Mistletoe and Murder in Las Vegas

by Colleen Collins

  “At least there was an orange in there.”

  From outside, a lively “Feliz Navidad” played from a passing car, the music fading into the distance. She looked out the window at the palm trees, their twinkling lights bright against the dusky purple sky. She and Roger had always set aside an evening in early December to put up their tree. They’d drink eggnog, play Christmas songs and later eat green bean casserole with fried onion rings sprinkled on the top, her one Christmas dish specialty. It wasn’t that she missed Roger, but damn…she missed what her life had been…or what she thought it had been, she supposed.

  “You look sad,” he said quietly.

  “Just, uh, thinking about the ghost of Christmas past.”

  “Know the best antidote to that guy?”

  She blinked. Several times. “You know about Roger?”

  “A few things, yes.”

  Of course he knew about Roger. Mr. Special Agent probably knew about her, too, before he even showed up on her porch. She looked into his brown eyes, wondering exactly how much he knew about her un-wild, so-not-bad-girl life. Probably fell asleep by page two.

  “To answer your question,” she said, “I don’t know the antidote to that ghost of Christmases past, except to keep moving forward. Which involves a number of sideways steps, too.”

  “Well, I know the best antidote to that guy,” he said, standing. “Eating a healthy meal with a good man in Christmas present.”

  Was he advertising himself as a good man because he wanted her to like him? Or maybe it was a dig at the “bad man” Roger, which made her wonder what he knew about the two of them. Or why he even cared to know.

  On the other hand, he was an ATF special agent. A professional snooper who specialized in arson investigations. He didn’t just dig for dirt, he bulldozed for it.

  He picked her purse off the floor where she’d dropped it and handed it to her, then helped her up from the chair. They headed toward the door, his hand protectively on the small of her back. Maggie took her place on his other side.

  When they reached the door, he paused. “How do you lock this?”

  “It locks automatically when I shut it.”

  “You need a dead bolt.” He scanned the large window that looked out on the two parking spots. “Good, you have window locks.”

  He opened the door, and she stepped outside, waiting as he checked the outside of the door, too, and the placement of a surveillance camera that Kimmie was going to teach her to use. A passing breeze cooled her skin as she looked up at the purpling sky and caught the twinkling of the first star.

  The brush of his steps stopped next to her. They stood together for several moments without talking, gazing at the settling dusk. On the far side of the fence, traffic buzzed along Graces Avenue. “Deck the Halls” played in the distance.

  “Forgive that guy,” he said quietly.

  Too stunned to dredge up a retort, she looked up at his face. In the evening shadows, she couldn’t clearly see his features, but could make out his pronounced jaw, raggedly mane of hair, and what appeared to be a big smile.

  “Not because he deserves it,” he continued. “But because it’ll mess with his head.”

  * * *

  On the way to Piero’s, Mike dropped Maggie off with Archie at their hotel, conveniently located a block from the restaurant. After leaving the vehicle with a valet, he and Joanne walked inside to another era. One filled with a haze of cigarette smoke, guys drinking martinis at the bar, and Sinatra crooning a jazzy tune in the background.

  “I don’t think I’m gonna pass the dress code test,” Mike murmured, checking out the crystal glasses sparkling over the long polished wooden bar.

  “You’re fine,” she assured him. “If you want, tell the host we’re here to watch sports—he’ll sit us in the bar area, which is more casual.”

  He did, and they were escorted to one of several plush leather booths in the back. Over the bar three flat-screened TVs played different sports games, the sound muted. A bartender in a white linen jacket vigorously shook a silver canister, whose contents slushed and rattled.

  The waiter set a basket of bread on the table, the yeasty scent filling the air. He explained the focaccia and ciabatta were homemade and took their drink orders—beer for Mike, iced tea for Joanne.

  After the waiter left, he said, “So, you come here to watch sports often?”

  “No. I’ve only been here once or twice.”

  The corners of her mouth drew down a bit, indicating at least one of times hadn’t been very happy. Probably because of that ghost of Christmas past.

