Mistletoe and Murder in Las Vegas (9 page)

“Excellent. Last question…have you ever worked an arson case?”

“Yes.”

“Great. Because Dita’s case will crash on takeoff unless we can analyze fire department reports, conduct walk-throughs of the crime scene to assess origin and cause of the fire, read burn patterns, that sort of thing.”

She heard a slurping sound, followed by a low-throttled belch. Then silence.

“Lenny?”

“I worked an arson case, which involved reading police and fire department reports. But I’ve never done a walk-through of an arson scene. I don’t know how to read fire signs or any of that other stuff.”

Disappointment shot through her. An investigator with zero arson background chopped off a chunk of that two or three thousand.

“Dita’s so scared, Miss Galvin. She has no family here…well, her dad, but as you know he’s serving twenty at the Nevada High Desert State Prison. Her mom died when she was a kid, and she has no siblings, although she’s tight with a cousin in North Carolina. So, I’m the only family she has. Seems like everything is stacked against her, but I refuse to abandon her. I’ll do whatever it takes to prove her innocence.”

His words echoed her own heartfelt resolve to stand by her baby, despite the odds. At that instant Joanne knew, without a doubt, that if she didn’t help this poor young woman, she would regret it for the rest of her life. There was enough money to saddle up, and she would somehow work out the arson investigation angle.

“I’ll be over in a few minutes to drop off a retainer agreement for Dita to sign,” she said. “It’s not going to be easy, Lenny, but I’m determined to ride this case to a not-guilty.”

A
s Mike
and Maggie walked into Fossen-Chandler Investigations, the grandfather clock chimed four times. Third of December, but Mother Nature obviously had spring fever as outside the birds were singing and the sun was shining. Mike had dressed in denim pants and his “lucky” Hawaiian shirt that he’d purchased while working his last case, figuring the bright red with yellow jungle birds would draw the attention of surfers as they headed out of the water, which it did, with one of those interviews cracking the case wide open. After his grandfather’s comments the flip flops were history, and today he wore a pair of top siders.

The dark furniture and electric Christmas candles brought back memories of his Sicilian grandmother’s house, except Nonna kept votive candles flickering in front of religious statues all year around.

As he stepped onto the area rug, green like sea foam, he recalled Paula saying she took special care to select just the right shade of green for her designs. “It’s a powerful color because it is the most predominant one on earth. Too dark, it conveys greed. Too light, inexperience. But that sweet spot in the middle conveys trust.” If that were true, Fossen-Chandler was either inexperienced or trustworthy.

Hal Fossen and his wife Kimmie Chandler, a PI couple from Nashville, purchased the agency several years ago from its former owners. Of greater interest to Mike was the third member of the agency, Lenny Bamberger. While researching Dita Randisi on the Internet, Mike came upon a picture of her from several years ago sitting on a couch with a stocky, curly-haired guy, apparently her boyfriend as they were cuddled close. Analyzing the longitude and latitude embedded in the geotag data of the photo, Mike learned it had been taken at a Vegas apartment complex. A few database searches later, Mike discovered that the guy in the photo was thirty-three-year-old Lenny Bamberger, the third PI at Fossen-Chandler Investigations.

Lenny was clearly the link between Dita and Joanne. Which meant he knew the whereabouts of Dita.

A man lumbered from a side kitchen, carrying a steaming cup that scented the air with hot chocolate. His Birkenstock sandals slapped against the hardwood floor, the sound stopping as he stepped onto the area rug. He wore green weightlifting pants, a purple V-neck T-shirt, and a green, red and yellow-beaded bracelet that rattled as he walked.

Mike immediately recognized him as Lenny. A few years older, but the same mass of curly hair knobbed into a ponytail of sorts.

Lenny paused to look at Maggie, who sat obediently next to Mike. “Nice dog, man.”

“Thanks.”

“How old is she?”

“Seven.”

“She’s in great shape. Well-behaved, too.” Lenny took his seat behind the desk. “Somethin’ I can help you with?”

“I’m a reporter writing an article about pet sanctuaries in Vegas. The Canine Retirement Ranch recommended I interview Lenny Bamberger, said he worked here.”

“That’s me, brother.”

