Reality Check in Las Vegas: A Tiffany Black Mystery (Tiffany Black Mysteries Book 5)

by AR Winters

  “Of course.” Mrs. Weebly nodded sagely. “Would you like to come in for some coffee? Or are you off to that job of yours?”

  She said the last few words with an air of distaste, and I sighed. “I’d love to come in for some coffee, but I need to work. Being a dealer pays my bills.”

  Mrs. Weebly scrunched up her lips. I expected her to say something about women who stayed out all night, but she kept her opinions to herself, for once. Instead, she finally said, “You seem smarter than most of the women who want to work at the clubs and casinos. Why can’t you do something else?”

  “I’m trying to be a private investigator,” I explained, glancing at my watch. My shift wouldn’t start for a while, but I’d taken two extra days off in the previous week, and I didn’t want to be late.

  “Well,” said Mrs. Weebly, “why don’t you have something to eat before you set out? My son sent me this big apple pie that I can’t finish by myself…”

  I wondered if this woman had some kind of sixth sense. Yes, apple pie would be wonderful. And, yes, it would be nice to get to know Mrs. Weebly better. I felt like I’d judged her too harshly in the past, and I was grateful she’d been so protective of Stone. And of course, visions of apple pie were starting to drown out all other coherent thoughts.

  I stepped into Mrs. Weebly’s old-fashioned living room. I’d never been in here before, and the faint scent of lavender drifted over. I knew Mrs. Weebly’s apartment had the exact same layout as mine, but where mine was messy and minimally furnished, hers was packed with overstuffed sofas upholstered in old-fashioned floral prints; a small bureau lined with silver photo frames; and an old, squarish TV that should’ve been in a museum.

  As Mrs. Weebly took the pie out of the fridge and cut me a thick slice, I helped her make two steaming mugs of coffee and asked her about the photos on the bureau. It turned out that some of the photos were of herself, and some were of her mother. Mrs. Weebly told me about the time she’d spent as a newlywed, living in the Florida Keys, and I listened, entranced by the idea of a life so romantic and idyllic. I wondered if I could ever enjoy that. But I was realistic enough to know that I wouldn’t actually enjoy living away from the craziness of Vegas, and the occasional excitement of my PI jobs.

  The apple pie was delicious, and Mrs. Weebly found me some whipped cream to have with my slice. I forgot all about the time until my second slice of pie was finished. Which was when I noticed with dismay that I’d be late to my shift at the Treasury Casino.

  Chapter Six

  Driving down the Strip is impossible during the evening, thanks to all the slow-moving and frequently stopping tourist traffic, so I half-ran the distance to the Treasury Casino. By the time I got to the pre-shift staff meeting, I was slightly out of breath.

  These meetings were a new thing, introduced by Brian Wesley, the latest staff manager. Corporate had recently brought him over from the casino down the road. He was apparently a hotshot, but the way I saw it, he was just an idiot who promised the even bigger idiots in corporate a bunch of pie-in-the-sky dreams that would be impossible to deliver. Brian had all kinds of crazy ideas, and though the staff meetings were meant to be motivational, they outlined all sorts of unrealistic goals and KPIs that dealers would be expected to meet from now on. Not to mention that, going forward, dealers would be expected to stay at a certain weight and fitness level. I was fairly sure that Brian Wesley was behind this stupid “weight controls for dealers” idea.

  I hated Brian, and I hated his stupid meetings.

  It was a relief to leave the staff meeting and get to my assigned table at the pit. I nodded to the dealer I was relieving and clapped my hands out behind the table, to show that I was ready to start dealing.

  The casino pit had a life of its own, which swallowed me up whole. I knew that outside, the sun was starting to set, making a pretty backdrop for all the bright neon lights of the Strip; but inside the pit, it was a constant, bright daylight. I was sure that none of the gamblers surrounding me knew what time it was, and they probably didn’t even care.

  I smiled and tried to chat happily with the three middle-aged men who sat at my table. They were all intent on gambling, completely immersed in the addictive environment of the pit. I was sure that at least two of them had read a few how-to books on blackjack before sitting down at the table, and occasionally, play slowed down as one of them tried to figure out whether to double down or not.

