Deadly Disco in Las Vegas: A Humorous Tiffany Black Mystery (Tiffany Black Mysteries Book 6) (2 page)

“You don’t think she really had anything to do with Josh’s death, do you?”

Ian shook his head. “No, she’d be silly to hire us if she really did have anything to do with it.”

“Maybe it was an accident.”

“Do you actually believe that?”

I shook my head. “No, my gut says that someone attacked Josh and tried to wipe the slate clean.”

“In that case, they won’t like us poking our noses around.”

I looked at Ian thoughtfully. He was right—murderers are never the friendliest people, especially once they find out I’m on their trail. The only thing to do was to expose their deceit, before they could stop me from investigating forever.

I stopped by Glenn’s on the way out. He’d let me borrow some icing tubes, and I needed to give them back.

Glenn lives downstairs, and I met him while fleeing from a psychopath with a knife. He’s more than eighty years old, but he’s handsome and kind, with twinkling blue eyes and thinning gray hair. He’s also a retired baker who makes the most delicious cupcakes ever. I’d once hoped to set him up with my Nanna, but due in part to my nonexistent matchmaking skills, Nanna wound up marrying Glenn’s brother Wes.

“How’s the baking going?” Glenn asked enthusiastically, after welcoming me into his apartment. Although we lived in the same building, Glenn’s apartment had an extra bedroom, and a large kitchen area that was well-suited to baking.

“Not that great,” I admitted honestly. “Ian didn’t store the ingredients properly, and the milk and eggs went bad.”

Glenn made clucking, mildly disapproving noises as he shook his head. “That’s okay, though. This is the first time you’re trying to bake. What’s important is that you don’t give up.”

“I suppose so.”

“And to keep you going, here’s a box of my latest batch!”

I gasped with delight and grabbed the big Tupperware container. Inside, there were at least a dozen delicious, moist-looking cupcakes with chocolate frosting. “Thank you so much! These look amazing!”

Just then, there was a knock on the door, and Karma walked in, followed by Sam and Simone.

We caught up quickly, as Karma told us that Sam and Simone had just built the most amazing Lego rocket, and I told Karma that Ian and I had decided to investigate Josh’s death.

“That’s great,” Karma told me. “I feel so bad for Mary. I met her during a community yoga class, and she’s really a very kind soul.”

“So you don’t think she’d hurt Josh herself?”

“Oh, of course not! They’ve always had a good relationship. Besides, why would she want to hire you if she actually had anything to do with it?”

“I’m sure you’re right,” I admitted. “But I just wanted to check with you, in case you had any opinions on her.”

“She’s a dear,” Karma assured me.

Simone looked at me and said, “Why are you wearing that outfit?”

I was dressed in my red-and-black dealer’s uniform, and her question reminded me that I needed to get into work soon. I sighed and said, “It’s for my job.”

“Don’t you like your job?” asked Simone.

“I do,” I said slowly. At least, I used to. Until this new manager, Brian Wesley, started to introduce things like weight controls for the dealers. All the dealers would need to be under a certain body mass index or weight by the end of next month. It was really a ridiculous figure, one that meant all dealers would need to look like skinny supermodels, and there was no way I would meet the weight limit if I continued with my daily diet of cupcakes, cupcakes, pasta and then some more cupcakes.

And then, there was the matter of my moonlighting as a private investigator.

I’d started my PI gig in an attempt to leave the casino job and work for myself, as my own boss. But I hadn’t mustered the nerve to quit the casino just yet; I wanted to save a bit of money before I quit. In the meantime, word about my PI gigs had spread, and the casino pit bosses gave me the stink eye each time I called in sick. To be fair, they were right about their suspicions. I never got paid when I called in sick, but it didn’t look good on the rosters.

I wasn’t sure how to explain all that to a six-year-old, so I said, “People are sometimes grumpy at the casino.”

Glenn said, “Actually, that gives me an idea. Why don’t you take this box to share at work?”

I looked at him doubtfully. The words ‘sharing’ and ‘cupcakes’ don’t usually go together in my vocabulary. But the last time I’d taken some treats into work, everyone had been thrilled.

And maybe, if I could get everyone else addicted to cupcakes, people would see how ridiculous weight controls were.

“You’ve got the right idea,” I admitted to Glenn. “Besides, I’m supposed to be losing weight.”

Karma said, “Those weight controls you were telling us about?” I nodded and she went on, “Maybe you should try savory muffins? Or sugar-free healthy cakes?”

I made a face just thinking about them.

Simone noticed the face I’d made and copied me. She said, “Yuck! What’s savory muffins? They sound yucky!”

“Yucky!” repeated Sam, looking up at his big sister adoringly.

“They really taste quite good,” said Karma.

