Mistletoe and Murder in Las Vegas

by Colleen Collins

  “Piatto ricco, mi ci ficco,” Mike said to Joanne. “That’s Italian for the dish is rich, so I dive in. My grandparents said it whenever sitting down to a meal they looked forward to, which for Italians is just about any meal.”

  She laughed. “Well, the dish is rich, so let’s dive in.”

  A few minutes later, she said, “We have an issue with this alliance. Talking privately is one thing, but I’d also like you to walk through the arson scene with me, review fire department reports, possibly sit in on an interview or two. ATF wouldn’t be happy hearing you’re investigating on my behalf...I mean the AFT outside of this local manager, Rex.” She paused. “Who could put a screeching halt to this tomorrow, anyway.”

  “Hopefully I’ll convince him to see my side so he’s no longer an issue, but good point about ATF possibly catching wind of my checking out that arson site, for example. High-profile case like this, Vegas police will be monitoring the crime scene and requiring all visitors to have legitimate reasons to enter. Can’t flash my ATF badge.”

  “No, you can’t.” She gave him a mischievous grin. “But if I hire you as my driver-bodyguard, you can flash a Joanne Galvin, P.C. employee card instead. Plus, as an employee of my law firm, anything you see, hear or read that involves this case is protected by attorney-client privilege, of course. No one, including ATF, is allowed to pierce that privilege.”

  Realizing her tactic, he smiled. “You’re one smart lady.”

  “Thank you. Of course I can’t pay you much.”

  “A cup of coffee now and then will suffice.”

  “I can afford that. How about my buying you a cup tomorrow at that coffee shop across the street from Organica Streetwear? You can show me where this mystery witness sat, then we’ll do a walk-through of the crime scene.” She picked up her glass of ice tea.

  “Pick you up at nine.”

  “Okay. One more issue about our alliance. I know you think Dita is the Timepiece Arsonist. I, of course, don’t. This is a personal case for you, however, so I feel comfortable our sharing information to a point. I’m sure you know what that is.”

  “If there’s evidence you think could be used against her.”

  “Because of your powerful, and very real, need to resolve this woman’s death means if there’s any evidence that you believe confirms Dita is the Timepiece Arsonist, I know you’ll turn it over to the authorities.” When he started to speak, she made a stop gesture. “Let me finish. “I’m not criticizing your intention. If such evidence were to exist, which I absolutely believe doesn’t, you should turn it over. I’m just informing you that my powerful, and real need, above all else is to protect my client. I’ve represented many people accused of crimes, and this case against Dita smells like a certain DA who wants so badly to be the next governor he’ll do anything in his power to railroad an innocent young woman into prison.”

  “You defense lawyers are always blaming the prosecution.”

  “And they never point the finger at us.”

  “Understood.”

  Mike’s scowl returned. “I get what you’re saying about finger-pointing, though. That DA reminds me of how often women blame themselves rather than put the blame where it belongs—on their husbands.”

  The comment took her by surprise. “That’s a bolt out of the blue. What does that have to do with this case?”

  “Nothing,” he admitted. “A while back you asked If I had a problem with my dad...I do. When I was fifteen, he moved out of the house to be with his girlfriend. Crushed my mom and kid sisters, who had never done anything wrong except to love and trust him.”

  He told her how his mom, heartbroken, had explained to the kids that their daddy needed some time away to “think things through,” but Mike knew the truth because he’d overheard his dad talking to his girlfriend on the phone several weeks before.

  His life changed overnight from being a son to being the man of the family, holding everything together for the next year. Although he was a football and baseball star, he dropped out of sports so he could be home in the evenings to cook dinner on nights when his mom stayed in her room, and to help his sisters with their homework and get them ready for bed.

  Many nights, he’d lie in his room, listening to his mom cry softly in her bedroom. Her parents, who’d emigrated from Sicily when she was a child, were hurt and furious at his dad for deserting the family. “He should have stayed with his wife and visited his [Italian for other woman] on the side,” his grandfather once said to Mike.