  The pit was getting busier by the minute, as more and more gamblers stopped by before or after their dinners. Every now and then, the loud chime of a minor jackpot win would ring out, spurring the gamblers on. A large group had gathered around one of the craps tables, where a young man seemed to be having a streak of good luck. Whoops and shrieks emanated from the table, and every now and then, one of the men at my table would glance up, as if wondering whether to switch games.

  In the end, all three men stayed at the blackjack table. They were making small wins every now and then, which kept them going for one more hand each time. Clearly, they each thought they’d figured out some kind of system, but I knew they hadn’t. In the long run, no one ever beat the house.

  The Treasury Casino has a policy of switching the dealers around from one table or game to another every now and then. Pretty soon, I was asked to traipse across the gaudily patterned carpet and head over to the roulette wheel. A wave of fatigue hit me just as I got to the wheel. I made the standard croupier’s announcement, asking the gamblers to place their bets, but I had a hard time faking any kind of enthusiasm.

  Where was Stone? It had been over twenty-four hours since the CIA agents had shown up at my door looking for him. I’d spent every waking minute since then running around like a headless chicken, trying to warn everyone whom the CIA agents might get in touch with, trying to understand what was going on. I could sense the pit manager’s annoyance with me: I was visibly zoned out. But I couldn’t help it, I was exhausted.

  And wherever Stone was, I hoped he was safe.

  Chapter Seven

  Two weeks went by. I tried not to mope, even though I was worried about Stone. I hadn’t been able to get in touch with either Zac or Jameson, and I hadn’t heard back from Cal Anderson. I didn’t know what else to do—other than worry and hope. And I wasn’t even sure that my worry and hope were worth much to anyone.

  I was standing in my downstairs neighbor Glenn’s kitchen, watching him prepare cupcakes.

  Glenn is tall, handsome, and over eighty. A few months back, I’d tried to set him up with Nanna. Fantasies of a lifetime supply of cupcakes hadn’t been my only motivation; I really like Glenn. Apart from his handsome, dignified looks and his incredible cupcake-producing abilities, he’s also kind, thoughtful and intelligent. Since I’m hopeless at matchmaking, Nanna wound up marrying Glenn’s brother Wes, and Glenn chose to date an aging hippie with self-proclaimed psychic abilities, named Karma.

  Glenn’s apartment is slightly bigger than mine, with two bedrooms instead of one, and is furnished with newish modern furniture. More importantly, the kitchen is spacious, and conducive to baking. I watched as Glenn melted a big slab of butter and found his jar of sugar. The place was already starting to smell cupcake-y.

  In order to meet the Treasury Casino’s new unrealistic rules about dealers’ weight and BMI, I’d need to go on a diet. But after I’d learned that Stone was in trouble, I’d fallen into a funk, and of course, I needed my sugary cupcake hit to make it through the days.

  “It’s really easy,” Glenn was saying as he mixed together melted butter, sugar and vanilla. “I can give you the recipe if you’d like.”

  I nodded thoughtfully. I’d seen Glenn make these chocolate cupcakes a week ago, and it didn’t look too difficult.

  “You should learn how to make them, Tiff,” Ian called out.

  Ian was sitting on the small chevron-patterned rug in Glenn’s living room, watching his kitten Snowflake gambol about. Pets are a big no-no in our building, but Mrs. Weebly, the resident Good Be
havior Watchdog, said Ian could keep Snowflake as long as he kept her presence a secret.

  I turned around to watch Snowflake. “Why don’t you learn to make them?” I asked Ian.

  If I’d asked my mom the same question, she’d have fed me a line about men liking women who could cook and bake. Cooking and baking, were, according to my mom, essential womanly skills—which was why, in a fit of convoluted feminism, I’d never learned how to do them.

  But Ian wasn’t my mom, and his brain worked in a completely different way from hers. Ian said, “You’re the one who loves cupcakes so much. If you could bake them, you’d never run out.”

  That was true, I had to admit. Glenn was adding eggs to the mixture now. It would be nice to be able to bake my own cupcakes.

