Dancing With Danger in Las Vegas: A Humorous Tiffany Black Mystery Read online

  Dancing With Danger in Las Vegas

  A Humorous Tiffany Black Mystery

  A. R. Winters

  Copyright

  Dancing With Danger in Las Vegas

  Copyright 2017 by A. R. Winters

  www.arwinters.com

  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.

  Contents

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  Dancing With Danger in Las Vegas (A Tiffany Black Story)

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

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  Dancing With Danger in Las Vegas (A Tiffany Black Story)

  When Tiffany Black is asked to look into the mysterious death of a young lawyer, she finds herself uncovering all kinds of legal conundrums.

  Meanwhile, Ian declares himself bored with life, and with Nanna as his accomplice, embarks on an unwise adventure.

  1

  The strobe lights around the slot machine came to life suddenly, and a loud congratulatory tune blared out of the speakers hidden nearby.

  The woman standing in front of the machine stared at it blankly, her mouth slightly ajar. The security guard closest to her was already making his way forward, and another nearby guard was talking into his mouthpiece furiously.

  I let myself get distracted for a split second; I watched as realization slowly dawned on the woman’s face, and her eyes lit up in a smile. I wasn’t sure how much the jackpot had been, but I knew it was at least a half million dollars.

  I enjoyed watching players win big at the Treasury Casino, but I didn’t have the luxury of watching the whole scene unfold. I knew that the woman would be safely escorted to get her winnings, and her stay at the casino would be comped. She’d probably remember this night as one of the best nights of her life, but for me, this was just another night on the job.

  I turned back to the blackjack players sitting opposite me and dealt out another hand. The three men all wore serious expressions, and they were so intent on their game that they probably didn’t even realize someone had won a big jackpot tonight.

  My job as a dealer at the Treasury Casino means that I get to see all kinds of casino shenanigans each night, from gamblers winning and losing big fortunes to drunken players getting thrown out of the pit for varying reasons. However, through it all, I need to stay focused on the gamblers sitting in front of me and make sure that their experience is a good one.

  I’ve been working at the Treasury for a few years now. There was a time when I hated my job, but these days I’ve come to appreciate it for what it is—a relatively steady paycheck, for reasonably easy work.

  Dealing cards and chatting with gamblers provides a nice contrast from my other job: that of being a private investigator. I had once hoped to quit my casino job and be an investigator full-time, but PI business tends to ebb and flow and probably wouldn’t pay all my bills.

  The casino pit has become my second home now, with its loud, garish carpets, bright overhead lights, and the constant jingle of the slot machines.

  I dealt a few more hands before I felt the tap on my shoulder. When I turned around, I smiled and saw that it was Nancy, my replacement dealer. I murmured a polite farewell to the players still sitting at my table, clapped my hands out before me, and threaded my way out of the pit.

  A few minutes later, I’d changed out of my red-and-black dealer’s uniform and was stepping out into the slightly chilly Vegas morning. It was time to head back to my apartment and face the day—or more specifically, the client who’d called me yesterday afternoon, begging to meet me as soon as possible.

  I barely had time to rush home, wash off my makeup and take a quick shower before my neighbor Ian showed up.

  Ian is like an overenthusiastic puppy, with his bright, eager green eyes and shocking curly red hair. I met him while on the run from a maniac with a knife, and these days, he helps me out on my cases. At first, his naivety and incredible optimism annoyed me, but over time, I’ve come to appreciate his loyalty and his big heart. These days, I think of him as the slightly annoying younger brother I never had.

  Ian lives across the hall from me. His apartment is a mirror image of my own modest one-bedroom: the front door opens to a living-dining area flanked by a kitchenette, and a door leads to a bedroom and bathroom.

  Both our apartments are furnished with cheap discount-store furniture, but I tend to make sure mine is relatively neat and clean. Ian’s place looks and smells like a college dorm room, and the cleanest item in his place is his kitten Snowflake’s scratching post.

  Snowflake is a tiny white bundle of fur with bright blue eyes. Her personality is pretty much the opposite of Ian’s; most of the time she’s aloof and looks at us superciliously, but occasionally she deigns to let us scratch her ears and rub her belly.

  Today, she decided to make herself at home on top of my fridge, and she licked her paws slowly and watched Ian and me.

  While I was happy to see Snowflake again, I was happier still to see the large Tupperware box that Ian was carrying.

  He placed it on my kitchen counter and opened the lid with a flourish. “Cupcakes, again!”

  I grinned broadly, my tiredness from the shift disappearing. “Yum! Hazelnut?”

  “Yup. I decided to perfect them before moving on to a different flavor.”

