Mistletoe and Murder in Las Vegas (11 page)

Mike wanted this to be a good dinner meeting, a chance to relax and get to know each better, which included his telling her the truth about who he was and why he was in Vegas. But that wasn’t going to happen, easily anyway, if this restaurant brought back bad memories of Roger.

"We can go someplace else,” he said.

She looked around the room, her gaze settlings on the sparkling Christmas tree in the corner. “No,” she answered, turning her attention back to him. “I want to stay. Their dishes are amazing, plus there are only a few of these old Vegas restaurants left. Sinatra and his Rat Pack used to dine here. A portion of the movie
Casino
was filmed in this very room.” She pointed to a stool at the far end of the bar. “Last time I was here, the bartender told me that Joe Pesci sat there during one of the scenes. Told me some other stories, too...”

She helped herself to a piece of
focaccia
as she chatted about
Casino
, how she’d recently been watching old western movies, and her Kate Spade purse, a congratulatory gift from her sister and brother-in-law. “
First designer anything I’ve owned, and it scares me. Afraid if I spill something on it, it’ll file a personal injury claim
.”

He put aside his concerns. She was enjoying herself, plus she had a wicked sense of humor. And to think this was the same women who a few hours ago threatened to take him down. He had to admit though, that her tough-lawyer act was impressive, although he’d prefer not to be the recipient of her legal wrath again. But if it the payoff were to be the recipient of her smile, he might be tempted to play the Constitutional Bay Boy once more.

Because every time she flashed him a grin or laughed, something toppled inside him. Mike, the tough ATF agent who’d tracked serial arsonists, dug up bodies at crime scenes, and filled in for fire fighters so they could mourn comrades’ deaths, felt susceptible to a woman’s smile.

Roger was an idiot to lose her
.

Mike had learned basic facts about Roger and Joanne through databases, social media and articles, but sensed their secrets from photos. Several days ago, he found pictures on the Internet from last year’s Clark County Public Defenders’ Christmas party. Roger had been in several: Grinning with lawyer-buddies, posing with the DA, shaking the mayor’s hand. Didn’t have to be a truth wizard to see the guy was full of himself and positioning himself for a political career. Joanne had been in two pictures. One with Gloria Falco, the two of them smiling warmly at the camera. The other with Roger, which revealed so much truth it was almost painful to look at.

She wore a strapless red dress that matched the color of her flaming ringlets. The way she leaned into Roger, beaming, it was easy to see that she adored and trusted him. The look on Roger’s face was all teeth, no smile. Standing tall in his blue business suit, an arm stiffly around Joanne’s shoulder, he looked bored. Not with his career, as Roger was the golden boy of the defenders’ office from everything Mike had read. And certainly not with the party as he was flashing a good-ol’-boy grin in photos with everybody else. Which left one reason: He was bored with Joanne.

But instead of being a man and trying to fix the problem at home, he crushed her good heart so he could have a good time. Just as Mike’s dad had done.

The waiter arrived with their drinks and menus, providing a welcome distraction from his thoughts as he looked over the Italian dishes, many reminding him of his mom’s cooking, like
pasta e fagiolo
, pasta and bean soup, and the
linguine al pomodoro
, pasta with red sauce.

When he looked up, Joanne was busy pouring a packet of sugar into her tea. Her menu lay closed on the table.

“Looks like you’ve picked out what you want.”

She stirred her tea. “They have spaghetti, right?”

An odd question as they were in an Italian restaurant. As he wondered if she were being serious or making a joke, the lights in the restaurant dimmed, casting the room in a moody ambiance that encouraged whispered conversations and amorous looks. Which probably wouldn’t have affected him if her face didn’t appear luminescent in the candlelight. Or her hair hadn’t taken on a coppery sheen in the hazy light.

We should’ve gone to McDonald’s
.
Easier to stay focused on business with bright lights and cheap food.
But he had a feeling that even if they shared a bag of stale chips at a bus stop, he’d be checking out her fiery hair and falling even harder for that smile. This was happening too fast...and the timing was all wrong.

He dropped his gaze to the menu, pretending to read.

Since Paula’s death, he had dated sporadically, but nothing lasted over a month or two. He dreaded when family members and friends asked if he were seeing anyone, a question that really meant
Have you moved on from Paula yet?
He hadn’t, but not in the way they assumed. So he would answer without really giving an answer. Say he was busy with work, training Maggie, helping Archie with something.

Some days he wanted nothing more than to dump his guilt over Paula’s death and move on with his life, but he couldn’t. It was easy to blame that on the curse of the investigator who couldn’t quit an unsolved case, but it went deeper than that. He had turned his back on her when she needed him the most.

