Pesky Politicians in Las Vegas

  Pesky Politicians in Las Vegas

  A Tiffany Black Mystery

  by

  A.R. Winters

  Copyright © 2016 by A.R. Winters. All rights reserved.

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.

  This book is a work of fiction. This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental.

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  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  * * *

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty–One

  Chapter Twenty–Two

  Chapter Twenty–Three

  Chapter Twenty–Four

  Chapter Twenty–Five

  Chapter Twenty–Six

  Chapter Twenty–Seven

  Chapter Twenty–Eight

  Chapter Twenty–Nine

  Epilogue

  Chapter One

  It was eight o’clock at night, and I was determined to enjoy the free time I had before I needed to go into work.

  Tonight, I was supposed to be working the graveyard shift at the Treasury Casino—from three to ten in the morning.

  The last half of the shift, in the morning, isn’t so bad; the casino half-empties out, and the players who remain are sleepy and bleary-eyed, with the occasional stressed-out gambler trying to play just a little more before he has to go to bed.

  The first half of the shift, though, involves dealing with the hard partiers, and people who are too drunk to understand that they’re standing in a casino, not a public restroom. The number of times security has had to escort out drunken urinaters at four in the morning defies belief.

  But the major advantage of having to work the graveyard shift is that I can actually socialize at a normal hour with my friends and family. Today, for instance, I was hanging out with my neighbor, Ian, baking cupcakes.

  Ian lives down the hall from me and has big, bouncy red hair and a personality that’s just as big and bouncy.

  When I first met him, I’d found his enthusiasm rather annoying, and his naiveté rubbed me the wrong way. But over time, I’ve come to appreciate his sunny outlook on life, and his constant optimism. Of course, it’s easy to get away with being naïve and optimistic when you never have to worry about money.

  Ian funded a start-up when he was in college and later sold it for millions of dollars. Luckily for him, his wealth is all tied up in a conservative trust fund, controlled by his parents and lawyer; this means that he never has to worry about losing his money, but he’s also not allowed to squander it on inappropriate “rare” Star Trek memorabilia and unsuitable women, like he’d otherwise be tempted to do.

  “I’m glad we’re making cupcakes again,” said Ian. “It’s no fun trying to bake by yourself. Those three days when you decided to give up cupcakes weren’t much fun.”

  “Those three days weren’t fun for me either,” I said. “But I thought I should make an effort, since the Treasury Casino’s about to introduce weight restrictions.”

  Ian’s kitten, Snowflake, sat on one corner of my sofa and half-dozed, perfectly happy to ignore us while we baked. If she thought my kitchen was too small for two people to bake in, she kept her thoughts to herself.

  My place might be tiny, but it’s just the right size for me. It’s got a combined living, dining and kitchen area and a window that looks out onto the parking lot. I have a small bedroom and a tiny bathroom. Sometimes I feel like there’s not enough storage space, and now that I’ve started baking, I occasionally think to myself that a little more counter space would be nice.

  An interior decorator would turn her nose up at my furniture, but I tell myself that it’s “eclectic.” I’ve got a mix of cheap IKEA furniture and a couple of lucky curbside finds. At my age, I wouldn’t mind a few more grown-up pieces of furniture, like the kind I see in the homes of my wealthy clients. But I remind myself that I’d rather have a little more money in my savings account than a fancy armchair.

  Ian looked at me doubtfully. “But now that you’re eating cupcakes all the time again, you’ll never lose weight.”

  “I thought you were supposed to be optimistic!”

  Ian shook his head. “I’m just being honest.”

  I shrugged. Over the last few days, I’d come to accept that I wasn’t about to lose a lot of weight and suddenly fall in line with the Treasury Casino’s new weight guidelines. I’d kind of made my peace with that.

  “I guess that’s just how things will be,” I said as I whisked eggs together.

  Ian was working on the icing, and he looked at me doubtfully. “What are you going to do, then? Are you going to get another job? Or maybe you could focus on your PI work full-time?”

  I shook my head. “I like the PI work, and it pays okay. But it comes and goes. I really need a regular paycheck so that I can keep paying my bills.”

  “I’ve always said I can invest in your business—”

  I interrupted him before he could finish. “It’s really nice of you to offer. But you know your lawyer isn’t going to allow you to withdraw so much money from the trust fund. And besides, the business isn’t quite there yet.”

  “I’ve worked with you on a few cases now,” Ian said seriously. “I know I’m helpful. I know you’d rather work alone, but it’s good to work in a team. Look at all those famous detectives, and all those cop movies. They always work in pairs.”

  I smiled to myself and shook my head. I’d always thought I’d be working solo, like a lone wolf. But when Ian had insisted on joining me on a few cases, I’d found myself enjoying work more than I’d thought I would. I’m not entirely convinced of Ian’s helpfulness, but his penchant for fun and lightheartedness certainly makes things a lot more pleasant, especially when dealing with homicides and other depressing crimes.

