A.R. Winters - Tiffany Black 02 - Green Eyes in Las Vegas

by A. R. Winters

  I heard another deep sigh. “Somehow, I’d thought you’d be smarter.”

  My narrowed my eyes. “I am smart! But you just woke me up after four hours of sleep and I haven’t had my coffee yet. So you’ll excuse me if I’m more interested in figuring out what’s for breakfast than your silly Van Gogh.”

  The woman sighed again. She was really big on sighing. “I’ll call again in a few hours,” she said, and hung up.

  I looked at my phone in annoyance. Twice in a row I’d been woken by a phone call; I was too grumpy and sleepy to care much about whatever she’d been saying, but after I got a large mug of instant coffee and a chocolate-chip muffin inside me, realization dawned.

  Before I could hurt myself by hitting my head against the wooden dining table, I pulled out my phone and gave Stacey Whatshername a call.

  “Sorry about earlier,” I said. “I’ve had my coffee now and the world’s making sense again. What were you saying about a stolen Van Gogh?”

  I heard yet another sigh from the other end of the line, and what sounded like a young girl’s voice saying, “Brrrrrrr-eeee!”

  I quickly added, “This isn’t a bad time, is it?”

  “Not worse than any other. As I tried to say earlier, I’m investigating the theft of a Van Gogh from Ascend Towers, and Detective Elwood says you may have witnessed it. Can I ask you a few questions?”

  “Sure. Would you like me to come in to your office to talk to you?” It wasn’t just guilt or helpfulness that prompted my question – I was hoping Stacey would tell me something about what had happened. I was still trying to convince myself that Green Eyes couldn’t be a burglar, and maybe Stacey knew something about it. Maybe she even knew who he was, and where he was staying.

  “Actually, that’d be great,” she said. “When’s good for you?”

  “The sooner the better. I can be there in about forty-five minutes.”

  Stacey gave me the address for AAI, and I hung up, hoping I’d be able to learn something interesting about Green Eyes.

  ***

  I stopped by Glen’s apartment on my way out. He’s a friend I made recently – he lives downstairs in my building, and is a retired baker who constantly makes far too many cupcakes and pastries. Which is wonderful, because I get to take the extras home. He’s also handsome and intelligent, and I’ve always thought that he’d be the perfect boyfriend for Nanna.

  He was having coffee, and invited me in for a cup, but I shook my head. “I’m just stepping out to meet someone. Thought I’d say hi.”

  “Well, stop by again later. I might have something for you to take home.”

  He gave me a big wink, and I smiled. “Can I pick up anything for you on my way home? Do you need baking stuff? Flour? Sugar?” I frowned and tried to think of other supplies, but I was clueless.

  “You could get me some heart-shaped sprinkles,” Glen said. “They should keep them in the baking section.”

  I nodded. “Sure thing. And you haven’t seen anyone suspicious hanging out nearby, have you?”

  Glen shook his head. Our building doesn’t have any security – other than an empty lobby and a couple of fake security cameras. “Why?” he said. “Should I be concerned?”

  “Oh, no. I found a note under my door the other day, but it must’ve been meant for Mrs. Weebly.”

  Glen smiled. “A lot of people probably want to send her notes.”

  I nodded and was about to leave when he said, “Maybe when you stop by again, my new girlfriend will be here.”

  I started to frown and stopped myself just in time. “New girlfriend?”

  “Yes.” Glenn peered at me nervously. “She’s a bit – you might not – not everyone thinks we should be together. But I hope you’ll like her.”

  I smiled at him reassuringly. It sounded like he was dating someone much younger than himself, and while I hadn’t expected him to turn around and date someone in her twenties, I wasn’t going to judge him if he was. As long as he broke up soon, and started dating someone more suitable. Like Nanna.

  “I’m sure I’ll like her,” I told him, and I promised myself that even if I didn’t, I’d be polite to her, for Glenn’s sake.

