Green Eyes in Las Vegas (20 page)

I drove Ian to the hospital, and the nurse who admitted us took one look at his leg and said he was fine; it was just a slight cut. There’d be a wait, since Ian’s situation wasn’t critical, so I left him there and went to the police station to make an official statement about Mr. Beard. Elwood told me that Mr. Beard’s parole would be revoked, and then I went off to talk to Detective Coles about Crystal’s murder.

Three days later, Detective Coles called me up around midday. “Sam’s DNA matched the DNA found on Crystal’s body,” he said. “How were you so sure it was him?”

I smiled, allowing myself a moment of pride. “It was the lie,” I said. “He wouldn’t lie to me if he wasn’t hiding something.”

“Well,” Coles said. “I’ve got to say, you’ve got pretty good investigative skills.”

The words, “for a casino dealer” seemed to hang in the air, but maybe that was just my imagination.

I called Samantha immediately after that, told her we needed to talk, and drove down to
The Peacock Club. I hadn’t typed up my report yet, but I wanted to tell her face-to-face what I’d learnt. We grabbed a table in a corner of the half-empty club, and the music pulsed and vibrated around us. I told her, sitting in the semi-dark, what I’d learnt, and she nodded sadly. When I finished, she sniffed and I saw her blink back a tear.

“I should’ve stopped her,” she said. “I should’ve realized something was up.”

“It’s not your fault,” I said. “She didn’t tell anyone what was going on.”

We sat silently at the table, and I watched Samantha out of the corner of my eye. She looked slightly silly, dressed in a skimpy pink and white bunny outfit and sky-high pink stilettos, but she was one of those tough women who you wouldn’t mind having in your corner. Crystal had been lucky to have her as a friend.

Jack and I were sitting in a quiet French restaurant, east of the Strip. It was the kind of place middle-aged men went to meet their mistresses. The words on the menu were unpronounceable, the waiters snooty and condescending, and everything cost too much. But it was dark, out of the way, and the tables were so far from each other that diners could safely talk about things they wouldn’t normally discuss in public. For the other diners, this involved a lot of arm-rubbing and coy glances. Jack and I kept our arms to ourselves.

We both ordered the filet mignon, and the waiter sniffed
distastefully when I asked for mine to be well done. Jack, of course, was having his medium rare.

We chatted about work, the weather, and our families with the pensiveness of a parent talking with their child’s teacher – it was pleasant enough on the surface, but we both knew there was an unpleasant reason for the meeting.

There was no point waiting till dessert to pull out the big guns. So I took a deep breath and told Jack the lie that I’d prepared. “I saw the number plate on the getaway car for the Van Gogh burglary. I ran it through the system; the car’s yours.”

Jack held my glance for a few seconds. I made sure I looked serious, and confident of what I was saying. Jack’s expression was unreadable.

“I know,” he said softly.

I tried not to look surprised. I’d expected him to deny the whole thing and a part of me was disappointed that he hadn’t given me some excuse, no matter how flimsy – maybe someone had stolen his car, maybe he’d been jumping off the roof of the Ascend for fun that morning.

I looked down at my steak, not caring if my disappointment showed, and sighed.

“I should’ve told you,” Jack said.

“Why?” We looked at each other, and I said, “You could just buy it off Jeremy, and he’s your friend. You could’ve reached a deal.”

Jack shook his head. “Money has nothing to do with it. Well, ok. Money has everything to do with it.”

Maybe the fillet mignon wasn’t agreeing with me. I dabbed my lips with the napkin, and put it down beside my plate.

“Wait,” Jack said, just as I was about to push back my chair.

I looked up at his eyes, glistening in the dim lighting, and waited.

“Do you know about Jeremy’s son?”

I shook my head. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Jeremy had health insurance with AAI. But then his son had a snowboarding accident and went into a coma. AAI refused to pay out, and on top of that – they dinged Jeremy’s report so he couldn’t get health insurance with anyone else.”