  “I’m so glad you’re baking again. You know I’d help, but I’m always so busy with the casino and these cases…”

  “I know, I know,” said Ian as I found two plates for us and quickly made some instant decaf coffee. I wanted real coffee, but I knew I needed to sleep soon. “But it’s more fun when we’re baking together. I found an amazing recipe for lemon cupcakes with lemon-buttercream frosting…”

  “We’ll make that one together,” I promised him as we settled down on the couch and dug into the delicious cupcakes. They were perfect—rich and sweet and hazelnutty.

  “How did Fiona convince you to meet her right after your shift?” said Ian.

  “I’m not sure,” I admitted. “I don’t like meeting people right after work, but she said she really wanted to talk to me, and it was hard for her to make time around her job as an accountant.”

  “What’s it about, anyway?”

  “I don’t know that either. But she sounded really desperate, and I guess I felt sorry for her.”

  We chewed our cupcakes silently for a few minutes, each lost in our own thoughts. I was thinking back to my most memorable cases. Sure, I’ve worked on
a couple of easy surveillance jobs, but my first real case was looking into the death of casino owner Ethan Becker. Once I’d solved that case, word had spread that I was good at solving murders, and clients kept hiring me to look into suspicious deaths.

  In many ways, I hate investigating murders: the crimes are tragic, and the perpetrators usually do a good job of covering up their tracks. And once a killer learns that I’m on their tail, they usually go all out to get me to stop investigating—including trying to kill me. It’s no fun knowing that a murderer wants to make you his next victim.

  But, on the other hand, these cases usually pay well. And along the way, I’ve become a bit of a softie who likes helping out other people. I like knowing that I’ve helped an innocent person get off the hook for a crime they didn’t commit, and I like helping clients find closure when they’re dealing with the death of a loved one.

  Still, this wasn’t really the life I’d expected when I’d signed up to become a PI. I’d thought my days would be spent tailing cheating spouses, not piecing together clues to reveal a killer’s identity.

  Just as I finished my decaf, there was a knock on the door.

  Ian and I looked at each other, and Snowflake jumped off the fridge and came over to us, ready to greet the visitor.

  “Let’s see what Fiona wants,” said Ian, getting up slowly. “Whatever it is that’s so urgent…”

  2

  Fiona Miller was a plump, petite woman who looked to be in her mid-forties. She had dark brown hair cut to just above her shoulders, and brown eyes with dark hollows under them.

  She forced her thin lips into a smile as Ian and I introduced ourselves, and then she perched on the edge of a chair opposite the sofa.

  “I really appreciate you meeting me like this,” she murmured. “I know how hard it is to stay awake after a long shift.”

  Fiona was obviously stressed and on edge, and Ian looked like he felt as sorry for her as I did.

  “Have a cupcake,” he said, grabbing the Tupperware box and a plate. “They’re delicious.”

  Fiona hesitated for a moment and then reached forward and helped herself to a cupcake as I made three more mugs of steaming decaf.

  “Thank you.” She bit into the cupcake gingerly and chewed thoughtfully. “This really is delicious. Don’t tell me you made it?”

  Ian beamed and explained that he was getting interested in baking, just as Snowflake made her way over and rubbed up against Fiona’s legs, hoping to be petted. Fiona obliged, scratching Snowflake between her ears, and Ian explained quickly how we’d rescued Snowflake from a horrible, mean woman.

  I sat down on the sofa opposite Fiona, and the three of us sipped our decaf. I waited till Fiona had finished her cupcake and looked a great deal more relaxed before I said, “I know that my former client James told you about me, but what’s this about?”

  Fiona’s dark eyes clouded over for a moment, and she gulped. There was a moment of stillness in the air. Finally, she said, “It’s about my sister. Ella.” There was another long pause; Snowflake realized Fiona had stopped petting her and strolled over to Ian.

  Fiona cleared her throat and continued. “Ella died—was killed—two weeks ago. The police haven’t gotten anywhere. I was told… I heard you can look into these things?”

  She looked at me with pleading eyes and I gulped involuntarily. I hate making promises I can’t keep, and I wasn’t sure it would be a good idea to take on another murder case. The last murder I’d looked into, Ian and I had ended up facing the wrong end of a gun held by a killer, and I didn’t want to repeat that scenario.

  I said, “If the police haven’t managed to find anything…”

  “The police aren’t really looking,” said Fiona quickly. “They think it’s a mugging gone wrong, but I know it’s not.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  Fiona gestured with one hand. “They found her body near Balzar Avenue. I know that’s a bad neighborhood, and muggings and shootings happen there, but Ella had no reason to go there. The cops don’t care about murders in that neighborhood. They keep saying it’s gang violence or a mugging, but I know it’s not.”

  “How?” I repeated.

