Innocent in Las Vegas
Read Innocent in Las Vegas Online
Authors: A. R. Winters,Amazon.com (firm)
By
A. R. Winters
Innocent in Las Vegas
Copyright 2013 by A. R. Winters
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental.
Innocent in Las Vegas (A Tiffany Black Story)
***
Private investigator by day, blackjack dealer by night, and cupcake-addict extraordinaire, Tiffany Black has just landed her first case. Casino owner Ethan Becker has been murdered, and Tiffany needs to find the real killer.
What should have been a simple matter of talking to a few suspects gets out of hand, and soon Tiffany finds herself fielding violent casino goons, a mysterious new bodyguard and strange masked men. Her poker-playing Nanna and pushy parents want Tiffany to settle down and get a nice husband, but Tiffany just wants to stay alive and solve the case, preferably with a few more cupcakes for good luck...
Table of Contents
Despite the bags under her eyes and the ankle monitor, Sophia Becker looked gorgeous.
“Tiffany!” She flashed a phony smile and embraced me in a warm hug. Her voice contained trace amounts of anxiety and relief, and her beautiful blue eyes couldn’t hide her worry. “I’m so glad you came!”
I shrugged nonchalantly. I didn’t want her to get her hopes up, or to think our relationship had changed. “I was told it wouldn’t hurt to listen.”
“Well, thank you for coming.”
I walked behind her, my low-heeled sandals making a clicking noise against the white marble floor. Her place smelled expensive, like a Vanilla-Bergamot scented candle, and was so clean and tidy that I wondered just how many staff she employed.
When we reached the far side of the living room, Sophia slid gracefully into a wooden chair, and crossed her long, tan legs. She was wearing a short black miniskirt and a designer tank top, and her ankle monitor flashed silently. “Richard’s filled you in?”
“He told me you’re looking for a PI, but didn’t give me details.” I perched gingerly on an antique armchair worth more than my entire month’s salary. In my casual Bermuda shorts and t-shirt, I felt a little out of place in this glamorous room. “Although, I don’t really see what a PI can do for you at this stage.”
Sophia flipped her long blonde hair from one side of her face to the other, and her elegant diamond drop earrings shimmered in the light. She gave me a pained look. “I’m innocent. Don’t you believe that?”
“That’s what they all say. And even if you are, it’s hard to argue against the evidence.”
“It was planted.”
I sighed. “Sophia, they found the gun in your nightstand. Literally. A. Smoking. Gun.”
She stared at me for a second, an angry fire dancing in her eyes, and then she leaned back in her chair and visibly relaxed. “Do you think I’m stupid?”
I shook my head. I didn’t even have to think about that one. She was anything but stupid.
Sophia was beautiful, friendly and witty – and she put those qualities to good use by becoming a stripper. She was also ruthless and ambitious, and that was probably how she managed to make Ethan Becker, owner of the Riverbelle Casino, fall in love with her.
Thanks to Ethan’s wealth, Sophia’s stripping days had been put behind her as soon as they got engaged, and the wedding was exclusive and ostentatious. Judging from the massive rocks she wore, and the Lake Las Vegas mansion I was sitting in right now, Sophia’s marital life had been one great big fairy tale.
Until three months ago, when her husband was murdered.
“Then why,” she said, “Does everyone think I’m dumb enough to wipe down a murder weapon and put it back in my nightstand?”
“Maybe you didn’t think anyone would look?” Sophia narrowed her eyes and I went on, “Someone would have to break in to plant the gun in your bedroom. You never reported a breakin.”
“I couldn’t tell from the lock. There are good lock-pickers, you know.”
I looked at her doubtfully. “And what do you want me to do?”
“Find out what the police overlooked.”
“What makes you think they overlooked anything?”
“Oh, please. The instant they found that gun, they stopped all investigations and acted like I’d confessed to doing it. Meanwhile, the guy who killed my husband is walking free.”
I took a moment to think about it. Did I really think Sophia had killed Ethan? It was hard to tell – all through our high-school years she’d been a good actress, manipulating people to get her way. She’d been the pretty, popular cheerleader who’d spread mean rumors behind your back and then teased you about your weight, your hair and your unfashionable clothes. I hadn’t been too fond of her back then, and I wasn’t sure what she was capable of now.
As though she’d read my mind, Sophia said, “Why would I kill my husband? I had a great life, and I’d be stupid to risk all that.”
“I don’t know. What if I find things that incriminate you further? You know I’ll have to tell the cops.”
Sophia nodded. “Of course.”
I thought about all the reasons I didn’t want to take on this case. “Why me? Why not someone else?”
“It’s a great first case.”
I loved the way she didn’t answer me directly. I wasn’t even fully accredited, and she wanted me to look into something so serious. “How’d you find me anyway?”
“Ed Hastings recommended you.”
Ed was my supervising detective. He certified to the Nevada Board of Private Investigators that I wasn’t mentally unstable or criminally inclined, and once a month I did ten hours of supervised work for him – mostly boring surveillance details. My one year of supervised work was almost up, and I was grateful to Ed for the recommendation, even if I wasn’t too keen on the client.
“Richard Small did a background check,” Sophia continued, “And then he contacted you.”
I tried my best not to smirk. Richard might be a successful defense attorney, but I wondered how he’d gotten through high school with such an unfortunate name. He’d probably survived his name the same way I’d survived mine.
My mother, in her infinite love of all things sparkly and shiny, had named me Tiffany. Tiffany Black. Almost every day of my short 28-year-old life I’d heard someone, usually a rat-eyed creep with bad breath, coo out a variation of the romantic phrase, “You have a stripper name, you must really like poles.”
