Mistletoe and Murder in Las Vegas (6 page)

A pounding guitar riff shattered the silence.

Joanne jumped, grabbing the door to steady herself, as a bright yellow Firebird cruised slowly past the entrance to the parking area, the Rolling Stones’ guitar-scorching “Satisfaction” blasting from its speakers.

McGill’s attention snapped to the Firebird as it rolled to a stop.

Gloria, slouched low in the driver’s seat, stared back from behind her mirror-aviator shades as Mick belted that he couldn’t get no satisfaction.

Joanne wasn’t sure if she wanted to smack, yell at, or admire her crazy friend.

For a frozen instant, the three of them looked at each other…Gloria and Steve in some kind of badass stare-down while Joanne, gripping the door, prayed to God that McGill didn’t pull out his gun—which made no sense, like why would be shoot someone sitting in a Firebird, but on the other hand he was an ATF agent and those guys lived on the edge.

Suddenly, the Firebird sped off in a screech of tires and burning rubber. McGill, his heavy eyebrows pressed together, looked at Joanne.

“You know her?” he called out.

After a beat or two, she answered, “Yes.”

His frown deepened, obviously confused at the weirdness of that confrontation. So she offered the best excuse she could muster.

“She’s from Brooklyn.”

At that moment a breeze lifted the hem of her nightshirt. As she patted it back into place, she noticed a bright pink spot on her shirt and wondered what food strain had caused that…then realized to her horror it was a nice-sized rip that offered a view of her bra. Unless McGill was extraordinary farsighted, he would have clearly seen her overfilled bra while standing on the porch.

She jumped back inside and slammed the door.

Chill. Catch your breath
.

Staring at the closed door, she debated whether to open it and explain that she hadn’t meant to slam it, but decided that there had been enough weirdness for one today. She checked out the rip, realizing it must have happened when she’d untangled Lady Justice’s sword.

Lovely. I flashed a federal special agent. After I propositioned him.

Hearing the SUV engine growl to life, she looked out the peephole. McGill sat in the driver’s seat, a black Labrador next to him. As the vehicle backed up, she noticed its California license plates.

Maybe he really is a surfer.

Wasn’t as if federal special agents didn’t have hobbies outside of work…but why drive all the way to Vegas when a local ATF agent could have contacted her to ask questions? Steve McGill had to be the lead investigator on some federal case involving Dita. How much trouble was this young woman in?

Her cell phone chirped.

Moments later, Gloria was grilling her.

“Was that the stripper-gram guy? Jo, I really thought the girls would get you an Amazon gift card instead.”

“No, he’s an ATF agent.”

A loud gasp. “Are you frickin’ kidding me? If I’d known that, I would
not
have stopped and checked him out…I was just tryin’ to figure if I should tell Muscle Boy to forget the gig and leave you alone. Then I figured he was leaving anyway, so I split.
Madone
. The ATF. What do they want?”

“To ask questions about Dita.”

“The feds are after her, too? That girl is in some deep—”

“I know. Told him I was no longer her lawyer, and anything she and I discussed was covered by privilege. By the way, thanks for telling me there was a hole in my top that offered a view of my boobs over-filling my lacy, flamingo-pink bra.”

“Jo, I didn’t see a rip! But then, I don’t check out your ta-ta’s. Think Mr. ATF saw?”

“Yes. When he gave me a once-over.”

“He looked you
up and down
?”

“After I looked him up and down…and asked him to pull down his pants.”

“Wha—?”

“I thought he was the stripper.” Joanne closed her eyes, wishing she could just crawl back into bed and spend the rest of the day eating ice cream and watching Westerns. One where the cowgirl has no wardrobe malfunctions and saves the herd
and
an entire town.

“Jo, you’re going through a shitty time. So what if you sometimes say the wrong thing…” She did a bad job smothering her laughter. “I’m sorry, but did you really ask him to…?”

“Yes.”

“Girl, I’d call that
extreme
speed-dating.” More muffled laughter.

Joanne didn’t want to smile, but did anyway.