  ***

  The AAI office was in a tall, mirrored building near the Vegas Convention Centre. There was a parking lot opposite, and a low, two-storey office building with a sign advertising skydiving lessons. A large board in front of the mirrored building informed me that office space was available for lease, but I ignored it and made my way up to the AAI floor, where a receptionist directed me to Stacey’s office.

  I crossed an open-space area, full of unhappy-looking employees typing away on their PCs, and knocked on Stacey’s open door. I was sure the cubicled workers envied Stacey her tiny office, but to me, it all seemed pretty bland for a workspace, especially compared to the crazy place I called work.

  The carpets in the AAI office were light grey instead of brightly pattered, the lights seemed dimmer than the casino lights, and there were obviously no scantily-clad cocktail waitresses hovering around. The only noise in here was that of the hard workers tippy-tappying away at their keyboards, and the occasional murmur of some official-sounding conversation. The walls were blank and beige, and Stacey’s desk was organized neatly, with stacked files on one side, and a couple of photo frames facing away from me.

  Stacey was a slightly chubby woman in her mid-forties, with dark hair pulled back severely, and a facial expression that said, “I’m just about to throw up my hands and give up.”

  She ushered me in politely, and spoke slowly and calmly, like a woman trying to bury her stress deep, deep down. We jumped straight into business, and she explained to me that AAI had insured the Van Gogh that had been stolen from Ascend Towers. They were working with Detective Elwood, but they also had their own private investigator looking into the case.

  “Right,” I said. “Are you the investigator working the case?”

  She shook her head, no, and was about to say something when the cause of her stress ran into the room, holding her arms apart like wings, her vocal cords making a noise that alternated between a hum and a screech. She came to an abrupt stop beside me, and stared at me curiously. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Tiffany Black,” I said. “Who are you?”

  She looked about eight, and had curly brown hair. “I’m a plane,” she replied, “I’m a delayed flight.”

  She made a high-pitched screeching noise and ran out of the room.

  Stacey sighed and blinked slowly. “That’s Sarah.”

  “Your daughter?”

  She nodded. “She had a fever this morning and I couldn’t find a sitter, so I brought her in with me. Like I need more reasons to make my life miserable.”

  I knew people liked to hear nice things about their kids, so I racked my brains to come up with something. “She seems uh, very creative.”

  Stacey rolled her eyes. “Too creative. What were we talking about?”

  “Are you a PI?”

  “No, I just manage our team. And now Jenny, the PI looking into this, has taken off.”

  I frowned and sat up straighter. “How do you mean?”

  “She called in last night and said she’s taking off for a few months. Unpaid leave – it’s a family emergency. Said she’d mail in her leave application and she’s heading out of town.”

  We stared at each other, both thinking the same thing. Who does that kind of thing in this economy?

  Sarah ran into the room again before either of us could say anything.

  “Have you been to Europe?” she asked me.

  I shook my head, no. “Have you?”

  “Yep. I’m flying to Paris now, and then I’m flying to Amsterdam and then I’m coming back to refuel. I’m a busy plane ’cause I’m so popular.”

  I smiled politely. “That’s nice.”

  Stacey said, “Sarah, don’t you think you should sit down now and do some quiet drawing?”

  Sarah shook her head. “I can
’t be late, takeoff is, 3, 2, 1…” and she ran away, flapping her arms and making a screeching noise.

  Stacey sighed. “I wish I could get her to listen to me.”

  I had nothing to say to that. I knew that kids were crazy, and their moms were even crazier for having them. So I said, “Did you want me to tell you what I saw that morning?”

  “Yes, let’s get this done.”

  I repeated the story of Green Eyes’ jump once again. She took a few notes, and asked me a few questions – what was he wearing, was there anyone else nearby, and what was his car like?

  As I cast my mind back to the visual image of Green Eyes driving away, I remembered his number plate. The first three numbers jumped out at me, and I repeated them back to Stacey.

  She nodded. “I’ll call my contact at the DMV and ask them to run a trace. Do you remember anything else?”

  I shook my head. “No. But who’s going to work on your investigation now?”

  Sarah ran into the room once more, making a buzzing noise, but she caught the expression on her mother’s face and ran out immediately.