Mike reached out and shook his hand. “They said you’re their star volunteer.”

He smiled. “They called me their
star
volunteer?”

Mike had never spoken to anyone at the ranch, but from a check of its website knew dozens of volunteers worked there every day, so mentioning he’d spoken to someone was plausible.

“Yes, they did. Got a few minutes for an interview?”

“Absolutely. Want some hot chocolate? Coffee?”

“No thanks.” As Mike settled into one of the wood guest chairs, he pulled out his digital recorder. “Mind if I record this, Lenny?”

“Sure, man.”

He asked Lenny about the dogs at the canine ranch, how he first became involved with senior canines, then casually asked, “How long has your wife been volunteering at the Canine Retirement Ranch?”

“Huh?”

“Someone at the canine ranch, forget the name, mentioned your wife volunteered with you…”

He let the rest of his comment hang while he studied Lenny’s face. Raised eyebrows that revealed surprise, followed by the corners of his lips drawing down, signaling sadness. That last expression happened to be the toughest for people to fake.

“She’s not my wife,” he finally said, his eyes shiny with emotion. “I, uh, forgot my marshmallows.” He got up and quickly exited to the kitchen.

Lenny hadn’t verbally confirmed that woman was Dita, but Mike guessed that’s who she was. In his research she had been his last, serious girlfriend.

Mike listened to the sounds from the kitchenette—running water, some splashing. Washing his face?
He still has it bad for her
.
Add that to the stress of a high-profile case, and the poor guy must be in a world of hurt.

Lenny, clutching a half-empty bag of miniature colored marshmallows, reappeared and sat down. Water droplets dotted his hair. With exaggerated calm, he asked, “So, where were we?”

Mike knew better than to say the “wife” word again. “We were discussing your female friend accompanying you to the canine ranch.”

He dropped a handful of marshmallows into his cup. “Right. She totally digs the dogs.”

“Have you two adopted one?”

“She’d like to, but now’s not a good time. Maybe later.”

Careful to not say her name, and the reference to not adopting a dog now,
reinforced Mike’s belief they were talking about Dita.
His heart picked up its pace. After four long years, he was on the verge of finally nailing the Timepiece Arsonist. Next was to interview her and get a confession, which he’d take straight to the DA.

He pretended to check something on the digital recorder, not wanting to seem overly interested. After a few moments he snapped his fingers, acting as if he’d just had a light-bulb moment.

“Know what would be fantastic? To shape this article so it inspires people to work as teams to help homeless dogs.”

“Awesome.”

“Yeah, awesome,” Mike said, mirroring Lenny’s language. “Plus giving to others is a great Christmas angle. It’s already December, so I’ll need to interview your friend right away. By phone is fine—what’s her number?”

A woman’s voice cut in.

“This interview is
over
!”

Joanne Galvin, fury etching her face, stood a few feet away, wearing another of her odd outfits—a long-sleeve blue-and-white striped shirt, old jeans and scuffed black mules. Her frizzy red hair seemed to almost float horizontally, as if defying gravity.

She clomped over to Lenny’s desk, set some papers in front of him, then turned with a flourish to Mike.

“Interview her for an article? In what,
The ATF Weekly
?”

“No,” Lenny said, all seriousness. “It’s for
The Las Vegas Sun
. He’s writing an article about me, the star volunteer at the Canine Retirement Ranch.”

She gave Lenny an incredulous look before refocusing her attention on Mike. “My, you’re just full of stories, aren’t you?”

He forced a smile, wondering why the hell she cared—she wasn’t Dita’s attorney anymore.
Irked because I’m pretending to be a reporter
? Like she’d never worked with an investigator who copped a fake identity to get information? Just like a lawyer to play the high-road card.

“Please keep it on, Mr. McGill,” she said loudly, gesturing to the digital recorder in his hand. “I have a few things to say that I wish to be recorded so you and your ATF lawyers can listen to it later. I, Joanne Galvin, represent Dita Randisi, who is protected by attorney-client privilege, as is my private investigator Lenny Bam....”

“Bamberger.” Lenny dragged his hand over his mess of hair as he stared wide-eyed at Mike.