If only he had been a better man.

J
oanne fiddled
with the edge of her menu while watching McGill read his. He looked so miserable she wondered if he hated the food, the restaurant or maybe her company.
Maybe I shouldn’t have joked about my purse filing a lawsuit against me.
I’d like to discuss his idea of forging some kind of alliance, but he won’t even want to forge my signature if he thinks I’m some kind of nutcase.

“You mentioned spaghetti,” he said, looking at her over the top of his menu. “How does
linguine alla vongole
sound?”

He doesn’t look so troubled now
.
Sounds pleasant, too
. Dawned on her that she might be looking for problems where none existed. Probably a reaction to problems having taken her by surprise.

She looked down at her menu as if reading it, which she couldn’t, but it gave her a moment to decide if she should yes to the linguine dish, ask for plain spaghetti with meatballs, which every Italian restaurant had, or admit she was having trouble reading the words.

Divulging her dyslexia was personal, something she rarely did outside of family members and trusted friends unless it was absolutely necessary.

“Or there’s the
linguine portofino
,” he suggested.

It was necessary.

She closed her menu and set it aside. “I, uh, have a mild form of dyslexia, which I normally manage well, but it has flared up lately, making it difficult at times to read things…like what’s in the menu.”

He looked at her for a long moment, then gave a small smile. Maybe she couldn’t read words, but she definitely read the gentleness in his eyes.

“Then I’ll read to you.”

Simple as that. No question, no concern, just acceptance with a solution. If she questioned trusting him enough to forge an alliance before, he paved the way to possibly sealing the deal right there.

The leather seat creaked as he scooted closer. “I grew up eating these dishes at home. My great-grandparents immigrated from Sicily in the 1920s and ran an Italian deli in East L.A. for years. They passed down recipes from the old country to my grandmother, Nonna, who passed them on to my mother, and even I’ve been known to cook a wickedly good Sicilian dish or two.”

“Is your dad’s side of the family from Italy, too?”

“No,” he said tightly. “Shall I read the
antipasti freddi,
hot appetizers, first?”

She picked up on there being tension between him and his father. “Yes, please.”

The strain she heard in his voice slipped away as he read the menu to her, pausing every now and then to ask if she had questions. Brought back memories of her dad reading stories to her as a child. By the time she’d been diagnosed with dyslexia at nine, she and the written word were enemies. But at home she could relax and comfortably listen to her dad’s pronunciation of words, identifying punctuation through his pauses and shifts in tone.

When the waiter reappeared, she ordered the
insalada caprese
, a tomato and buffalo mozzarella salad, and
pollo alla milanese
, a lightly breaded breast of chicken. He ordered a green salad and the house specialty,
osso buco
, veal shanks with vegetables.

Perhaps because she and McGill were sitting closer, the waiter inquired if this was a special occasion—birthday, anniversary? She started to say no when McGill answered yes, it was a special evening but a private one.

After the waiter left, they sat in silence for a few moments. She couldn’t remember ever having a “special” business dinner with someone she barely knew, although adding candlelight and Sinatra singing would probably make even The Waffle House a special dining experience. Even more, she liked his calling their evening
private
…made her feel protected and safe.

In the background, Tony Bennett sang about chestnuts roasting on an open fire. A waiter walked past with two steaming plates of pasta, trailing scents of tomatoes and garlic.

“Thank you for your willingness to discuss a possible alliance,” McGill said.

“You’re welcome.”

It surprised her he hadn’t scooted back to his original spot, but sitting close made sense as they would be discussing a legal case that shouldn’t be overheard by others.

“In support of an alliance,” he continued, “I would like to share two things with you to show my goodwill and build your trust in me.”

“All right.” He sounded as if he’d rehearsed this, which underlined its importance to him.

“First, some information about the case. Did you know that Dita’s ex-boyfriend, Jim Lloyd, was nicknamed ‘Mustang’ for his role in freeing hundreds of mustang wild horses from federal land, and that that he was a leader of the Animal Freedom Party?”

“There have been allegations about Dita having had an ex-boyfriend who supposedly was
affiliated
with the Animal Freedom Party, but this is the first I’ve heard about his being a leader.” She paused. “Several years ago I defended the Eco-Warrior Café, run by a young couple falsely charged with planting a homemade bomb at a family-owned meat store. In preparation for trial, I researched eco-terrorism. As you’re probably aware, such groups like to keep their infrastructure secret, even among themselves. Members only know who they report to, but not the organizational structure, so it would be hearsay to identify him as a
leader
, and therefore inadmissible as evidence.”

“What does Dita say?”