  Mike wanted this to be a good dinner meeting, a chance to relax and get to know each better, which included his telling her the truth about who he was and why he was in Vegas. But that wasn’t going to happen, easily anyway, if this restaurant brought back bad memories of Roger.

  "We can go someplace else,” he said.

  She looked around the room, her gaze settlings on the sparkling Christmas tree in the corner. “No,” she answered, turning her attention back to him. “I want to stay. Their dishes are amazing, plus there are only a few of these old Vegas restaurants left. Sinatra and his Rat Pack used to dine here. A portion of the movie Casino was filmed in this very room.” She pointed to a stool at the far end of the bar. “Last time I was here, the bartender told me that Joe Pesci sat there during one of the scenes. Told me some other stories, too...”

  She helped herself to a piece of focaccia as she chatted about Casino, how she’d recently been watching old western movies, and her Kate Spade purse, a congratulatory gift from her sister and brother-in-law. “First designer anything I’ve owned, and it scares me. Afraid if I spill something on it, it’ll file a personal injury claim.”

  He put aside his concerns. She was enjoying herself, plus she had a wicked sense of humor. And to think this was the same women who a few hours ago threatened to take him down. He had to admit though, that her tough-lawyer act was impressive, although he’d prefer not to be the recipient of her legal wrath again. But if it the payoff were to be the recipient of her smile, he might be tempted to play the Constitutional Bay Boy once more.

  Because every time she flashed him a grin or laughed, something toppled inside him. Mike, the tough ATF agent who’d tracked serial arsonists, dug up bodies at crime scenes, and filled in for fire fighters so they could mourn comrades’ deaths, felt susceptible to a woman’s smile.

  Roger was an idiot to lose her.

  Mike had learned basic facts about Roger and Joanne through databases, social media and articles, but sensed their secrets from photos. Several days ago, he found pictures on the Internet from last year’s Clark County Public Defenders’ Christmas party. Roger had been in several: Grinning with lawyer-buddies, posing with the DA, shaking the mayor’s hand. Didn’t have to be a truth wizard to see the guy was full of himself and positioning himself for a political career. Joanne had been in two pictures. One with Gloria Falco, the two of them smiling warmly at the camera. The other with Roger, which revealed so much truth it was almost painful to look at.

  She wore a strapless red dress that matched the color of her flaming ringlets. The way she leaned into Roger, beaming, it was easy to see that she adored and trusted him. The look on Roger’s face was all teeth, no smile. Standing tall in his blue business suit, an arm stiffly around Joanne’s shoulder, he looked bored. Not with his career, as Roger was the golden boy of the defenders’ office from everything Mike had read. And certainly not with the party as he was flashing a good-ol’-boy grin in photos with everybody else. Which left one reason: He was bored with Joanne.

  But instead of being a man and trying to fix the problem at home, he crushed her good heart so he could have a good time. Just as Mike’s dad had done.

  The waiter arrived with their drinks and menus, providing a welcome distraction from his thoughts as he looked over the Italian dishes, many reminding him of his mom’s cooking, like pasta e fagiolo, pasta and bean soup, and the linguin
e al pomodoro, pasta with red sauce.

  When he looked up, Joanne was busy pouring a packet of sugar into her tea. Her menu lay closed on the table.

  “Looks like you’ve picked out what you want.”

  She stirred her tea. “They have spaghetti, right?”

  An odd question as they were in an Italian restaurant. As he wondered if she were being serious or making a joke, the lights in the restaurant dimmed, casting the room in a moody ambiance that encouraged whispered conversations and amorous looks. Which probably wouldn’t have affected him if her face didn’t appear luminescent in the candlelight. Or her hair hadn’t taken on a coppery sheen in the hazy light.

  We should’ve gone to McDonald’s. Easier to stay focused on business with bright lights and cheap food. But he had a feeling that even if they shared a bag of stale chips at a bus stop, he’d be checking out her fiery hair and falling even harder for that smile. This was happening too fast...and the timing was all wrong.

