“Talk to me, Joanne. Please.”
For a long, stretched-out moment they stood there, eye-locked through the foot-wide door opening, so close he could see flecks of gold buried in the depths of those green eyes.
The seconds slowed…then froze in place.
Maybe it was the faint scent of coconut that brought back memories of a long-ago trip to Hawaii, or the way a curl of hair lay on her brow, but for a crazy instant he saw Paula. Felt the familiar stab of remorse that he’d turned his back on her when she reached out for help.
A slight, almost imperceptible, movement underneath his shoulder pulled him back to the present. Gradually it registered that Joanne was trembling against the other side of the door.
“Go away,” she whispered.
He stepped back, chastened. He’d frightened her, which shamed him. Technically, he also broke the law by forcing the door open, which she had to be thinking, too.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured.
She said nothing. Just stared at him, her hand visibly trembling on the door.
“I won’t do that again,” he said.
As if there was any hope for a second meeting. He’d blown it. Nevertheless, he stood there, holding her gaze, wondering how he could fix this mess. A chilly blast of air hit him. Particles of dust spit on his face, stung his arms.
“Close the door,” he said, hunching against the wind. “You’ll catch cold dressed like that.”
She closed it, but not all the way. Through a crack in the door, she stared at him. Couldn’t be all that frightened if she didn’t slam shut the door and lock it, right?
But in his mind’s eye, he could still hear the strain in her voice, the shaking of her hand. Played tough guy when it wasn’t necessary. You’re a federal agent, not some low-life thug.
He turned and walked away, his body tense, grudgingly accepting that Harley was right when he said Mike had let Paula’s ghost undermine his life.
If Joanne wanted to make a stink about his behavior, she could file a trespassing charge, a felony, against ATF. Which would confuse its lawyers as there was no Steve McGill, special agent, on their roster. Even if she described the SUV he drove, they’d still be clueless because he had leased it under a bogus ID.
But if she forwarded a description of him, and it made it to Harley’s desk, well…his boss might stay mum, or be so fed up with Mike’s rogue investigations that he turned him in to higher ups.
There was only one way to deal with this. No matter what it took, Mike had to make things right with Joanne Galvin.
Because if he didn’t, he could lose everything.
* * *
Joanne almost closed the door, but didn’t. Instead, through the narrow opening, she watched Steve McGill head back to his SUV, his steady, ambling gait reminiscent of John Wayne as the cowboy hero in Stagecoach. Oh, if only life could be like those old movies about the Wild West where the good guys wore white hats, and the bad guys wore black ones. After the drama that played itself out on her front porch, she didn’t know what color McGill wore.
White hat? ATF agents had a rep for being balls-to-the-wall, gutsy special agents who specialized in going deep undercover to infiltrate motorcycle gangs and crime syndicates to bust up gun and drug trafficking rings, even hit-man contract killings. The common joke was that Treasury agents were like store managers with walkie talkies, FBI agents like Ivy Leaguers with pistols, and ATF agents like bad-boy outlaws with sawed-off shotguns.
Or black hat? In her experience, most federal agents were self-righteous and authoritarian, especially ATF agents. Add bad management and dissent among the ranks, and no surprise ATF scandals kept popping up in the news: Botched stings, arrests of innocent people, stolen machine guns from agents’ unlocked cars. In comparison, an agent forcing open a citizen’s door without a warrant or probable cause almost sounded silly. But it wasn’t. The Constitution protected citizens from unreasonable government intrusion, and she could file a big ol’ nasty case against the ATF for McGill’s actions.
But what occurred was a lot more gray than the black and white of the law.
When she told him to go away, he backed off immediately, his features collapsing into a guilty embarrassment that reminded her of a scolded puppy. Then he told her to close the door so she wouldn’t catch cold. Hardly the words of a badass agent.
Breezes rattled the last dying leaves on the ironwood trees that lined the privacy fence from prying eyes along Graces Avenue to the north, and Peterson Law to the west. The only entrance to Joanne’s two parking spaces was to the east via Peterson Law’s large asphalt parking lot.
