Deadly Disco in Las Vegas: A Humorous Tiffany Black Mystery (Tiffany Black Mysteries Book 6)

by AR Winters

  Ian said, “Maybe Josh never updated his will since your divorce.”

  Mary shook her head. “No, it was updated a year ago.”

  “Well,” I said, leaning back and getting ready to take notes, “tell me more about Josh. Any friends, any enemies, competitors, that kind of thing.”

  Mary fiddled with her short hair as she spoke. “Josh was a good guy, but he liked the ladies too much. That’s why our marriage fell apart. He was always with some woman or another. Josh would’ve been fifty-three later this year, but the girls he was with were always in their twenties.”

  “Any girl in particular?” I asked.

  “He was seeing a stripper for the last year or so. Chloe Dechapelle. Other than that, I think he was hooking up with random girls every now and then. It wasn’t hard for him to meet these girls, you know. He was rich, he was charming, and he offered them a good time.”

  “But Chloe still dated him?”

  “Maybe she didn’t know about his philandering. I met her once, and she was very pretty, but not necessarily too smart.”

  “Right. And what about his family? Did he have anyone out here in Vegas?”

  Mary shook her head. “His parents passed away a while back, and he’s got a brother and sister, and nieces and nephews, living out on the East Coast. I think he flew out to see them every couple of years, but they weren’t particularly close. If anything, I think Taylor and I were Josh’s real family. He cared about us, even though we’d split. We spent Christmases and holidays together.”

  “And his new girlfriends didn’t care about this?”

  “Sometimes his latest girlfriend would be there. But Taylor was his son; Josh wanted to spend time with him.”

  “How old is Taylor?”

  “He turned nineteen a few months ago.”

  “And how does he feel about all this?”

  “Well, he’s sad, of course. A bit shocked about the trust fund. I don’t think either of us expected that. If anything, the trust fund makes Taylor sadder, because it shows how much Josh cared about him.”

  “But he can’t access it,” Ian said. “I’ve got a trust fund, and I can get to it, but my parents and legal advisor control it and they never really give me much cash. That’s no fun.”

  “I don’t think Taylor needs a trust fund.” There was an element of steel in Mary’s voice, and I imagined she’d had to be a tough mom when her son was growing up. “He ought to work hard and make something of himself.”

  “That’s an admirable sentiment,” I said. “And what about Josh’s business partner, David?”

  “David’s an old friend of Josh’s. They went to college together in the East, and then they both worked together in a New York investment bank for a while. Josh came out here to invest in the entertainment business, and David started his investment firm. A few years back, David moved here for the tax breaks, and the two decided to buy some commercial real estate together. They’re great friends—golf together, gym together.”

  “And Josh’s assistant? The one who got the text?”

  “Amelia. She’s been his assistant for about four years now. Josh has a rule of never mixing work and pleasure, and he means it. I’ve seen Amelia—she’s very pretty, but I’m sure Josh never slept with her.”

  “And did she like working for him? What about any boyfriends?”

  “I don’t know if she’s got any boyfriends. I never heard about any. The last we chatted, Amelia told me she was done with men, just like me.”

  Ian said, “If she’s so pretty, why would she be single?”

  “Maybe she’s sick of men?” suggested Mary.

  Ian shrugged. “Maybe she’s got a bad personality, and nobody likes to be around her.”

  Mary laughed shortly. “Well. She’s certainly very efficient. Josh always said she was good at her job.”

  Mary gave me the contact details for David, Chloe and Amelia and said she’d let them know I’d be in touch.

  “Is there anyone else I should talk to?” I asked.

  “I can’t think of anyone.” Mary scrolled through the contacts list on her smartphone and shook her head. “Nope, that’s it, but maybe those guys will know something.”

  Ian and I thanked her and watched her leave.

  “It’s funny to have an ex-wife hire us,” Ian said once she was gone. “Do you think she’s just thinking defensively, or that she actually cared about him?”

  “You don’t think she really had anything to do with Josh’s death, do you?”