  He dropped his gaze to the menu, pretending to read.

  Since Paula’s death, he had dated sporadically, but nothing lasted over a month or two. He dreaded when family members and friends asked if he were seeing anyone, a question that really meant Have you moved on from Paula yet? He hadn’t, but not in the way they assumed. So he would answer without really giving an answer. Say he was busy with work, training Maggie, helping Archie with something.

  Some days he wanted nothing more than to dump his guilt over Paula’s death and move on with his life, but he couldn’t. It was easy to blame that on the curse of the investigator who couldn’t quit an unsolved case, but it went deeper than that. He had turned his back on her when she needed him the most.

  If only he had been a better man.

  * * *

  Joanne fiddled with the edge of her menu while watching McGill read his. He looked so miserable she wondered if he hated the food, the restaurant or maybe her company. Maybe I shouldn’t have joked about my purse filing a lawsuit against me. I’d like to discuss his idea of forging some kind of alliance, but he won’t even want to forge my signature if he thinks I’m some kind of nutcase.

  “You mentioned spaghetti,” he said, looking at her over the top of his menu. “How does linguine alla vongole sound?”

  He doesn’t look so troubled now. Sounds pleasant, too. Dawned on her that she might be looking for problems where none existed. Probably a reaction to problems having taken her by surprise.

  She looked down at her menu as if reading it, which she couldn’t, but it gave her a moment to decide if she should yes to the linguine dish, ask for plain spaghetti with meatballs, which every Italian restaurant had, or admit she was having trouble reading the words.

  Divulging her dyslexia was personal, something she rarely did outside of family members and trusted friends unless it was absolutely necessary.

  “Or there’s the linguine portofino,” he suggested.

  It was necessary.

  She closed her menu and set it aside. “I, uh, have a mild form of dyslexia, which I normally manage well, but it has flared up lately, making it difficult at times to read things…like what’s in the menu.”

  He looked at her for a long moment, then gave a small smile. Maybe she couldn’t read words, but she definitely read the gentleness in his eyes.

  “Then I’ll read to you.”

  Simple as that. No question, no concern, just acceptance with a solution. If she questioned trusting him enough to forge an alliance before, he paved the way to possibly sealing the deal right there.

  The leather seat creaked as he scooted closer. “I grew up eating these dishes at home. My great-grandparents immigrated from Sicily in the 1920s and ran an Italian deli in East L.A. for years. They passed down recipes from the old country to my grandmother, Nonna, who passed them on to my mother, and even I’ve been known to cook a wickedly good Sicilian dish or two.”

  “Is your dad’s side of the family from Italy, too?”

  “No,” he said tightly. “Shall I read the antipasti freddi, hot appetizers, first?”

  She picked up on there being tension between him and his father. “Yes, please.”

  The strain she heard in his voice slipped away as he read the menu to her, pausing every now and then to ask if she had questions. Brought back memories of her dad reading stories to her as a child. By the time she’d been diagnosed with dyslexia at nine, she and the written word were enemies. But at home she could relax and comfortably listen to her dad’s pronunciation of words, identifying punctuation through his pauses and shifts in tone.

  When the waiter reappeared, she ordered the insalada caprese, a tomato and buffalo mozzarella salad, and pollo alla milanese, a lightly breaded breast of chicken. He ordered a green salad and the house specialty, osso buco, veal shanks with vegetables.

  Perhaps because she and McGill were sitting closer, the waiter inquired if this was a special occasion—birthday, anniversary? She started to say no when McGill answered yes, it was a special evening but a private one.

  After the waiter left, they sat in silence for a few moments. She couldn’t remember ever having a “special” business dinner with someone she barely knew, although adding candlelight and Sinatra singing would probably make even The Waffle House a special dining experience. Even more, she liked his calling their evening private…made her feel protected and safe.

