Red Roses in Las Vegas (11 page)

There were a few seconds of silence, and then I said, “But that’s not possible. Most homicide trials start after two months, and usually it’s longer. Not two weeks. You must’ve made some mistake, maybe you’re thinking about a different trial?”

Chris shook his head. “No. I just got news a few minutes ago. I’ll call up your nanna, and tell her officially, tomorrow.”

The world seemed to spin around, and Emily slid over to make room for Chris to sit down, but he shook his head and muttered something about “needing to get going.”

“Wait!” I said, my voice sounding sharper than I’d intended. I looked at him blankly, and he stared back, waiting for me to say something. I had nothing.

Finally, Stone said, “Why’s the date been pushed forward?”

Chris shook his head. “I don’t know. The DA pulled some strings, I guess.”

I thought of Adam’s friend, Detective Stiggins, and groaned. Had I made things worse by going in to talk to him today? But he couldn’t just push the trial up – although the LVMPD obviously thought they’d got the case all wrapped up. I let my head rest in my hands and wished I could turn back time. But I couldn’t, so the nearest thing I could do was to maybe go see him again tomorrow.

“Any idea why?” Stone was saying, and out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Chris shaking his head.

“This DA’s got some political dreams, I guess, and maybe he thought it’d be an easy win for him. I’m sorry about all this,” he added, looking at me again. “But we’ll try our best.”

“What’s ‘our best?’” I asked, looking up at him desperately. “Have you done many homicide trials?”

He looked down at his drink again and said, “Sure. We do a couple of homicides every now and then.”

“Do you get people off?”

“I’m sorry,” he said, trying to calm me down. “Most of the clients I’ve represented are usually guilty.” I glared at him and he added helpfully, “Sometimes we do plea bargains, though. That can reduce the sentence a bit.”

“To what, ten years? Nanna doesn’t have ten years. She won’t survive in a prison.”

I took a deep breath and stared at Chris. My investigation had turned up nothing so far, and, all of a sudden, I was almost out of time.

I’d never before been so detached from reality during a shift. But this shift was like no other – I barely managed to mumble greetings to the players, somehow calculated payouts and dealt cards. All through the night, I wondered what I could do.

First thing on my agenda was to pay Detective Stiggins a visit, to demand to know what was going on. He had some nerve, pushing the trial up.

Next, I needed to figure out why those payments were coming into Adam Bitzer’s account. The amounts were too random for him to have been dealing drugs, and the other options seemed to whacky. I texted Ian during my 2 a.m. break, asking him to Google the names that showed up on Bitzer’s bank statements, but I didn’t have much hope that he was still awake. At least he’d pushed me into examining the bank statements immediately, instead of putting it off.

Everyone I’d talked to so far either didn’t know Adam very well, or they had an alibi. I thought about Ian’s contention that maybe Adam had gotten involved in some Mob business, but I couldn’t see how to make the connection. The only person I had yet to talk to was Adam’s brother, and I didn’t have much hope that the conversation would turn up anything.

I was pretty much a wreck by the time my shift ended at 5 a.m. I managed to stumble back to my condo, thankful that at least I’d survived the night without getting fired or bankrupting the casino with payout mistakes.

Nanna was asleep when I crept into the condo, and I stared at her helpless, sleeping form for a few seconds. She looked so peaceful and blissfully unaware of how close she was to being convicted of a crime she hadn’t committed. And it would all be my fault – all because I hadn’t investigated properly.

I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep, so I changed out my uniform and into jeans and a t-shirt. I didn’t know what I could possibly do at this hour to help the investigation, but I found myself wandering through the parking lot and over to my car in a zombie-like trance.

Where could I go? Normal people – that is, every single person involved in Adam’s life – would be asleep now. There was nobody I could talk to.

My hands opened the big black tote I always carry, and found my notebook full of notes about this case. I sat in the underground parking lot, flicking through the pages of the notebook, desperately looking for some detail to jump out at me. Nothing did.

