Mistletoe and Murder in Las Vegas (3 page)

All in all, she looked pretty good. This visit to her potential landlords was starting to feel like a first step toward her new life.

Joanne Galvin, defense lawyer…and renegade cowgirl.

Ready for a second chance.

A
grandfather clock
chimed one o’clock as Joanne and Gloria walked into Fossen-Chandler Investigations, the front duplex of a renovated corner bungalow in downtown Las Vegas. Gloria wore skin-tight jeans, studded boots and a cropped leather jacket she nicknamed “Bad” after the Michael Jackson album. Her short brown hair was spiked, her make-up heavy. Walking next to her, Joanne felt like the Strawberry Patch Kid.

As they passed a mirror in the entranceway, she made the big mistake of glancing at her reflection. Gusts of wind had pummeled her scrunchie-do, which now looked like a Koosh ball stuck on her head. The old Joanne would have laughed it off. But the new Joanne saw it as yet another inadequacy. She couldn’t manage her career, her relationship, or even her damn hair.

Determined to not give in to a bout of insecurity, she pretended she was riding in on her horse Cherry Garcia, fearlessly hittin’ a new trail.

The front office of Fossen-Chandler Investigations had the ambiance of an upscale antique store. A tasteful chandelier, tapestry rugs and heavy, ornate furniture from an elegant bygone era. A Christmas garland decorated with red and gold bows decorated the top of a bookcase.

At the desk sat a thirtyish guy wearing a Led Zeppelin T-shirt, his curly brown hair exploding from a ponytail at the back of his head. A computer, several notepads, and an electric Christmas flickering candle sat on his desk. A large framed photograph of the Tennessee Titans football team hung on the wall behind him.

As he was deep into a phone conversation, Gloria and Joanne stood at a discreet distance to give him some privacy, although the room, which reeked of popcorn, was too small to not overhear.

From his side of the conversation, Joanne knew he was trying to hire a criminal lawyer for someone charged with a felony B, the second-highest category of crimes in Nevada, punishable by imprisonment up to fifteen years and a possible $15,000 fine. Serious stuff. Felony Bs were one rung below murder, and included crimes like assault with a deadly weapon, battery with intent to kill and malicious arson.

He complained about a news story linking the defendant to other violent criminals—if true, a judge could spike that bail another ten or fifteen thousand at arraignment. The bigger and messier the case, the bigger the legal retainers. Defense lawyers were probably asking for ten to fifteen thousand, maybe more.

He ended the call and looked at them, his face clouded with worry.

“I have an appointment to see Ms. Chandler about an apartment,” Joanne said gently.

“Well, looky here…it’s our new neighbor-to-be! Darlin’, I’m Kimberly, but all my friends call me Kimmie,” said a young woman in her twenties who sailed into the room from a kitchenette to their right. She wore a loose top the color of tomato soup, black pants that matched her black bobbed hair and ballerina slippers. They quickly made introductions. “My hubby, Hal, is working a case in Henderson today, but he said to tell you welcome!”

Based on Kimmie’s drawl and the photo of the Titans, Joanne figured she hailed from Tennessee or thereabouts.

“How’s it goin’, Lenny?” Kimmie asked.

“Last dude wanted twelve thou, all upfront.” He rubbed his stomach. “Haggling with lawyers about money is givin’ me odjidda.”

“Od-what?” Kimmie asked.

“Indigestion,” Gloria explained.

“Heartburn,” Lenny said at the same time.

They looked at each other.

“Brooklynite?” she asked.

“Moved to Williamsburg when I was fourteen.”

“Bensonhurst. My dad’s Sal Falco.”

He did a double take. “Man, that dude was
righteous
...busted some major cases.” He turned somber. “My condolences…”

Gloria looked around the room as though taking it in, but Joanne knew differently. Six years ago, Gloria had been working with her dad in the Falco Investigations office when he had suffered a heart attack. She gave him CPR while getting 9-1-1 on the line and following their instructions, but despite her heroic efforts he died in her arms.

She never hesitated to proudly identify herself as Sal Falco’s daughter, but talking about her dad stopped there. “People write articles and tell stories about the legendary Sal Falco, but I can’t...my dad was bigger than any words,” she once told Joanne.

