A.R. Winters - Tiffany Black 03 - Red Roses in Las Vegas

by A. R. Winters

  And then suddenly, I remembered why I was here, that time was ticking away. I pulled back, breaking the magic. Jack blinked, and I took a deep breath.

  “I guess I should talk to those women,” I said.

  “Yeah.”

  Jack placed a hand on the back of my neck, leaned down, and gave me a quick kiss goodbye. And then, within a few seconds, he was gone. Before I knew it, I had only the memory of his lips brushing against mine. Jack was lost in the crowd of black tuxedos, mingling and chatting with the business associates and “friends” of his world, and I scoured the shiny ball-gowns for the women I needed to interrogate.

  Chapter Forty

  Rachel Nge looked like the friendliest of the three. I’m not sure why I thought that – maybe I just admired her perfect skin and silky black hair. I threw back a glass of white wine – obviously something expensive and designed to be savored slowly – and headed up to the group of women surrounding her.

  They smiled at me politely when I approached, sizing up my cheap-ish dress and imperfect teeth, knowing immediately that I was “not their kind, dear.”

  “Hi,” said one the brunettes. “I don’t think we’ve met before.”

  “I’m Tiffany,” I said shaking her hand.

  “Gauri,” she said.

  I looked at Rachel, who smiled at me, polite and wordless.

  “Rachel Nge?” I said.

  She had the grace to not look surprised. Instead, she looked as though maybe she’d met me somewhere and then forgotten my name.

  I decided to play that angle. “We met at that other party, remember?” I smiled ingratiatingly. “How are you? It’s good to see you again.”

  “I’m ok, how are you?”

  She was smiling politely, but it was obvious from her stoic eyes that she knew we’d never met before. For a moment, I wondered how the rich became so hardened to people around them – were they constantly being hit up for loans and favors?

  “Yeah, I’m ok. Could I speak to you privately for a moment, please? It’s kind of important.”

  The women exchanged a glance, still trying to maintain their polite, friendly façade towards me, but obviously annoyed at the intrusion.

  “Actually, I’m kind of in the middle of something here,” Rachel said sweetly. “Why don’t we chat some other time?”

  I shook my head and leaned in closer. “It’s about Adam Bitzer,” I whispered.

  Rachel froze for a second and then glanced at me warily. I could see the shock in her eyes, which was quickly replaced by suspicion.

  “I thought he was dead,” she said, her eyes narrowing.

  I jerked my head to one side, and she excused herself from the gaggle of women and followed me to a slightly more private spot in the room. We stood, drinks in hand, sizing each other up for a split second. Of course, there wasn’t much about me to size up.

  “Adam was killed at midnight, on Friday,” I said. “Do you know anything about that?’

  “How would I know anything? And who are you, anyway? How d’you know Adam?”

  I looked at her carefully. Her cheeks were starting to darken, and she was watching me with the carefulness of a hyena looking for an opportunity to pounce.

  “I knew Adam well enough to know that you two were involved, somehow. Why were you sending him $2,500 every month?”

  Her eyes widened and she took a quick breath. “How do you know that? Who are you?”

  I shrugged, not quite sure why I was hiding the truth. “It’s not important who I am. What’s important is that you were paying good money every month. A person might think you were channeling funds away, maybe doing some money laundering.”

  She laughed suddenly, her eyes wide and light-hearted again. “Don’t be silly,” she said. “Adam told me he was collecting money for a charity for street kids in Rwanda, and he showed me photos of all the work they did. I’m a big softie, so I gave him money.” She shrugged. “That’s it.”

  She looked at me, smiling and pleased with herself. The tension had left her face, and she sipped her champagne happily.

  “Do you have receipts for this charity?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “No, why? I wasn’t doing it for tax breaks or something. Just trying to help out poor people in Rwanda.”

  I frowned and watched her carefully, not sure that I believed her story. It all seemed too convenient, too neat.

