Sleepless in Las Vegas (2 page)

A look that might pass for amusement flittered across the older woman’s face. “Sometimes I wonder if we should post my rules alongside your side notes.”

The older woman reminded Val of the English actress Helen Mirren—formidable, sophisticated, articulate. But whereas the actress had played her share of industrial-strength women in the movies, Jayne was the real deal. In a
Las Vegas Sun
interview three months ago, a reporter had referred to her as “one of the best sleuths in Sin City,” and that “a new P.I. earning Jayne’s Diamond Grade designation is like a restaurant earning a Michelin star rating.”

After reading that
Sun
article, there was only one P.I. Val wanted to be her mentor—Jayne Diamond.

Who now stood in front of her, lips pursed in thought. “What else is on your mind?”

“Well, these landline phones are—”
older than dirt
“—quite antiquated. Plus, cradling a jumbo-size receiver under my chin while taking notes, looking up information on the computer and talking is like juggling pancakes—hard to keep a grip on everything. It would make
so
much more sense if we used cell phones.”

“Cell phones have speakers, too. The point is not landline versus mobile, it is about confidentiality.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Jayne.”

“Yes, Jayne.”

“Also…” She smiled, but it looked more like a grimace. “I’ve reached the conclusion that Diamond Investigations needs to reduce the number of cases it accepts. Starting today, we no longer accept infidelity cases, except if they are part of an investigation that we are already conducting for a law firm.”

“But…I thought infidelity investigations were steady business for a P.I. agency. Although, of course, we don’t accept honey traps.”

When she realized she wanted to be a private eye, Val started religiously watching the reality TV show
Honey Catchers
to learn about the business. It featured hot-looking private eyes, male and female, whom people hired to set “honey traps” to test their lovers’ fidelity. The P.I., dressed in some sexy outfit rigged with a covert camera, would “accidentally” run into the lover, usually at a bar, and strike up a conversation. Eventually, the P.I. asked for a phone number, a date or even got a little frisky on the spot.

Afterward, the P.I. would show the video to the client.
Honey Catchers
never showed lovers turning down phone numbers or sexual advances. Which made for a lot of high drama at the end of the shows as the cheated upon confronted the cheater.

“Infidelity investigations can be lucrative, certainly, but we have
never
conducted honey traps.”

“I know…it’s just that I don’t see the harm in accepting those cases as long as we keep them legal…” Something in Jayne’s face—exhaustion? Distress?—gave Val pause. “We don’t need to do a mentoring session right now if you’re tired.”

Jayne eased into one of the high-back wooden guest chairs that faced Val’s desk. Through the window blinds, hazy sunlight striped the side of her face, highlighting fine lines around her mouth and eyes. “These moments always count, dear.”

She couldn’t think of a single time that Jayne had uttered an endearment, for Val or anyone else.

“Legal,” Jayne repeated. She reflected on that for a moment. “Some agencies seem to believe that
inducing
the behavior a P.I. should be attempting to
objectively
document is acceptable. It is not. If a law enforcement officer behaved in such a manner, it would be called entrapment.”

“On some reality cop shows, I’ve seen female cops dress like hookers and lure men, who are then arrested for soliciting prostitution.”

“But those men, when they withdraw their billfolds to pay, exhibit
prior
predispositions. Honey traps are not telling of the subject’s predisposition. A lawyer could easily attack such frivolous evidence in court.”

As Jayne pushed a wisp of hair off her forehead, Val noticed her hand shook slightly. But she knew not to ask questions because Jayne didn’t like to talk about herself.

Val had learned that well in June, the first time she walked into Diamond Investigations. She had barely shut the door before Jayne made it clear that Val had already broken a rule—clearly stated on the agency website—that people seeking internships were to
mail
their resumes, not show up in person. Besides, she had curtly added, she was on her way out.

When she swung her purse over her shoulder, the bag knocked a figurine off a side table. Val dived, catching it before it smashed into pieces on the floor.

