by AR Winters
From the outside, the LVMPD building is bland and boring. The inside is just as bland. It’s a fifties-style brick monstrosity that must’ve been renovated sometime in the last five years, because these days, the air filtering system is quite good, and you can hardly smell the gun oil and cigarette smoke that lingers on the cops’ clothes.
Once inside, I asked to see Detective Elwood.
“You again,” Elwood growled when he saw me.
Detective Elwood was a short, chubby man with a perpetual scowl on his face. He and I have run into each other quite a bit on various cases, and while we’re not fond of each other, we’ve grown accustomed to each other’s presence.
“It’s good to see you again, too,” I replied to Elwood.
He glanced around me hopefully. “Where are the cupcakes?”
I smiled and shook my head. The last time I’d come to see him, I’d brought over some cupcakes. “None today, I’m afraid.”
He scowled again and let me follow him over to a small conference room. “This just gets better,” he grumbled. “At least last time there was something in it for me.”
“I’ll try to remember next time,” I said. “I had no idea you were so fond of cupcakes.”
“Well, I am now,” he said. “There’s something addictive about them.”
I nodded. Nobody knew that better than me. “And how’s your wife?” I asked.
Elwood’s scowl deepened. “I’m pretty sure she’s cheating on me,” he said. “She gets calls sometimes at night and she goes to the other room to take them.”
“Well, why don’t you ask her?” I said. “Don’t you want to know what’s going on?”
“What’s the point?” grumbled Elwood. “I love her, and I can’t live without her. I’d rather not know if she is having an affair. As long as I don’t know, I don’t have to face it.”
“Don’t you want to know the truth?” I said.
Elwood shook his head. “The truth doesn’t matter as much as being happy. I’d rather not think about the future and just live like this.”
“I can see your point,” I said slowly. “The future is uncertain. Why deal with it now?”
Elwood nodded. “Exactly. Now, what can I help you with?”
I told him about Josh Cadogan’s death. “His ex-wife hired me to look into it.”
Just then, a familiar face walked past the conference room, did a double take and walked inside.
“Hello, Tiffany,” said Detective Ryan Dimitriou. His grayish eyes glittered softly, and the light bounced off his dark, wavy hair. He was wearing a light-colored shirt that set off his tan skin and broad shoulders. “Fancy seeing you here.”
I smiled and tried to ignore the butterflies that were suddenly fluttering around in my stomach, threatening to leave me in a lump of nerves. “Hi,” I said shyly.
“Is this another case?” asked Detective Dimitriou.
I nodded. “Josh Cadogan.”
“It was my case,” said Elwood, from across the table. “I’ll get you the files.”
When Elwood left, Detective Dimitriou sat down opposite me and said, “So, how’ve you been?”
His gray eyes smiled at me, and I said, “Not too bad, Detective.”
“Call me Ryan.”
“Ryan.” I said the word slowly, getting used to it. “How are you?”
“Not bad. You know, I haven’t seen you since that incident with Lana Fierst, where you caught that stalker.”
“I know,” I said, thinking back to the reality TV star and her stalker. “I’m glad it ended well.”
“Me too,” said Ryan as Detective Elwood came back. “I guess you need to get to work.”
“Here are the files,” said Elwood, handing them over to me. He glanced over at Ryan. “You coming?”
Ryan got up and said, “Yeah.” He looked down at me and said, “I’ll see you around. Maybe we’ll even get to chase the same psychopaths sometime.”
“Maybe,” I said, smiling as he left. I wondered if we would be working on the same case again, anytime in the future. That might be nice.
But then, I pushed the thought from my mind and focused on the files in front of me. These papers contained information about Josh’s death, and if his death really had been due to foul play, the clues would be in this file.
Chapter Six
The police report, as I’d expected, was boring but informative. There were photos of Josh’s office, with and without him lying on the floor. I tried not to look too closely at the photos of the dead body, but I peered at the empty office photos. Nothing jumped out at me.