  Ian shook his head. “No, she’d be silly to hire us if she really did have anything to do with it.”

  “Maybe it was an accident.”

  “Do you actually believe that?”

  I shook my head. “No, my gut says that someone attacked Josh and tried to wipe the slate clean.”

  “In that case, they won’t like us poking our noses around.”

  I looked at Ian thoughtfully. He was right—murderers are never the friendliest people, especially once they find out I’m on their trail. The only thing to do was to expose their deceit, before they could stop me from investigating forever.

  Chapter Three

  I stopped by Glenn’s on the way out. He’d let me borrow some icing tubes, and I needed to give them back.

  Glenn lives downstairs, and I met him while fleeing from a psychopath with a knife. He’s more than eighty years old, but he’s handsome and kind, with twinkling blue eyes and thinning gray hair. He’s also a retired baker who makes the most delicious cupcakes ever. I’d once hoped to set him up with my Nanna, but due in part to my nonexistent matchmaking skills, Nanna wound up marrying Glenn’s brother Wes.

  “How’s the baking going?” Glenn asked enthusiastically, after welcoming me into his apartment. Although we lived in the same building, Glenn’s apartment had an extra bedroom, and a large kitchen area that was well-suited to baking.

  “Not that great,” I admitted honestly. “Ian didn’t store the ingredients properly, and the milk and eggs went bad.”

  Glenn made clucking, mildly disapproving noises as he shook his head. “That’s okay, though. This is the first time you’re trying to bake. What’s important is that you don’t give up.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “And to keep you going, here’s a box of my latest batch!”

  I gasped with delight and grabbed the big Tupperware container. Inside, there were at least a dozen delicious, moist-looking cupcakes with chocolate frosting. “Thank you so much! These look amazing!”

  Just then, there was a knock on the door, and Karma walked in, followed by Sam and Simone.

  We caught up quickly, as Karma told us that Sam and Simone had just built the most amazing Lego rocket, and I told Karma that Ian and I had decided to investigate Josh’s death.

  “That’s great,” Karma told me. “I feel so bad for Mary. I met her during a community yoga class, and she’s really a very kind soul.”

  “So you don’t think she’d hurt Josh herself?”

  “Oh, of course not! They’ve always had a good relationship. Besides, why would she want to hire you if she actually had anything to do with it?”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” I admitted. “But I just wanted to check with you, in case you had any opinions on her.”

  “She’s a dear,” Karma assured me.

  Simone looked at me and said, “Why are you wearing that outfit?”

  I was dressed in my red-and-black dealer’s uniform, and her question reminded me that I needed to get into work soon. I sighed and said, “It’s for my job.”

  “Don’t you like your job?” asked Simone.

  “I do,” I said slowly. At least, I used to. Until this new manager, Brian Wesley, started to introduce things like weight controls for the dealers. All the dealers would need to be under a certain body mass index or weight by the end of next month. It was really a ridiculous figure, one that meant all dealers would need to look like skinny supermodels, and there was no way I would
meet the weight limit if I continued with my daily diet of cupcakes, cupcakes, pasta and then some more cupcakes.

  And then, there was the matter of my moonlighting as a private investigator.

  I’d started my PI gig in an attempt to leave the casino job and work for myself, as my own boss. But I hadn’t mustered the nerve to quit the casino just yet; I wanted to save a bit of money before I quit. In the meantime, word about my PI gigs had spread, and the casino pit bosses gave me the stink eye each time I called in sick. To be fair, they were right about their suspicions. I never got paid when I called in sick, but it didn’t look good on the rosters.

  I wasn’t sure how to explain all that to a six-year-old, so I said, “People are sometimes grumpy at the casino.”

  Glenn said, “Actually, that gives me an idea. Why don’t you take this box to share at work?”

  I looked at him doubtfully. The words ‘sharing’ and ‘cupcakes’ don’t usually go together in my vocabulary. But the last time I’d taken some treats into work, everyone had been thrilled.