As she’d stared at the miniature crystal figure—two birds perched side by side on a watering bowl—she swore she felt something faint, like a light passing through her. Although maybe what she experienced had more to do with the tender, yet sad, look on her future boss’s face. For a moment, she and Jayne had shared concern and relief that the crystal birds hadn’t hit the floor and shattered.

After Jayne gently placed the figurine on the top shelf of the bookcase—where it remained to this day—she asked Val why she wanted to be a private investigator. She had answered that she worked well alone, liked solving puzzles and wanted to help people.

Jayne had actually laughed. “If you can accept that this business is often driven by greed, revenge and self-preservation,” she said, “you will be better off. Shall we start your internship next Monday?”

And here they were, two months later, having yet another of their question-and-answer sessions.

Jayne stood, picked up her purse. “I will be gone the remainder of the afternoon.” After a moment of deliberation, she added, “I have changed my mind. For the time being, we are not accepting
any
new cases until I finalize some…cases I’m working on. Are you still commuting by bus?”

“Yes.” Ever since the brakes and fuel pump went south on Val’s fifteen-year-old Toyota, she had been relying on mass transit. “Mornings are okay, but after five those buses are slower than a bread wagon with biscuit wheels.”

Jayne blinked. “I have never heard that expression.”

“Means they’re slow.”

That pained smile again. “Feel free to close at four. See you tomorrow.”

She watched the older woman leave, not believing that line about finalizing other cases. When Val first started here, the agency carried ten to twelve cases, easy. Currently there were three open cases, two of which were on hold while lawyers decided whether to go to trial. The third involved pulling court records, which took an hour or two. If anything, the agency needed more cases.

No, Jayne was hiding something. From the recent tiredness in her face and the weight loss, Val wondered what her boss was going through. A death in the family? A financial setback?

She glanced at the crystal figurine. This small object had always seemed too fragile in an office furnished with a heavy wooden desk, bookcases, a grandfather clock and scuffed hardwood floors. The birds obviously held deep meaning. Shame Jayne didn’t take it home with her, both for its safekeeping and her own comfort.

Val looked at the picture of her nanny on the corner of the desk. Her grandmother—smiling, her white hair freshly curled, wearing her favorite blue dress—stood in front of her tiny antiques shop, Back in Time Antiques, on Chartres Street in the French Quarter. When Val was growing up, she had commuted with Nanny to the shop from their house in the Ninth Ward, the only home Val had ever known before Katrina.

She had brought the photo to work maybe for the same reason Jayne kept the figurine here. Some objects carried too many memories to keep at home, where your mind could easily wander to the past, to what was lost and never found again.

* * *

T
HE
GRANDFATHER
CLOCK
chimed four o’clock. As the last metallic note faded, the front door opened and a woman walked in, her perfume smelling faintly like strawberries.

She wore a red halter dress, cut too low, and matching lipstick. Her chestnut hair hung sleek with straight-cut bangs that hovered over almond-shaped eyes. Most walk-ins looked embarrassed, nervous or dubious, but this woman looked determined or surprised, which could just be the unfavorable effect of those overarched Cruella eyebrows.

Without a word, she sat in one of the guest chairs and crossed her slim legs. Val took note of strappy Badgley Mischka sandals, which she guessed were the real deal based on the monster-size bling on the woman’s ring finger.

“My name Marta,” she said, rolling the
r
in her name. “My fiance, I think he cheats. I want you to find out.”

Val tried to place the thick accent. Romanian? “I’m sorry,” she said, “but we’re currently not accepting any new cases.”

Under a veil of thick black lashes, a pair of hazel eyes coolly assessed Val. After a beat, she reached into her purse and extracted a wad of bills bound with a rubber band.

“I pay thousand dollars.” Which sounded like
I pay zouzand dolarz.
She set it on the edge of the desk.

“I’m sorry, but—”

“Tonight,” Marta interrupted, “I know where he goes. I give address, you see if he cheats.”

This woman did not want to take no for an answer.

Val recalled the name of the P.I. she’d looked up earlier. “Bert Warner, just a few blocks away, handles infidelity cases. I can get you his number—”

“No man investigator. Want you to dress up, see if he flirts with you.”