“Her lawyer says none of your business.”

He smiled. “
Touché
.”

At Dita’s arraignment hearing, she had told Joanne about Jim, and that his nickname was Mustang, although she hadn’t explained how he got that name. She had also remained steadfast that she had never belonged to the Freedom Animal Party nor had she ever attended any of their meetings or get-togethers. Joanne would ask Dita if Jim had ever referred to himself as a leader.

That last one concerned Joanne. Her hearsay argument would be shot down if McGill had evidence, such as a former member willing to testify that Jim had headed up the group. Well, he said he wanted to show good will…

“Do you have evidence that Jim was a leader?”

“No. Read it in an online article. Reporter quoted an ‘anonymous source’ who claimed Jim had been a leader, but who knows what that’s about. Could be a nutcase making stuff up, a reporter lying to look good, or the truth. Doubt the latter because you and I both now the FBI would have been all over that reporter.”

That was honest. She was buying his good will.

“What’s the second thing you wanted to tell me?” Her phone chirped from inside her purse. “I don’t want to interrupt our talk…but I should check who’s calling.”

“I understand.”

She retrieved her phone and checked the caller ID, but the numbers danced and merged. "Joanne Galvin," she answered in a low whisper.

"Can you talk?” Gloria asked.

“I can listen.”

“Oh, he’s sitting right there.”

“Yes.”

“Muscle Boy is up to something. He’s an ATF agent, but his name isn’t Steve McGill. It’s Michael Day. I read a news item in the
Sun
today where the chief of police said the Organica Streetwear arson is local, and being handled by Vegas police and fire department. Which means ATF is
not
involved. Jo, I’m worried about you.”

“
I
found
a recent article in the
L.A. Times
that ranked the top three ATF arson investigators,” Gloria continued. “Number one was Michael Day whose arson dog is a seven-year-old black lab named
Maggie
.”

Her words registered with jolt.
He gave that speech about showing goodwill and building trust while lying about his name? What else is he lying about?
He was sitting so close, she could feel his foot tapping in time to Dean Martin singing the lively Christmas song “Let It Snow!” She slid him a glance. Bobbing his head slightly to the music, he smiled. She forced one back.

“Just a moment,” she whispered into the phone. Lowering it, she said to Mike. “This is a rather sensitive call…”

He held up both hands in a no-need-to-explain gesture. “I’ll step away and call my granddad, see how they’re doing.”

The leather creaked as he scooted back around the booth. As he walked through the bar area, several women checked him out. She felt like saying, “Ladies, do your homework before you fall for the outside of a package.”

Joanne lifted the phone to her ear. “He’s gone for a few minutes.”

“So I called the local ATF office and talked to Rex Carr, the regional office manager, which isn't as whoop-de-doo as it sounds ‘cause he only oversees a dozen or so agents. Told him I worked as an investigator for the Clark County’s defenders office, and had interviewed a witness for a case who claimed an ATF agent and his arson dog named Maggie
were in Vegas asking questions about Dita Randisi, and was ATF involved in that case? He was real quiet for a few moments, so obviously the news took him by surprise. Then he said, all official-like, that he never discusses ATF business without agency approval. And we ended the call.”

Joanne looked across the room at
Mike Day
, who sat at the bar, talking on the phone while watching a basketball game playing on a TV screen. He looked so relaxed, so easy-going, as if he hadn’t been lying through his teeth.

“From what little I could dredge up on the Internet about Mike Day,” Gloria continued, “he’s never been married, his father is some wealthy L.A. real-estate lawyer. I’m thinking Muscle Boy lied about his name ‘cause he’s here on personal business…and it has something to do with Dita.”

Joanne’s nerves wound tighter. “Did you find anything that ties him to Dita? Or the Timepiece Arsonist?“

“No, but I’ll keep looking.” She paused. “Want me to come to the restaurant? I could borrow my brother’s car, park in a back corner of Piero’s lot, then follow you home and make sure you’re safe.”

The waiter approached the table with their salads. “Okay,” she answered. “Gotta go.”

As Joanne slid the phone into her purse, Mike headed back to their table. She debated whether to tell him point-blank that she was onto his scam, but decided it was in her better interest to play it cool, see what else he divulged to “earn” her trust. Probably a good idea to make a story about who was on the phone so he wouldn’t wonder if it had to do with Dita.

As the waiter fussed over them—“Pepper for your salads? Another tea, signorina?”—she unfurled her napkin into her lap.

After he left, she said offhandedly, “That was my sister on the phone.”

He turned serious. “Is she all right?”

“Got pulled over for a DUI.” She put on her best sad-but-true face. “Second this week.” The story validated why she looked so serious during her conversation with Gloria.