Her composure intact, Gloria resettled her gaze on Lenny. “Sounds like you got a friend in trouble.”

“
Big
trouble. Few nights ago a clothing store, Organica Streetwear, burned down.” He held out the bowl of popcorn, and Gloria helped herself to a handful. “Cops arrested my friend—her name’s Dita—and charged her with arson because there’s surveillance footage of her jogging to her car, which happened to be parked near the store.”

He held the bowl out to Joanne, who waved it off.

“Other cars were parked in the vicinity,” he continued. “But there’s no footage of anybody else walking or running, so Dita gets the bum rap.”

“That footage doesn’t even show her, or her car’s, proximity to Organica Streetwear,” chimed in Kimmie. “In fact, the store isn’t visible at all, although a street sign establishes its location. But the cops, based on that surveillance tape, claim she was fleeing the scene.”

“Then the fuzz tracked Dita to her apartment,” Lenny said, his glassy eyes fixed on a far wall as if watching a replay of the night’s events. “They saw the gasoline container on the floor of her car, end of story.”

“They arrested her at that point?” Gloria popped several kernels into her mouth.

“Busted into her car first,
without a warrant
, then they arrested her.”

“Sounds like the container in her backseat was in plain view,” Joanne said. “Gave police probable cause to search her car without a warrant.”

Lenny pressed the air with his palms in a no-need-to-explain motion. “Hey, I’m a Fourth Amendment groupie, too...that container was
underneath
a bunch of books. Plain view? Only with x-ray vision.”

Gloria shot a look at Joanne, who arched a questioning eyebrow in response. Lenny obviously cared very much for Dita, but he wasn’t there when the police looked into her car, so were books really piled on the container?

“So I went to the station to talk to the guy who’d helped Dita when she ran out of gas,” Lenny said. “But he’s since boogied out of town. An employee said his name’s Dave and he has brown hair...which matches the description of five zillion other people on the planet.”

“Why didn’t they know his last name?” Gloria asked.

“Dude said he only worked there a few days…got paid under the table.”

“Reminds me of the Jackson case,” Gloria said to Joanne. “They’re trying to hang everything on a single surveillance tape, just like that prosecutor with the streak of white in her hair...forget her name...”

“Lucy Gorman. Who wanted desperately to railroad that poor woman into prison.”

Gloria huffed something about the Bride of Dracula, then said proudly, “But you, my brilliant friend, walked her.”

“Walked?” Lenny repeated. “You’re a defense lawyer? I thought you were one of us.”

Which she assumed to be a PI, unless the pod people had taken over their bodies and she was the last to go. More important, she sensed what was coming next and needed to put a stopper on it.

“Yes, I’m a defense lawyer but—”

“
Solid
.” He pumped his fist. “Dita’s first court appearance is in an hour. I wanted to be there and give her support, but I need to serve a subpoena before three. Judge could set bail as high as forty or fifty, but if he believes that news report about Dita once being a member of the eco-terrorist group Animal Freedom Party, and that she taught them incendiary device tactics, he could deny bond and she’d end up in jail for months.” He sat for a moment, his eyes getting that glassy look again. “But you,” he said, his voice cracking, “can save my Dita.”

Kimmie placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. “They were once engaged.”

“Sorry things didn’t work out,” Joanne said.

She truly felt sorry, too. Poor guy seemed to be barely holding it together...so obviously Dita had broken his heart. The worst hurt in the world had to be the hurt of learning you’re not wanted.

“However,” she continued, “I can’t take this case be—”

“Jo will be at the arraignment and make sure Dita gets bonded out.”

Kimmie gasped, her gaze bouncing from Joanne to Gloria. “F’sure? I mean, you just said you can’t take this case...”

For several long, awkward moments, the only sound was Lenny making crunching sounds as he ate popcorn.

“Excuse me,” Joanne said, turning to Gloria the Big Mouth. “I need to speak to my investigator.”

She faced Gloria, her back to the others who started rustling papers and chatting loudly about work to give them privacy.