McGill’s SUV was in the far space, the closer one taken by her Neon, which she’d jokingly told Kimmie was her “pro bono car” as it took up space that a paying client could use. The next day Kimmie’s husband, Hal Fossen, hung a sign on the fence:
Additional Parking in Front of Fossen-Chandler Investigations
Where this morning Gloria had parked her canary yellow 2002 Pontiac Firebird that she’d nicknamed Gosling because its engine had a “sweet rumble” just like the actor’s voice. Joanne’s Neon was geriatric at eleven years old, but Gloria’s thirteen-year-old Firebird remained hot and sassy because she pampered the hell out of it. “Pontiac put the Firebird out to pasture in 2002,” her friend once said. “Like, what’s with that? Did Hollywood put Meryl Streep out to pasture when she hit fifty? I tell ya, Jo, we gotta respect history, not pretend it don’t exist like it don’t matter no more.”
Joanne watched McGill as he halted outside the driver’s door of his monster SUV and checked something on his phone. Shafts of sunshine sparked gold in his mane of hair and slanted hazy light over the rugged planes of his face. Her gaze dropped down to his bare biceps, as muscled and tough as the gnarled trunks of the ironwood trees.
Breezes skittered past, mirroring the restlessness that stirred within her. Remembering to breathe—in, out, in, out—she raised her eyes…and locked with his. For a suspended moment, the world shrank to a space filled with his glistening brown eyes and masculine, salty scent. In that moment, she sensed their friction shift from mental to physical.
A pounding guitar riff shattered the silence.
Joanne jumped, grabbing the door to steady herself, as a bright yellow Firebird cruised slowly past the entrance to the parking area, the Rolling Stones’ guitar-scorching “Satisfaction” blasting from its speakers.
McGill’s attention snapped to the Firebird as it rolled to a stop.
Gloria, slouched low in the driver’s seat, stared back from behind her mirror-aviator shades as Mick belted that he couldn’t get no satisfaction.
Joanne wasn’t sure if she wanted to smack, yell at, or admire her crazy friend.
For a frozen instant, the three of them looked at each other…Gloria and Steve in some kind of badass stare-down while Joanne, gripping the door, prayed to God that McGill didn’t pull out his gun—which made no sense, like why would be shoot someone sitting in a Firebird, but on the other hand he was an ATF agent and those guys lived on the edge.
Suddenly, the Firebird sped off in a screech of tires and burning rubber. McGill, his heavy eyebrows pressed together, looked at Joanne.
“You know her?” he called out.
After a beat or two, she answered, “Yes.”
His frown deepened, obviously confused at the weirdness of that confrontation. So she offered the best excuse she could muster.
“She’s from Brooklyn.”
At that moment a breeze lifted the hem of her nightshirt. As she patted it back into place, she noticed a bright pink spot on her shirt and wondered what food strain had caused that…then realized to her horror it was a nice-sized rip that offered a view of her bra. Unless McGill was extraordinary farsighted, he would have clearly seen her overfilled bra while standing on the porch.
She jumped back inside and slammed the door.
Chill. Catch your breath.
Staring at the closed door, she debated whethe
r to open it and explain that she hadn’t meant to slam it, but decided that there had been enough weirdness for one today. She checked out the rip, realizing it must have happened when she’d untangled Lady Justice’s sword.
Lovely. I flashed a federal special agent. After I propositioned him.
Hearing the SUV engine growl to life, she looked out the peephole. McGill sat in the driver’s seat, a black Labrador next to him. As the vehicle backed up, she noticed its California license plates.
Maybe he really is a surfer.
Wasn’t as if federal special agents didn’t have hobbies outside of work…but why drive all the way to Vegas when a local ATF agent could have contacted her to ask questions? Steve McGill had to be the lead investigator on some federal case involving Dita. How much trouble was this young woman in?
Her cell phone chirped.
Moments later, Gloria was grilling her.
“Was that the stripper-gram guy? Jo, I really thought the girls would get you an Amazon gift card instead.”
“No, he’s an ATF agent.”