  In the background, Tony Bennett sang about chestnuts roasting on an open fire. A waiter walked past with two steaming plates of pasta, trailing scents of tomatoes and garlic.

  “Thank you for your willingness to discuss a possible alliance,” McGill said.

  “You’re welcome.”

  It surprised her he hadn’t scooted back to his original spot, but sitting close made sense as they would be discussing a legal case that shouldn’t be overheard by others.

  “In support of an alliance,” he continued, “I would like to share two things with you to show my goodwill and build your trust in me.”

  “All right.” He sounded as if he’d rehearsed this, which underlined its importance to him.

  “First, some information about the case. Did you know that Dita’s ex-boyfriend, Jim Lloyd, was nicknamed ‘Mustang’ for his role in freeing hundreds of mustang wild horses from federal land, and that that he was a leader of the Animal Freedom Party?”

  “There have been allegations about Dita having had an ex-boyfriend who supposedly was affiliated with the Animal Freedom Party, but this is the first I’ve heard about his being a leader.” She paused. “Several years ago I defended the Eco-Warrior Café, run by a young couple falsely charged with planting a homemade bomb at a family-owned meat store. In preparation for trial, I researched eco-terrorism. As you’re probably aware, such groups like to keep their infrastructure secret, even among themselves. Members only know who they report to, but not the organizational structure, so it would be hearsay to identify him as a leader, and therefore inadmissible as evidence.”

  “What does Dita say?”

  “Her lawyer says none of your business.”

  He smiled. “Touché.”

  At Dita’s arraignment hearing, she had told Joanne about Jim, and that his nickname was Mustang, although she hadn’t explained how he got that name. She had also remained steadfast that she had never belonged to the Freedom Animal Party nor had she ever attended any of their meetings or get-togethers. Joanne would ask Dita if Jim had ever referred to himself as a leader.

  That last one concerned Joanne. Her hearsay argument would be shot down if McGill had evidence, such as a former member willing to testify that Jim had headed up the group. Well, he said he wanted to show good will…

  “Do you have evidence that Jim was a leader?”

  “No. Read it in an online article. Reporter quoted an ‘anonymous source’ who claimed Jim had been a leader, but who knows what that’s about. Could be a nutcase making stuff up, a reporter lying to look good, or the truth. Doubt the latter because you and I both now the FBI w
ould have been all over that reporter.”

  That was honest. She was buying his good will.

  “What’s the second thing you wanted to tell me?” Her phone chirped from inside her purse. “I don’t want to interrupt our talk…but I should check who’s calling.”

  “I understand.”

  She retrieved her phone and checked the caller ID, but the numbers danced and merged. "Joanne Galvin," she answered in a low whisper.

  "Can you talk?” Gloria asked.

  “I can listen.”

  “Oh, he’s sitting right there.”

  “Yes.”

  “Muscle Boy is up to something. He’s an ATF agent, but his name isn’t Steve McGill. It’s Michael Day. I read a news item in the Sun today where the chief of police said the Organica Streetwear arson is local, and being handled by Vegas police and fire department. Which means ATF is not involved. Jo, I’m worried about you.”

  * * *

  Chapter 9

  “I found a recent article in the L.A. Times that ranked the top three ATF arson investigators,” Gloria continued. “Number one was Michael Day whose arson dog is a seven-year-old black lab named Maggie.”

  Her words registered with jolt. He gave that speech about showing goodwill and building trust while lying about his name? What else is he lying about? He was sitting so close, she could feel his foot tapping in time to Dean Martin singing the lively Christmas song “Let It Snow!” She slid him a glance. Bobbing his head slightly to the music, he smiled. She forced one back.

  “Just a moment,” she whispered into the phone. Lowering it, she said to Mike. “This is a rather sensitive call…”

  He held up both hands in a no-need-to-explain gesture. “I’ll step away and call my granddad, see how they’re doing.”

  The leather creaked as he scooted back around the booth. As he walked through the bar area, several women checked him out. She felt like saying, “Ladies, do your homework before you fall for the outside of a package.”