“I can’t believe you lawyered me up with an alleged arsonist-eco-terrorist whose case has LOTS OF TROUBLE FOR NO MONEY stamped all over it,” she whispered. “No more decision-making on my behalf,
remember
?”

“This isn’t about my making a decision for you,” she whispered back. “It’s about seeking justice for a poor woman they’re trying to railroad into prison.” She rolled back her shoulders, making her five-nine look six-two.

Using my own words against me
. Plus that puffed-up height-thing…how low could her friend go?

“Sorry to interrupt, Miss Galvin,” Lenny said loudly. “But as I mentioned, Dita’s arraignment is in an hour and I’d like to quickly discuss a retainer.”

As she turned around, his lips kept flapping.

“I have three thousand dollars left in my savings. If the judge increases her bail today, all of that will go to her bondsperson. But I’m hoping my parents can chip in, plus this is a great time to sell things with people buying Christmas presents.”

As he talked about selling some vintage concert posters on eBay, she imagined the looks of horror on his poor parents’ faces as their son asked them to “chip in” thousands of dollars for some ex-girlfriend’s felonious arson escapades.

What a crazy, tragic mess. Without a lawyer, Dita was going to be eaten alive by the legal system at her arraignment, but if Joanne took on this case for little or no money, life would eat her alive.

Then it dawned on her how to feed life’s monsters. For today, anyway.

“Forget the retainer, Lenny. I’m going to represent Dita for her arraignment, free of charge, then I’m off her case and you’ll need to hire another lawyer.”

She quickly explained how she’d once handled an arraignment hearing as a one-time deal. All she needed to do was inform the judge she was making a specialty appearance with no commitment to handle the rest of the case.

“Darlin’,” Kimmie said, “for helpin’ out Lenny like this, I’d like to give you the first month rent free.”

Joanne felt a spurt of happiness. One free month stretched her money further, no need to embarrass herself asking for a second discount. That ten-minute walk to the courthouse saved her lots of gas money, too. Looked like this cowgirl was going to save the herd despite the blizzard, after all.

“Thank you, Kimmie. Of course, I’d like to see the place before I sign anything…”

“F’sure. Let’s do a walk-through after the arraignment hearing. That way we can take our time.”

Joanne could almost hear the bluebirds chirping over the rainbow, except for one issue. “I can’t wear a strawberry-print maxi dress for a court appearance. Well, I could if I wore a nice jacket or coat...got anything I can borrow, Kimmie?”

“Darn it, no.”

“Bad to the rescue.” Gloria shrugged off her profoundly cool, and extremely badass, leather jacket.

A jacket would add some dignity to her strawberry dress, hideous shoes and Koosh-ball hair, but that rocker-chick jacket would make her look like the lead singer for Hole.

“It has zippers,” she muttered.

“Lots of jackets got zippers.”

“But five or twenty? Anyway you’re a size six...I’m a ten.”

“
Four
zippers. I’m an eight, and Bad is super roomy.” Gloria held it up. “Let’s slip it on.”

Resisting the urge to say something juvenile like
I can dress myself
, Joanne opted for her best withering look, the one she liked to give prosecutors to let them know she’d had enough of their bull.

But all her petty, mean-spirited intentions evaporated when she looked up at her friend’s face.

Miss Tough-PI-Chick was smiling so sweetly, her eyes all sparkly-happy, Joanne felt like an idiot for reacting to the cannoli shell and forgetting its sweet insides. Gloria’s intentions came straight from her heart...a good, decent heart.

“Time for me to get Bad,” Joanne said, sliding her arm into a sleeve

Worse case scenario, she’d slip off the jacket before going into the courtroom. On the other hand, maybe Bad would look good on her.

As Gloria adjusted the jacket collar, Kimmie spoke quietly to Lenny. Joanne looked away, wanting to give them privacy, but the room was too small to not overhear.

“Tell Dita her lawyer will be meetin’ her outside the courtroom. Describe what Joanne will be wearing, and be sure to explain this is a one-time deal. Oh, and tell her to
not
stare at her lawyer’s hair.”