A loud gasp. “Are you frickin’ kidding me? If I’d known that, I would not have stopped and checked him out…I was just tryin’ to figure if I should tell Muscle Boy to forget the gig and leave you alone. Then I figured he was leaving anyway, so I split. Madone. The ATF. What do they want?”
“To ask questions about Dita.”
“The feds are after her, too? That girl is in some deep—”
“I know. Told him I was no longer her lawyer, and anything she and I discussed was covered by privilege. By the way, thanks for telling me there was a hole in my top that offered a view of my boobs over-filling my lacy, flamingo-pink bra.”
“Jo, I didn’t see a rip! But then, I don’t check out your ta-ta’s. Think Mr. ATF saw?”
“Yes. When he gave me a once-over.”
“He looked you up and down?”
“After I looked him up and down…and asked him to pull down his pants.”
“Wha—?”
“I thought he was the stripper.” Joanne closed her eyes, wishing she could just crawl back into bed and spend the rest of the day eating ice cream and watching Westerns. One where the cowgirl has no wardrobe malfunctions and saves the herd and an entire town.
“Jo, you’re going through a shitty time. So what if you sometimes say the wrong thing…” She did a bad job smothering her laughter. “I’m sorry, but did you really ask him to…?”
“Yes.”
“Girl, I’d call that extreme speed-dating.” More muffled laughter.
Joanne didn’t want to smile, but did anyway.
Dating had never been her forte. Not a single date in high school, except if one counted the “group prom date” her senior year comprised of girl and boy nerds. After dancing awkwardly with each other, they returned to Billy Maxwell’s house and watched the 1964 black-and-white film Dr. Strangelove while his mother made them chocolate-chip pancakes.
Then she had that short-lived relationship in law school, but she had never fallen head-over-heels, stupid in love until Roger, who was like a walking, talking hot fudge sundae in her eyes—sweet and smart and he filled her heart. She’d never be that naïve again.
“Hey, girl,” Gloria said, almost recovered from her laughing spell. “Because I am your bestie, and don’t want you to ever again suffer the indignity of an accidental flashing, in the future I’ll check our your ta-ta’s for ya.”
“Please don’t. My life is strange enough these days.”
“Seriously, give yourself a once-over before answering the door again ‘cause I think Muscle Boy will be back.”
And Joanne knew why. “With a subpoena for me to testify in front of a grand jury about Dita Randisi’s criminal activities.”
Just what she needed right now…spending a day or two being grilled by a federal grand jury. What she knew about Dita was enough to fill a teaspoon, but it would take hours of questioning before the grand jury came to that understanding as well.
“You sure he was a fed, Jo? Those guys wear Brooks Brothers on official visits, but this guy wore one of them flowery shirts—”
“Hawaiian.”
“So he’s working deep undercover as a luau-server? Plus he’s driving a rental—recognized the car agency sticker on the bumper—which makes no sense. I mean, the feds have the kind of super-secret, whiz-bang stuff than Q was always showing James Bond, so no reason for him to rent from a commercial shop, except if…”
Joanne waited, hating when her friend paused in a hit-the-organ-chord-moment. Reminded her of her sister’s way of milking dramatic moments.
“I think our boy is doing his own thing outside ATF,” she finally said.
Whoa. Joanne hadn’t been prepared for that, but it made a lot of sense. A line from a Western movie popped into her head. “Sometimes to be honest, you have to live outside the law.”
Feds frowned on agents playing outside the government’s rules. If McGill were really investigating a personal case while pretending to be a special agent, he could lose his career plus all kinds of ugly criminal charges. To take such risks meant he was seriously invested in finding Dita.
For good reasons…or evil ones?
Knock knock knock.
“He’s back,” she rasped, her heart racing.
“Get outta that holey nightshirt top. I saw some blouses piled on a box near the window.”
Knock. Knock.
“One moment!” Joanne called out in her best natural voice, whatever that was.
She ended the call and headed to the pile of blouses and grabbed what was on top, one of her least favorites with its crayon-bright colors and black bows at the elbows, but it wasn’t wrinkled. Much.
