coming, then I heard Holt shouting, “Laura!” For a split second, I thought something must be wrong; he’d only called me by my given name once, in my bedroom.

  He sprinted and swept me out of the way, and we both fell to the ground between two parked cars, while the black Suburban sped by, mere inches from running us over.

  Holt jumped to his feet, still holding my arm in a tight grip, pulling his gun with the other. I quickly found my own balance and shot a few rounds in rapid fire, alternating with Holt’s. The rear windshield exploded, but the black Suburban turned the corner and disappeared.

  I holstered my gun, wondering if we should give chase. I was tempted, but the meeting with Steele was more important, and Holt was already calling it in.

  “All units, black Chevy Suburban, no plates, has a couple of bullet holes in the rear panel and a smashed rear window.” He turned toward me and grazed my face, his gaze intense, his fingers sending shivers down my spine. “Are you all right?”

  “Uh-huh,” I replied, straightening my clothes and arranging my shirt. For a long moment, I focused on brushing every speck of dust off my sleeve, real or imaginary, only to avoid Holt’s gaze. I wasn’t ready for what I was seeing. I wasn’t ready for him, for us, for whatever all of it meant, if anything other than a terrible mistake. “Yeah, let’s go. You think it was him?”

  “Who? Sanford, the contract killer who blew up the morgue?”

  As he spoke, a couple of patrol cars appeared at the scene, sirens blaring.

  “Who else? Maybe he’s being paid to keep us from having this meeting.”

  40

  Questioning

  When we made it inside the Scala corporate headquarters lobby I had the feeling that all chatter subsided instantly. Receptionists, security officers, employees drinking coffee on their breaks, all
stopped interacting and pretended they had something to do. After all, through the huge windows facing Fremont, anyone present in that lobby had witnessed the earlier incident from a safe distance. I was willing to bet that many days, even years went by without shots being fired just outside their doorstep; Holt and I had provided excitement, prime time entertainment, good gossip material for years to come. No one asked us any questions though, as if waiting patiently for us to disappear so they could resume commenting on the adrenaline-pumping event.

  Miss Gentry escorted us up, not a smile on her face, and a stiffness in her gait that spoke volumes, as if her giving us the cold shoulder could’ve had any chance of changing the direction of our murder investigation. Once on the top floor, she led us to a conference room with opaque glass walls, labeled “Boardroom.” She opened the door and we stepped in.

  I was expecting Mr. Steele and his attorney, but there was a third man there. Him, I recognized from the photos I’d seen in the downstairs lobby, adorning the walls. It was Paul’s father, the man who’d built the Scala, John Steele.

  Holt pulled out his ID, and I followed suit.

  “Detectives Holt and Baxter,” he announced, then pulled out a chair and sat across the table from our reluctant hosts.

  “Dennis Byers, attorney for Paul Steele,” the third man said, extending his hand to shake Holt’s, then mine.

  “Thank you for agreeing to speak with us, Mr. Steele,” I said, pulling out a leather chair on casters and taking my seat.

  Paul nodded, but didn’t say word.

  “My client has agreed to answer your questions at this time,” Byers said. “As to be expected, in his capacity as Miss Tillman’s employer, he is heartbroken about what happened and would like to do whatever he can to ensure the perpetrator of this senseless act is brought to justice. But please be advised, Detectives, we will not tolerate any fishing expeditions.”

  “Thank you,” I replied candidly. I could play that game too.

  I took my time opening my notepad, where earlier I’d jotted some points I wanted to touch during the conversation. Holt sat calmly, looking at Paul, not smiling, just sizing him up, building up his discomfort, fueling his anxiety.

  During all this time, John Steele looked at me, then at my partner with eyes loaded with contempt. He was about seventy years old, from what I could remember; he sat leaning forward into his elbows, his bony hands clasped together and raised in front of his mouth; he was making heroic efforts to follow legal advice and keep quiet.

  “Mr. Steele, did you know Crystal Tillman’s roommate, Roxanne Omelas?” I asked.

  Paul exchanged a quick glance with his attorney, who nodded.

  “Yes, I know her.”

  “Are you dating Miss Omelas?”

  The same thing happened; a quick exchange between client and attorney, but this time the attorney shook his head only slightly.

  “I thought we were here to discuss Crystal Tillman’s unfortunate demise,” Byers said. “How is my client’s alleged relationship with Miss Omelas relevant to your investigation?”

  “We’re not at liberty to divulge at this time, unfortunately,” Holt replied. “Typical procedure for active investigations; I hope you’ll understand.”

  “Then let’s move on,” Byers said, his stare uncompromising.

  “You gave Miss Tillman a five-hundred-thousand-dollar chip on the night of her murder,” I started. “Is that correct?”

  Byers nodded.

  “Yes,” Paul said.

  His father fidgeted in place and looked at his son from underneath ruffled, salt-and pepper eyebrows. The frown brought out two vertical ridges at the root of his nose. He visibly condemned his son’s largesse.

  “Could we ask why?”

  Another quick, silent exchange between attorney and client. This time, Byers replied.

  “It is my client’s prerogative to gift his money as he sees fit, with or without reason.”

  I pressed on. “Is it possible it was hush money?”