  “Are you done with the questions?” Rachel said. “I’m not sure why you’re even asking. Who are you? How did you find out I was giving Adam money?” Her eyes narrowed again. “Are you a hacker of some kind?”

  It was my turn to laugh. I wished I were a hacker – it would’ve made my job so much easier. I would just go into everyone’s computers, find out what was going on, and solve every case in seconds.

  “No,” I said. “I was just a friend of Adam’s.”

  “Oh.” Rachel raised one eyebrow. “A friend.” She said that word slowly, as though I’d just said I was Adam’s transvestite lover. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  She didn’t sound sorry at all.

  “Where were you at midnight on Friday night?”

  Rachel rolled her eyes. “What is this, an interrogation?”

  She was about to turn around and stalk off and I quickly said, “As a matter of fact, it is. I’m not Adam’s friend, I’m investigating his death.” She turned and looked at me again, her previous annoyance replaced with comprehension. “It doesn’t make sense,” I went on. “I know you’ve got nothing to do with it, but I need your help looking into it. Do you know anything about Adam, anything that could’ve gotten him killed?”

  For a moment she judged me silently, wondering how much of my story she believed, and how much she could say to me. And then her eyes were masked with a polite blankness, and she said, “Sorry, can’t help you there. I didn’t know Adam well at all.”

  I sighed. It had been worth a shot. “And what about Friday night?”

  “I was home. With my husband. And we’ve got a live-in housekeeper and chauffeur. They’ll tell you I was there.”

  “Right.”

  I didn’t doubt her alibi for a second, but as she turned and walked back slowly to her friends, I wondered what she was hiding from me.

  Rachel was gorgeous and elegant and her green dress set off her figure perfectly. Mine weren’t the only eyes trailing after her as she crossed the floor, and I sighed, feeling strangely defeated.

  I glanced across the room, looking for my next target. Nicole Weiss was still here, talking to a middle-aged couple about something, tossing her head back and laughing. I could see Michelle Ackermann standing in another couple, surrounded by three women who looked gratified to be in her company. Alexia Boyle was still nowhere to be seen.

  I decided to go talk to Nicole Weiss first. I finished my drink, and was about to grab another one, when I decided I should slow down and took an orange juice instead.

  Once again, I walked up to the group and smiled happily in the face of their polite judgment. I pretended to have met Nicole somewhere before – a story that she clearly didn’t buy but was too polite to contradict.

  Nicole was absolutely gorgeous – she had stunning, baby blue eyes and shimmering blonde hair that fell about her face in large, loose waves. Her nose was small and perfect, and she looked like someone you’d expect to see on the red carpet at a movie premiere, promoting her latest blockbuster film.

  “Could I speak with you privately, please?” I asked her, and then turned to the couple. The lady had light reddish-brown hair which clashed with her low-cut orange dress, and the gentleman had puffy, red cheeks and was just finishing his drink. “Would you excuse us please?”

  “Actually,” Nicole said slowly, “I think we should chat later. I’m uh – kind of speaking with my friends, here.”

  She smiled at me politely, and I leaned closer. “It’s about Adam Bitzer.”

  That got her attention. Her face was frozen but her eyes widened slightly. She
turned to the couple and said apologetically, “I’ll be just a minute. I’m so sorry.”

  We walked together to a slightly more private area, and I wondered at the similarities between her reaction and Rachel’s.

  Impulsively, I asked, “Do you know Rachel Nge?”

  “Sure,” she said. “We see each other sometimes. We’re friends.”

  I didn’t know how much ground the word ‘friends’ covered, but I didn’t ask.

  We stood under a tall plant with a creeping vine going around its trunk. I wondered if these trees were fake, and if they were, how much they cost to buy. Clearly, this was a great use of the charity’s money.

  “What’d you want to know about Adam?” Nicole asked me, watching me warily. “Were you guys partners?”

  “Umm, no,” I said, “I’m single.”