I tried to rearrange the details, mentally placing them next to each other in strange permutations and combinations, but still, nothing jumped out.

I found Adam’s address.
59 Winterville Road, Summerlin. I put the notebook away, gripped the steering wheel, and found myself cruising along the freeway in the direction of the dead man’s home. 

Summerville is a nice suburb west of the Strip –
and by nice, I mean expensive.

I meandered along Rampart Boulevard for a bit, before
I turned onto Parkville Road, took a couple of turns, and found myself sitting before 59 Winterville Road.

The narrow suburban street was quiet at this hour. I undid my seat belt and sank lower into my seat, expecting the early-morning workers to be heading out pretty soon; it was a little past six. My beat-up old Honda Accord didn’t quite fit in with all the shiny BMWs and Mercs on this block, but it didn’t stand out too much, either – or at least I hoped. Either way, I was staying put. I didn’t know why I was here, but something had told me to drive over. Besides, I couldn’t think of anything better to do, and at least this felt like I was taking action.

A jogger ran past my car, earphones in, panting heavily. I froze and didn’t breathe again until she crossed in front of my car, oblivious to her surroundings. This was the kind of place where you could afford to be oblivious to the world around you at 6 a.m. in the morning – the houses on either side of the street were almost identical, with their beige, double-storied facades and perfectly manicured, tiny pieces of lawn.

I imagined that the people living here were also pretty identical – men who went to work wearing dark suits, and women who either stayed at home with their perfectly manicured nails, or went to artsy, creative jobs. There were no signs of any children living here, but I supposed there must be; maybe the parents kept the kids’ messes confined to the backyard and other parts of the house that visitors weren’t meant to see. Or maybe they all had nannies, and the kids themselves were perfectly behaved little angels.

A few minutes later, lights started switching on in the houses nearby. Numbers 57, 53 and number 56 all had lights on in a few rooms, but number 59, where Adam had lived, was still dark. Half an hour later, traffic started to trickle out – a garage door opened here and there, and cars began to crawl away to offices. There was still no movement from Adam’s house.

And then, a few minutes later, a light switched on
at number 59. I blinked and sat up straighter. I needed some kind of well thought-out strategy. Or any strategy. Which, of course, I didn’t have. I smoothed down my hair with my hands, and hoped I didn’t look too crazed. I didn’t really know what I was going to do, or why, but maybe I could speak with Cynthia before she went into work – at the very least, I could ask her what those names on Adam’s bank statements meant.

The door to number 59 cracked open, and I leaned forward, ready to step out and accost Cynthia before she left for the day. And then someone stepped out, but it wasn’t Cynthia.

It was a man, an average-looking, dark-haired, medium-height man. He stepped out, turned around, leaned forward to give someone – I presumed, Cynthia – a quick kiss, before striding towards a dark green BMW, parked on the other side of her driveway.

The door to number 59 closed softly, and I sat in my car, blinked in surprise and waited for the BMW to drive off. The man looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t remember where I’d seen him. Maybe I’d seen him at The Treasury, or he’d been one of the gamblers last night. But more likely, since he was here with Cynthia, I must’ve come across him during my investigation. I’d been telling the truth when I’d told Chris, Nanna’s lawyer and my once-upon-a-date, that I had a terrible memory.

I flattened myself lower in my car until the BMW drove off, and then I gave him a few more seconds, just to make sure he wasn’t coming back. I stepped out, walked gingerly up to the front door, and knocked loudly.

“Hey, honey, did you forget so–”

Cynthia’s voice filtered out through the heavy, wooden door, and then she opened it and stared at me, slack-jawed, her words trailing off into nothingness.

She was wearing a fluffy white bathrobe, her hair and skin looking perfect despite the ungodliness of the hour. I glared at her and stepped inside without an invitation.

Inside, the house was just like all the other project homes I’ve been in, with its eggshell-white walls and dark brown carpeting, the tiny foyer where we stood leading on towards a large living area with a dining area beyond.