Dating had never been her forte. Not a single date in high school, except if one counted the “group prom date” her senior year comprised of girl and boy nerds. After dancing awkwardly with each other, they returned to Billy Maxwell’s house and watched the 1964 black-and-white film
Dr. Strangelove
while his mother made them chocolate-chip pancakes.

Then she had that short-lived relationship in law school, but she had never fallen head-over-heels, stupid in love until Roger, who was like a walking, talking hot fudge sundae in her eyes—sweet and smart and he filled her heart. She’d never be that naïve again.

“Hey, girl,” Gloria said, almost recovered from her laughing spell. “Because I am your bestie, and don’t want you to ever again suffer the indignity of an accidental flashing, in the future I’ll check our your ta-ta’s for ya.”

“Please don’t. My life is strange enough these days.”

“Seriously, give yourself a once-over before answering the door again ‘cause I think Muscle Boy will be back.”

And Joanne knew why. “With a subpoena for me to testify in front of a grand jury about Dita Randisi’s criminal activities.”

Just what she needed right now…spending a day or two being grilled by a federal grand jury. What she knew about Dita was enough to fill a teaspoon, but it would take hours of questioning before the grand jury came to that understanding as well.

“You sure he was a fed, Jo? Those guys wear Brooks Brothers on official visits, but this guy wore one of them flowery shirts—”

“Hawaiian.”

“So he’s working deep undercover as a luau-server? Plus he’s driving a rental—recognized the car agency sticker on the bumper—which makes no sense. I mean, the feds have the kind of super-secret, whiz-bang stuff than Q was always showing James Bond, so no reason for him to rent from a commercial shop, except if…”

Joanne waited, hating when her friend paused in a hit-the-organ-chord-moment. Reminded her of her sister’s way of milking dramatic moments.

“I think our boy is doing his own thing outside ATF,” she finally said.

Whoa
. Joanne hadn’t been prepared for that, but it made a lot of sense. A line from a Western movie popped into her head. “Sometimes to be honest, you have to live outside the law.”

Feds frowned on agents playing outside the government’s rules. If McGill were really investigating a personal case while pretending to be a special agent, he could lose his career plus all kinds of ugly criminal charges. To take such risks meant he was seriously invested in finding Dita.

For good reasons…or evil ones?

Knock knock knock.

“
He’s back
,” she rasped, her heart racing.

“Get outta that holey nightshirt top. I saw some blouses piled on a box near the window.”

Knock. Knock.

“One moment!” Joanne called out in her best natural voice, whatever that was.

She ended the call and headed to the pile of blouses and grabbed what was on top, one of her least favorites with its crayon-bright colors and black bows at the elbows, but it wasn’t wrinkled. Much.

Knock. Knock.

On her way to the door, she fastened the buttons, then paused to peer through the peephole while nervously patting her deranged hair.

Oh no, this looked bad.
Steeling herself, she opened the door.

Shannon, in oversized sunglasses that gave her a bug-like look, stood, or more like
swayed
, on the front porch. Dressed in a white-and-gold romper outfit with linebacker-sized shoulder pads and strappy gold shoes, her blonde hair piled high in big curls, she looked like a skinny toreador gone glam. Scents of Chinese food and booze competed with her signature perfume,
Inamorata
, which cost more per ounce than most family’s weekly grocery bills.

Snuffling back a sob, Shannon opened her skinny arms as a mascara-blackened tear dripped down her cheek.

“Jo-Jo...I’ve been b-b-bad…”

With a wail, she fell into Joanne’s arms.

A
fter leaving Joanne Galvin
, P.C.’s law office, Mike picked up a couple of to-go burgers, fries and two shakes, chocolate and strawberry, before heading to the Jackpot Casino and Hotel where he and his grandfather had earlier checked into a dog-friendly one-bedroom suite.

When he and Maggie entered the front room, whose couch would be Mike’s bed, he saw his granddad staring out the floor-to-ceiling window. He’d changed into a fresh plaid shirt, khaki pants and Velcro-leather slip-ons.

He turned to Mike and grinned. “Kid, this place is like the Ritz!”

“Happy almost-birthday, Granddad.” He crossed to a small table next to the kitchenette-bar as Maggie settled onto her doggie bed in a corner of the living room. “Got us some lunch.”