  And maybe, if I could get everyone else addicted to cupcakes, people would see how ridiculous weight controls were.

  “You’ve got the right idea,” I admitted to Glenn. “Besides, I’m supposed to be losing weight.”

  Karma said, “Those weight controls you were telling us about?” I nodded and she went on, “Maybe you should try savory muffins? Or sugar-free healthy cakes?”

  I made a face just thinking about them.

  Simone noticed the face I’d made and copied me. She said, “Yuck! What’s savory muffins? They sound yucky!”

  “Yucky!” repeated Sam, looking up at his big sister adoringly.

  “They really taste quite good,” said Karma.

  “I’ll think about it,” I said to Karma, not meaning it at all. I did appreciate that she was trying to help me lose weight, but I just couldn’t bear the thought of not eating delicious, sugary cupcakes.

  I grabbed the box of precious cupcakes, said goodbye to everyone, and headed out.

  Driving down the Strip was impossible after four in the afternoon, so I speed-walked the couple of blocks until I stepped into the Treasury Casino. A blast of cool air greeted me as I stepped through security and into the staff area, heading straight for the break room, where the pre-shift meeting was supposed to be held.

  Brian Wesley had introduced a new system of staff meetings before our shifts. I hated the man: he’d been brought in from a casino across the street and had all kinds of new ideas that pleased management. I viewed him as a ridiculous, impractical corporate type who wanted the casino pit staff to adhere to crazy, unworkable goals and KPIs. He’d introduced this idea that dealers would need to stay below a certain weight, and I hated him for it.

  I was a few minutes early, as were a couple of my coworkers, so I opened the cupcake box and invited everyone to share.

  I dug into my chocolate cupcake: as I’d predicted, it was moist, delicious, and just sweet enough. Everyone around me was making “nom nom” noises as we gobbled down our cupcakes until they were gone.

  “This can’t be good for my diet,” said Lisa, a slightly chubby Asian dealer who tended to always work on the same shifts as me.

  “Yeah,” groaned another girl. “I’m going to have to go running for three hours to burn this off.”

  We grumbled about weight controls and how impractical and unfair they were. I’d done some investigative work for a reality show judge a few weeks ago, and the stars of the show had told me that weight controls were common in Hollywood. But I didn’t think we were getting paid enough as dealers to have to sacrifice cupcakes from our diets, and everyone around me agreed.

  We fell silent as the room filled up, and then Brian began yammering on about how we were supposed to provide great customer service and be fair and honest, yada yada—all things we already knew. The meeting was just a waste of time, and I was happy to be done with it and head back into the casino pit.

  In some ways, I love being a dealer. The cool, brightly lit environment of the casino pit is one I’m familiar with, and I’ve worked as a dealer long enough that the casino environment envelops me like a warm, fuzzy blanket. I clapped my hands out behind the blackjack table to which I’d been assigned and began dealing cards.

  The jingle of a slot machine rang out, and I chatted happily with the four men who were at the blackjack table. I was so familiar with this job that I could probably do it in my sleep, and as I handed out the cards and accepted tips graciously, I thought back to Mary and her ex-husband.

  Was she right that there was no way Josh’s death could be an accident? The string of coincidences did seem suspicious, but who would hate him enough to kill him?

  I knew what I’d have to do, and on my first break, I texted Ian.

  We needed to get to work, before the killer had time to cover his tracks.

  Chapter Four

  I met Ian at Jerry’s Diner for a quick breakfast before we headed out again. Jerry’s is an institution among the Vegas locals, and not particularly popular with tourists. It’s just slightly off-Strip, and it has sparkling white floors, retro red booths and tables, and an incredible array of breakfast foods and desserts. The place was especially popular with the Strip workers, and because most shifts weren’t over yet, the place wasn’t completely packed. Ian and I managed to get a booth by the window and settled in for some sustenance.

  I was tempted to dine on a slice of cake and call it breakfast, but I knew I needed my wits about me before we went to chat with David, Josh’s business partner. Today would be a busy day for me: I’d manage a quick nap after our chat with David, and then I’d have to head back to the casino for an early shift.