“Is she in jail?”

“No. Her husband picked her up at the police station, took her home. He’s not happy, as you can imagine. Tore up all her credit cards.”

Her nerves were pushing her into information-over-share. She sucked in a breath and blew it out. What did Mike Day want from Dita? Maybe this had nothing to do with the Timepiece Arsonist case. Maybe he was tracking an Animal Freedom Party member, and thought Dita might have helpful information.

He frowned. “Because of her DUI?”

“What?”

“Your sister’s credit cards,” he prompted.

“Oh, right. She likes to shop when she’s drunk.”

“In stores?”

“Yes.”

“Most people drink and shop at home, on the Internet.”

“She has a thing for mortar and brick. How’s your salad?”

“Fine.” After staring at her, hard, for several long moments, which felt like five years, he said, “If you want to be with her, I can ask the waiter to wrap our dinner to go.”

Gloria wouldn’t be her for at least fifteen minutes. “Nothing I can do for my sister tonight. Pass the bread?”

She picked out a roll with seeds on it. As she dipped a knife into the butter, she heard a faint ring.

“Now
I’m
getting a call.” Mike pulled out his phone, his face going still as he checked the caller ID. "I should take this.”

“Of course.”

She didn’t offer to move, and being a gentleman, he didn’t ask her to, either. He did, however, turn his face slightly away as he answered his phone.

Buttering her roll, she listened carefully, hoping to learn what was going on in special agent Mike Day’s secretive world.

“
W
hat the hell
are you up to, Mike?” barked a gruff voice on the other end of the call. “ATF has nuthin’ to do with this arson case...it’s local, in Vegas PD’s hands…if ATF were involved,
my
office would be in charge, so why’re you sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong?”

He fisted his hand and pounded it, once, on the table.

ATF had no reason to track him, but as a precaution he’d taken the GPS chip out of his phone before leaving L.A., yet somehow the Vegas ATF office knew he was here and asking about the Timepiece Arsonist case. He glanced at Joanne, nibbling on a buttered roll while staring at the bank of TV screens across the room.

“Why do you think I’m in Vegas?” he asked quietly.

“Excuse me,
Agent
Day, but I’m the one asking questions.”

Rex’s title—Resident Agent in Charge—was just a bump up from agent. But even if he was the Tsar of Borat, Mike could give a shit. Anyway, this call had nothing to do with status, and everything to do with old history and bad blood.

Fifteen years ago, Mike and Rex had been the two top recruits at ATF boot camp. Vying for the top spot fired their competitiveness, but they also had fun kidding and taunting each other…until an anonymous source reported Rex to higher-ups for unauthorized sales of handguns to other agents-in-training.

ATF commended an arduous investigation of Rex. He became a piranha among his peers because none of the recruits wanted the taint of being associated with him. After several weeks, ATF declared Rex not culpable, but the stress of the scrutiny undermined his performance and he nearly failed passing the recruitment requirements. On graduation day, Rex took him aside.
You wanted that top spot so bad, Mike, you tried to destroy me
. He denied being the anonymous source, said he’d never stoop that low, but Rex refused to believe him.

Over the years their paths had crossed in the course of ATF business. Although their interactions were brief and professional, Mike picked up on Rex’s resentment toward him.

“I know you’re in Vegas, Mike, because an
investigator from the public defenders’ office
told me. Did you know their head honcho, a guy named Ochs, is tight with the DA? Can you smell the smoke, Mike?”

Mike looked over at Joanne, still intensely focused on the TV screens.

“Doesn’t exist.”

“
What
doesn’t exist?”

“Who.”

After several beats, Rex snorted a laugh. “Oh, your alter-ego Steve McGill. Seems the investigator learned Maggie’s name and connected the dots back to you. After I got off the phone, I called Harley.”

A chill settled over Mike. That call could be the beginning of the end of his ATF career. His ego didn’t hang on being a special agent, but his dream to build a specialized dog training facility did. Needed to earn out his pension for that.

“Harley’s voicemail was full,” Rex continued, “so I’ll try again tomorrow. Meanwhile, I’m ordering you to stop whatever the hell you’re up to.”

God bless Harley for letting voice messages fill up his mailbox. Gave Mike a chance to fix this mess.

“Rex, I was wrong to come here without talking it over with you first.”

He caught Joanne sneak a look at him before swerving her gaze back to the Kansas-Purdue college basketball game. As people at the bar cheered a three-pointer in the Kansas-Purdue game, she belatedly cheered with them.