  She looked at me blankly, and I said, “Why were you paying him money each month?”

  “Who told you that? Did he?”

  She narrowed her eyes and took a distrustful step back.

  “Why does it matter who told me?” I asked. “Just tell me what it was about.”

  “So you don’t know what it was about,” she said slowly, processing the words carefully. And then she brightened up. “It was a charity. Adam was giving money to poor kids in some African country. I gave him money for that.”

  “For the charity?”

  She nodded cheerfully, and I rolled my eyes. I glanced around the room, and caught Rachel Nge’s eye. She held my glance for a second, and then she looked at Nicole. The corners of her lips went up, and then she went back to her conversation.

  I sighed. “Do you know Rachel well?”

  “Why?” Nicole frowned, surprised by the abrupt change in questions. “We’re friends, I guess. I see her sometimes at these things.”

  “Right.” I floundered about, trying to find some way to get more information from her. I decided to try a different tack. “What was the money really about? Because I know it’s got nothing to do with charity.”

  “Oh? How do you know that?” Nicole folded her arms across her chest, calling my bluff expertly.

  “Adam never gave that money to charity. He spent it on himself.”

  “I’m not sure how you know that, but that’s not what he told me. He said he gave it to charity.”

  “But he didn’t.”

  She shrugged. “He was a scumbag, and if he didn’t give it to charity that’s not my fault, it’s his.”

  “Really. He was a scumbag?”

  Nicole smiled sweetly. “If I gave him money for charity and he didn’t spend it on charity, that would make him a scumbag, wouldn’t it?”

  “Except you didn’t give him the money for charity.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  She shrugged. “Who are you, again? I don’t think we’ve ever met and I’ve got no idea why you’re asking me all these questions. I need to get back to my friends.”

  She looked at me skeptically, giving me one last chance, and I decided to pull out my trump card. “I’m an investigator. I’m looking into Adam’s death. Is there anything at all that you could tell me about him? Anything that might’ve gotten him killed?”

  She snorted. “Who know why he got killed? People get killed all the time.”

  “Was there any particular reason you know of?”

  She shrugged. “Maybe he got mixed up in something.”

  “Like what?”

  “Hey, I don’t know. It’s just something that came to mind. Who knows what he did? I barely knew the guy.”

  “And yet you gave him $2,500 every month.”

  “He said it was for charity.”

  I sighed. This was going nowhere. “Where were you on Friday night?”

  “I was home. With my husband. Watching TV. And then we went to bed.”

  I pursed my lips and nodded. Nicole twirled around and sashayed away, and I wanted to smash my glass of orange juice on the ground.

  Of course, I didn’t. I scanned the crowd, and noticed Rachel watching Nicole with what seemed like amusement. Michelle Ackermann was still holding court with her gaggle of girlfriends, and Alexia Boyle was still not in attendance. I sighed. It was time to talk to the woman with the meanest assistant in the world.

  Chapter Forty-One

  I’d left Michelle until the end because, honestly, I was a little scared of the man who answered her phone, and I didn’t look forward to dealing with the woman who was his boss. But I knew it was something I’d have to face.

  Michelle and her girlfriends ignored me completely when I approached them and stood on the periphery of their circle. They were like the mean girls in high school, but meaner and prettier - thanks to all the plastic surgeons and high-end dermatologists they now had at their disposal. Michelle had probably been a cute brunette back in high school, but now she was a glamorous bottle-blonde, her naturally bronzed coloring and light brown eyes at slight odds with the golden blonde her hairstylist had created. Her pink dress set off both her flawless skin and her beautiful hair, and its low cut emphasized her shoulder-blades which jutted out at hard angles.

  I was standing to Michelle’s left, and a tall woman with jet black hair pulled into a low, stylish ponytail took a step to her right, so that she was blocking me completely. I thought briefly about pulling her ponytail; would she still ignore me then?

  I interlocked my fingers and coughed. Nothing.

