We’re all quiet then. I glance back down at the statements. It’s also possible, I realize, that these deposits could represent embezzled money, from Samantha, for example. Going through Paypal is less easily traceable than a direct transfer from bank to bank so it might have been Danny’s preferred method of transaction.
“I don’t see a lot of withdrawals,” I point out.
Frank shakes his head. “I didn’t like using that money.”
Probably because in his heart of hearts Frank knew this cash was obtained the old-fashioned way: it was stolen. “You know, Frank, in a way Danny was doing you a favor with this money and in a way he wasn’t.”
“What do you mean?” Sally Anne wants to know.
“Having the bank account in Frank’s name distanced Danny from the illegal activity, whether it was blackmailing or embezzling or whatever. That’s why the cops didn’t find it in their investigation. I’m sure they analyzed Danny’s bank accounts but they wouldn’t necessarily have analyzed Frank’s.”
“I don’t know if they did or not. But this account is in a different bank than where I have my regular checking and savings.”
“On top of that, Danny had you over a barrel because he knew you would try to keep the fact that you still had gambling debts piling up a secret.”
“He coulda told me!” Sally Anne cries. “I woulda understood!”
“I knew all this was fishy,” Frank says. “I told myself I was gonna do something about it. But I never did.”
Since I have a Paypal account myself, I know that each time there’s a transaction I’m alerted to it via email. I ask Frank if he received those emails.
“Never saw a one.”
“So Danny must’ve been receiving them. He had all the info on the bank account, right? So he could’ve linked an email address to it.” I frown. “But I’m sure Detective Perelli has been investigating Danny’s email. So how did she not see the emails from Paypal? Unless Danny had a secret account for those, too.”
My mind is racing. I wonder if Danny had been communicating with the person he was blackmailing via email. If so, and if I can find that account, I may well learn the identity of Danny’s blackmailing victim. Who probably morphed from victim into killer when it came to Danny. And Cassidy.
And me.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
“I need to tell Detective Perelli about this,” I say. “I bet she can subpoena Paypal to get them to tell her who was the source of these cash transfers.”
Frank raises no objection. “Whatever happens to me happens. It’s time for me to pay for what I done.”
Sally Anne rubs his shoulder again. I get the idea she’d do a jailhouse wedding with Frank Richter if it came to that.
Frank stands up. “We’ll get outa your hair now. Just so you know, Happy, I got a lotta regrets about how I handled this situation. I shoulda been upfront with you about everything from the get-go. If I had been, who knows? Maybe Cassidy’d be alive today. And you”—he points at me—“I don’t even wanna think about what mighta happened to you if you hadn’t gotten that siren going.”
I don’t, either. But it’s going to be really, really hard to forget.
The guard escorts out Frank and Sally Anne and I use the bedside phone to call the LVMPD. The operator connects me to Detective Perelli and I fill her in on Frank’s secret bank account revelation.
“I’ll send somebody over there to pick up those statements,” she says. “You know how many opportunities I gave Frank Richter to divulge this information?”
Me, too, I want to say. “How long do you think it’ll take to find out who made the Paypal transfers?”
“Today’s Saturday. The earliest I’ll get anything is Monday.”
Anything could happen by Monday. Already two people are dead.
I shudder. Almost three.
“There may be another way to find that email account,” Detective Perelli goes on. “It’s a long shot.”
Nothing revs up this beauty queen like those two words strung together.
“We were able to get into Richter’s computer,” she goes on, “because Flanagan told us his usual password. And guess what we found in his personal documents? One encrypted file. We can’t get into it because we can’t come up with the password.”
That encrypted file has to contain information Danny wanted no one else to see. “You’re thinking he might have information related to the blackmailing in that file?”
“For example, the email account info. Remember this. If Richter was engaging in blackmail, he would not have used his usual email address or any email address that identified him.”
“You mean … he wouldn’t have used one that included his name.”
“Right. And if he had to use something unusual it might have been hard for him to remember it. So he had to write it down.”