“I’ll think about it,” I said to Karma, not meaning it at all. I did appreciate that she was trying to help me lose weight, but I just couldn’t bear the thought of not eating delicious, sugary cupcakes.

I grabbed the box of precious cupcakes, said goodbye to everyone, and headed out.

Driving down the Strip was impossible after four in the afternoon, so I speed-walked the couple of blocks until I stepped into the Treasury Casino. A blast of cool air greeted me as I stepped through security and into the staff area, heading straight for the break room, where the pre-shift meeting was supposed to be held.

Brian Wesley had introduced a new system of staff meetings before our shifts. I hated the man: he’d been brought in from a casino across the street and had all kinds of new ideas that pleased management. I viewed him as a ridiculous, impractical corporate type who wanted the casino pit staff to adhere to crazy, unworkable goals and KPIs. He’d introduced this idea that dealers would need to stay below a certain weight, and I hated him for it.

I was a few minutes early, as were a couple of my coworkers, so I opened the cupcake box and invited everyone to share.

I dug into my chocolate cupcake: as I’d predicted, it was moist, delicious, and just sweet enough. Everyone around me was making “nom nom” noises as we gobbled down our cupcakes until they were gone.

“This can’t be good for my diet,” said Lisa, a slightly chubby Asian dealer who tended to always work on the same shifts as me.

“Yeah,” groaned another girl. “I’m going to have to go running for three hours to burn this off.”

We grumbled about weight controls and how impractical and unfair they were. I’d done some investigative work for a reality show judge a few weeks ago, and the stars of the show had told me that weight controls were common in Hollywood. But I didn’t think we were getting paid enough as dealers to have to sacrifice cupcakes from our diets, and everyone around me agreed.

We fell silent as the room filled up, and then Brian began yammering on about how we were supposed to provide great customer service and be fair and honest, yada yada—all things we already knew. The meeting was just a waste of time, and I was happy to be done with it and head back into the casino pit.

In some ways, I love being a dealer. The cool, brightly lit environment of the casino pit is one I’m familiar with, and I’ve worked as a dealer long enough that the casino environment envelops me like a warm, fuzzy blanket. I clapped my hands out behind the blackjack table to which I’d been assigned and began dealing cards.

The jingle of a slot machine rang out, and I chatted happily with the four men who were at the blackjack table. I was so familiar with this job that I could probably do it in my sleep, and as I handed out the cards and accepted tips graciously, I thought back to Mary and her ex-husband.

Was she right that there was no way Josh’s death could be an accident? The string of coincidences did seem suspicious, but who would hate him enough to kill him?

I knew what I’d have to do, and on my first break, I texted Ian.

We needed to get to work, before the killer had time to cover his tracks.

I met Ian at Jerry’s Diner for a quick breakfast before we headed out again. Jerry’s is an institution among the Vegas locals, and not particularly popular with tourists. It’s just slightly off-Strip, and it has sparkling white floors, retro red booths and tables, and an incredible array of breakfast foods and desserts. The place was especially popular with the Strip workers, and because most shifts weren’t over yet, the place wasn’t completely packed. Ian and I managed to get a booth by the window and settled in for some sustenance.

I was tempted to dine on a slice of cake and call it breakfast, but I knew I needed my wits about me before we went to chat with David, Josh’s business partner. Today would be a busy day for me: I’d manage a quick nap after our chat with David, and then I’d have to head back to the casino for an early shift.

Ian dug into the scrambled eggs he’d ordered, and I devoured my whipped-cream-topped waffles. I’d ordered them with a berry compote, and I told myself that it counted as a serving of fruit.

“I Googled this guy,” Ian said, his mouth half-full of eggs. “David seems clean as a whistle.”

I nodded.

“Did you find anything about his businesses?” I asked Ian.

“He was profiled in the
Vegas Times
a year ago. He does mostly shares and options trading, but he’s also got commercial property, and along with Josh, he’s co-owner of two Vegas nightclubs. Salsa Sensation, and Deadly Disco. Deadly Disco is an old-school R&B nightclub, and that’s where their offices are.”

“So it’s also where Josh was found?”

Ian nodded. “I called David to let him know we were coming. He said to go around to the back, and that he’d let us in.”

***

It was almost four in the morning, and the streets of Vegas were empty. Ian and I speed-walked over to Deadly Disco, which was housed in a building just west of the Strip. The night air was chilly, but I knew the temperatures would heat up soon.

Deadly Disco was housed in a corner building and looked like a block of granite from the outside. No windows, no features of any kind—just a door, and a small neon sign boasting the name of the establishment. The entrance was from the main street, and before walking in, I glanced down the side street and made out a nondescript door that looked like a staff entrance. There was a bouncer manning the side entrance, but he looked bored and was reading something on his iPhone, not paying much attention to his surroundings.

