Another Side Of Midnight

I handed Jon a couple of manila folders from my Do Something pile. One client was looking for child support from her scumbag ex-husband; another was searching for his birth mother; and the third wanted to find a former boyfriend from the class of 1952.

“See if you can at least find current addresses. Anything else you come up with would be great.”

“You want me to find them? Me, a mere secretary?”

“Administrative assistant,” I retorted.

Jon gave me a look. “You’re not completely off the hook, Steele. I’ll just bide my time until you confess all the sordid details about Cameron Stone.”

“Skip traces.”

I opened the top drawer of my desk to put away Vince’s letter. I’d finish it later. Catching sight of a particular court petition, I hesitated. Now was as good a time as any to take care of that. But after less than a second’s hesitation, I decided to wait and see what happened. I locked the drawer on the letter, the petition, my gun and my past.

Moving around the office, I unplugged my gadgets and chucked them into my backpack. I never leave without making sure I have supplies for any situation. Cell phone, pens, notepads and new digital camera landed among the detritus. Bandages, GPS locator, lip gloss, high-powered binoculars, condoms, protein bars, electronic data organizer—that kind of thing.

Bag ladies haul less stuff around than I do. “Where do you want me to start?” Jon was still skimming through the files.

“The deadbeat dad. Ryan’s mother is working two jobs, so keep the cost down, please.”

He looked up with a gleam of amusement in his eyes. “I never would have guessed you had a soft heart.”

That’s why I surround it with the toughest armor possible. The damned thing keeps getting me into trouble. I sent him a cool glare. “It’s better to milk a client with repeat business than to hit them with one big bill that they won’t pay.”

“Uh-huh. Sure.”

I picked up my backpack and helmet. “Quit lounging around and get back to work.”

Jon casually got to his feet like it was his own idea. “Where are you off to?”

I filled him in on my schedule as we walked down the hall. “I’m stopping at Dreyer’s office to pick up some papers he needs filed. Then I’m going to run by a claimant’s house to see if he’s up to anything his doctor says he can’t do. I doubt I’ll be back.”

“Okay, I’ll lock up. Call in for messages before I leave.” He slid behind his desk and logged onto the Internet. He opened the first file, apparently eager to get started.

“Oh, and Jon?” I turned, halfway out the front door, not looking at him directly. “About earlier. Um, thanks.”

I think he knew I wasn’t talking about my lunch. He kept his expression neutral, though. “Don’t get all mushy on me now, Steele. I won’t know how to handle it.”

Moment over. I sneered at him and left.

I WALKED PAST the Ticket to Paradise travel agency next door and waved to Lisa and Isabelle. They discount my trips on the rare occasions I leave the state. In exchange, I run background checks on their new boyfriends.

I have the same sort of barter arrangement with Barry Dreyer, the attorney on the other side of the travel agency. He’s helping me with a velocity issue. One more speeding ticket and I max out the number of points on my license. In return, I listen to the endless stories about his kids.

His eyes lit up behind wire-rimmed glasses, deepening his laugh lines. “Stella! I’m glad you could drop by. I’ve got new pictures.”

Sometimes I think Barry and his family live at the Sears portrait studio. He married later in life and never expected to have kids, let alone twins. I wasn’t sure how it was possible, but the boys already had their father’s overbite and receding hairline. Combine this with their mother’s narrow chin and close-set eyes and you had two less than attractive toddlers.

“Here. Look at these.”

Barry proudly handed me a couple of five-by-sevens. I shuffled through images of the boys in various poses and forced a smile.

“Great pictures. I like the composition and the lighting.” If you can’t say something nice, compliment the skill of the photographer.

“Yeah, I’ve got good-looking sons, don’t I?” He accepted the pictures back, beaming as he put them away. “Let me tell you what those two did yesterday—”

“Gee, Barry, I’d love to hear about it, but I’ve got to get going. I just came to pick up the Complaint you want filed.”

“Oh, sure. Let me see where Elaine put them.” He went to the credenza and rifled through some stacks of paper.

Barry doesn’t have a paralegal anymore. He kept dating them and then he married the last one. He hasn’t hired another. I guess Kim doesn’t want history repeating itself. Instead, Barry keeps a secretary and pays me to file suit papers and serve subpoenas for him. My monthly bill is cheaper than a full-time employee or a divorce.