  “I’ve got an extra stand mixer you can borrow,” Glenn said.

  Glenn was a retired baker, and his kitchen was packed with incredible equipment. “That would be handy,” I admitted. “Besides, learning to bake could be a good distraction for me.”

  Glenn’s gray eyes clouded with worry, and he glanced from Ian to me. “No sign of Stone yet?”

  I shook my head no. “Speaking of missing people,” I said lightly, “where’s Karma?”

  Glenn made a face. “Her daughter’s come to visit, with her two grandkids.”

  “How nice,” I said, but Glenn didn’t look thrilled. “You must enjoy having them around.”

  “Never have kids,” Glenn joked.

  “Yeah, I’ve met the older grandkid,” Ian piped up. “Simone. She’s pretty scary.”

  Ian is short and chubby, with pasty skin and curly red hair. Normally, he acts like a human bouncy castle, brimming over with enthusiasm and positivity. His enthusiasm isn’t always practical, and he likes to think of himself as a partner in my PI business, which he’s not. But since Stone’s disappearance, Ian’s been quieter than usual.

  “What do you mean, scary?” I imagined Karma’s granddaughter was a rebellious teenager, with multiple piercings, dyed hair, and a penknife she’d be happy to stab you with.

  Ian shuddered. “You’ll know when you meet her.”

  Just then, my phone rang. “Sophia!” I said. “You’re back in Vegas?”

  “I am. And I spoke to those CIA agents last night.”

  Sophia Becker had been my very first client; I’d worked for her just before I’d officially become a registered PI, and she’d introduced me to Stone. She’d been in Tuscany on the night Stone disappeared, and the CIA men had presumably been waiting for her to get back to Vegas.

  “What happened?” I said. “What did they ask?”

  “Not much. I didn’t really know Stone, after all. He was my husband’s employee, and since my husband’s dead, they can’t talk to him.”

  “And you couldn’t help them out?”

  “Nah. I never really knew Stone.”

  “Did they say anything? If they were waiting to talk to you, that means they haven’t found him yet.”

  “Exactly. And I doubt they ever will.”

  “How come?”

  Sophia laughed. “They’re not exactly the sharpest tools in the shed.”

  “Yeah. And what’s with the cheap suits, right?”

  “It’s like they’re trying to look stupid.”

  “Did they ask for any contacts from you?”

  “Nope. They said they’ve talked to the casino owners here. Stone did secondary security for them, but nobody knew where his office was. So… big help.”

  “They’ve got nothing.”

  “Exactly. They gave me their card and said something about flying out in a few hours. Said to call them if I thought of something.”

  We both knew that she wouldn’t think of anything. I’d rescued Sophia from a potential life behind bars, and I couldn’t have done it without Stone’s help. Sophia would never willingly get me or Stone into trouble.

  I asked her how her holiday in Tuscany had been, and she asked me whether I’d really broken up with Jack. We ended the call a few minutes later, and I looked at Ian.

  “If the CIA agents have left,” I said, “that means…”

  As if on cue, my phone buzzed with a text message. It was Cal Anderson.

  “Come over,” the message said. “We can chat now.”

  Chapter Eight

  “Take me with you,” Ian begged. His face had lit up at the mention of finding Stone, but I shook my head.

  “This time is different.”

  Ian pouted, but I stood my ground. I wasn’t being unkind. Ian is a good guy to have around—sometimes. He’s enthusiastic, he asks all kinds of unfiltered questions, and he says things that provoke people to go on the defensive.

  But finding Stone was important. And if there was any chance that the CIA agents might get a whiff of his whereabouts, Stone would be in trouble. Not that I knew where he was, of course. But I couldn’t take any risks.

  I half-walked, half-ran down the Strip, weaving my way through the tourists. It was almost midday, and the Strip wasn’t as packed, which meant that I got to the Riverbelle in record time.

  “Those men you spoke about came by,” said Cal.

  He was sitting behind his large desk, watching me carefully. Cal and I haven’t interacted too often, and we’ve always had a sort of professional respect for each other. Now that Stone was in trouble, Cal and I were allies, and I got the sense that Cal was definitely a good person to have as an ally.

