Mistletoe and Murder in Las Vegas (12 page)

“Got that right.”

“After ATF’s recent high-profile disasters, agents are undoubtedly held to a higher standard. Guessing you could lose your job over this.”

“Right again.”

She gave her head a shake. “Wish you’d told me this was about a cold case, in your estimation anyway, when you first showed up.”

His dark eyes gave a single blink. “I never make assumptions. Weeks after her death, I learned the coroner detected head trauma at her autopsy, credited to her lifting a ceramic base that fell on her right before the fire started. No fucking way, excuse my language. She suffered chronic back problems and
never
lifted heavy items...I reported this to the coroner and police and asked for her case to be reopened, but they said no. Insufficient reason to investigate a homicide. So I began digging through the burnt remains of her condo, eventually finding face of a men’s wind-up wristwatch, its hour and minute hands melded in such a way to indicate they triggered wires that ignited an accelerant.”

“Signature of the Timepiece Arsonist.”

“Exactly.”

Okay, he was cocky about his arson investigation expertise, but so what. The man knew his stuff. But why pursue this particular case? She intuited the answer before asking.

“She...meant a lot to you.”

After a moment, he said, “She died six months after our engagement ended.”

“Oh.”

Who ended it, she wondered. Was it grief…or guilt that propelled him to find the murderer? Motive could be discussed later. More critical was to know the situation with ATF.

“What is Rex, this regional ATF manager, doing?”

“Nothing. Yet, anyway. We’re meeting in the morning. There’s some bad blood between us—don’t know if I can fix it, but gotta try.” He spread open his hand as if he had nothing more to hide. “Look, you hold the cards in this game, Joanne. You get my expertise about arson investigations, and I get whatever crumbs you toss my way about Dita and her case. A questionable deal for me, a sure deal for you.”

“More like a sure deal for you...you get to decide how much to share about arson investigations and that crime scene.”

He quirked a smile. “Well, as some cowboy once said, ‘Courage is being scared to death…and saddling up anyway.’”

While she slathered on her make-up and conspired with Gloria to dig up dirt about his real identity, had he been in the other room accessing her laptop with some secret-agent device that let him view everything on the hard drive...case files, stash of old western films, the partially completed questionnaire for the online dating site You Deserve Love by Rebel Chick, AKA Amanda Bonner, who loved Benjamin Franklin, the Wild West, and anything with olives and wanted to meet a man who’d actually read the Constitution, liked Rottweilers and believed in fidelity. She’d added Rottweilers as a security measure.

But that was her paranoia surfacing because, according to Kimmie, their combo-bungalow was a mini-Fort Knox of internet security...next-generation firewalls, data encryption, some kind of network-intrusion blocker...there was more, but Joanne’s brain had to take a mini-vacation during Kimmie’s exuberant description of a ransom-killer-hacker thing that made her want to call her parents before it was too late and tell them she loved them.

Bottom line: She seriously doubted James Bond could break into the bungalow-internet, much less Mike Day, Arson Investigator.

Joanne had one more question. “Since you think Dita might be the real Timepiece Arsonist, what connection did she have with Paula.”

He shook his head slowly. “I’ve given that a lot of thought...only logical reason is someone hired Dita.”

“As far as I know, Dita never ever lived in the L.A. area. Doesn’t make sense.”

“But she either lived a 5-hour drive away in Vegas, or she was in Vegas visiting her dad in prison...could be he told about the hired torch deal there. In code talk, of course.”

“That sounds like a bad TV plot.”

“You of all people should know that some crimes sound exactly like that.”

“I think you’re wrong, of course.”

“All the more reason to join the alliance.” He grinned.

She couldn’t help but smile back. Maybe his cowboy-saddling comment was purely kismet, or maybe a crazy sign from the universe that they were meant to forge an alliance. Their business-combo could be disastrous or triumphant, maybe both. Did she want to run away...or saddle up? What kind of role model did she want to be for her child?

She looked Mike square in the eye. “I’m in, cowboy.”