The autopsy report was dry and scientific, and the cause of the death was listed as “extreme blunt force trauma.” Meaning, Josh had hit his head pretty hard.
There was no evidence of anyone else being in the room at the time of Josh’s death. There were no surprising fingerprints, or clues of any kind. The wastepaper basket’s contents were unsurprising, revealing candy bar wrappers, discarded bills, and the occasional tissue. There was absolutely no sign of foul play.
I paid close attention to the bit in the report that talked about Josh’s cell phone. There were absolutely no prints on it at all. According to his call log, Josh hadn’t made or received any calls in the two hours preceding his death—and no text messages other than the SOS message to his assistant.
Something seemed off about his cell phone. I had to agree with Mary that it seemed very likely that the prints had been wiped off it intentionally. And perhaps Josh really hadn’t made or received any calls between ten thirty and twelve thirty. But chances were, someone had deleted those records and then wiped the phone of prints.
There were pages and pages of interviews. Elwood had done a pretty thorough job of talking to anyone who might’ve been associated with Josh—his girlfriend, his ex-wife, even his siblings out East. Nothing unusual turned up in those interviews, and I sighed.
The fact remained that although the case seemed like a simple accidental death, Mary could be right. There might have been some kind of foul play that the cops had overlooked. Elwood isn’t a bad guy, but the cops in Vegas are swamped with work, and sometimes people are so suspicious and fearful of the police that they’re not completely honest. Perhaps there was a missing piece to the puzzle, and perhaps I could find it.
I returned the file to Elwood when I was done, but there was no sign of Detective Ryan Dimitriou, so I headed home without saying goodbye to him. I’d just arrived at my apartment and was getting ready to do some laundry, when my cell phone buzzed. It was Mary.
“I’ve just gotten started on the case,” I told her. “It’s only been a few hours.”
“It’s not about that,” Mary said. I could hear her smile over the phone. “I remembered that I’ve got an unused stand mixer. I got it as a gift last Christmas, and it’s still in its box. Would you and Ian like to have it? I remembered you two talking about how your stand mixer broke.”
I thought for a few seconds. “Are you sure you don’t want it?”
“I’m sure,” she said. “It’s all yours if you’re interested.”
“We’ll be there,” I told her, hanging up and heading over to Ian’s.
I filled him on the events, and soon, the two of us were making our way over to Mary’s house in Summerlin.
Summerlin is a nice suburb a few miles east of the Strip. It’s a planned community, where many of the locals and temporary locals live, and the houses here are relatively large and attractive. Yards are kept tidy, and houses gleam with high-quality paint.
Mary’s house turned out to be a stylishly designed bungalow with a moderate-sized lawn in front of it. Although many of the houses here had proper grass lawns, Mary’s was a desert-style garden, featuring succulents and stones, all the better for low-maintenance living.
We knocked and were greeted by Mary, who was wearing a cream-colored t-shirt and Bermuda shorts, and led into the sitting room. This room overlooked the desert-scaped garden and the road outside, and w
as furnished in earthy tones. The sofas were brown leather, and the carpet was a mixture of browns and greens. There was a flat-screen TV against one wall, and a few modern prints on another.
“How’s the investigation going?” asked Mary. “I don’t want to interfere, but I am curious.”
“No, it’s fine,” I said. “As long as you don’t expect overnight results.”
She smiled and nodded to show that she didn’t.
Ian said, “We talked to David this morning. And Tiffany just went through the police report.”
“I’m afraid there’s nothing interesting or unusual in the report,” I told her. “And David couldn’t provide any new information.”
“That’s okay,” said Mary. “I’ll go get that mixer.”
She stood up, and about that moment, a youngish boy appeared in the doorway.
“Taylor,” said Mary, sounding surprised. “You’re up.”
Taylor was wearing a green-and-white striped t-shirt and black shorts. His hair was messy and uncombed, and there were dark circles under his green eyes, which looked sad and unenthusiastic.
“I heard voices,” he said morosely.