“But …” I struggle to keep everything straight. “The password to get into that encrypted file is probably not that hard to remember. Or he had to write that down, too.”
“If he wrote that down, we can’t find it anywhere.”
“Are you willing to email that encrypted file to me?”
She hesitates, then, “Why not? Knock yourself out.”
Clearly she does not expect me to come up with anything, which makes this the kind of challenge I like.
Not to mention that success might lead to nabbing a killer.
I turn my brain upside down, left, right, and sideways to try to come up with passwords Danny might have used to open that encrypted file. I am interrupted by the delightful news that I am soon to be released. “Soon” turns out to mean “in several hours” but in the end I need the time to get beautified for my hospital exit. Shanelle and Trixie return as promised.
“We bought you a little something.” Trixie unveils a cute-as-can-be strapless dress in a blue, green, and brown print with a swishy pleated skirt. A thin glossy black belt accentuates the waist. Shanelle holds up a pair of platform T-strap sandals in black and nude suede.
“That’s more than a little something!” I protest, but not too vigorously. “Thank you so much, you two.”
We have another teary moment before Trixie buckles down to applying my makeup. Depending what part of my face she’s working on, she alternately shushes me and encourages me to speak as I relay the latest 411. Trixie and Shanelle add a few possibilities to my Danny Passwords list.
There is quite the media crush outside the hospital for my release. Even though it’s already dark outside, just for fun I wear Shanelle’s big Jackie O-style sunglasses. I feel like a total celebrity being whisked from the hospital exit to the waiting police van, complete with my posse of Trixie, Shanelle, Jason, my mom, and the armed guard. Camera flashes go off in my face like nobody’s business. I take no questions although many are shouted at me.
We settle in the van and it pulls away. “I’m too excited to just go back to the hotel!” Trixie cries. “Plus Happy looks so cute in her new outfit, she should show it off.”
“Plus I’m starving,” Shanelle adds, “and we have three whole hours before we’ve got to be at the theater. Let’s go out to eat. You up for it, girl?” she asks me.
“I’m game.” I ate almost nothing at the hospital. Maybe food will aid the Think Of Danny’s Password process.
“You feel woozy for one second, we’re leaving,” Jason says.
“I want to go to that hotel with the canals,” my mother declares. She hits me in the arm. Apparently she’s recovered from my near-death experience. “I been here all week and you never once took me to that place!” My mom is blissfully unaware that indeed I have been to the Rialto Hotel and that the visit was, shall we say, memorable.
All of us except the guard ooh and aah over the canals and the gondolas and the ceilings painted to look like the evening sky over Venice.
“It’s exactly like we’re in Italy,” Trixie remarks as we stroll across a bridge that arches over the canal. “Not that I’ve ever been there so I
don’t really know.”
“Who needs to go to Europe after they’ve been here?” my mother wants to know.
“It is amazing how much of Vegas is like this,” I say. “You’re in a gigantic modern hotel but you’d think you’re in ancient Rome. You’re in a subterranean mall but you’d bet you’re in the middle of Venice.”
“It’s like how we’re Sparklettes this week.” Trixie giggles. “We’re not really dancers even though we try to make everybody think we are when we’re on stage.”
As usual we’re in the mood for Italian food. With the guard close at hand, we settle at an “outdoor” café beside the canal and order a round of Bellini cocktails. For everybody but me, that is. I’m sticking to soft drinks tonight.
“What’s in this?” my mother asks.
Shanelle reads the description from the menu. “Peach nectar with Prosecco.”
“Italian sparkling wine,” I clarify. “You had it at Brutus’s Palace.”
“Not bad,” my mother pronounces after her first sip.
The restaurant serves family style. We share grilled calamari, squash-filled ravioli, chicken with olives and potatoes, and amaretti pudding for dessert.
“You two will work this off performing,” I tell Shanelle and Trixie. “All I’m going to do tonight is sit on my butt like I did all day.”