“Listen, Stella, I’ve got something else for you. A little more interesting than filing.”

“Yeah, what’s that?”

“Estate stuff. I need you to do an asset search. The widow is very merry and wants everything she married the old guy for.” He watched me closely as I scanned the documents.

It took me a minute, but then I jerked my head up. “Uh, it looks like there’s a few things missing.”

“Yeah,” Barry scoffed. “Just a few. As the estate’s Personal Representative, I can engage experts to ascertain the value of the assets. I already got letters of administration for you. We just need to do a retainer agreement.”

After signing some forms and making copies of what Barry had in his file, I shoved the papers into my backpack and told him I’d get something for him as soon as I could.

“I appreciate this, Stella. Come back when you have more time. I’ll tell you my plan for the twins’ birthday party.”

Nodding politely, I decided I’d rather hear about dental surgery. “Sure, Barry.”

I left his office and walked across the parking lot, thinking about the other attorney I needed to visit soon. Although Douglas Holbrook was one of the most successful, well-respected lawyers in Nevada, my hopes for righting an old wrong faded with each passing year.

Or maybe it was my resolve that was weakening. The cost of my mistake had been higher than I could have imagined. Trying to correct it would cost me everything I had left.

With difficulty, I shook off that line of thought and started the Harley. Seeing a break in the traffic, I pulled out onto Paradise and headed north. When the road ended, I drove up the Strip for a mile or so before making a left on Lewis Avenue. I parked in the public garage and walked the block down to the Regional Justice Center.

As soon as I entered the building, two overweight and overly eager security guards went on high alert.

“Hold it!”

“Stop right there, miss!”

I barely stopped myself from rolling my eyes. “Do we have to do this every time, you guys?”

Not until the metal detector, handheld scanner and manual search of my backpack failed to reveal any incendiary devices was I allowed inside. One of these days I’ll start carrying a purse and briefcase and avoid the hassle.

After waiting in line for ten minutes, I filed Barry’s papers with the District Court on the third floor. I slipped the timestamped receipts into a folder in my backpack and headed back out into the heat. I think Walter and Ted were glad to see me go. Must have been the bitchy T-shirt and black eye that set them off.

As I bounded down the steps, the opening notes of Sinatra’s “Fly Me to the Moon” began to play. I dug out my cell phone.

“Midnight.”

I love saying that. Cool, succinct and kind of mysterious. But wasted on my secretary.

“It’s Jon. Mrs. Cavanaugh just called with the schedule she said you wanted. She also gave me the tag number for the Mercedes.”

“Great. Hang on while I get a pen.” I planted myself on one of the concrete benches and found a notepad. “Okay, just give me the next twenty-four hours.”

“She said he’s working from eight tonight until four in the morning, then he’s off the rest of the day. He’s supposed to play golf at the Red Rock course. Tee-off is at eleven. I’ll leave the rest of it on your desk.”

“Fax it to the house, too, will you?”

I scribbled down a few more messages and reminded Jon to turn off the espresso machine before he left. After we disconnected, I bounced the phone in my hand, procrastinating. I didn’t have to make the call. Cavanaugh was an average, everyday infidelity case….

Except for the missing four hundred grand. Nothing ordinary about that. Reaching into the zippered pocket of my backpack, I pulled out Stone’s business card. Three phone numbers, but no address.

Yeah, I know what you’re thinking. I’m a private eye; I’m supposed to have access to all sorts of data. So why hadn’t I tracked him down before now? Why hadn’t I located him through vehicle registration, income or property tax records or something?

Because there hadn’t been any records to find. Stone’s not a U.S. citizen. Apparently he didn’t live, work or drive here. The guy was a ghost. So, not wanting to pass up an opportunity, instead of dialing Stone’s cell phone or paging him for a call back, I punched in the number for his answering service.

“Canongate Consultants.”

Hmm. This might be promising. I decided to pretend not to know where I was calling. “Can I talk to Cameron Stone, please?”

“I’m sorry, he’s not available. May I take a message?” The girl sounded young, with just enough of an accent to let me know she was originally from the East Coast.

“When will he back?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t have that information.”

I leaned back on the bench, adjusted my sunglasses and pushed a little. “Well, maybe I can drop by. I have something for him. Where’s his office?”