  “I just know.” Fiona frowned and tried to explain herself. “My sister was a lawyer. She had no reason to go near Balzar. And she’s got a car, but she hadn’t driven that day. They say she took a cab or got a lift, but there’s no records of her getting a cab, and why would she get a lift over there? I talked to her earlier that night, and she told me she’d be staying in. She wanted to relax with a movie, so she skipped going to the office drinks that most of the associates had gone to.”

  I said, “It’s still not very conclusive…”

  Fiona looked from me to Ian and said, “What do you think?”

  Ian looked at me helplessly. He has a bad habit of saying the wrong thing at the wrong time, so I’ve told him to let me do most of the talking when we deal with suspects or clients, but I knew that he was dying to take the case.

  “I think Fiona’s right,” Ian said. “Why would Ella even go to Balzar?”

  Deep in my gut, I sensed that Fiona was right, too. No one in their right mind would go to Balzar Avenue late at night, and something just felt off. But I didn’t say that. I said, “Maybe there’s something to it, but if the cops couldn’t find anything unusual…”

  “I don’t think the cops really looked too hard,” said Fiona. “They’re short-staffed here in Vegas.”

  “But that doesn’t mean I’ll be able to find anything new,” I said. “I don’t want you to get your hopes up—even if it’s strange that she went to Balzar late at night, it could still have just been a mugging gone wrong.”

  “I don’t need guarantees,” Fiona said. “I just need to know someone’s really looked into it. The cops just wrote it off—at least I know you’ll try harder. Even if you don’t find out anything new.”

  Ian and I exchanged a glance, and I sipped my decaf thoughtfully. Fiona seemed quite reasonable, and it was probably a good idea to take this case. It might wind up being an easy one, and at the very least, it would keep me busy and stop me from worrying so much about what my friend Stone was up to.

  “We’ll do it,” I said warily. “Let me go and get my standard PI contract, and then we can get started.”

  Fiona smiled, relieved. “Great. It’ll be good to know the truth about what happened. Or at least part of the truth.”

  I forced myself to smile optimistically. The last murder I’d investigated was still fresh in my mind, as was the danger we’d faced. I hoped this case would be less dangerous.

  3

  Once the contracts were signed and Fiona wrote a check for my advance, I said, “We need to start at the beginning. I’ll need to know everything about Ella—everything you can think of.”

  Fiona nodded. “I know. I told the cops everything I could think of, but there really wasn’t too much.”

  Snowflake decided that she’d had enough human interaction for now and suddenly raced off for the fridge. She landed on top, settled down, and began to lick one paw meticulously.

  The three of us watched her for a while, and then I turned back to Fiona. “What was Ella like?”

  Fiona smiled. “I’m her sister, so obviously, I’m biased. But she was a great person. Really smart, really hardworking, conscientious. That’s what made her such a great lawyer.”

  I wondered silently if those were also the qualities that had gotten her killed. “Where did she work?”

  “Elman and Associates. She was just an associate, but she was doing well at work. Got lots of good projects, was up for a promotion. She was really happy with her job. The hours were long sometimes, but she didn’t mind.”

  “How long was she working there?”

  Fiona shrugged. “Ella moved to Vegas… what, two years ago? She moved here for the job. And I moved here a year later, to be closer to her. Our parents both died a few years back, and it was just the two of us.”
<
br />   I nodded and made a note. “Two years is long enough to meet lots of people.”

  “Ella wasn’t that outgoing. Her closest friend, Felicity, was someone she went to law school with. Felicity works at a small law firm here.”

  I nodded. “Any other close friends?”

  “No, Ella was too busy with work to socialize much. She hung out with the other associates sometimes. But she wasn’t particularly close with anyone at work.”

  “What about her love life?”

  Fiona made a facial shrug. “I don’t think she was seeing anyone. I mean, she might’ve been and just not told me, but I doubt it.”

  “No ex-boyfriends?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “What about enemies, or anyone who might’ve wanted to hurt her?”

  Fiona sighed. “Ella was a lovely person, and no one would’ve wanted to hurt her if they knew her. But she was working on a difficult case—the Ronan Hastings rape case.”

  Ian frowned. “Ronan Hastings? Why does that name sound familiar?”

  “Maybe you’ve heard of him,” said Fiona. “He’s a twenty-something-year-old who runs a party planning business.”

  Ian’s face lit up and he snapped his fingers. “That’s it! I was reading about him the other day in one of those business magazines. He’s rich! And he’s not running a party planning business—he used to be one of those popular party kids, and now he connects celebrities with rich people who want them at their parties. He knows pretty much all the celebrities and their managers, and he’s got lots of contacts. So, let’s say some rich guy wants a pop star to sing at his kid’s thirteenth birthday party, the rich guy gets in touch with Ronan, who gets in touch with the celebrity and finds out how much it’ll cost. And if the deal works out, Ronan takes a cut of it.”