The main door was much wider, and there was a velvet rope barring entrance. There was also another rope running parallel to the building, all the better to control long lines, but this one was rather optimistic, since there was not a soul in line. Perhaps it got busier earlier in the night, when the party was just getting started.

Two big, barrel-chested bouncers wearing Robocop-style sunglasses were manning the entrance. They were busy chatting with each other, something about the share market, and when Ian and I approached, they lifted the velvet entrance rope automatically. I’d been prepared to tell them we were meeting with David Wesloff, but clearly they didn’t care.

Ian and I stepped in through a dark entryway, past an underutilized coat check, and onto the dance floor. Our eyes had adjusted to the darkness inside by now, and the bright multicolored disco ball cast quick shimmers of light on the nearly empty dance floor. The place smelled of secondhand cigarette smoke, spilled drinks, sweat, and too much perfume.

R&B hits pumped out through the air, and I could make out a DJ sitting in one corner, mixing the tunes. There were only four, maybe five couples on the dance floor, standing close to each other and dancing happily, blissfully ignorant that it was almost closing time. There was also a group of four men on the dance floor, who seemed to be in their early to late thirties, holding drinks in their hands and making fools of themselves. A long, low bench ran along one wall, and a few couples sat there, chatting and finishing their drinks, getting ready to leave. There were two VIP booths off to one side, but they were both empty.

“This looks like a fun place,” said Ian. “But not as popular as the new trance places.”

I looked at him, surprised. “You go out clubbing? I thought you spent all your nights watching
Star Trek
reruns.”

Ian shrugged. “It’s Vegas. I go out sometimes. Don’t you?”

I looked at him and shook my head. “No. I work nights.”

And then I tried to think back to the last time I’d gone out for fun. Working in Vegas meant that I was part of the “nightlife,” and part of the entertainment. On my days off, I slept, or once in a while I read a book or visited one of the small Vegas art galleries. I hadn’t felt a desire to go out clubbing, or do any of the typical Vegas activities, in a long, long time. Perhaps I was just getting old.

On the far end of the dance floor was the bar. A mirror ran along the wall behind the bar, reflecting the dance floor and its lights, and a group of three couples chatted with the bartender as they settled their tabs. There was a passageway on the right that veered off to one side, clearly leading to the restrooms, but Ian and I headed over to a small door marked “Staff Only.” Before anyone could stop us, we’d slipped through to the other side, into a narrow, brightly lit passageway.

We blinked a few times to get used to the bright fluorescent light in the passageway, and I was vaguely aware that we could no longer smell the cloying nightclub scents. The dance area must’ve been well soundproofed, because other than some low thumping, we could barely hear much of the music. To our left, there was a door marked “staff restrooms.” Next, there was a small kitchenette and break room, and then there were another three doors. At the end of the passageway was another, slightly wider door, which we guessed led to the alleyway outside.

Ian knocked on the first unmarked door, and when a voice called out, “Come in,” we opened the door and walked inside.

The room was larger than I’d expected, with no furniture other than a large desk, and three chairs—two on one side for the visitors, and one on the other side, which was occupied by a man looking much older than I’d expected.

“You must be David,” I said, extending my hand and shaking. “I’m Tiffany, this is Ian.”

We exchanged platitudes, and I watched David closely as Ian and I sat down opposite him.

David had a longish face, salt-and-pepper hair, and eyes with dark circles under them. He reminded me of a tired-looking horse, and Ian said, “You look exhausted. Are you sick?”

David smiled wryly and shook his head. “No. It’s just all this work catching up with me. Josh used to do half the work, and now I do his share, which means double the work for lucky me. Plus, I have to arrange all the financials again, now that there’s his estate to deal with.”

“Which you got one-third of,” Ian said.

David looked at Ian steadily. “I’d rather have my friend be alive.”

Ian nodded, and I said, “We’re very sorry for your loss. But you understand we have to ask you a few questions.”

David sighed. “I know, I know. Mary told me. She doesn’t believe it was an accident.”

“And what about you?” said Ian. “What do you believe?”

David shook his head. “I really don’t know what to believe. I don’t like thinking you can just trip over and die one fine day.”

“That is an unpleasant thought,” I agreed. “But who would want to kill Josh? I was under the impression that he was a rather popular man. I mean, even his ex-wife liked him enough to hire a PI.”

David rubbed his brow. “He was good to her, I guess. But nobody’s perfect. Josh had his flaws.”

“Which would be?”

“Well, first,” said David, looking from me to Ian, “he was very popular with the ladies.”

Ian said, “Why was that?”

David shrugged. “He went to the gym, he was rather fit. Reasonably good-looking. And he had enough money to show the ladies a good time. He never had a hard time finding someone new to have a good time with, and he did like having a good time with someone new.”

“What about you?” said Ian. “Do you do well with the ladies?”