Having a stripper name meant that I went out of my way to not look like a stripper. That involved having unruly brown hair which refused to be tamed, carrying a protective layer of cushioning fat around my waistline, and wearing more clothes than all the local Vegas girls combined.
I said, “No-one else will take the work, will they?”
Sophia glanced away and I smiled triumphantly. Of course she wouldn’t voluntarily want to employ a no-name, not-quite-accredited PI like myself if she had better options. She’d hired one of the best defense attorneys in the state, and she could afford any PI – if they’d just agree to work for her.
“It’s really simple work–” she began, but I interrupted her.
“No, it’s not, and you know it. No-one messes with the casino owners.”
“I
am
a casino owner,” she said. “At least I will be, if you can help me get off. Then you’ll have an easy time getting jobs.”
“
If.
And that’s a big if.”
We looked at each other silently. Jobs here were dependent on the casinos, and nobody wanted to get on the wrong side of the powerful few who controlled an entire state’s economy.
“Please, Tiff.” Sophia looked at me with sad eyes. “I need you to help me out. I’m in a terrible place, and if you won’t help, I don’t know what to do.”
Her eyes brimmed with tears and I looked away.
Crap.
I felt like I was kicking a puppy. Despite whatever she’d done when we were younger, the woman was living a nightmare now, and I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.
I glanced at my watch and stood up quickly. “I should go. I’m late.”
Sophia sniffed. “Please, tell me you’ll at least consider this?”
I looked at her carefully. She’d always been an expert manipulator and I hated the thought of being pushed into doing something I didn’t want to. But her face was pinched, and I could almost smell the doom surrounding her.
“I’ll think about it,” I said, “It could be a great opportunity for someone.”
To shoot themselves in the foot.
Sophia nodded, and showed me out silently.
Vegas drivers are the worst in the world. Not me, of course. But everyone else.
As I drove east along the Las Vegas Beltway, I had to stifle my urge to make rude hand gestures and lean on the horn. I hadn’t been lying about being late, and I was grateful Sophia hadn’t asked what I was late for. She probably already knew.
I stopped at my condo, a tiny, one-bedroom place I’d managed to buy right after the market crashed, and changed. I could drive to work, but the best thing about my place is that it’s only a three-block walk into work.
The Strip is a nightmare to drive down at night – all it takes is one mesmerized tourist staring at the lights to cause a pileup. The late evening breeze made it cool enough to walk, even in the middle of the scorching summer, and I told myself I was getting some much-needed exercise.
As soon as I entered the casino pit, the loudness hit me: all the colors, noises and lights that epitomized Sin City. Walking into the madness felt like meeting an old friend – a boisterous old friend who annoys you at first, but grows on you.
I tapped out the day-shift dealer, clapped my hands to show that they were empty, and smiled around the table. “Are you guys having a good time?”
I genuinely cared about how the men felt. My tips depended upon it. Two of them smiled in a vague, non-committal way, but one took my question seriously.
“Fucking blackjack,” he said. “The other fucking dealer was screwing me over. I hope you’re here to improve my fucking luck.”
He looked at me suspiciously, as though I might have a secret nefarious motive for being there. I smiled and motioned the waitress. “Looks like you need a refill on that drink.”
He grunted distrustfully and I started dealing. I knew the man well. He was one of the regulars at any table, Mr. Here For The Fucking Money. His real name varied but he was always the same person – rude, surly and generous with the F-bombs. Inevitably he always lost and it was always the ‘fucking casino’s fault’, which meant ‘no fucking tip for the dealer’.
At least none of my other regulars were there: Mr. Body Odor, Mr. Perving On Every Woman Around, and Mr. Cigar Man.
I focused on the cards and pretty soon Mr. Here For The Fucking Money busted out, threw a hissy fit, and left the table to do God-knows-what. His place was quickly taken by three frat boys, who all thought they were giving Don Juan a run for his money: “Whatchya doing after work?”, “You wanna show us around Vegas?” (wink wink) and of course, “Met a stripper named Tiffany yesterday, that wasn’t you, was it?”
I tell myself every day that I don’t hate my job. It doesn’t pay as much as stripping or being a cocktail waitress, but I get to wear more clothes, don’t get perved on as much, and never get groped. But there‘s a reason I’m trying to leave the madness of the casino pit to become a Private Investigator, and it was a relief when I got a tap on my shoulder, indicating that it was time for my break.
I headed into the break room and checked my voicemail. There was a strange message from my grandmother, and I told myself I’d call her back tomorrow. I was expecting Sophia to have left me a message reminding me to think about things, but she was clearly giving me some space.
I felt like I was being chicken, that if I were braver I would just jump straight into the work. But that would be foolhardy – no other PI would touch the case for a reason: clearly there was no chance of wrapping it up successfully. A failed, high-profile case would be damaging for any established PI’s reputation and fatal for any newbie’s career.
I didn’t like Sophia much but she was convincing in her declarations of innocence. Part of the reason I’d chosen to try to be a PI was so I could help people, and Sophia was desperately in need of help. Plus, I knew she’d be willing to pay me an exorbitant amount of money to do the investigating.
All through the night I watched people wager on games biased in the house’s favor. And yet, players frequently walked away with much more than they lost. The Vegas adage, “You gotta play to win,” was true.
By the time my shift ended, I’d managed to convince myself that I needed to take on Sophia’s case. It was a gamble that had the potential to pay off well, so I sent Sophia a quick text.
If I had known then that I would be risking my life for the case, I would have talked myself out of taking it. In retrospect, I wonder why I didn’t realize that a person who had already committed one murder would stop at nothing to prevent further damning evidence from being unearthed.