  A year and a half later, his dad returned. Mike’s Mom was ecstatic. She wore pretty clothes, cooked his favorite meals, treated him like a king every night when he came home from work. His sisters often clung to their dad, who promised them he’d never leave again.

  Mike, however, refused to speak to his dad for weeks, giving in only after his mother, teary-eyed, begged him to please forgive his father and not ignore him. Even then, Mike kept his communications minimal with his father, speaking only when spoken to. And he never forgave him.

  * * *

  As Mike parked the SUV in the second spot outside her place, a radio announcer said it was half-past seven. Joanne couldn't believe how much her life had changed since she left her place just a few hours ago. She'd gone beyond forging an alliance and hired Mike to be her first Joanne Galvin, P.C. employee, to be paid in cups of coffee, confided her pregnancy, learned about the guilt and pain that shaped Mike's life, and at some point gave a sliver of her heart to this guy. Just enough to give her a lilt as a woman, which was all she wanted or could handle right now, anyway. A salve to her own ghost of Chritmas past.

  The inside of his vehicle smelled like rich tomato sauce, warm bread and garlic from their leftovers and the extra order of xxx he'd order to go for her. After turning off the engine, he hopped out the driver's side and opened the back passenger door for Maggie, who jumped down. The two of them then headed to her passenger door, which Mike opened as Maggie sat at his side. As she handed the containers of food to Mike, cool breezes swirled and leaves rattled.

  Minutes later they stepped inside her office, and she imagined how this would feel to a potential client stepping inside for the first time. The lighting was warm and inviting, and that massive cherrywood desk was damn impressive. A few guest chairs and her office was ready to go.

  With a heavy thunk, Mike dropped the containers on the desk. "Joanne, go down the hall and to the agency, now," he ordered as he crossed to Maggie.

  She did as told, nearly stumbling with fright, wondering what the hell Maggie smelled. Opening the door, she slipped into Fossen-Chandler Investigations, the room faintly lit with lights from the Christmas tree. She sat at Lenny's desk and wrapped her arms around herself, her teeth chattering, terrified of what she might hear next.

  Seconds, minutes passed, the only sounds faint sounds of distant laughter and the buzz of traffic.

  Footsteps. Mike's shadowy form stopped at the desk. "Maggie alerted on a watch device set to detonate in twenty minutes," he said evenly. "I easily dismantled it--those devices are pieces of shit, excuse my language. Maggie didn't pick up on anything else, but the place needs a thorough check. Police also need to know about this incident as they have jurisdiction over the Timepiece Arsonist investigation, but more important, for your safety. I'd obviously cause a small shitstorm if I called, so I contacted Rex. He's contacting some of his inside sources at the police department who can keep this on a need-to-know basis. My name isn't being mentioned."

  "Oh my God." She glanced around. "Where's Maggie?"

  "Stationed next to your desk, guarding the place. You need to stay elsewhere for a while, and the safest place I know is with me and Maggie at the Jackpot. Rex is making arrangements for one of his agents to stay in a room near ours as extra security as well. Besides your laptop, what else do you need?"

  Her hands shook as she fished her desk key out of her purse and rattled off some files she needed in a drawer and several suits in her closet. Mike asked her permis
sion to call her landlord and explain what happened, which struck her as odd considering the seriousness of the situation and yet sweetly chivalrous that he wanted her okay first, which she gave, asking if he minded her calling Gloria, too, as she would cause her own shit-storm if left in the dark.

  She just ended her call when Mike, Maggie at his side, were back with the items. The exited by the front door of the agency, where Mike had parked, and they drove to her new place. Her fourth one in the last month, but at least she was alive.

  * * *

  The leftover containers of Italian food in Mike's hands were still warm as he made introductions. A few of her suits were draped over one arm. Joanne held her laptop, purse, and a few manilla folders.

  "Joanne, this is my grandfather Archie Day. Granddad, she'll be staying with us for a while."

  Archie, dressed in a newly ironed plaid shirt, khaki pants and his white leather party shoes, didn't miss a beat. "Lovely to meet you my dear," he said with a bow of his head. "Would you like a glass of champagne? Cocktail?"