  Ian dug into the scrambled eggs he’d ordered, and I devoured my whipped-cream-topped waffles. I’d ordered them with a berry compote, and I told myself that it counted as a serving of fruit.

  “I Googled this guy,” Ian said, his mouth half-full of eggs. “David seems clean as a whistle.”

  I nodded.

  “Did you find anything about his businesses?” I asked Ian.

  “He was profiled in the Vegas Times a year ago. He does mostly shares and options trading, but he’s also got commercial property, and along with Josh, he’s co-owner of two Vegas nightclubs. Salsa Sensation, and Deadly Disco. Deadly Disco is an old-school R&B nightclub, and that’s where their offices are.”

  “So it’s also where Josh was found?”

  Ian nodded. “I called David to let him know we were coming. He said to go around to the back, and that he’d let us in.”

  ***

  It was almost four in the morning, and the streets of Vegas were empty. Ian and I speed-walked over to Deadly Disco, which was housed in a building just west of the Strip. The night air was chilly, but I knew the temperatures would heat up soon.

  Deadly Disco was housed in a corner building and looked like a block of granite from the outside. No windows, no features of any kind—just a door, and a small neon sign boasting the name of the establishment. The entrance was from the main street, and before walking in, I glanced down the side street and made out a nondescript door that looked like a staff entrance. There was a bouncer manning the side entrance, but he looked bored and was reading something on his iPhone, not paying much attention to his surroundings.

  The main door was much wider, and there was a velvet rope barring entrance. There was also another rope running parallel to the building, all the better to control long lines, but this one was rather optimistic, since there was not a soul in line. Perhaps it got busier earlier in the night, when the party was just getting started.

  Two big, barrel-chested bouncers wearing Robocop-style sunglasses were manning the entrance. They were busy chatting with each other, something about the share market, and when Ian and I approached, they lifted the velvet entrance rope automatically. I’d been prepared to tell them we were meeting with David Wesloff, but clearly they didn’t care.

  Ian and I s
tepped in through a dark entryway, past an underutilized coat check, and onto the dance floor. Our eyes had adjusted to the darkness inside by now, and the bright multicolored disco ball cast quick shimmers of light on the nearly empty dance floor. The place smelled of secondhand cigarette smoke, spilled drinks, sweat, and too much perfume.

  R&B hits pumped out through the air, and I could make out a DJ sitting in one corner, mixing the tunes. There were only four, maybe five couples on the dance floor, standing close to each other and dancing happily, blissfully ignorant that it was almost closing time. There was also a group of four men on the dance floor, who seemed to be in their early to late thirties, holding drinks in their hands and making fools of themselves. A long, low bench ran along one wall, and a few couples sat there, chatting and finishing their drinks, getting ready to leave. There were two VIP booths off to one side, but they were both empty.

  “This looks like a fun place,” said Ian. “But not as popular as the new trance places.”

  I looked at him, surprised. “You go out clubbing? I thought you spent all your nights watching Star Trek reruns.”

  Ian shrugged. “It’s Vegas. I go out sometimes. Don’t you?”

  I looked at him and shook my head. “No. I work nights.”

  And then I tried to think back to the last time I’d gone out for fun. Working in Vegas meant that I was part of the “nightlife,” and part of the entertainment. On my days off, I slept, or once in a while I read a book or visited one of the small Vegas art galleries. I hadn’t felt a desire to go out clubbing, or do any of the typical Vegas activities, in a long, long time. Perhaps I was just getting old.

  On the far end of the dance floor was the bar. A mirror ran along the wall behind the bar, reflecting the dance floor and its lights, and a group of three couples chatted with the bartender as they settled their tabs. There was a passageway on the right that veered off to one side, clearly leading to the restrooms, but Ian and I headed over to a small door marked “Staff Only.” Before anyone could stop us, we’d slipped through to the other side, into a narrow, brightly lit passageway.