  “I’m not sure,” Stacey told me. “Our claim adjusters are busy with other cases for now, and Jenny was the only PI on our payroll. And now my boss is really angry at me because Jenny quit. Like that’s my fault.”

  “I’m an accredited PI,” I said hopefully. “I can help out if you’d like.”

  Stacey looked at me carefully. “Thanks. But I can’t really hire you to investigate this because you’re a witness.”

  It was my turn to sigh. It had been worth a shot.

  “Besides,” Stacey said, “You’re sure you saw all this, right?”

  I frowned. “Of course.”

  “It’s just that…”

  “What?”

  “Jenny said she talked to a witness in the building next door who has insomnia, and that guy saw nothing.”

  I stared at Stacey. “When did Jenny tell you this?”

  “Just before she said she was taking off for a few months.”

  I tried to think logically. “Maybe the guy she talked to has bad eyesight. Or maybe he fell asleep without knowing it.”

  We were silent for a few seconds, both lost in our own thoughts, and then Stacey said, “I think you can do something else for me.”

  “Oh?”

  “There’s a cocktail party tomorrow night honoring our former mayor. And all the local big-shots will be there, including Jeremy. The other investigators are busy and can’t make it, but you should go. You could talk to Jeremy, since he doesn’t know who you are. I’ve got an invite here. We’ll pay you, of course.”

  I smiled at that last line. Money was always good. “Who’s Jeremy?”

  “Oh right. You don’t know. He’s the guy whose painting was stolen.”

  I tried not to look too thrilled. “So you want me to talk to him?”

  “That’s the idea. Just ask him what’s going on, if he’s got any suspects in mind, that kind of stuff. It’s five hundred for the job, plus free drinks at the party.” Stacey pulled open a desk drawer and I watched her rummage around before she emerged with a square envelope in her hand. “Here,” she said, handing it over to me.

  I pulled out the sleek, heavy invite.

  “Dear Mr. and Mrs. Smith,” it began, “You are cordially invited to…”

  “I’m Mrs. Smith?” I said, and Stacey smiled.

  “They won’t check your ID. You just need to show this invite to get in, and then you can go have fun. You could take a date, too.”

  I nodded, making a mental note that I’d have to take tomorrow night off from work at the casino. “Ok. I’ll do my best with Jeremy.”

  Stacey looked relieved. “Thanks. Hang on a second, and I’ll get a copy of the subcontractor contract.”

  I spent a few minutes filling out the paperwork and then Stacey handed me a file to go through. It had a couple of photos of Jeremy – one of them was his official passport photo, and the rest looked like they’d been snapped through a telephoto lens. I read the brief story of his life that accompanied the photos – Vegas businessman, pretty successful, married with two kids, yadayada – and then we said our goodbyes. As I walked toward the exit, I noticed Sarah racing through the office making a high-pitched screeching noise. She ran up to me, sputtered to a stop, and said, “I’m going to stop over in London, now.”

  “That’s nice,” I told her, and watched her start up slowly before she ran away again.

  As I headed back toward my car, I smiled to myself and thought about what I’d say to Jeremy at the party tomorrow. I was hoping it would go well and that he’d tell me something interesting about the theft. Of course, there was something I needed to check up on first.

  Chapter Eight

  I stepped into my car and made a phone call. After I was transferred through, the phone rang five times before Elwood answered with a grunt.

  “This is Tiffany Black,” I said, trying to sound friendly and professional. Instead, I came off sounding like a cheery airhead.

  “What is it?”

  I’m all for honesty, but a fake-friendly act on Elwood’s part might’ve been nice. “Have you, um, heard anything else about the theft?”

  “Police business. Can’t talk about it.”

  “Well, um, did you hear anything about an insomniac who was up and watching all night?”

  I could feel Elwood frowning. “Have you been talking to the woman at AAI? Sharon?”

  “Stacey. And yes, I have. Did she tell you…?”

  “We’ve cased the area for witnesses.”

  “And found…?”