“This is Tiffany and Ian,” Mary said. “You know, the private investigators I was telling you about? Why don’t you come in and say hello?”
Mary sat down again, and Taylor came over and sat down on a tub-style armchair. “Hi,” he mumbled. “Nice to meet you.”
We exchanged greetings, and Ian and I tried our best to sound polite.
“I’m really sorry about your dad,” I said.
“Yeah.” Taylor looked at the floor and gulped. “He was a great dad.”
“He was,” agreed Mary gently. “He was always there for Taylor.”
Taylor continued looking at the floor, and I saw his eyes begin to brim over with tears. Before the teardrops could stream down his face, he rubbed his eyes, yawning and pretending that he was just sleepy. My heart pinched. The boy was clearly miserable, and trying to act brave.
“Ian and I will try to find out that everything was okay when he died,” I told Taylor. “I know you’re sad about it, but Mary insisted on knowing the truth. We don’t want someone getting away with a crime.”
Taylor nodded, still refusing to meet our eyes.
Mary said, “Have you eaten anything, sweetie?”
Taylor shook his head no. “I’m not hungry,” he mumbled.
“You’ve got to eat something, sweetheart,” Mary said. “I know you’re sad, but you need to be strong. Dad wouldn’t have wanted to see you like this.”
At the mention of his dad, Taylor’s nose wrinkled instantly, and he pressed his lips tight into a thin, straight line. He blinked rapidly and gulped.
“There’s some lasagna in the fridge,” said Mary.
Taylor got up quickly and walked out.
“Don’t mind him,” said Mary.
“It’s okay,” I said softly. It seemed to me that Taylor was trying to hold back tears and had run out worried that he’d start crying in front of Ian and me.
“He’s so young,” Mary said. “Well, actually, he’s not. He’s just over eighteen. But he graduated high school and refused to go to college. He said he’d start up some business. He was always so full of life, thinking up business ideas, running around trying to find investors. He took after his dad like that.” Mary corrected herself, “Stepdad.”
“And how was Josh about Taylor’s business ideas?”
“At first,” said Mary, “he wasn’t thrilled. He thought Taylor should go to college, get a steady job somewhere. But Taylor was really thrilled about the idea of starting a business. And Josh was coming around to it. I mean, Taylor must’ve gotten the inspiration from his stepdad.” Mary pursed her lips and frowned.
I nodded. “I guess he saw Josh doing well and thought he’d do the same.”
Mary sighed. “Yeah, well, Taylor’s changed now. Ever since Josh’s death, he’s lost all interest in his business ideas. He was going to start some kind of Vegas VIP concierge business, and now—nothing. He doesn’t do any work, he sleeps in.” Mary frowned. “I know he’s grieving, but I worry I’m being too soft on him.”
“Everyone needs time off,” I said gently. “Maybe Taylor needs some time to adjust to this shock.”
Mary nodded. “I guess you’re right. Hang on, I’ll get your stand mixer.”
Mary disappeared to find her mixer, and Ian said softly, “At least we’ve eliminated one suspect.”
I nodded. “Taylor’s really broken up.”
“Unless,” said Ian, keeping his voice low so that nobody could from another room, “he’s a good actor. He does get a lot of money, after all.”
I shook my head. “That’s a lot of acting.”
“People have killed for less,” said Ian. “You know that better than anyone.”
“That’s true,” I said. “But I’m sure we’ll meet some more likely suspects, soon.”
Chapter Seven
Ian and I went back home with the new stand mixer, and then I changed and headed off to the Treasury Casino.
I joined the other dealers in the break room, as we waited for Brian to arrive and give one of his ridiculous rah-rah speeches.
“You don’t have cupcakes,” said Lisa, mock-disappointed. “I was so looking forward to them.”
“Don’t look forward too much,” said Shanelle. Shanelle was tall enough to be a female basketball player, and like me, she had a bit of extra cushioning fat around her midsection. “We can’t eat cupcakes and keep our jobs.”