I looked at Jack, not wanting to believe that a company could be so mean. “What happened to his son?”

Jack looked grimly at his plate. “He’s still in a coma, but Jeremy’s hoping for the best. A parent never loses hope.”

“But the costs are adding up,” I suggested, and Jack nodded.

“Jeremy’s waiting for some clients to pay him, but he owes money to his suppliers, and he needs to keep paying the hospital bills. So…”

I felt something twist in my stomach, and I rested my head on one hand. “So you thought of this.”

“Yes. This’ll solve his cash flow problems for a long time.”

“He’s your friend. Why not just lend him the money?”

Jack smiled, a thin, humorless smile. “And miss the chance to screw with AAI?”

“That’s not a very nice attitude.”

“It is, if you knew how badly they’ve treated Jeremy. And at the worst possible time in his life…”

I blinked slowly and looked down at my plate, not feeling good about all this. And yet, I could see what he was getting at – if something were to happen to Nanna, for instance, and the insurance company made things a lot worse, I’d want revenge too.

I sighed. “Why not just have him
give
you the painting?”

Jack shook his head. “That’s actually more risky. Getting everything staged and all. Besides, what’s the fun in that?”

He was smiling again, but this time his eyes were laughing.

“Why are you telling me?”

Jack shrugged. “Seems like you knew what happened. But not why.”

I looked at the half-eaten meal on my plate. I couldn’t imagine having another bite, and now I wished I’d waited till after dessert to bring this up.

“I’ll have to tell AAI,” I said softly.

“You’re free to do what you’d like. But now you know about them, and I’ll deny whatever I told you.”

I looked up at him again. “Then why tell me at all?”

“You keep saying you won’t date a criminal. I’m not a criminal.”

I smiled thinly. “You just burglarize for fun.”

Jack winked. “But let’s keep that to ourselves.”

“Where’s the stolen painting now?”

“I’m keeping it for a few months, and then I’ll give it back to Jeremy.”

I nodded, and tried to have another bite of my steak as I thought things through.

“Have you done this before?” I asked.

“Burglary? Sure. Whenever things – work, shopping, whatever – get too easy, it’s nice to have a challenge.”

I pushed the food around on my plate. “I can’t eat any more. Will you excuse me?”

Jack signaled for the check, and I waited till he was done paying and could escort me out the door.

Dinner hadn’t gone how I’d expected. I didn’t know what I
had
expected, but I certainly hadn’t expected this.

I wanted to spend the weekend doing nothing, other than wallowing in my misery. But on Saturday morning, Stone stopped by and dragged me over to the gun range.

“I heard about Mr. Beard attacking you,” he said. “You really need to get better at protecting yourself.”

He had a point, so I went with him and shot at paper targets for a while. I think I’m improving as a shot, but I it doesn’t matter, because I can’t carry a gun with me and walk into a casino.

Stone walked over after some time to talk to me, so I took off my earmuffs and looked at him.

“You need to go back to Carla and take more KravMaga lessons,” he said.

I winced.
Carla was a small, scary woman of indeterminate age and European heritage. She made me punch, kick and otherwise hurt her poor, defenseless assistant. He’d wear some kind of padding, but still. The lessons weren’t fun.

“Use it or lose it,” Stone said.

“Nanna says that,” I told him. “You’re turning into Nanna.”

He smiled and was about to go back to practice, when I said, “What do you think of Jack?”

“Jack Weber?” He looked at me warily. “He seems ok. Why?”

“I’m thinking of going on a date with him.” I held Stone’s glance. His eyes were dark and somber, and his expression unreadable.

He took a step forward and pushed a strand of hair behind my right ear. His eyes softened, and for a moment I wondered if he’d lean down and kiss me. But then he stepped back, and his eyes became serious again. “He seems nice enough,” he said slowly. “I can’t see why not.”

And then he went back to his booth, and I put my earmuffs on again.