  Byers put his hand in the air, palm facing me across the shiny lacquer of the mahogany boardroom table. “You’re fishing, Detective. If you have direct questions, we’ll answer; if not, this meeting is over.”

  I repressed a frustrated sigh. “All right, then. Is your wife aware of your affair, Mr. Steele?”

  He frowned, deeply displeased, then pressed his lips together and didn’t look at his attorney, nor at his father. “No, she is not,” he eventually said. His attorney steepled his hands on top of a folder and clenched his jaws. He seemed tense, a change from the earlier self-assured calm.

  “When did you start seeing Miss Omelas?” I asked, pretending I didn’t hear Byers tell me earlier his client wasn’t going to answer that. This time, he allowed Paul to answer.

  “About six months ago.”

  “Mr. Steele, are you in love with Miss Omelas?” I asked, and I saw him reel from the question. He lowered his eyes and two deep ridges flanked the corners of his mouth.

  “You don’t have to answer that,” Byers said quickly, as if afraid Paul would start talking. “My client’s feelings are not the concern of the police.”

  I smiled, pretending to be unfazed, when instead I was fuming. Yes, I’d forced Mr. Steele’s hand to meet with us today, but what good did it do? Nothing… I wasn’t getting a single, bloody thing out of him. I looked at Holt, inviting him to take over if he wanted, but he sat back with a hint of a smile. I didn’t mind one bit; I loved the thrill of the hunt.

  “Mr. Steele, did you kill Crystal Tillman?” I asked, and John Steele slammed his hand against the table.

  “No, I did not,” Paul replied calmly, although I could see a darkness in his eyes.

  “Do you know who did?”

  “No, I do not.”

  “We have reason to believe Crystal was threatening to inform your wife about your affair. That’s motive to me. Half of your net worth is a lot of motive, Mr. Steele, and you seemed really angry on that video, threatening her before you shoved that chip in her bra.”

  “Your question, Detective?” Byers asked.

  “My question is, did you pay her off to—”

  “You should be ashamed of yourselves,” John Steele erupted, cutting me off. “You know nothing about this man, my son. Nothing!”

  Byers tried to pacify old Mr. Steele, but the man yanked his sleeve out of the lawyer’s grip and slammed his fist against the table, making all the coffee cups and water glasses rattle against the silver trays.

  “He’s a talented, hardworking businessman. He saved my hotel, by himself, with no help from anyone! Vultures were circling back then, just like you are right now, but he didn’t care. He just did what he had to do and look at it now! The biggest, best hotel and casino in Las Vegas!”

  “Mr. Steele,” I said, “we mean no disrespect. Asking such questions is the typical—”

  “You shut your mouth, woman!” he bellowed, and Holt stood abruptly, pushing his chair so forcefully behind him that it slammed against the wall. He glared at Mr. Steele, taking him aback for a moment.

  I touched Holt’s arm, but he didn’t back down; he stood right in front of John Steele, ready to pounce.

  “Listen, I believe we’ve been forthcoming enough,” Byers said, but old Mr. Steele didn’t let him finish either.

  “I will not allow you to drag my son’s name through the mud, you hear me? That girl, God rest her soul, had nothing to do with my son, and that’s the end of it. Go catch the real killer and leave us alone.”

  “Dad,” Paul said, grabbing his hand. “I’ll take care of this.”

  But John Steele didn’t break eye contact with me; he was staring me down and I resisted, entertained to see him power tripping the way he was, and wondering if I had, at least by accident, hit a nerve. Paul Steele was one of our suspects; I’d never before considered his father might’ve been one too.

  “I wonder what the mayor will have to say about all this,” John Steele continued. “He and I play
golf every Friday. That’s tomorrow, by the way. Now, go eat your doughnuts or whatever the hell you do with your time at the taxpayers’ expense.”

  He scoffed at me and I smiled, unperturbed.

  But the meeting was over, and the only morsel of valuable information we’d gathered this entire time was that Mrs. Steele wasn’t aware of Paul’s philandering. I was willing to bet millions of dollars I never had and never will have, that Mrs. Steele was not going to be as indifferent to her husband’s cheating as Mrs. Bennett had been.

  41

  Poison

  My disappointment with the results of Paul Steele’s questioning soon dissipated at the news that they’d collared Ronnie Sanford. If given enough incentive, because I didn’t assume he’d be the kind of man to easily yield under the pressure of a police interrogation, he’d probably be willing to name his employer.

  I smiled, enjoying the afternoon sun on my face and knowing that Crystal’s killer was about to be brought to justice.

  “You were awfully quiet in there,” I said, giving Holt a quick, side look.

  “Seemed to me you were doing just fine on your own,” Holt replied, a bit on the glum side.

  I decided to let that go, as we only had a couple of minutes left until we reached the precinct. “You know, I’m really itching to have a sit-down with Mrs. Steele and see her reaction when we break some news to her.”

  “Uh-huh,” Holt replied, turning left on Swenson Street.

  “Strange thing, they didn’t think to warn us to not approach her without counsel present.”

  “Well, that’s a given, knowing who she is.”

  “Given or not, they didn’t say, and that means we’re going to try, right?”

  “Uh-huh,” he replied, pulling into the precinct’s parking garage.

  Moments later, we found Ronnie Sanford was waiting in an interrogation room, while the arresting officer filled out paperwork in the adjacent observation room.