“Sorry, that’s a honey trap, and we never do those.” She was being good reciting the party line, but dang, this kind of work could be profitable.

“Honey trap,” Marta repeated slowly, then smiled, as though liking how the word tasted. She pulled out
another
wad of bills and set it on the desk. “Two thousand.”

This is how it would be someday when Val ran her own agency. A client would walk in, discuss their problem and Val could say yes, I’ll take your case. And she’d do one helluva good job, too.

She stared at the two grand, cash.

What was so wrong with honey traps anyway? Jayne talked about lawyers attacking the evidence, but wasn’t that what lawyers did in courtrooms for any type of case? Didn’t mean honey trapping was
illegal.
Cops did it, other P.I.s did it.

Jayne was also an older woman. Obviously she couldn’t conduct a honey trap herself. But Val was young, could pull it off. She had learned a lot watching all those hours of
Honey Catchers.

No. She had to stop thinking this way. She had to abide by agency policy. Rules were rules. Even if she disagreed with some of them.

She stared at the wads of bills. Two grand,
cash.

Enough to cover a new fuel pump, brakes, with plenty left over to toss into the kitty for the day when she moved out of her cousin’s place into her own.

Marta leaned forward, emotion shining in her eyes. “I come to United States from Russia. I clean houses, make better my English. Now I work in dress store, want to have own business someday. Did not want to fall in love, but…” She shrugged. “He ask me to marry. I say yes, then I hear about other women…” Her chin trembled.

Val nudged the tissue box toward her. “Maybe,” she said gently, “you should talk to him. Tell him what others have told you.”

Marta took a tissue, dabbed the corner of her eye. “
Da.
Yes. I do. He say no, people lie.” A tear spilled down her cheek. “I must know. Please. Help me.”

Boy, oh, boy, could Val relate to starting over. After Katrina, starting over became the story of her life. After a short stay in the Superdome, Val had relocated to Houston, where FEMA paid her rent for a studio apartment while she looked for work. Maybe if she had felt connected to the city, or at least
known
somebody, it might have worked out. But there were days she hadn’t even been able to get out of bed, much less tackle job hunting. When she moved to Las Vegas, at least she had family, but it was still tough learning her way around a new city, finding a job, making friends.

If she had also been forced to learn a new culture and language, she would have lost her marbles.

“I’m sorry. It must have been very difficult.”

“I don’t want person…persons…to know I hire private eye.” Marta leaned forward and whispered, “Only you and me to know.”

Val blew out a pent-up breath. It’d be sweet to drive her air-conditioned car again. No more walking in summer triple-digit heat, fighting for seats on crowded buses. She stared at the money. The beauty of cash was nobody could trace it, and this being a one-time gig…she felt a stab of guilt at what she was thinking, but…Jayne would never know.

Besides, one day Val would own her own agency, and maybe she would accept the occasional honey-trap case. This was her chance to gain experience, something she’d never get while interning with Jayne.

“Just you and me to ever know,” Marta repeated.

Val glanced at the photo of Nanny. By the time she was fifteen, she and her grandmother had swapped their parent-child roles. Val grew accustomed to making decisions for the two of them, often on the fly. Sometimes it was like walking into mist—she might not be sure what her next step would be, but she would learn. Over time, when faced with a choice, she discovered she gained more by forging ahead than standing, undecided, at the crossroads.

She picked up a pen, shoving aside her niggling conscience. “I need to get some information, like where he’s going tonight, the type of car he drives…”

* * *

A
T
NINE
O’CLOCK
that night, Drake Morgan stepped from the air-conditioned strip club, Topaz, into the outdoor sauna called summer. In his thirty-two years born and raised in Las Vegas, he’d never grown accustomed to these mind-frying temps. But then, there was a lot he’d never been able to accept.

Like why his brother Brax—the manager of Topaz—kept associating with known criminals. Drake had checked the corporate papers for Topaz and discovered the club was owned by a corporation named Dusha, the same corporate entity that owned Braxton’s luxury condo. Drake ran the word
Dusha
through an online translator and learned it meant “soul” in Russian.