“Like I said, he’s not in right now.” She was starting to get an attitude, but I gave her points for control.

“Will he be there tomorrow?”

“I’m sorry. Mr. Stone is not available. I’d be happy to take a message.” She didn’t sound either sorry or happy, and her East Coast roots were showing.

I wasn’t getting anywhere nor was I likely to. I stood up and grabbed my bag, ready to leave. “Fine, just tell him Steele called and—”

“Oh! Is this Ms. Mez-zuh-knot?”

I frowned and answered cautiously, not knowing what to expect. “It’s pronounced Met-suh-no-teh.”

“If you’ll give me your message, I’ll use the emergency access.”

She acted like Stone was some kind of government agent. I could just imagine her punching codes into a red hotline phone. “I just want to give him some information. You don’t have to—”

“Yes, Ms. Mezzanotte, my instructions are to contact Mr. Stone immediately anytime you call.”

What the hell was this about? I felt both flattered and pissed off. Did Stone really think he’d be forgiven just because he made a show of his current—and, I was certain, temporary—availability? I tried not to be impressed.

“The message is, ‘I have Cavanaugh’s schedule.’”

“Okay. You have Cavanaugh’s schedule. I’ve got it. Is there anything else, Ms. Mezzanotte?”

Yeah, there was a lot more. But nothing fit for even Bronx-born ears. “No, that’s it. Thanks, um…what’s your name?”

“I’m Jamie. If there’s anything else I can help you with, don’t hesitate to ask.”

“Thanks, Jamie.”

I hung up and dialed information, asking for the reverse directory. After giving the operator Stone’s telephone number, I got an address in return. One more call to information got me a main switchboard. It was in an office building on Rainbow Boulevard—one of those anonymous, multicompany executive suites. Another dead end in my ghost hunt.

I stuffed the cell phone in my backpack and hiked back to the parking garage to get my bike. Knots had formed in my neck and shoulders and Stone was to blame. The man had been back in my life for less than three hours and already he was driving me crazy.

I didn’t need some secretive Scotsman messing with my head, or any other body parts. Holding in the clutch and twisting the throttle, I let the growl of the Harley’s 1450cc twin cam engine express my frustration. As I pulled out of the parking garage, I squealed the tires.

Just because I could.

CHAPTER NINE

Trouble in Paradise

AS I WAITED TO MAKE a turn on Freemont, I looked over at the Experience on my left. The Freemont Street Experience is a roofed pedestrian thoroughfare that runs four blocks to Main Street. By day, the ninety-foot canopy offers shade and background music to tourists going into the stores and casinos. Once the sun goes down, though, the Experience is, well, just that.

You have to be subjected to the two million lightbulbs and 540,000 watts of sound to believe it.

I made my turn and drove southeast for a while, thinking about the Cavanaugh case. It can be hard to tail somebody on a motorcycle, so I was going to need another set of wheels. About fifteen minutes later, I’d parked the bike and was wandering around the Vegas Metro Motors lot, waiting for Anna to finish with a customer.

She, Nikki Lopez and I met in French class our freshman year at University of Nevada. We’ve been best friends through nights out clubbing, nights in playing poker and days spent shopping. More importantly, we’ve been friends through Anna’s broken engagement, Nikki’s unexpected pregnancy and Bobby’s death.

Friendship has often been the key to our emotional survival. That and food.

Anna rushed over to me, bright red curls flying and a huge smile of welcome on her face. She grabbed me in the kind of hug I tolerate from very few people. I even hugged her back for a second. Her light brown eyes sparkled as she looked at my Have A Nice Day Elsewhere T-shirt.

“You’re wearing the one I gave you. I can’t believe I added to the collection, but the message is just so you. So, what have you been up to, Steele? You look a little pale. Are you sleeping okay? You should add some iron to your diet.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “Take a breath, will you? I’m fine. No salt, no artificial color and I even bought some organic vegetables last week.”

“Oh, that’s great! Good for you.” She went on to tell me about the produce at a new whole foods shop over on West Charleston.

Anna is a naturopath, a holistic and organic Earth Mother type. Her hair falls to the middle of her back and the only makeup she wears is beeswax lip balm. She doesn’t need anything else. Her freckled skin glows from good health and a positive attitude. Basically, she’s my exact opposite in temperament and outlook.