L
ate Friday afternoon
, special agent Mike Day walked into the office of his boss and friend, Assistant Agent in Charge Theodore “Harley” Lambert, who sat at his desk flipping through papers. They worked in the Glendale office of the Los Angeles division of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives, although the agency still went by its old acronym, ATF. Whenever someone asked Mike why it wasn’t ATFE, he replied omitting the “E” was another of the agency’s cost-cutting measures. A joke with a ring of truth. After several press exposés about ATF botching its gun-smuggling investigations and costing the government millions of dollars, the agency had gone “lean and mean” to clean up its image, including tighter scrutiny of agents and massive cost-cutting measures.

Eight years ago, his boss earned the nickname Harley after infiltrating the outlaw motorcycle gang Sons of Secrecy as a biker-gun dealer. At ATF he was a legend for being the first agent to be “patched in,” or made a member, in an outlaw motorcycle gang, a distinction similar to being a “made man” in the Mafia. While working deep undercover with the Sons, Harley gathered enough evidence about its gun- and drug-trafficking network for the Department of Justice to file charges.

Soon after Harley and his ATF partner, Max Dakin, were ambushed in a drive-by shooting. Dakin died at the scene. Harley took six bullets, resulting in permanent nerve damage from severed tendons in his left leg and hand. After that, ATF took him off the streets. Some agents damn near begged to get out of field work, but busting bad guys was Harley’s calling. Sticking him behind a desk, even with a promotion, was like sticking Clint Eastwood behind a snow-cone stand.

Maybe he hated the desk, but he kept it clean as a neat-freak’s wet dream. Reports in color-coded folders, a carved six-hole pen holder, a compact scanner aligned just so with his desktop computer that currently scrolled the news. The star of the show was a sparkling crystal bowl filled with wrapped hard candies, his only vice. Pissed him off when people helped themselves without asking.

A cup of steaming tea scented the air with peppermint, suggested by Harley’s doctor to ease his stress levels. From this angle, Mike saw how carefully his boss had combed his thinning dark hair over an emerging bald spot.

"You look like Mister America," he said, gesturing at Harley’s dark blue suit, white shirt and red tie.

"Gave expert witness testimony in a Sons of Secrecy case this morning.” He put aside the papers and checked out Mike’s cargo shorts and Hawaiian-print shirt. “What’d you do, infiltrate a group of surfers to get evidence?”

ATF agents often worked with other law enforcement agencies, both locally and nationally, on investigations. For the last month, Mike had worked an arson case with the Orange County Sheriff’s Department in the southern California seaside town of San Clemente.

He dragged a hand through his longish hair as he sat in a hard guest chair. “Nah, just hung out on the beach and waited for them to come to me. The fire at the beachfront property started at the crack of dawn, a prime time for surfers to hit the waves. Figured one of them might have seen suspicious activity the morning of the fire. As you know from my report, one had.”

As a surfer headed out to the beach, he had noticed a thirtyish, dark-haired woman sitting alone in a silver Honda SUV, staring at the building across the street. Mike searched motor vehicle records and learned the SUV was registered to Victoria LeHane, who matched the surfer’s description. Further research revealed LeHane was one of the owners of the burned building and stood to receive a sizable share of the insurance money.

“Read it. Good job. You’re one of the top ten arson investigators we have.” Harley took a sip of his tea.

“Uh, I believe that article said top
three
,” Mike responded, referring to a recent article about ATF arson investigators in the
LA Times
that named the top three agents with Mike as number one.

The article was flattering, sure, but he figured the reporter based that ranking on some kind of algorithm—number of fires investigated, years experienced, commendations, blah blah.

“Oh, that’s right. Three.” Harley picked up a ballpoint pen and carefully set it in the pen holder. “Interested in working a gun case?”

“Is that why you wanted to see me?” Mike snorted a laugh. “C’mon, Harley, I haven’t worked a firearms case in over a decade.’

“I lied.” Harley cracked a half-grin. “Big boys upstairs want me to invite that know-nothing numbnut Reed to work a gun case. Can’t stand the guy, but have to play nice. Wanted to see if my fake sincerity could pass a Truth Wizard’s test.”