***

Two hours later, Stone and I were sitting in my parents’ kitchen, helping ourselves to mashed potatoes. I’d wanted to go straight home from the gun range, but my mother insisted I come over
; when Dad heard that Stone was with me, he insisted that Stone come as well.

We were
piling up our plates with my mom’s cooking, when the front doorbell rang, and my mom jumped up.

“I’ll get that,” she said, and Nanna and I exchanged a glance.

“It’s for you,” Nanna told me. “Your mother thinks he’s nice.”

I rolled my eyes and Stone and Dad ignored the doorbell completely
, chatting about some hockey player who’d injured himself, and what the chances were for the team this season, and what the chances were that the guy’d recover from the injury.

My mother walked back into the room with a lanky, curly-haired man following her.

“Tiffany, this is Matt,” she told me. “He’s having lunch with us.”

“Uh, hi everyone,” Matt said awkwardly.

Matt had bad skin and wore glasses, and he reminded me of one of the dorks who’d gone to my highschool. Dad and Stone paused their conversation long enough to nod at him, and then they went back to their hockey talk.

“Have a seat,” Mom told Matt, pointing to the empty seat beside me, and I did my best not to groan. “Matt’s my friend Melanie’s son,” Mom said. “He teaches history at the local high school.”

I looked at him again. Now that she mentioned it, Matt
did
look like a history teacher – he was just the kind of guy you’d throw paper balls at when his back was turned.

“History!”
Nanna said. “I reckon I could teach that. Probably better than you.”

Mom made a warning sound directed at Nanna, and Matt smiled wanly. I felt kind of sorry for him, but I was more sorry for myself. I looked at Stone, and he glanced at me
and winked. “You’re on your own,” the wink seemed to say.

“Uh,” Matt said to me, and then he paused.

Mom, Nanna and I all looked at him, waiting for him to finish his sentence. I thought I saw beads of perspiration on his forehead, and he struggled to come up with another word to say.

“Tiffany’s a casino dealer,” Mom prompted, trying to help him out, and Matt nodded, and served himself some beans and mashed potatoes to go with his meat.

I decided to ignore him and turned to Nanna. “Where’s
your
boyfriend today?”

My mother made a choking noise, and Nanna said, “I didn’t know we were having company. If I’d known, I’d asked him to come over. Mr. History here looks like he could use some help with the conversation.”

We all looked at him again, and he paused with his fork mid-air, and then put it down.

He turned to me, and took a deep breath. “You’re Tiffany,” he said.

I felt like the guy wanted some applause, but my sympathy for him was replaced by a sudden irritation. Why did a guy who could barely string two sentences together think I would swoon all over him?

“Yes,” I snapped. “And you teach history.”

“You’re a casino dealer,” he said, a hint of condescension in his voice.

“You’re right,” I replied. “Would you like to get married now?”

I heard the sharp intake of breath coming from my mother’s seat, and Nanna said, “You’re meant to play hard to get. I know that, which is why I’ve got myself a boyfriend and you don’t.”

“I don’t want to play hard to get,” I told her. “I’m sick of doing things the normal way, and I’m tired of boring people.”

Stone and Dad had stopped talking now, and everyone was staring at me.

I turned to Matt, and said, “Let’s just get this out of the way, ok? Our parents clearly want us to get to get together. Do you want to be with me? No? Marry me? No? I didn’t think so.” Matt was staring at me, his jaw dropping almost to his plate.

“I just saved you some time there,” I told him. “Now you can go be condescending to some other poor girl.”

My mother pinched her lips together and stared at her plate, and Nanna said, “Well, wasn’t that a nice idea. Speeding things up. I should do that. After all, I don’t have much time left. Maybe thirty years, if I keep up with my
water aerobics.”

Stone and Dad went back to their conversation, moving from hockey to the NFL now, as though nothing had happened. Dad’s probably given up on me being the good, predictable daughter, and Stone probably thought the conversation had been relatively normal. However, my mother stayed silent and stared at her plate for the rest of the meal, and it was a relief to finally leave.