Anna says we get along because of cosmic balance, karma and the fact that we’re reincarnated sisters from ancient Mesopotamia. I love her anyway.

“So, Steele, I’m guessing you need a car?” Anna slid me an exaggerated glance. “I’ve got the sweetest little Corvette around back.”

Interested, I cocked my head. “Oh, really?”

She wriggled an eyebrow. “400 horsepower V-8 engine, 6-speed transmission, leather sport bucket seats, speed-sensitive power steering and a seven-speaker sound system.”

I rubbed my chin, checking for drool, and started to ask what color it was before I caught myself. I’m a big fan of the Magnum, P.I. reruns, mostly for the episodes when Tom Selleck takes off his shirt. But real private investigators don’t drive Ferraris. Or Corvettes, damn it.

“I’m just keeping watch on a guy claiming disability and a cheating husband. Better stick with a nondescript, late model sedan.”

“Boring.” Anna grinned. “Beyond.”

After storing the Harley in the service garage, Anna helped me pick out a metallic gray Honda Accord that ought to blend in just about anywhere. Anna gave me another quick hug. “Don’t forget about the iron. You have to take it with lots of vitamin C and some chelated zinc.”

“Yes, dear.” Anna will make somebody a great wife someday. In the meantime she keeps trying to save me from myself. Whether I want to be saved or not.

I tossed my helmet and backpack on the passenger seat and left in air-conditioned splendor. I played with the radio, finally choosing 97.1 KXPT, a classic rock station. After turning left onto Eastern Avenue, I drove back toward NorthVegas to check on a guy who’d filed a dubious workers’ compensation claim.

A friend at a big insurance company sometimes throws work my way. Kenny Asher had filed for total temporary disability from an injury on his job at Rose Trucking. He’d used all the right buzz words—slip, fall and twist. However, the insurance company, Fidelity Reliance, still wanted him investigated.

There was a For Sale sign in front of one of the townhouses. I cruised past slowly, a prospective buyer checking out the neighborhood. Fortunately Asher’s house was an end unit, so the second time around I parked a little ways down the street where I had a partial view of the back as well as the front.

What a freaking mess. If I were looking to buy, it wouldn’t be any of the houses in sight of Asher’s place. The yard was a patch of burnt grass decorated with rusted tools and children’s toys. The paint had peeled and one of the upstairs shutters was hanging loose.

As I watched, there were no signs of life. Odd, since the kids should have been home from school by now. I took my digital camera out of my pack and snapped a couple of shots. Then I settled in to wait. I figured I was good for about two hours since I hadn’t had much to drink. Surveillance is much easier for guys, if you know what I mean.

After about ten minutes, an older woman came out of the house next door to water the flower boxes. I got out of the car. She had a slight figure, with hair and nails as well manicured as her lawn. Despite the statewide push toward xeriscaping— plants with low water requirements—her small patch of grass was green and perfectly trimmed.

“Good afternoon, ma’am. Sorry to bother you, but I saw the sale sign…”

She eyed me up and down. I probably should have changed my shirt. Oh, well. “You’re thinking of buying the Jacksons’ house? It’s a good choice. They’ve kept it up nicely and the inside was recently updated. Heather did the wallpaper herself.”

I held back a smile. There’s nothing better in this business than a nosy—I mean, well informed—neighbor. I nodded toward Asher’s house. “Yeah, it looks a lot better than that place.”

Her lips pursed in disapproval. “Yes, well, he’s never been the neatest of home owners.”

“Have you lived here for long, Miss…”

“Mrs. Sharp. My husband and I moved in over twenty years ago.”

“Then you know the neighborhood pretty well?”

She gave me a look that matched her name. “Young woman, I suggest you tell me what this is about. Because you certainly aren’t buying anything and neither am I.”

Aunt Gloria used to say, “If you can’t dazzle them with bullshit, then give honesty a try.” I offered Mrs. Sharp my hand. “I’m from Midnight Investigation Services. I’m looking into Mr. Asher’s work injury.”

“Work injury, huh?” She took my hand in a weak grasp. “I thought perhaps he’d been laid off again. Mr. Asher seems to have a terrible time with supervisors who don’t like him.”

Her tone said more than her words. Apparently Kenny was the type to blame everybody else for his screw-ups. “Did his current supervisor like him?”