  I nodded, and tried to slow down my breathing. My heart was pounding out a drumbeat inside my chest, so loud that I thought Cal might be able to hear. “What did they say?”

  “Not much. The CIA seems to have sent its dumbest peons around. I had no idea people so stupid could even get into the Agency.”

  My heart rate went down a little. “So they didn’t do much damage?”

  “Hardly.”

  “Did they ask about his office?”

  “I told them he used to work here years ago, but he hasn’t been in recently. Stone was before my time, but they were welcome to go through the video footage. Which they did.”

  “In the security room.”

  “Yes. And very pompously, I might add. Asked for two cappuccinos, with four teaspoons of sugar each.”

  “Did they find anything?”

  Cal shook his head. “We gave them access to the last five years’ data, and they input a photo of Stone. Ran it through facial recognition, but obviously nothing popped up.”

  We shared a barely amused, conspiratorial glance. “Obviously.”

  “They went outside, made a phone call, and then came back in to give me their cards. Said they were off to Florida in a few hours.”

  That matched what Sophia had told me, about them flying off. “But maybe they just want us to lower our guards. Maybe they’ll be back when you’re at home, placing bugs everywhere.” A sudden wave of panic flooded through my limbs. “Unless they’ve already done that. Maybe this whole place is packed with little bugs.”

  My skin began to crawl, as though we were talking about real, physical, icky bugs, but Cal shook his head stoically. “Already swept the place. Nothing.”

  “Oh.” I looked at the man with newfound respect. “You’ve got a sweeper.”

  “Don’t you?”

  I shook my head no. “Could I borrow yours, maybe?”

  “Mine’s borrowed from Stone. So yeah, you’re welcome to borrow it.”

  He handed me a big paper bag, like the kind you got from shopping in fancy boutiques. Inside the bag, there was an electronic device that looked like a VCR with a metal wand attached to it.

  “And what about Stone’s office?” I said. “I can go have a look now?”

  Cal did a palms-up. “Why not? Stone used state-of-the-art security. We haven’t tried to get in, but I’m pretty sure only Stone can enter.”

  I nodded. “Still.”

  “Of course, do what you have to. Stop by on your way out, and maybe give the key pass back?”

  I blushed slightl
y. “Of course.”

  I left Cal’s office and took the elevator up to the thirty-fifth floor, trying to think of ways to hang on to the key pass—even though I wasn’t entirely sure that hanging on to it would help in any way. I walked down the passage Stone had taken me along, and retraced our footsteps. I climbed up the steps and opened the fire escape door on the thirty-sixth floor.

  Cal would realize if I didn’t return the card, and he’d probably give me a new one if I ever wanted to stop by again. But I felt, for some reason, that it would be useful to have easy access to Stone’s office. What if I needed to stop by in the dead of the night when Cal was home, or what if Cal took some time off—who would let me onto the corporate floor then?

  I walked down the carpeted corridor that Stone had led me down just a few weeks ago, when I’d asked to see where he worked. There was the solid door at the end, the one with the security cameras facing it, and the fingerprint-recognition device.

  I stopped when I got to the door, and stared at the three cameras that were pointed at the door. No doubt the security team manning the cameras could see me. But maybe these cameras weren’t monitored by the Riverbelle team, but only by Stone.

  I wasn’t sure what to do. The fingerprint-recognition device would know Stone’s fingerprint, and maybe the fingerprints of Zac and a few other guys from his office. I swiped my forefinger across the device. No luck.

  Maybe if I got hold of Zac, I could ask him to let me into the office. In the meantime, I stared back at the cameras. I waved at one of the cameras, wondering if Stone could see me. Just in case he was watching me, I turned my fingers into a phone symbol and made the universal gesture for “call me.”

  I paced up and down the hallway for a bit, trying to figure out what to do. Uncertainly, I gave the fingerprint-recognition device a soft punch, and tried forcing the door open. No luck. Maybe if I had a hammer… but that might jam the door permanently. Stone knew his security stuff—and I didn’t.