“This view from the twenty-sixth floor,” his granddad continued, “gives a bird’s eye of Strip.”

Mike felt lousy about how he’d handled his visit to Joanne Galvin’s office, but it gave him a boost seeing Archie so happy.

Although the Jackpot Hotel and Casino was hardly the Ritz. Built sixty years ago, it looked its age with worn carpets, walls the color of faded green-felt casino tables and faux-marble cherub statutes everywhere, some with ashtrays on top of their heads. But being past its prime had played in Mike’s favor as this one-bedroom suite was a third of what other Vegas hotels charged.

Plus the place had a star-studded history, proudly documented in dozens of photos on its lobby walls. Joan Crawford hosted the hotel’s grand opening in 1955. Barbara Streisand made her Vegas debut in 1963 as the opening act for Liberace. But the Jackpot’s biggest claim to fame was Frank Sinatra and the Rat Pack partying here in the sixties. Some claimed having seen their ghosts still partying in an upstairs suite.

“Got us burgers and shakes.” Mike set the items on the small table.

“Milkshakes? Grandson, we’re in
Vegas
! I’ve unpacked the booze, got us some ice. I make a mean 007.”

“What’s that?”

“James Bond’s martini. Some people say gin only, but I mix it with three parts gin, one part vodka, a lemon twist. Then it’s shaken, of course, not stirred.” He did a little two-step while miming shaking a martini shaker.

Mike checked the retro metal-starburst clock on the wall. “It’s barely one in the afternoon. I’ll pass.”

He sat down and pulled a paper-wrapped burger out of the bag, placed it at his grandfather’s spot. “No mayo, no pickles, no cheese.”

Archie sat down. “Sounds like the interview with the lady lawyer didn’t go so well.”

“Yep.”

“If you wanna talk about it, I’m all ears.”

He set a plastic cup and straw in front of Archie. “Strawberry with low-fat milk, no whip.

“That’s me, living large.”

After they ate for a few minutes in silence, listening to Maggie snore softly in the background, Mike said, “Let’s just say…I hope she doesn’t take legal action. I, uh, didn’t want her to close her door so…I kinda forced it to stay open.”

Archie glanced at his grandson’s feet. “Not by sticking out your foot, I hope. You might as well be barefoot in those things.”

“No, by pressing my shoulder against the door. In the eyes of the law, that qualifies as trespassing.”

“World’s too damn full of idiotic rules. Got some salt packets in that bag?”

“You haven’t even tasted your burger yet…sure you need it?”

Archie gave him a double-take. “Since when did you become the Grand Guardian of the Salt?”

Barely suppressing a smile, Mike pulled a wad of salt and ketchup packets out of the bag and set them on the table.

“Good, you remembered to get extra ketchup. I take back that salty comment.” Archie helped himself to several packets. “So, what’d you learn from her micro-looks?”

His grandfather was referring to micro-expressions—the brief, involuntary expressions that occur within a second or two, too quickly to be contrived, which made them excellent barometers of a person’s emotions. Although agents were trained to detect micro-expressions, it was near impossible to see them with the naked eye as they occurred within a fifth of a second. However, they were discernible while slowly replaying a digital recording of a person, such as one taken during an interview.

Mike didn’t really catch micro-expressions, either, just by looking at someone—it was more like the person sometimes leaked emotions he picked up on. Today he’d picked up on some of those, aided by her body language.

As they ate, Mike told his grandfather about her being surprised when she first opened the door and how she later touched the hollow notch in her neck, which indicated discomfort.

“Hell, who wouldn’t be surprised and uncomfortable finding a federal agent on their doorstep,” Archie said. “What’s important is, did she like you? If yes, she’s not going to take legal action against you.”

Mike took a bite of his burger, remembering how she’d placed her tongue at the corner of her mouth, followed by a flick of the tongue along her top lip, which indicated sexual interest. At one point, she jutted out her hip, another sign. Or maybe he was looking for such signs to see if he was affecting her the way she was him. Even now, recalling the scent of coconut in her hair and the shape of her luscious lips was enough to heat his blood.