“Today is not the day to be worrying about your figure,” Jason tells me.
He’s got a point.
We’ve just stood up from dinner when I notice the same female gondolier I saw when I was here with Hans Finkelmeister. Like last time, she’s singing an operatic tune.
I stop to watch. Something about her seems really familiar but I can’t put my finger on what. It hits me when we’re piling back into the police van to return to the Cosmos. “That woman gondolier we just saw. She was at the recording studio when I went looking for Travis Blakely.”
“You went to a recording studio?” My mom narrows her eyes at me. “Nice of you to take me with you.”
“Maybe she works there, too,” Shanelle says. “This gig is probably part time.”
At the Cosmos, Shanelle and Trixie remain in the van to continue on to the theater. I’m sad I can’t perform with the Sparklettes again but I am eager to get onto my laptop to see if any of the passwords on my list bust open that encrypted file.
I log on ASAP to see that Detective Perelli emailed me the file as promised. I try every password on my list but none of them does the job.
I am discouraged but undaunted. After all, we beauty queens know that the key to winning is hard work and discipline beyond what others are willing to do.
My mom makes such a fuss over me staying the night in our shared room that I agree. And since Jason refuses to let me out of his sight, either, he’s staying, too.
So we’ll be a little tight. I like having my family around me.
Jason claims the desk, pushing my laptop aside and declaring he needs to prep for the upcoming week’s coursework on frame jigs and suspension. This I find astonishing, as it’s Saturday night and the baseball playoffs are on. I have never seen such behavior on my husband’s part. Pit school is changing him. There’s no doubt about it.
My mom settles down to couponing and I climb into a hot bubble bath. Maybe I’ll have a password brainstorm. The armed guard in the corridor and Jason only yards away are making me feel safe and protected.
I soak among the bubbles and try to force my mind in a productive direction. I feel so, so close to knowing who killed Danny and Cassidy.
But while close may be good for horseshoes and hand grenades, it doesn’t cut it when it comes to homicide.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
I greet dawn’s early light as one frustrated beauty queen. Danny’s encrypted file remains as tightly locked as the liquor cabinet in a rehab hospital. It’s so early both my mom and Jason are fast asleep. I throw on my Juicy Couture tracksuit—which I’m pretty sick of after wearing it all week—and head out the door.
There must have been a shift change because it’s a different armed guard who follows me downstairs. It’s also a different Starbucks barista, who raises an eyebrow at my bodyguard but asks no questions. That’s typical in Sin City, I’ve discovered: there appears to be a universal Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell policy. She dispenses my cappuccino, which I down with an egg white, spinach, tomato, and feta wrap.
I’m thinking I’d best call it quits with the pastries. I’ve been breaking all my rules with my high-calorie eating here in Vegas. All we beauty queens know that the right thing to do is choose winning behavior every day, for the simple reason that small choices become habits and habits become destiny. I don’t want my destiny to be thunder thighs. My excuse has been the Sparklettes fat-burning rehearsals. But those are a thing of the past. I’m flying home today. The real world awaits.
Yesterday, when I was first recovering in the hospital, I was so ready to go home. And in many ways I still am. I miss Rachel and my house and even my 9 to 5 workaday routine. But my business here feels unfinished in a way it didn’t 24 hours ago. Then I thought Frank Richter was the killer and it was only a matter of bringing him in. Now I don’t know who the killer is. He, or she, is still out there. Free. Perhaps only one elusive password away.
I am thinking how much that burns me when I get a semi-frantic call from Jason. “Where the hell are you? Is the guard with you?”
“I’m fine! I’m at Starbucks. He’s here.”
“Why didn’t you wake me up to come with you?”
“Because you were sleeping so soundly. And I’m fine! I have the guard with me.” I have to tell him I’m fine three more times before he accepts it.
“I’m going on a quick run. Do not let the guard out of your sight.”