  "No," she murmured, sinking onto the couch, looking a bit shell-shocked.

  "Let me take your things and put them into your room," Archie said, crossing to her.

  Mike was moved by his grandfather's calm attentiveness to Joanne. Archie was no fool. Something had happened, but he wasn't going to ask quesitons or act as if anything unusual had just occurred, although obiously something had. He knew instinctively the priority was to create a safe haven for Joanne.

  As he carried her laptop, purse and folders into the bedroom, he said over his shoulder, "Grandson, after you put the food into the refrigerator, please bring our guest's clothes into the bedroom."

  Minutes later, Mike was hanging up her two suits in the bedroom closet while Archie retrieved his few clothes.

  "There's a portable cot in the other closet," Mike said. "I'll set that up in the living room. You can have the couch."

  "No need." Archie held several neatly folded plaid shirts in his arms. "While I'm downstairs playing poker, I'll make arrangements with the front desk for my own room, and don't bother trying to argue with your old grandfather because you'll only lose. Not this discussion, but the chance to be with Miss Right. I’m going to leave these shirts and some other things on the dining room table. I’ll pick ‘em up later. Have a good night, Grandson. You’re old granddad is proud of you.”

  After his grandfather left, Mike finished setting up the bedroom for Joanne, then joined her on the couch. He heard a familiar song fainting playing. “What’s that?”

  She gestured to her phone lying on the coffee table. “Your grandfather downloaded some albums on my smartphone. Said they would cheer me up.”

  “Is that Elvis?”

  She smiled. “Yes. He’s singing “Wonder of You.”

  “it’s an apt song for you this evening. You were brave.”

  “Me? You’re the one who dismantled that device!” Emotion filled her eyes.

  “It’s all right,” he said gently. “You’re safe here. I won’t let anything hurt you…or the baby.”

  "Thank you." She sighed heavily, leaned her head back on the couch. "Why?"

  Mike knew what she meant. Why had she been targeted by the Timepiece Arsonist, as if that person couldn't possibly be Dita. As much as he wanted to protect her, it wouldn't help either of them to step around the truth. "I think Dita set it to make you, the police, think the real Timepiece Arsonist is still out there."

  "And that she's innocent."

  "Right. There was very little accelerant, so the explosion would have probably been more smoke than fire. But if there's anything I've learned, it's to never underestimate the power of fire."

  "Oh my God." She stared up at the ceiling. "I tried so many cases at the defenders office...some of my clients were hardcore criminals who scared me, but no one ever tried to hurt me. I wanted to do the right thing for Dita, but it's one thing to be a bleeding liberal and another to be bleeding. I have my baby to think of..."

  As she started to cry, he gathered her in his arms and held her close. They stayed like that for a long time. He was ready to tell her to give up the case, when she suddenly said, "If I abandon Dita she'll spend the rest of her life in prison. Oh, she'll get out when she's close to 60, but where will she go? Will Lenny be waiting for her after fifteen, twenty years? She'll have no family, no friends, and she's supposed to make a fruitful life for herself? I can't do that to her. Even if I dump this case and leave her to the wolves, what about the next case where I feel or am threatened? Do I keep running?"

  He didn’t say anything. Her decision had to be hers, and hers alone.

  "I want to be strong, too," she finally said. "How else will my baby learn how to be strong?"

  Something toppled inside him again, but this time it wasn’t just how her smile got to him, or how he admired her bravery, but also that he wanted to be part of helping that baby grow up to be strong, just her mama.

  He meant to say as much, but words escaped him. They looked into each others’ eyes and, suddenly, they leaned toward each other at the same time and kissed. A soft, gentle kiss while Elvis sang about the wonder of you.