A
short while later
, the busboy whisked away their empty salad plates as their water swept in with plates of food scenting the air with garlic, lemon and a rich winey aroma. The sports fans at the bar had quieted down since the game ended, making it easier to hear the waiter’s effusive descriptions of the food, which Mike knew by heart anyway. After ensuring they needed nothing else, the waiter left.

“
Piatto ricco, mi ci ficco
,” Mike said to Joanne. “That’s Italian for
the dish is rich, so I dive in
. My grandparents said it whenever sitting down to a meal they looked forward to, which for Italians is just about any meal.”

She laughed. “Well, the dish is rich, so let’s dive in.”

A few minutes later, she said, “We have an issue with this alliance. Talking privately is one thing, but I’d also like you to walk through the arson scene with me, review fire department reports, possibly sit in on an interview or two. ATF wouldn’t be happy hearing you’re investigating on my behalf...I mean the AFT outside of this local manager, Rex.” She paused. “Who could put a screeching halt to this tomorrow, anyway.”

“Hopefully I’ll convince him to see my side so he’s no longer an issue, but good point about ATF possibly catching wind of my checking out that arson site, for example. High-profile case like this, Vegas police will be monitoring the crime scene and requiring all visitors to have legitimate reasons to enter. Can’t flash my ATF badge.”

“No, you can’t.” She gave him a mischievous grin. “But if I hire you as my driver-bodyguard, you can flash a Joanne Galvin, P.C. employee card instead. Plus, as an employee of my law firm, anything you see, hear or read that involves this case is protected by attorney-client privilege, of course. No one, including ATF, is allowed to pierce that privilege.”

Realizing her tactic, he smiled. “You’re one smart lady.”

“Thank you. Of course I can’t pay you much.”

“A cup of coffee now and then will suffice.”

“I can afford that. How about my buying you a cup tomorrow at that coffee shop across the street from Organica Streetwear? You can show me where this mystery witness sat, then we’ll do a walk-through of the crime scene.” She picked up her glass of ice tea.

“Pick you up at nine.”

“Okay. One more issue about our alliance. I know you think Dita is the Timepiece Arsonist. I, of course, don’t. This is a personal case for you, however, so I feel comfortable our sharing information
to a point
. I’m sure you know what that is.”

“If there’s evidence you think could be used against her.”

“Because of your powerful, and very real, need to resolve this woman’s death means if there’s any evidence that
you
believe confirms Dita is the Timepiece Arsonist, I know you’ll turn it over to the authorities.” When he started to speak, she made a stop gesture. “Let me finish. “I’m not criticizing your intention. If such evidence were to exist, which I absolutely believe doesn’t, you should turn it over. I’m just informing you that my powerful, and real need, above all else is to protect my client. I’ve represented many people accused of crimes, and this case against Dita smells like a certain DA who wants so badly to be the next governor he’ll do anything in his power to railroad an innocent young woman into prison.”

“You defense lawyers are always blaming the prosecution.”

“And they
never
point the finger at us.”

“Understood.”

Mike’s scowl returned. “I get what you’re saying about finger-pointing, though. That DA reminds me of how often women blame themselves rather than put the blame where it belongs—on their husbands.”

The comment took her by surprise. “That’s a bolt out of the blue. What does that have to do with this case?”

“Nothing,” he admitted. “A while back you asked If I had a problem with my dad...I do. When I was fifteen, he moved out of the house to be with his girlfriend. Crushed my mom and kid sisters, who had never done anything wrong except to love and trust him.”

He told her how his mom, heartbroken, had explained to the kids that their daddy needed some time away to “think things through,” but Mike knew the truth because he’d overheard his dad talking to his girlfriend on the phone several weeks before.

His life changed overnight from being a son to being the man of the family, holding everything together for the next year. Although he was a football and baseball star, he dropped out of sports so he could be home in the evenings to cook dinner on nights when his mom stayed in her room, and to help his sisters with their homework and get them ready for bed.

Many nights, he’d lie in his room, listening to his mom cry softly in her bedroom. Her parents, who’d emigrated from Sicily when she was a child, were hurt and furious at his dad for deserting the family. “He should have stayed with his wife and visited his [Italian for other woman] on the side,” his grandfather once said to Mike.