“I doubt it. There aren’t many people who do. I just don’t know how Beth puts up with him. She’s a lovely girl and so good with the children.”

Mrs. Sharp happily agreed to take my card and call me if she saw Kenny push, pull or lift anything heavier than a beer can. The lady really did not appreciate his weeds encroaching on her rosebushes. I got back in the car, pulled a steno pad from my backpack and jotted a few notes that I’d include in a later report.

This one might take a while. Asher is probably a chronic couch potato. Talk to people at the trucking company. Find out if he’s filed for workers’ comp before. Start thinking of heavy things to have delivered to the house.

By now it was getting close to rush hour. Since I’d tended bar until two this morning, it was time to call it a day.

One of my favorite songs came on the radio. I turned up the volume and sang along. Badly. I can high kick in four-inch heels but, despite my mother’s best intentions and a year of voice lessons, I can’t carry a tune in a bucket.

I sing anyway.

I WORK IN Sin City, but I live in Paradise.

Not many people know this, but the unincorporated township of Paradise is separate from the city of Las Vegas. The Strip, the University of Nevada and McCarran International Airport are all located within the township’s confines.

I turned onto Skyland Drive and slowed down in case any of the kids were out playing. My neighbor, Dave Ginsberg, waved to me as I pulled into the driveway. He was walking a busty blonde to her car. Probably another cheerleader since that’s the only type he seemed to entertain. I hoped this one didn’t go to UNLV… Dave really needs to start carding his dates.

My house is a twenty-year-old single story with white stucco exterior and a gray tile roof. It’s got three bedrooms, a pool in back and desert landscaping in the front. Unlike Mrs. Sharp, I’ve got the xeriscape stuff. That means gravel, rocks, cacti and no grass to cut.

After making sure the doors were locked, I secured Anna’s Honda in the garage. Accords aren’t exactly high on the car thief Christmas list, but I wasn’t going to take my friend’s generosity for granted. I set my helmet on an empty shelf and walked in through the laundry/utility room door.

I love my house. The only problem is I don’t spend enough time here, so I haven’t done much with it. I’ve bought some things for my bedroom and the home office, but I eat in the kitchen and rarely entertain. Maybe, one day when I’ve got absolutely nothing better to do, I’ll ask Jon to help me decorate since he did a pretty good job with the agency.

I walked to the far end of the house to the spare bedroom that’s set up as a home office. I dumped my backpack by my desk and booted up the computer. While I waited for it, I grabbed the fax Jon sent and checked messages on the answering machine.

“You may have won a free vacation! Just call this number—” I hit the erase button.

The next message was from my mother. “Cara mia, don’t forget Wednesday night. We’re scheduled for seven o’clock, so don’t be late. Ti voglio bene, Stella.”

Ah, the mother/daughter bonding ritual. Mom decided a while ago that we don’t spend enough time together and that I need to get in better touch with my feminine side. So once a month we share a series of spa treatments. Last time I let her talk me into the Blush Pink Pedicure.

But I didn’t admit I liked it. “Hey, Steele, it’s Joey. I need you to go shopping with me. Tina’s birthday is coming up and I don’t have any idea what to get her.”

Neither did I, so I’d hint around when Mom and I went to the spa, Indulgences. Santina Otenyo owns the place. Tina was the best thing that ever happened to my brother so I’d make sure he got her something really…expensive.

There were no other messages, so after checking my e-mail and finding mostly spam, I went back down the hall to my bedroom. Peeling off my socks, jeans and T-shirt, I rooted around in the dresser for a clean swimsuit. I changed into the bikini, twisted my hair up and headed for the kitchen.

Opening the fridge, I checked to see if the steak I’d pulled from the freezer this morning had thawed. Then I grabbed a bottle of spring water and walked through the living room to open the French doors to the pool.

After baking in the Nevada sun all day, the concrete was hot under my feet. I tiptoed over to set my water down in the shade of the patio roof. Then I took a few steps and made a shallow dive into the crystalline water. The pool was warm but still cooler than the air. It felt wonderful.

I stroked down to the far end, rolled and swam back. After the first five laps, I hit my stride, pushing myself to cut through the water and beat the timer in my head. I’d just about completed my personal race when I noticed a dark blur at the edge of the pool. Startled, I almost swallowed a chlorinated mouthful.