  “I don’t mind working with you,” I said. “But I’m not going to be a full-time PI yet.”

  “I thought you wanted to be a PI so you could quit the casino work,” said Ian. “You used to say you couldn’t see yourself working in a casino forever.”

  I stared at Snowflake thoughtfully, and she opened her eyes and blinked at me lazily, as if to say that she understood my doubts.

  “Now that I’m about to get fired from the Treasury Casino,” I said, “I think I actually enjoy working there. I’ve been there for so long, dealing with the games seems easy, and I don’t have to think about the work too much. The hours can be bad, and sometimes the gamblers get on my nerves, but on the whole, I do like it. Plus, it’s nice to take a break from thinking about killers and cheating spouses sometimes. I’m not sure I could do this PI gig full-time.”

  Ian nodded. “I understand. After selling my start-up, I tried to find work that was fun and meaningful, but I haven’t managed. It’s amazing how horrible work seems when you don’t need the money. And it’s not like I’m passionate about anything—though I do like investigating with you.”

  I looked at Ian sym
pathetically. I’d grown up in a middle-class family, and after high school, I’d worked and paid my own way through life. There’d been times when I’d struggled with money, and I understood just how important it was. So I never thought I would say this, but meeting Ian made me understand that having too much money can be just as much a problem as not having enough. Of course, his problems are trivial compared to the rest of the world’s. However, he’s my friend, and I feel sorry for him whenever people try to take advantage of him, or try to use him in any way.

  “The cupcake mixture’s ready,” I said. “I’m going to put it into the oven—and then we can text Glenn and Karma to come up.”

  Ian nodded and said, “I guess you’re going to look for work in another casino, then?”

  “Yeah. I’ve been applying to a few places—but none of them are as nice as the Treasury Casino.”

  I put the cupcakes in the oven, and a few minutes later, my neighbors Glenn and Karma showed up.

  Glenn, who lives downstairs, is a tall, handsome white-haired octogenarian who’s also a retired baker. I once tried to set him up with my nanna, but given my terrible matchmaking skills, Nanna ended up marrying Glenn’s brother, and Glenn ended up dating an aging hippie named Karma. Karma has waist-length gray hair that she refuses to dye, and is usually dressed in colorful ankle-length skirts and black or white T-shirts.

  “The cupcakes smell amazing,” said Glenn. “Pretty soon, I won’t have anyone to bake for.”

  “I’m sure the people at the old folks’ home appreciate your cupcakes,” I said. “Especially now that you’re baking a few of them with Stevia instead of sugar.”

  Glenn nodded. “I don’t think the Stevia cupcakes taste the same, but patients with diabetes can have them.”

  “Besides,” said Karma, “sugar is a poison. It destroys you from the inside out.”

  Ian and I exchanged a glance. We both love sugar, and we’re not about to reduce our consumption. But Karma is adamant that desserts are destroying Americans’ health and that they should all be replaced with fruits and healthy substitutes.

  “I’m sure having a little sugar every now and then isn’t so bad,” said Ian. “Besides, Tiffany and I are always running around. So we burn off the sugar.”

  Karma shook her head. “Sugar is terrible, but—”

  “Have you seen the terrible politicians who are thinking of running in the primaries this year?” said Glenn.

  I smiled at him. It was obvious he was trying to distract Karma and prevent her from going on a long rant about how unhealthy sugar and baked goods were.

  “It’s unbelievable,” I said. “That guy Carl Wareheim is so awful!”

  “I can’t believe he might seriously run,” said Karma. “He’s basically trying to take away all the progress we’ve made during the Women’s Rights Movement. He’s talking about reduced sentences for rapists, the right for a husband to beat his wife, and lowering the legal age of consent. What kind of monster tries to do things like that?”

  “The worst thing is,” I said, “most people don’t even seem to realize how awful he is. What if he becomes the presidential nominee?”

  “It’s because he’s from such an established political family,” said Ian. “And he’s got a successful business, too. He’s incredibly wealthy.”

  “I’m sure he won’t get very far in the primaries, even if he does decide to run,” said Glenn. “Most people won’t vote for a man who wants to reduce women’s rights.”

  “He’s horrible!” said Karma. “That’s what he is. I’ve always believed that bad things happen to bad people—I can’t believe such a horrible man has come so far.”

  “Why don’t we check out the news?” said Ian. “Maybe he’ll announce that he’s decided not to run, or maybe he’ll announce another crazy policy idea.”

  I dutifully turned on my ancient TV, and we all swiveled around to look at it. Just as the countdown for the news came on, the oven dinged, and I walked over to take the cupcakes out and let them cool for a while.