Knock. Knock.
On her way to the door, she fastened the buttons, then paused to peer through the peephole while nervously patting her deranged hair.
Oh no, this looked bad. Steeling herself, she opened the door.
Shannon, in oversized sunglasses that gave her a bug-like look, stood, or more like swayed, on the front porch. Dressed in a white-and-gold romper outfit with linebacker-sized shoulder pads and strappy gold shoes, her blonde hair piled high in big curls, she looked like a skinny toreador gone glam. Scents of Chinese food and booze competed with her signature perfume, Inamorata, which cost more per ounce than most family’s weekly grocery bills.
Snuffling back a sob, Shannon opened her skinny arms as a mascara-blackened tear dripped down her cheek.
“Jo-Jo...I’ve been b-b-bad…”
With a wail, she fell into Joanne’s arms.
* * *
Chapter 6
After leaving Joanne Galvin, P.C.’s law office, Mike picked up a couple of to-go burgers, fries and two shakes, chocolate and strawberry, before heading to the Jackpot Casino and Hotel where he and his grandfather had earlier checked into a dog-friendly one-bedroom suite.
When he and Maggie entered the front room, whose couch would be Mike’s bed, he saw his granddad staring out the floor-to-ceiling window. He’d changed into a fresh plaid shirt, khaki pants and Velcro-leather slip-ons.
He turned to Mike and grinned. “Kid, this place is like the Ritz!”
“Happy almost-birthday, Granddad.” He crossed to a small table next to the kitchenette-bar as Maggie settled onto her doggie bed in a corner of the living room. “Got us some lunch.”
“This view from the twenty-sixth floor,” his granddad continued, “gives a bird’s eye of Strip.”
Mike felt lousy about how he’d handled his visit to Joanne Galvin’s office, but it gave him a boost seeing Archie so happy.
Although the Jackpot Hotel and Casino was hardly the Ritz. Built sixty years ago, it looked its age with worn carpets, walls the color of faded green-felt casino tables and faux-marble cherub statutes everywhere, some with ashtrays on top of their heads. But being past its prime had played in Mike’s favor as this one-bedroom suite was a third of what other Vegas hotels charged.
Plus t
he place had a star-studded history, proudly documented in dozens of photos on its lobby walls. Joan Crawford hosted the hotel’s grand opening in 1955. Barbara Streisand made her Vegas debut in 1963 as the opening act for Liberace. But the Jackpot’s biggest claim to fame was Frank Sinatra and the Rat Pack partying here in the sixties. Some claimed having seen their ghosts still partying in an upstairs suite.
“Got us burgers and shakes.” Mike set the items on the small table.
“Milkshakes? Grandson, we’re in Vegas! I’ve unpacked the booze, got us some ice. I make a mean 007.”
“What’s that?”
“James Bond’s martini. Some people say gin only, but I mix it with three parts gin, one part vodka, a lemon twist. Then it’s shaken, of course, not stirred.” He did a little two-step while miming shaking a martini shaker.
Mike checked the retro metal-starburst clock on the wall. “It’s barely one in the afternoon. I’ll pass.”
He sat down and pulled a paper-wrapped burger out of the bag, placed it at his grandfather’s spot. “No mayo, no pickles, no cheese.”
Archie sat down. “Sounds like the interview with the lady lawyer didn’t go so well.”
“Yep.”
“If you wanna talk about it, I’m all ears.”
He set a plastic cup and straw in front of Archie. “Strawberry with low-fat milk, no whip.
“That’s me, living large.”
After they ate for a few minutes in silence, listening to Maggie snore softly in the background, Mike said, “Let’s just say…I hope she doesn’t take legal action. I, uh, didn’t want her to close her door so…I kinda forced it to stay open.”
Archie glanced at his grandson’s feet. “Not by sticking out your foot, I hope. You might as well be barefoot in those things.”
“No, by pressing my shoulder against the door. In the eyes of the law, that qualifies as trespassing.”
“World’s too damn full of idiotic rules. Got some salt packets in that bag?”
Mistletoe and Murder in Las Vegas Page 7