  So I said, really loudly, “Hi! Michelle Ackermann, right?”

  The women turned to stare at me icily. I smiled at the brunette who’d been standing in front of me, and pressed her right shoulder gently. She flinched, as though my hands were made of ice, and stepped to the left. Her expression said that she expected better at these parties.

  “Who’re you?” Michelle said.

  I knew there would be no pretense with this woman, no way to sugar-coat things. So I said, “I’d like to talk to you about Adam Bitzer. In private.”

  The brunette rolled her eyes, and the other girls glanced at each other with supercilious faces.

  Michelle sniffed. “I don’t know any Adam Bitzer. You have me mistaken with someone else.”

  “I don’t think so. Can you we talk in private, please?” She hesitated, and I said slowly, “Unless you’d rather have the conversation here.”

  Something in her eyes flickered, and she said, “I still don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, but I’d rather not bore my friends with it.” She turned to her friends and sighed. “Sorry, girls. I need to find out what this woman,” she paused and gave me a dirty look, “is going on about.”

  Her friends rolled their eyes and smirked at each other, and I trailed off after Michelle as she stalked toward a private-looking cluster of bamboo. I was pretty sure that bamboo didn’t belong in a rainforest.

  She turned to face me when we were alone, crossed her arms, and raised one eyebrow.

  I waited for her to say something first, but after a few seconds, I realized that she’d never cave in first. I wondered if she perhaps played poker with MI6 agents in her spare time.

  “What was going on?” I said.

  “About what?”

  “Let’s try something different,” I said. “See all these people here?” I gestured behind me. “How do you know them?”

  Michelle shrugged. “They’re friends. People I know through parties like this and friends of friends and stuff.”

  “But how many of these people do you really know?” She looked at me blankly. “For instance, do you know Rachel Nge?”

  “Yeah, sure. She married Wesley Howards.”

  “Right. How about Alexia Boyle?”

  Michelle raised one eyebrow in supercilious amusement. “Alexia doesn’t exactly hang out with us anymore.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She shrugged. “Got divorced. Broke some pre-nup clause, it got ugly. I heard she moved out of the house and had to get, like, a studio apartment or som
ething. She’s probably looking for a job, too. Poor girl.” She let a flicker of sympathy soften her features for a second. “Who knows how she’s doing now.”

  “Didn’t she – doesn’t she have any old friends here?”

  “No, she wasn’t like us.” Michelle’s features hardened again. “She met David – her ex – when she was waitressing or something. She never really got along with us.”

  “Really.” I wondered who did get along with Michelle. “How do you know all this about her divorce?”

  Michelle checked her perfect, lady-like manicure. “I like to keep in touch with people. Know what they’re up to.”

  Right. She was just the type to use any information she got, or gossip she overheard, to her advantage.

  “Alexia never had any money of her own,” Michelle went on, seemingly happy at the chance to enlighten a neophyte. “You can’t make it in this crowd if you’ve got no money of your own. Not for long, anyway.”

  She gave me a pointed look and I tried not to flinch. This woman was wasting her talents here; she was born to be a dictator of some medieval nation, the kind who sat on gold and platinum thrones and ordered the nobles not to fraternize with the stable-hands.

  I glanced behind me and noticed Jack staring at us. He raised his glass toward me in a mock-toast, and I smiled and turned back to Michelle.

  “Jack Weber?” she said. “Didn’t I see you two together?”

  “Yeah.”

  She smiled. “Are you having a nice time?”

  I looked away, unable to bear to look at those piercing brown eyes anymore.

  “Listen,” I said, suddenly impatient to get away from her. “Why were you paying Adam Bitzer $2,500 a month?”

  She smiled, smooth and confident. “Who says I was paying him money?”

  “I have his bank statements, Michelle. There are transfers coming in every month from your bank.”

  She stared at me long enough to be sure that I knew what I was talking about. “Ok,” she said finally. “What did you want to know again?”

  “Why?”