  “Good evening, Las Vegas,” said the male anchor in a somber voice. “We come to you tonight with some breaking news—Carl Wareheim, a politician considering running in the presidential primaries, has been found dead in the Henderson residence where he was staying. With more details now, here’s my colleague Joanne Ling.”

  All four of us stared at the television in shock.

  A woman’s face filled the screen. “Thank you, David,” she said, her voice serious and her expression stern. “We’re now learning some more details about what happened at the Henderson residence. As you may know, Carl Wareheim, who was considering running in the primaries, was staying at this house while he met some local party supporters in Las Vegas. Earlier tonight, his body was found lying in the study of this very residence, lifeless. At this stage, it appears that he may have been poisoned. Police are looking for this man, the property’s gardener, Gary Wilkerson.”

  The image of a man’s face filled the screen, and I gasped. “That’s Gary! We went to high school together.”

  “Police believe this man may have important evidence to share with them. If you’ve seen this man or know of his whereabouts, you are requested to contact the police immediately.”

  The report went on for a few more minutes, talking about Carl’s proposed policies and the fact that he was unpopular with many Americans, especially women, because of his controversial proposals. Apparently, Carl had come to Las Vegas for a few days, and instead of staying in a hotel or casino, he’d chosen to stay at the residence of one of his business associates.

  “The police have not released any more details about the investigation so far,” said the reporter.

  After a bit more chatter about whether or not it could have been murder, the news shifted to the messages of grief that were pouring in from the other party candidates, and politicians and entrepreneurs around the country.

  Karma shook her head. “It’s a sad thing that man died, but I always believe that bad things happen to horrible people.”

  After a few more minutes, the news anchor said, “And now, we move on to our next story. The Pacific Nuclear Research Facility has denied rumors that…”

  I switched off the TV, and there was silence for a few minutes as Ian helped me apply icing to the cupcakes. I made a pot of coffee for everyone, and then we sat around and chewed our cupcakes thoughtfully.

  “Gary Wilkerson was my classmate in high school,” I said. “I can’t believe the police think he’s involved in this. He always seemed like a nice person—I don’t believe he would ever kill anyone. He never even seemed that interested in politics.”

  “Maybe the police just think he might have seen something,” said Ian. “The announcement doesn’t mean he killed the guy.”

  I shook my head. “The report said that the cops are looking for him, and that anyone who’s seen him should report to the police. That sounds pretty serious to me.”

  Glenn nodded. “It’s a horrible tragedy. You might disagree with the man’s politics, but going and killing him is a bit extreme.”

  “Of course, we don’t even know if it’s actually murder,” Karma reminded us. “Maybe Carl just ate some really old food, and he couldn’t get to the hospital in time.”

  But none of us believed that. We sat around and sipped our coffees thoughtfully, and then after a while, Glenn tried to lighten the mood by reminding us that Nanna would be visiting Las Vegas next week.

  “It’ll be good to see her and Wes again,” he said.

  I smiled brightly. “I’ve really missed her! I wonder how her honeymoon’s going.”

  “I can’t believe they’re traveling so much,” said Ian. “I’m almost jealous.”

  “I wish she’d just move back to Vegas,” I said. “But it makes sense that she wants to go on a long honeymoon, and Wes wants to be near his family back in Indiana. Maybe they could divide their time between Indiana and Vegas—that wouldn’t be so bad.”

  “We’l
l have to talk to her about these things when we see her next week,” said Ian. “I’m glad she’s having so much fun on her honeymoon.”

  A few hours later, Glenn, Ian and Karma had left. I’d given Ian most of the cupcakes we’d baked and packed some of them to take with me to the casino for my coworkers.

  Before I started getting dressed for the casino, I went and found the extra handbag that I kept stored away in my closet, and from its pocket, I pulled out the cell phone that Stone had given me. He’d said I could use it for emergencies, if I ever needed to get in touch with him, and that he would use it if he needed to get in touch with me.

  Jonathan Stone, or Stone as he preferred to be called, had been assigned to me as a bodyguard during my first case; he was the one who’d insisted that I take Krav Maga and shooting lessons. After that case, we became good friends, and we always helped each other out. Later on, I thought there might be something more between us. I knew I wasn’t imagining things when we shared a long, passionate kiss one night.

  However, the next day, some scary-looking men in black suits had shown up at my door, demanding that I tell them where Stone was.

  I’d always known that Stone had served in the CIA, but these men told me that Stone had kidnapped two women while he’d been stationed in Afghanistan, and that he was wanted by the government for treason. Apparently, Jonathan Stone wasn’t even his real name.

  I didn’t believe any of that. I knew exactly who Stone was—he was my friend. I trusted him, and I didn’t believe he could be a traitor to our country. I knew there had to have been some kind of misunderstanding.