But mentioning any attraction on his part, or what he interpreted in her body language, would just encourage his grandfather to put her on the shortlist as a candidate for “Miss Right.”

“Nah, she hated my guts.” He took a slug of his shake.

Archie studied his grandson’s face. “I think you’re lying. Your eyebrows did that tee-pee thing, causing those crinkle lines.”

Mike hadn’t been aware that he’d briefly lifted his eyebrows, specifically toward the middle of his forehead, which caused short lines to crinkle the skin of the brow. All of which had happened in less than second. Who knew the old guy’s eyesight was that good? Had to be how close they were sitting.

Mike leaned back in his chair and casually wiped his mouth with a napkin. “The
tee-pee thing
is also an expression of distress…and I’ve definitely had a stressful day.”

“You also covered your mouth by swigging on your shake. Which you’ve told me before is a sign of lying.”

Whoever said mental acuity diminished with age needed to meet his grandfather.

“Let’s not make things more than they are. Like Einstein said, ‘Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.’”

“Freud said that, not what’s-his-face.” Archie helped himself to the last packet of ketchup. “I think she liked you, so you’re off the hook. There’s not going to be any lawsuits. What’s her name?”

“Joanne Galvin.’

“Like my favorite actress, Joanne Woodward. More important than just liking you, was she
taken with you
? A man can be good-looking and smart, hold down a decent job, but is he regal? The kind of man who would always put a lady first, treat her like a queen? Women can tell these things by a man’s shoes.” He darted a look at Mike’s flip flops.

“I was
interviewing
her, Granddad, not courting her. Anyway, I doubt women put that much meaning into a man’s shoes.”

“Try wearing my white leather slip-ons for a day and you’ll be singing a different tune. So what’s Joanne like?”

He forced himself to slip past memories of her lips, scent and that peek of pink bra, and thought instead about her freckles, those green eyes that shifted color with her moods, and a splotch of what he guessed to be tomato sauce on her top.

“Innocent,” he finally answered. “Well, except when she’s not,” he quickly added, thinking about her imposing look after he’d tossed off that dumbass comment about humming a few bars. “She’s a redhead—that probably sums it up best.”

“Like my Millie,” his grandfather said quietly, the look in his eyes softening.

“Yeah,” Mike agreed, remembering his grandmother’s feisty, but endearing personality. “Joanne’s hair is curlier, though, if you can believe that.”

Curly was an understatement. More like an army of rebel ringlets, which he’d liked. So much of his work was about reading between the lines and sensing someone’s real story, so it was nice to see something, even curly hair, just be itself.

“One-person law office, right?”

Mike nodded.

“Maybe you should ask her out to dinner or something.”

“You’re incorrigible. Anyway, I was wearing flip flops so obviously she wasn’t all that taken with me. Which is beside the point...this is about business, not pleasure.”

Although when he’d stood next to his vehicle, watching her watching him through the crack of the open door, he got the clear sense she was interested in him. Just as that door was slightly ajar, so was her invitation to see him again.

Can’t think this way
. He had already waded into the gray zone by coming to Vegas to conduct his own investigation…didn’t need to make things even more complicated by mixing up Joanne the lawyer with Joanne the woman.

“Can’t remember the last time you asked a girl out,” his grandfather continued. “When you’re not at work or training Maggie, you seem to spend a lot of time mulling over Paula’s death. I don’t judge you, Mike, you know that. Took me a long time to come to terms with my Millie’s death, especially as it happened so quick, you know.”

Mike had been twelve at the time. His grandmother, while undergoing a minor surgical procedure, formed a blood clot that blocked a major blood vessel and stopped blood flow to the lungs. The surgeon told Archie they did everything they could, but it was too late. Millie died on the operating table.

For several weeks after her death, Archie shut himself off from the world, refusing to leave his and Millie’s home. When he finally re-emerged he was thinner, but still the no-nonsense, opinionated Archie Day, especially when it came to matters of the heart. When Mike’s sister Christina miscarried, Archie told her to call him anytime, even if she couldn’t talk, and he’d stay with her on the phone. When Catarina was upset about Beatrice falling in love with Alice, Archie said love was love and to get over it.