David laughed, and his whole face creased up, his grayish-blue eyes twinkling. “I’m gay,” he said. “And my partner and I have been together for twenty-five years now. I’m not interested in new people and good times.”

“So you’re a domestic man who owns a nightclub,” I joked.

“Something like that,” said David. “I work nights, I see the party life. But if I’ve got spare time, I’d rather stay home and relax, you know? Maybe eat a homemade breakfast. At most, we go out for lunch sometimes. How about you? D’you go out and enjoy the Vegas life?”

I shook my head. “I work as a dealer, most nights. This PI gig is new.”

“The life nocturnal,” said David, sympathizing. “These night shifts get really tiring, but what can you do?”

I nodded. “There’s not that many other jobs here in Vegas.”

“What about you?” David looked at Ian. “Do you also work in a casino or something?”

Ian shook his head. “When I was in college, some buddies did a start-up, and I invested a bit. I cashed out when they did an IPO, but my parents put it in a trust fund for me that they and their lawyer control.”

“That must be fun,” said David politely. “Being able to live off a trust fund.”

Ian twisted his lips and made a face. “It was fun at first. But now I want to do something meaningful. Like help people out.”

“I guess that’s why you’re a PI,” said David. “That’s the right job for helping people out. Helping them uncover the truth.”

David looked at me, and I smiled uneasily. The truth is, Ian’s been wanting to be my partner for a long time, but I’m not sure he’s ready. Ian’s naïve and optimistic, and more importantly, I’m just nervous of a future where we work together. I’d always imagined being a solo detective, like one of those lone wolves in a chauvinistic fifties-style private dick kind of way. But this isn’t the fifties, I’m not a jaded chauvinist, and Ian’s rather fun to be around. While I wasn’t ready to commit to a PI partnership, there was no harm in letting Ian hang around for a while.

“Maybe you’d like to see Josh’s office first,” suggested David. “It’s the room next door.”

We trooped over, and David opened the door for us. Inside, the room was the same size as David’s, but looked much smaller thanks to all the things crammed inside. There was the obligatory desk and three chairs; a bookshelf stuffed into a corner displaying a few books and lots of knickknacks; a fake potted rubber plant; lots of framed prints on the walls; and, of course, the mirrored hall table against which Josh had hit his head and met his demise. The hall table was a few paces away from the door, and Ian and I stepped closer and peered at it carefully.

“The cops already did a thorough sweep,” said David. “And I can tell you now, they found absolutely nothing.”

“I don’t doubt it,” I said. “If someone really did kill Josh, and they bothered to wipe his cell phone and his doorknob clean of prints, they wouldn’t forget about cleaning up elsewhere.”

Ian and I wandered through the room, too nervous to touch anything. Nothing jumped out at us, and I sat down behind Josh’s desk. There was a big computer with a large screen plonked on the middle of the desk. On one corner of the desk, there was a large leather stationery holder, containing various pens, highlighters, pencils, paper clips, and a blank notepad. On the other corner of the desk, there was a desk calendar featuring an abstract photo of industrial-looking steel bars, and a silver photo frame displaying the image of a teenage boy. The boy had blond hair cut sharply in a buzz cut, acne-prone skin that showed up in the photo, and wide-open, laughing blue eyes.

“This must be Taylor,” I said. “Josh’s stepson.”

David nodded. “And apple of his eye.”

“Funny that Josh was such a good dad,” said Ian. “Even though he couldn’t settle down with one woman.”

David shrugged. “People are walking contradictions. Josh wanted to stay young and party with different women, but he also wanted a family, and he loved being a dad. He doted on his son.”

I nodded and leaned back in the chair. Sitting here, I couldn’t sense anything out of the ordinary. I tried to think of how Josh must’ve felt that day—had someone come in here and threatened him? But the room was tidy despite the clutter, and nothing seemed to be out of place. I closed my eyes, trying to pick up on any vibes, anything—but there was nothing. The room seemed normal, and Josh seemed like an ordinary, conflicted man.

“Let’s go back to your office and talk,” I suggested, getting out of the chair. I didn’t like being in the dead man’s office, and I figured that David might be more helpful if he felt like he was on his home turf.

When we were settled back in David’s office, I said, “Tell me about Josh’s girlfriend, Chloe.”

David smiled wryly. “They say to always suspect the spouse, don’t they? Well, I suppose that’s as good a place to start as any.” His eyes drifted off to a point beyond my shoulder, and he was lost in thought for a few seconds. Finally, he said, “This was one of Josh’s longest relationships. Just over a year now.”

Ian said, “How long do his relationships usually last?”

David shrugged. “Anywhere between a week to a year. His longest was obviously his marriage to Mary. He really tried, I think. Perhaps even more so, because of Taylor. But it’s just not in his nature to be monogamous. Some people can’t do it.”