“This isn’t fair.” The grumbling voice belonged to Annette, a red-haired woman in her early forties. “Your metabolism just doesn’t keep once you cross thirty and pop out some kids. I can’t be expected to look like a nubile teenager just to get a living wage.” Anette was the farthest thing from a nubile teenager—she carried her extra pounds well, but not well enough, according the new weight guidelines.
“Yeah, well,” said Shanelle. “They might not pay as well on Fremont Street, but at least they don’t got weight controls there.”
“And have you heard about the new uniform?” said Lisa. The four of us huddled in closer. “It’s just a piece of lingerie, like some kind of lacy teddy and a super-short skirt.”
“I don’t mind wearing lingerie at home,” said Shanelle, “but I sure as hell ain’t wearing it to work in here.”
“If I wear stripper clothes to work,” said Annette, “I’d like to get stripper wages.”
I sighed. “This is all because of Brian.”
“Yeah,” grumbled Lisa. “Stupid Brian Wesley.”
“I’ve already passed my resume on to a bunch of places,” said Shanelle. “Now I’m just waiting to hear back from them.”
I looked around at the group. “Have you all started applying for new jobs?”
The other two women nodded. “We can’t afford to lose our jobs,” said Lisa. “Brian wants to replace us all anyway. I guess weight controls are just a polite way of firing the fatties.”
“Hells, yeah,” said Shanelle. “If they really wanted to keep us on, they’d say the controls are only for new hires. You can’t ask your existing employees to lose weight. That’s inhumane.”
I gulped and nodded. “It really is inhumane to ask someone to quit eating cupcakes. That’s low.”
We fell silent as Brian appeared, and pretty soon, he was giving us his rah-rah message about working hard. “And remember, weight controls start soon,” he ended his message with. I exchanged a glance with Lisa, and we rolled our eyes at each other before heading out to the pit.
It was comforting to be blanketed by the bright lights and happy noises of the pit, and today, I took up a position behind the craps table. Before the crazy party attitude of the craps players washed over me, I wondered briefly if this was one of the last times I’d be working at the Treasury Casino.
Chapter Eight
I slept in late the next morning, knowing that it was my day off, and I could
spend all my hours sleuthing away.
I’d already had my breakfast when Ian came over, accompanied by Glenn, Karma, Simone and Sam.
“Ian told me you got a new stand mixer,” said Glenn, eyeing my fridge. “Maybe you two can make cupcakes again. Did you store your eggs and milk properly this time?”
“Absolutely,” said Ian. “We can maybe make cupcakes again today?”
He looked at me hopefully, and I shook my head. “We’re supposed to be following up leads today,” I reminded him.
Karma said, “Have you looked up any recipes for low-calorie cupcakes?” I shook my head, and she went on, “I decided to make you some of my special vegan, sugar-free zucchini cupcakes. These aren’t fattening, but they are tasty. So you can have your cake, and still eat it. I mean, lose weight and keep your job.”
“Thanks.” I smiled at her as she handed me a small Tupperware container. Inside, there were three muffins. No frosting. I peered down at them nervously.
Simone piped up, “They’re really yummy.”
“Are they?” I looked at her curiously. I hadn’t pegged the six-year-old as a fan of sugar-free muffins.
Simone nodded. “You know, when you lie and you’re just being nice to someone, that’s called being polite.”
I glanced from her to Ian, who shrugged. “I suppose that’s one way of thinking about it,” I said.
“Grandma Karma’s teaching me about politeness,” Simone said, looking up at Karma.
Karma half-shrugged. “Kids are so honest,” she said. “What can you do?”
“I’ll try a muffin,” Ian said, and I handed him the container. He bit into one and froze, before swallowing it and then staring googly-eyed at the offending baked good.
Simone giggled. “See what I did?” she said. “I was being polite about the muffins.”
“Oh,” Ian said. “Let me guess. You don’t actually think they’re yummy.”
Simone shook her head no.
Karma said, “What do you think of the muffin, Ian?”