“Lenny
Bamberger
,” Joanne repeated. “Whom
ATF Special Agent Steve McGill
has lied to, misrepresenting himself as a
Las Vegas Sun
reporter to gain confidential information about my client, Dita Randisi.”

“Whoa, hold on,” Mike said. “You said you no longer repre—”

“I’m considering filing a lawsuit against ATF,” she continued, “for violating Miss Randisi’s civil rights by breaching her attorney-client relationship, piercing her other legal rights and privileges, as well as compromising her Constitutional right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, which should keep ATF’s lawyers busy for a quite a while.”

“
Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness
? You have got to be joking.”

“Try me.”

How he regretted flashing his badge the other day at Joanne Galvin, Self-Righteous Defense Lawyer of the Downtrodden. Should’ve used the reporter line with her, too.

“Last we spoke, you said you no longer represented Dita Randisi.”

“She has since retained my legal services.” She held out her hand. “May I please see your ATF badge, Agent McGill?”

Which he’d conveniently left in the vehicle, but even if he had it on him, no way in hell would he let her peruse it. Although agents’ names were not printed on their badges, their ID numbers were.

“Absolutely, Miss Galvin,” he answered politely. He surreptitiously pressed the Off button on the recorder while making a show of looking in his shirt pocket. “Sorry,” he said, meeting her gaze. “But I apparently forgot to bring it with me.”

“I thought federal agents were required to carry their badges at all times.”

“Except when they are working undercover.”

She looked him up and down. “That’s your undercover
reporter
outfit
?”

He bit back the urge to ask if that was her undercover lawyer outfit.

“When I checked court files today,” he said, keeping his tone even and professional, “no lawyer had yet filed an appearance for Miss Randisi’s case, so I approached Mr. Bamberger with the qualified belief that there was no attorney-client privilege.”

She paused. “We just signed our contracts today.”

Lenny darted a look at the papers, cuing Mike those documents were likely them.

“Are those the
just-signed
contracts?” he asked, gesturing to the papers. “Because if Dita Randisi has not yet added her signature, there is no attorney-client privilege.”

Lenny took a loud slurp of hot chocolate, peering over the rim of the cup at Mike.

Joanne crossed her arms, barely suppressing a cocky smile. “Are you explaining contract law to me, Mr. McGill?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Miss Galvin.” And he meant it, too. Only an idiot would try to out-legal-talk a lawyer.

“Because intention is nine-tenths of the law, and Dita’s
intention
is to hire me as her defense attorney.”

Okay, he’d accidentally stomped all over attorney-client privilege. Time to make a pleasant, speedy exit before he stepped deeper into this deep shit.

“C’mon, Maggie,” he said, dropping the recorder into his pocket.

“I’d like that recorder, Mr. McGill.”

“Well, since possession is nine-tenths of ownership in the eyes of the law, guess you’re outta luck, Miss Galvin.”

He and Maggie fell into their usual formation—she on his right, keeping an eye on him for further instruction—as they headed toward the front door. When they stepped off the rug, her nails clattered in time with his steps.

Through the window next to the front door, he saw gray clouds on the distant horizon, and vaguely recalled a weather report forecasting thunderstorms this evening. Weather today was just like what had happened in this room—pleasant beginning with a dark ending.

Should Joanne file that lawsuit against ATF and Special Agent Steve McGill, there was a chance it would go nowhere because McGill didn’t exist, of course. But if ATF lawyers decided to further investigate this Steve McGill character, such as requesting a physical description from Joanne Galvin, it wouldn’t be that difficult to match McGill with Mike Day.

Which meant
if
he didn’t find a way to resolve this mess, like now, he was headed into one, butt-ugly storm that could ultimately cost him his career.

After years of dealing with people from all walks of life, he had learned that if you want something, you need to give something first. Right now he wanted nothing more than for Joanne Galvin to
not
file that lawsuit. And he had an idea what to give to get that.

He stopped, as did Maggie. Looking down into her big brown eyes, he lightly rubbed a spot on her forehead. A gesture he did for good luck when facing a tough situation.

He turned around. Lenny and Joanne looked at him, surprised.

“I’m sorry,” he said, opening his hands as if he had nothing to hide. “I handled this all wrong. I would like to make it up to you, Miss Galvin, and your client by offering an evidentiary lead for your case. The other day—”