Like you know squat about college basketball, Miss Missing Link to how Rex learned I was in town.
Pretty obvious she told her investigator about Maggie, who used that to dig up his real ID. If he wasn’t pissed off, he’d be impressed.

“Damn right you were wrong,” Rex said. “You’re gonna be sorry you ever set foot on my turf.”

“Has nothing to do with ATF. This is personal.”

“Going rogue doesn’t make it okay, Mike. I’m ending this call—“

“She died like Jackie.”

Hated bringing up Rex’s wife, who died tragically in a fire while visiting her sister several years back, but it conveyed the seriousness of his mission. Jackie’s sister, husband and their children escaped with minor injuries, but a collapsed ceiling blocked Jackie’s escape. Coroner later determined she was immediately knocked unconscious, a small blessing as she didn’t die a painful death. Unlike Paula, who Rex didn’t know.

For several moments, Mike listened to people whooping and clapping as Kansas made another basket.

“Who is
she
?” Rex finally asked.

“I’d prefer not to discuss that right now.”

“What do you want from me?”

“To talk, privately, before you make that second call.”

A muttered expletive, then, “Be here at nine sharp tomorrow morning. And Mike…”

“Yes?”

“I’m only doing this for Jackie. If I find out you’re screwing with me, I’ll make your life miserable.”

J
oanne
, mindlessly swiping the butter knife back and forth on her bread, surreptitiously watched Mike as he put away his phone. From what she overheard, Gloria’s call to Rex had some unpleasant repercussions.

H
e leaned
toward her and growled, “You and I need to talk.”

For a crazy moment his shadowed face in the flickering candlelight reminded her of John Wayne as Ringo Kid, the tough gunslinger and murderer in
Stagecoach
.

“It wasn’t your sister who called, but your investigator buddy—the one with the Firebird. Gloria Falco, right?”

She felt as if she’d swallowed an ice cube, its chill sliding down her esophagus, then dropping cold and hard to the pit of her stomach. That ATF manager—Rex something--who spoke to Gloria hadn’t wasted a minute getting in touch with Mike. Would be silly denying Gloria had called as Rex as he’d undoubtedly ID’d her.

“Yes,” she croaked.

The butter knife slipped from her fingers, dropping with a
flomp
onto the pristine white linen tablecloth. Mike coolly picked it up, set it on her bread plate with a clink that gave her a start.

“Gloria told you my real name is Michael Day, and that I’m an ATF arson investigator.” He handed her his linen napkin. “Your hand.”

She looked down, surprised to see Focaccia oozing between two fingers in her death-grip around the bread.

Accepting the napkin with her free hand, she wiped off the mess, wondering if he carried a gun, a silly thought because of course he did, probably strapped with duct tape to his muscled six-pack. But he wouldn’t shoot her in Piero’s, no, he’d wait until they were in the parking lot, or in that monster SUV rental.

Her heart pounded against her chest like one of those desperate femme fatales on a pulp cover.
Lawyer Behind Bars – Her defense was her shame
.

With trembling fingers, she put aside his napkin and counted to ten on her fingers, willing herself to relax as Sinatra crooned about strangers in the night.

Finally she turned to him, focusing on a spot near his upper lip, figuring the dim lighting masked her inability to make direct eye contact.

“I’ve always loved Sinatra’s music,” she said, an inane comment that bordered on a lie.

Maybe she wanted to test her ability to form a declarative sentence or show she was harmless…whatever, it bought her a few seconds of time during which she caught something she hadn’t noticed before. A light sandalwood-apple scent. Must have put it on while dropping off his dog.

Any guy who put on cologne for dinner was hardly in a killing mood, or at least didn’t felt that way starting out. Which gave her a boost of confidence. She smiled. For real this time.

“We seem to be spending a lot of time digging into each other’s pasts,” she said softly, “when we should be talking about an alliance.”

“I agree.”

“She…the woman who died…is why you’re here.”

He rubbed his forehead, a gesture that momentarily hid his eyes. “Coroner called it accidental, but it was murder.” He dropped his hand and met her gaze. “You, a defense lawyer, can understand this…finding the real killer will give peace to the living as well as the dead.”

From the grimness etching his features, she saw he needed that peace, too. Broke her heart a little, because she’d been where he was. More than once she’d wept hearing a not guilty verdict for a client falsely accused of murder. She had also encouraged several clients to admit their guilt to bring peace to the victim’s soul and their family.

Part of her felt guilty, too, for sic’ing Gloria on his trail as it led to the ATF learning about Mike’s investigations. Yes, by doing so, he’d abused his position as a federal agent by doing so. Should never have pretended his questions about Dita were part of an ATF investigation.

“You’ve made a nice mess for yourself,” she said simply.