  Elwood snorted derisively. Of course. He wasn’t about to tell me what he’d learnt, but it had been worth a try. And his annoyance made me think that he’d found nothing. Even though what I was sensing might have been just his regular, everyday, having-to-talk-to-people kind of annoyance.

  I tried a different tack. “Did you talk to Jenny, the investigator from AAI?”

  Elwood made another guttural sound to indicate more annoyance. “Damn PIs. Don’t know why they bother.”

  “Umm, so… did you talk to her?”

  “Did you?”

  Ha! I assumed Elwood’s question meant that he hadn’t. “She’s not answering her phone and she’s not in Vegas.”

  “Hmm.”

  That summed up how I felt about Jenny, too. A mysterious witness who claimed nothing happened, and then a mysterious “family emergency” that had Jenny taking off for a few months.

  Elwood said, “How do you know about Jenny?”

  “Stacey. The manager at AAI.”

  “Have you talked to Jenny?”

  “No.”

  “And you stand by your story?”

  I shrugged, even though he couldn’t see me. “I don’t know why I wouldn’t.”

  “Ok, then. Anything else you want to tell me?”

  I sighed. I didn’t know anything else about the theft. “No.”

  “Bye.”

  He hung up and I stared down at my phone for a moment. I wondered if Elwood even had any friends – he was always such a strange kind of grumpy.

  I pulled out of the AAI parking lot and stopped by Albertson’s for groceries. I strolled through the shiny, florescent-lit aisles, looking for the sprinkles Glenn had mentioned, and remembered that I needed more instant coffee, and maybe some snacks and chocolate bars. And maybe something to eat for lunch.

  It was late afternoon by the time I got back to my condo, and when I walked out the elevator and got to my door, I stood still for a second, remembering the envelope I’d found yesterday. I glanced both ways down the dimly-lit corridor, wondering if someone was watching me. But it was quiet, and empty of lurkers.

  I turned my key in the lock, and pushed the door open to find another white envelope lying in the middle of the floor.

  I took a deep breath and tried to ignore the pounding in my ears. It was just an envelope.

  I dropped my bag of groceries
near the front door, stepped inside and looked around carefully. I couldn’t see anybody else in the living area, kitchen or dining room. I took a deep breath, and checked through my bedroom, closet and bathroom. Nobody.

  I exhaled, locked my front door and went and sat on my couch.

  The envelope stared up at me from the floor.

  I wanted to curl up into a little ball and pretend that none of this existed. “It’s probably meant for Mrs. Weebly,” I told myself. “They got the wrong door again.”

  But I wasn’t convinced. The envelope looked thicker this time, somehow more ominous.

  I’d never know if I didn’t look. I took a deep breath, picked the envelope off the floor and peeked under the flap. Inside were a bunch of glossy photographs.

  My mind went numb; my hands took control and pulled out the photos. There were about thirty, all taken today, all of me.

  There I was, parking at the AAI office, and there I was, walking up to the building. Me coming out of the building. Another of me getting into my car, sitting in the car and talking on my phone. Me getting out at the store parking lot; me again, walking into Albertsons.

  I felt dizzy and weak. I shoved them back into the envelope, and leaned against the sofa. What was going on?

  I closed my eyes and images of the photos drifted before me. I saw the half-empty parking lots, lined with palm trees and devoid of any other people. I felt sick, as though I’d run a marathon and was ready to throw up.

  I opened my eyes again and stared at the benign white envelope, puffy with its pregnant contents. I remembered Crystal, and the photos she’d received of herself. How could she have laughed them off as a joke?

  My tiny condo felt big and empty. I couldn’t deal with this alone. Before I knew what I was doing, I’d walked over to my bag, pulled out my phone, and dialed a number.

  Stone picked up after one ring. “Hey.”

  “Are you busy? Can you come over for a minute?”

  There was a split-second pause and then he said, “Are you ok?”

  “Of course I’m ok!” I hadn’t quite processed the photos, but my fear exploded into a mass of irritation and bravado. “Why wouldn’t I be? I can take care of myself.”