  * * *

  A few days later, a police officer took down their information outside the charred remains of Organica Streetwear. Although the fire occurred weeks ago, and the crime scene was cold, because of the high-profile case surrounding the arrest and upcoming trial of Dita, the alleged Timepiece Arsonist, Las Vegas police had set up twenty-four surveillance with an officer standing guard at the entrance, with a sign-in protocol. Joanne identified herself as Dita's attorney and showed her Nevada attorney license card ID. Mike flashed an ID card he'd made earlier that identified him as Mike Viotti, his mother's maiden name, legal assistant Joanne Galvin, P.C. as driver-bodyguard was a bit too "TV" for an ID card.

  They carefully stepped around the charred walls and rubble, taking in the stench of smoke and burned fabric. Except for a jagged supporting beam, the ceiling had caved in during the fire, leaving an overhead view of blue skies and clouds. Winds whistled eerily through the blackened walls, or what remained of them, and the front and back holes, formerly windows that had blown out during the fire.

  "I want to show you something." He held out his hand. "I'll guide you the safest spots to step."

  She took his hand, so large and warm, and walked slowly behind him, following his instructions on where to step. Maybe he said "bodyguard" was too TV, as if the term were a silly fabrication, but the truth was he really was her bodyguard, had been from that first day when he told her close the door so she didn't catch cold. Funny to think Mike had protected her more in a few days than she could recall Roger doing in four years.

  When they reached the back window--now shards of glass protruding from a black, warped frame--Mike stopped and gently dropped Joanne's hand.

  "Notice those two lines on the floor?" He gestured at a faint right angle. With his other hand he pointed to burned armoire to their right. "That used to sit here."

  "It's so large," Joanne said. "It would have blocked the entire window."

  "Which was what it was meant to do." Mike pointed at the old brick wall of the building across a small alley. "Remember, this was a small, upscale boutique. To block the ugly view of that wall, the owner placed an antique armoire in front of the window. From the insurance report, that antique is worth five grand."

  "There's one reason the owner, Susan Jay-Doyle, didn't hire Dita to torch this place for the insurance. She would have moved out such expensive items ahead of time."

  "Not really. Makes her look less guilty if she lost them in the fire. But I no longer proscribe to the theory of Dita as hired torch, anyway. According to Vegas Sun article this morning, a venture capital group is funding Susan to rebuild Organica Streetwear, so she'll be dropping her chapter 11 bankruptcy."

  "So you're now on the side of the defense."

  He laughed softly. "No, I'm not joining the dark side, yet. Your girl Dita has
ties to an eco-terrorist group, remember? I wouldn't be surprised Dita learned that some of Susan Jay-Doyle clothes were made from mistreated sheep wool or something, so she torched the place."

  "That's ridiculous."

  Mike arched an eyebrow. "Let's see...her ex is named Mustang for releasing a hundred wild Mustangs from government land. Those horses weren't being made into glue or dog food...the government was planning an auction to sell them to ranchers and others who wanted horses to ride. If Mr. Mustang and his eco-terrorist pals had done their homework they would have known that. Their act was every bit as ridiculous as Dita's reason."

  "Don't assume Dita set fire to this place," she snapped. "I like our working together as we're both benefitting from what the other, but I don't like assumptions of guilt, be it this case or any other. The justice system is about evidence, not guesses."

  She took a moment to reel in her anger. Part of her was grateful that Mike had stumbled into her life. But another part remained uncomfortable, wondering if he'd pull a fast one and harpoon her case, which could sink her career, too, if the harpoon was big enough. Although they'd agreed their alliance was based on each pursuing their separate sides in this case, they had also agreed not to play dirty. It was one thing to discover evidence damning to the other's side, which they said they would share out of fairness, but another to equate assumptions to facts.

  "I apologize," he said gently, those big brown eyes turning soft. "You're right. There is no proof of Dita's guilt. I'll watch my big mouth from now on."

  Her anger melted like a piece of ice in fire. So long self-righteous moment. This guy could play her emotions the way a violinist plucked strings. But if she dared to be totally honest with herself, her emotions were vulnerable because her heart was, too.

  “I messed up my last attempt to prove my good will,” he continued. “So let me try again. I have compelling circumstantial evidence that weighs on the side of the defense that someone else was the arsonist."