A year and a half later, his dad returned. Mike’s Mom was ecstatic. She wore pretty clothes, cooked his favorite meals, treated him like a king every night when he came home from work. His sisters often clung to their dad, who promised them he’d never leave again.

Mike, however, refused to speak to his dad for weeks, giving in only after his mother, teary-eyed, begged him to please forgive his father and not ignore him. Even then, Mike kept his communications minimal with his father, speaking only when spoken to. And he never forgave him.

A
s Mike parked
the SUV in the second spot outside her place, a radio announcer said it was half-past seven. Joanne couldn't believe how much her life had changed since she left her place just a few hours ago. She'd gone beyond forging an alliance and hired Mike to be her first Joanne Galvin, P.C. employee, to be paid in cups of coffee, confided her pregnancy, learned about the guilt and pain that shaped Mike's life, and at some point gave a sliver of her heart to this guy. Just enough to give her a lilt as a woman, which was all she wanted or could handle right now, anyway. A salve to her own ghost of Chritmas past.

The inside of his vehicle smelled like rich tomato sauce, warm bread and garlic from their leftovers and the extra order of xxx he'd order to go for her. After turning off the engine, he hopped out the driver's side and opened the back passenger door for Maggie, who jumped down. The two of them then headed to her passenger door, which Mike opened as Maggie sat at his side. As she handed the containers of food to Mike, cool breezes swirled and leaves rattled.

Minutes later they stepped inside her office, and she imagined how this would feel to a potential client stepping inside for the first time. The lighting was warm and inviting, and that massive cherrywood desk was damn impressive. A few guest chairs and her office was ready to go.

With a heavy thunk, Mike dropped the containers on the desk. "Joanne, go down the hall and to the agency, now," he ordered as he crossed to Maggie.

She did as told, nearly stumbling with fright, wondering what the hell Maggie smelled. Opening the door, she slipped into Fossen-Chandler Investigations, the room faintly lit with lights from the Christmas tree. She sat at Lenny's desk and wrapped her arms around herself, her teeth chattering, terrified of what she might hear next.

Seconds, minutes passed, the only sounds faint sounds of distant laughter and the buzz of traffic.

Footsteps. Mike's shadowy form stopped at the desk. "Maggie alerted on a watch device set to detonate in twenty minutes," he said evenly. "I easily dismantled it--those devices are pieces of shit, excuse my language. Maggie didn't pick up on anything else, but the place needs a thorough check. Police also need to know about this incident as they have jurisdiction over the Timepiece Arsonist investigation, but more important, for your safety. I'd obviously cause a small shitstorm if I called, so I contacted Rex. He's contacting some of his inside sources at the police department who can keep this on a need-to-know basis. My name isn't being mentioned."

"Oh my God." She glanced around. "Where's Maggie?"

"Stationed next to your desk, guarding the place. You need to stay elsewhere for a while, and the safest place I know is with me and Maggie at the Jackpot. Rex is making arrangements for one of his agents to stay in a room near ours as extra security as well. Besides your laptop, what else do you need?"

Her hands shook as she fished her desk key out of her purse and rattled off some files she needed in a drawer and several suits in her closet. Mike asked her permission to call her landlord and explain what happened, which struck her as odd considering the seriousness of the situation and yet sweetly chivalrous that he wanted her okay first, which she gave, asking if he minded her calling Gloria, too, as she would cause her own shit-storm if left in the dark.

She just ended her call when Mike, Maggie at his side, were back with the items. The exited by the front door of the agency, where Mike had parked, and they drove to her new place. Her fourth one in the last month, but at least she was alive.

T
he leftover containers
of Italian food in Mike's hands were still warm as he made introductions. A few of her suits were draped over one arm. Joanne held her laptop, purse, and a few manilla folders.

"Joanne, this is my grandfather Archie Day. Granddad, she'll be staying with us for a while."

Archie, dressed in a newly ironed plaid shirt, khaki pants and his white leather party shoes, didn't miss a beat. "Lovely to meet you my dear," he said with a bow of his head. "Would you like a glass of champagne? Cocktail?"