Sometimes Mike wondered if his grandfather’s real reason for wanting to be roommates was to guide his grandson through the fire of self-blame over Paula.

Archie slapped his palm down on the table. “Kid, we need to cheer ourselves up. There’s some dollar blackjack tables downstairs, and I’m ready to make me some money.”

“Okay, big spender.” He stood. “Let’s go rock this joint.”

The older man pointed at Mike’s feet. “
After
you change into some real shoes.”

J
oanne stood
in the open doorway of her office, cradling her crying sister.

“Shannon, let’s get you inside.”

She managed to extricate her sister off her shoulder and gently shut the door behind them, then guided her sister around the boxes and pieces of furniture to the tufted leather swivel chair behind the desk.

Sitting down, Shannon slipped off her sunglasses. "How do I look?"

Her fake eyelashes were about the only thing intact. Mascara had merged with her metallic-gold eye shadow, creating sparkly charcoal smudges around her eyes. Add the black streaks down her face, and she looked like an Alice Cooper groupie.

"Fine," Joanne lied.

Shannon, her chin quivering, looked at her fuzzy reflection in the computer screen. “Ish that a black streak on your screen…or on my face?”

"You just need a little cleaning up, that’s all,” Joanne murmured. “Not sure where I packed my tissues, but you always carry some in your purse, right?”

"I was so upset when I left the house, I forgot to bring it.” She sniffed loudly. “Thank goodnesh that lovely man at Lotus Blossom let me put my Buddha’s Primrose Delight on a tab. Forgot to tell him to hold the MSG. Makes you fat, you know.”

No, Joanne didn’t know. Nor did she care. But now that her sis had calmed down enough to discuss food additives, she needed to address something.

“Shannon, you know better than to drink and drive.”

“My bad,” she said, her bottom lip trembling.

“How many drinks?”

She held up her index finger...then added the middle one. “Strawberry daiquiris.”

“Which are economy-sized at the Lotus Blossom, so it’s more like three.” Joanne released a heavy sigh. “You’re lucky you didn’t cause an accident. I don’t care how upset Josh was with your recent shopping adventure, that or anything else is never an excuse to drink and drive. You hear me?”

She nodded. “Next time I’ll drink at home.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s a solution,” Joanne muttered.

It surprised Joanne her sis had drowned her shopping sorrows in alcohol as Shannon had never been much of a drinker. A few glasses of wine at parties or special dinners out, otherwise she stuck to zero-calorie sodas or ice tea.

“Now you know how out there I was,” her sister whispered shakily, looking out the window at two laughing teenage girls walking down Graces Avenue. “I’m going to be thirty-five soon…where’d my youshgoo?”

Had to mean
where’d my youth go
. "Where everybody else’s goes. Somewhere between Circus Circus and the Hard Rock Hotel,” she answered, naming two Vegas casinos. “Let me get a towel and I’ll clean up your face.”

A few minutes later, Joanne gently wiped the tip of a moistened towel on her sister’s cheek. Funny how easily they fell back into their childhood roles at times. Shannon being needy. Joanne taking care of her. Their mother had always been attentive to their physical needs, sometimes to the point of suffocation, but had paid less attention to their emotional wants.

Joanne had always figured their mom was just wired that way. After her own mother died when she was twelve, Rosemary became a mom to her four younger siblings while their dad worked twelve-hour days at his small gas station in Colby, Kansas. She cleaned house, cooked meals, and washed clothes. At eighteen, her dad became engaged to his bookkeeper, a divorcee with two children of her own, Rosemary decided it was time to leave the nest. “My brothers and sisters were old enough to take care of themselves, and my dad’s new wife needed to make the home hers.” After reading that the Flamingo was hiring showgirls eighteen to twenty-eight, slim, no dancing skills required, she took a bus to Las Vegas, but failed the audition. “I got nervous and kept tripping over my feet.” While working as a waitress in a coffee shop, she met a young college student named Larry Galvin. “We fell madly in love.” Considering how her mother cautiously chose her words, that was a powerful statement.