Cynthia’s tastes as an interior designer were showing through despite the blandness of the architecture. In the dim light, I could make out oversized black-and-white photographs in gilt-edged frames, dark blue, velvety sofas, and a giant, white sheepskin rug lying on the floor like a massive pond of fluffy softness.

I looked back at Cynthia and said softly, “What the hell is going on? Adam’s only been dead a couple of days.”

“It’s not what it looks like,” she said, finally finding her tongue. “Greg was just over – we just…”

“It looks you got with some guy as soon as Adam died and, for all I know, you were cheating on Adam the whole time.”

“No, of course not.” She shook her head. “I was always faithful. And I just met Greg yesterday – there was a memorial service at Adam’s work, and I met Greg, and, you know…”

I stared at her. Right. So that’s why the man looked so familiar – Greg. He was one of the men I’d interviewed at Verdant Wealth. He’d been some kind of portfolio manager, and he’d given the same answers as everyone else at the time, so I hadn’t thought much of him at all.

“Wow,” I said. “I don’t believe this.”

Cynthia narrowed her eyes. “Why are you being so judgmental?”

“I’m not,” I said slowly. “It’s just that, if you’re not such a loving girlfriend…” I let myself think out loud. “Then for all I know, you killed Adam. Or arranged for it.”

She made a snorting noise and glanced at the oversized, Art Deco style bronze clock on the wall behind me. “I need to get to work and I don’t have time for this.”

“Well, I’m running out of time to find out who killed Adam, so
I
don’t have time to not get answers.”

I crossed my arms and looked at her intently. By now, she’d overcome the shock of seeing me at the door, and looked as calm and collected as ever.

She headed through the living area and into a shiny, chrome and white kitchen, where she pulled out a mug and switched on a pod coffee machine.

“I don’t know what you want,” she said to me. “I had nothing to do with Adam’s death. While he was alive, I loved him; I had no idea he’d been cheating on me. Well, I suspected, of course, but he always denied it.”

“He was cheating on you?”

“Yeah. Why else d’you think he’d always pretend to be working late? And I bought it, too.”

“So… you only just found out that he was cheating on you?”

“Yeah, can you believe it?” She inserted a pod, positioned her mug and pressed a button. A stream of dark liquid poured into her mug. “I feel like such an idiot.”

“This is the first I’m hearing of it,” I said honestly. “What makes you think he was cheating on you?”

“Well, the late nights, for one,” Cynthia said, removing the mug and discarding the used coffee pod. “He’d always say he was working late – at least once or twice a week. And then yesterday I learnt that he’s never worked late.”

“Right.” I nodded. Adam’s boss, Clark, had already told me that. “But just because he was out late, doesn’t mean he was cheating on you.”

“And then all those payments. From those women.” Cynthia looked at me and shook her head. “I’d never gone through his bank statements before. But I heard the cops saying something about ‘pulling financials,’ so I got curious and found his old bank statements lying around. I gave you a copy, right?” I nodded. “So you saw those too, right?”

I nodded again and pursed my lips. Things weren’t looking good for Adam. If he’d been alive, he would’ve been in store for a massive fight with Cynthia. I wondered if she’d leave him, or… maybe she’d kill him, out of rage and jealousy. The possibility was still there, but as I watched her sipping her coffee and glancing at the microwave clock, the idea seemed preposterous to me.

Adam’s co-worker, Sharon, had been right: Cynthia was too logical to do anything stupid. Even sleeping with Adam’s co-worker didn’t seem like such a bad idea when you looked at it from a certain angle. Greg was probably a decent, stable guy with a good income – someone who could take care of Cynthia now that Adam wasn’t here. Better Greg than Ian.

And besides, Cynthia had been in LA when Adam had been killed.

I felt the air escaping my body, leaving me feeling like a deflated balloon. That coffee Cynthia was drinking sure smelled good. I could do with some coffee, and maybe some cupcakes, and maybe a couple of hours sleep.

“I’ll be in touch if I think of anything else,” I said, and Cynthia shrugged.

It was tempting to head straight back to my condo, but there was something else I needed to do first.