Starting as recruits, all federal agents—FBI, CIA, ATF, others—studied the meaning of people’s expressions, with an emphasis on identifying deceit. In a battery of lie detection tests, Mike was the only agent to consistently rank in the ninety-plus percentile, leading to more tests where he deciphered lies about crimes, beliefs and emotions, the latter being the most difficult to recognize. Again, his hit rate was in the ninety-plus percentile. A panel of two psychologists and a social intelligence scientist labeled him a “truth wizard,” a person with an innate ability to decode others’ emotions and lies.

As far back as Mike could remember, he had a knack for reading people, even in photographs, which upset Nonna, his Sicilian grandmother. She called it the “evil eye,” an old Italian superstition that a person, through a look, was casting a bad spell on another. Grabbing his hands, she would repeat a prayer in Italian three times to ward off the evil eye.

Her daughter, his mom Catarina Day, didn’t believe in the evil eye, but occasionally asked if he could read people’s minds, a nervous look on her face as if her son knew her every thought. He assured her he didn’t “hear” what people were thinking...more like he got hunches. Years later, an ATF psychologist said studies showed sixty percent of truth wizards were raised in adverse homes where they constantly observed others, especially their expressions.

He was in that sixty percent. Hell of a way to become a truth wizard.

Mike’s brain clicked back into the conversation. “You know I don’t read friends. Or try to, anyway.”

“Hey, cut me some slack...it’s not easy hanging out with a
wizard
, for crap’s sake. I live in fear you’ll wave a wand and turn me into a frog.”

Mike laughed. “Like it’s so easy living in the shadow of an ATF legend? I need to take beach cases to get a tan.” He reached for the bowl. “May I?”

His friend nodded yes.

The cellophane crackled as he unwrapped it. “So why’d you want to see me?”

“Well, your vacation starts tomorrow…”

“Uh-huh.” He popped the candy in his mouth. Liked its tart lemon taste.

“Driving up the coast, right?”

“Yep.”

“Don’t miss Castroville, the Artichoke Center of the World.”

“On my bucket list.”

Harley grew serious. “I asked you to drop by because I didn’t want you to hear this through the grapevine. ATF wants your partner Maggie to take early retirement.”

He looked out at the window at the hazy blue sky, cracking the candy with his molars. After a few moments, he muttered, “Wish to hell this place would get its head on straight.”

“I’m sorry, Mike.”

“Last week we got that memo about expired bulletproof vests no longer being replaced. Now ATF is dumping an excellent agent before her time’s up.”

“I’ve always respected Maggie’s work,” Harley said. “If I were king, she’d stay.”

He met his friend’s gaze. “When?”

“Next week.”

He snorted in disgust. “Just in time for Christmas. Did some muckety-muck not like her misreading evidence in the Humphreys case? Slowed things down a bit, but didn’t undermine the case. Like reporters would find that to be breaking news.” He sat taller, easing the pressure of the chair against his sunburned back.

“If it makes you feel any better, they’re letting go of others close to mandatory retirement age.”

“A year-plus away isn’t
close
. This is about age discrimination and harassment.”

He held up his palms. “Take it easy, Mike. I know it’s tough to lose a partner. At least she’s alive...she’ll still be around…”

They sat without talking, listening to the faint buzz of traffic below on Brand Avenue.

“Next week, huh?” Mike asked.

“That’s the word.”

He nodded, wishing he wasn’t going on vacation. But he didn’t have a choice. Vacations were mandatory, another of the agency’s new policies after an
LA Times
reporter blamed an ATF gun-tracking snafu on its agents being
like cowboys on the range, working on little sleep that resulted in bad judgments
.

“Know who I’ll be paired with next?”

Harley cracked his knuckles, his features tightening. “This is as hard on me as it is on you, so can we end the Q and A session?”

Mike idly watched the news scrolling on the computer screen. Tension ran high these days inside the offices, made him glad he mostly worked in the field.

“Spending all three weeks of your vacation traveling up the coast?” Harley asked, tacking on a good-ole-boy smile.

But Mike saw the tension in his eyes. He hoped that peppermint tea did the trick, otherwise Harley would be popping tranquilizers next.

"Yes. Planning to leave Sunday, drive up to Santa Barbara...”

As he rambled on about his trip, a headline on the computer screen snagged his attention.
Judge Finds Sufficient Evidence to Try Accused in Arson Triggered by Watch Device.