The guard is right behind me as I drag myself toward the elevator bank to return upstairs. I go past a digital billboard advertising the Forever Yours wedding chapel here in the Cosmos where Sally Anne and Frank almost got hitched. Their particular ceremony is not being promoted—no surprise—but the ad does feature a photo of the mirrored Rolls Royce upon which Sally Anne perched to meet her groom.
That Rolls Royce reminds me of the similarly mirrored Rolls owned by Liberace, which now holds pride of place in his museum. And which features, at least according to one Hazel Przybyszewski, the license plate 88 KEYS.
I halt. A few other vehicles come to mind. Samantha’s creamy Cadillac and the twin Caddy she gave Danny. Danny had the silliest license plate. One of those designer ones, you know? It read 1 Hot 1.
I zoom into an elevator as if my butt is rocket-propelled.
“Everything okay, Ms. Pennington?” the guard asks.
I jab the button for the eighteenth floor. “Maybe better than ever.”
Minutes later I’m in my room with my laptop booted up. I put my theory to the test. “Yes!” I raise my arms high, like a football referee after a field goal. “Yes!” Danny’s license plate is indeed the code for the encrypted file. I’m in.
Out of the corner of my eye I see my mom sit up in bed wearing her blue flannel nightgown with the white collar. Her light red hair is squished on one side of her head.
“What the heck business you got waking me up like that?” she wants to know.
“Good news, Mom! Good news.”
“Where the heck is that Jason?”
“He went for a run.”
She grumbles briefly then eases out of bed to shuffle to the bathroom. My eyes never leave the computer screen. I troll through the paltry contents of the file. One line is a Hotmail address followed by a lengthy string of letters and numbers that I am hoping is the password to the account.
A few minutes later I find out that it is and begin to skim the contents of Danny’s In Box. In the days since his murder, there’s nothing but spam. Before that, there’s no spam. Danny deleted all of it, apparently. All he retained are emails from two senders. Paypal. And Mickey Rose.
Mickey Rose?
Who the heck is Micke
y Rose?
Did someone I’ve never even heard of try to kill me?
I click on the most recent email. Phrases jump out at me. This is the last payment I’ll make. Don’t push me too far. I’ve had just about enough.
I lean back in my chair and let out a breath. I’d say this is pretty conclusive.
Which means …
I found it. I can’t believe it but I found the person Danny was blackmailing. Who probably killed him and Cassidy and tried to kill me. Mickey Rose. That’s really good to know. But the question remains: Who the heck is Mickey Rose?
And there’s another question, too. What did Danny have on Mickey Rose that made the guy cough up a hundred thousand smackers? And then most likely resort to murder? It had to have been BIG.
My mother calls from the bathroom that she expects me to accompany her to church. I grunt something noncommittal then stand up and open the drapes. It’s sunny and bright, a whole new morning in Las Vegas. The morning of the day I’m set to leave.
The only problem is I’m not ready to go.
Who the heck is Mickey Rose?
I gaze down at the Strip, at the crazy garish skyline hiding a million secrets, large and small. I get an idea and return to my laptop to launch an Internet search on MICKEY ROSE LAS VEGAS.
The first hit is a Wikipedia listing. My eyes alight on the phrase American musician and record-producer …
I’m not sure I breathe again until I finish reading about Mickey Rose. I almost fall off my chair when I see the acts he produces.
Ziana is on the list.
This has to be our man. Travis Blakely must know Mickey Rose since Travis works as Ziana’s audio engineer. I bet the two of them aren’t BFFs because I would guess Mickey Rose to be much higher in the world than Travis Blakely. Yet one thing is clear: there is a link between Mickey Rose and Danny Richter and that is Travis Blakely.
In the most recent photo of Mickey Rose that I can find, he’s middle-aged and stocky with dark hair. I wonder if he was in the recording studio when I was there. I don’t know anything about the music biz so I have no idea if he would have been. If they were only listening to tracks and Ziana wasn’t recording, as Travis said, probably not.
Ms America and the Villainy in Vegas Page 21