Mike pointed at the computer. “Freeze the screen.”

Harley paused, a surprised look on his face, then pressed a button on the keyboard and scanned the news item.

“Buddy, you gotta let go. Let Paula rest in peace.”

Mike leaned across the desk and read the photo caption aloud. “Alleged Timepiece Arsonist Dita Randisi, left, leaves court with her defense attorney, Joanne Galvin.”

In the photo the two women walked down the courthouse steps, heads dipped close, a gentle wind rippling their clothes. The lawyer, late twenties he guessed, wore a short jacket over a long, red polka-dot dress. Her crazy red hair reminded him of Bette Midler in
Hocus Pocus
, a film his kid sisters still watched every Halloween.

Dita, her face curtained by straight, dark chin-length hair, looked like a depraved schoolgirl in a baggy black jacket, plaid mini-skirt, and stiletto boots.

He scanned the article. “Says Dita is twenty-six…she would have been twenty-two when Paula died.”

Almost five years ago, Mike ended his engagement to Paula Bishop, a graphic designer who started pushing for them to start their family right away, not wait until they were married. Her intensity forced him to face some hard truths from his past. He told her, as gently as possible, it would be a mistake for them to marry, that she deserved a better man who could be a loving husband and a good father, and that Mike could be one, but never the other.

Hurt and angry, she barraged him with texts, emails, and phone calls. At first he responded, but his explanations only upset her more, so he quit communicating, realizing neither of them could heal or move on until they stopped tearing apart the past.

But they never got that chance. Six months later she died in a fire at her condo, traced to faulty wiring of a kitchen toaster.

Over beers one night, a deputy coroner pal who’d been at the autopsy mentioned there were indications of head trauma at the onset of the fire, apparently from a large ceramic vase falling on Paula. Made no sense to Mike. She had collected ceramic floor vases, but took great care to anchor them to the ground with putty to prevent their toppling over in an earthquake. She placed them in her garden or on the tiled living room floor. Never on the hardwood floor of her bedroom, where her body was found.

Even if she wanted to display the vases higher, she couldn’t do it alone because of her chronic lower back pain.

He had evaluated every possible scenario, but the only plausible conclusion was someone had picked up one of those heavy vases, knocked her unconscious, then set the fire. In talks with Paula’s friends and family, no one noticed anything unusual going on in her life, although her former boss, Dana Isaacs, said Paula seemed worried the week before she died.

Based on his analysis and her boss’s observations, Mike had asked the police to re-open her case as a homicide investigation, but they declined. “You hadn’t seen her in months,” said a crusty, but well-meaning detective. “Could be she asked someone to set it on her dresser. You can weigh those things down by filling them with heavy items...rocks, books...lotta books on her bedroom floor. Sorry, need more physical evidence to indicate foul play, but you know that.”

Paula had liked to read at night, then stack the books next to her bed, which explained books found on her bedroom floor. She treasured her mahogany bedroom furniture, a wedding gift to her great-grand aunt and uncle, and regularly inspected it for scratches and marks. Only a few items sat on the dresser: Paula’s jewelry box, her great-grand-aunt’s silver brush and mirror set, and her great-grand-uncle’s 14K gold pocket watch. No way Paula would ask someone to set a heavy, bulky object on there.

He’d needed to find that physical evidence.

Since the fire, the condo owner had filed for bankruptcy, which left the condo in its burned, gutted state, surrounded by a paneled chain-link fence that Mike easily slipped past. After several visits, he found a men’s wind-up, wristwatch face, its melded hour and minute hands indicating they connected wires that ignited the accelerant, but he never found remnants of the rest of the device—accelerant container, wires—that would prove the watch had been the incendiary device.

Over the next few years, he requested ATF assignments to several southern California arson scenes set by similar watch devices. The arsonist—pegged the “Timepiece Arsonist” by the media—selected locations similar to Paula’s, small condos and businesses, but there didn’t appear to be a common motive. Did the Timepiece Arsonist seek revenge? Conceal a robbery? Whacked-out firebugs sometimes selected victims based on physical characteristics, but none of the other victims were slim and blonde like Paula.