Casino Girl

  Casino Girl

  A Novel

  Leslie Wolfe

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Odds

  Assignment

  Crime Scene

  Witnesses

  Roxanne

  Background

  Internal

  Preliminary Findings

  Family

  Dinner

  Night Caller

  Fire

  Evidence

  Anxiety

  Profile

  The Chip

  Postmortem

  Entangled Leads

  Schoolyard

  Sister

  Threats

  Testimony

  Plans

  Suggestion

  Recon

  Suspicions

  Identity

  Ready

  Roulette

  Extracurricular

  Backfire

  Conversation

  Deal

  Paul

  Ellis

  Tennis

  Findings

  Truth into Lies

  Money Talks

  Questioning

  Poison

  More Money

  Terms

  Suspects

  The Pilot

  Mrs. Bennett

  That Night

  Takeoff

  Empathy

  One Question

  Interrogation

  Thank You!

  Connect with Me!

  Preview: Las Vegas Crime

  Gone

  Preview: Dawn Girl

  About the Author

  Books by Leslie Wolfe

  Acknowledgments

  A special thank you to Mark Freyberg, my New York City authority for all matters legal. Mark’s command of the law and passion for deciphering its intricacies translates into zero unanswered questions for this author. He’s a true legal oracle and a wonderful friend.

  A warm thank you to Jessica Berc, whose sense of style and knowledge of fashion brings vivid colors to my favorite characters. Jess uses fashion to complement personalities and bring dimension, and glamour, to everyday attire.

  If anyone knows Vegas, that’s Bill Zimmer, whose entire career was spent on the casino floors, learning the games, running the games, mastering the games. My warmest thanks for his willingness to teach me the specifics I needed to know to make my story come to life with full, authentic Vegas shine.

  Odds

  They’re called quasi-strippers.

  They don’t really bare it all, like real strippers do behind the darkened glass doors of specialty adult clubs, but they aren’t exactly fully dressed either while they perform.

  Crystal preferred the term exotic dancer. Five nights a week she took the small stage at the center of the high-limit blackjack tables, in the glamorous Scala Casino. Five nights a week she danced and smiled and undulated her perfect body to the rhythm of sultry songs, carefully chosen to lure the gamblers’ attention away from the cards and the ever-diminishing stacks of their chips. In the background, nothing is more Vegas than the Scala Casino floor, filled with a million noises, dazzling lights, and excess adrenaline. Nothing is more alive.

  That’s where she belonged, among the glitter and the gold, the glitzy and the rich.

  She wore strappy lingerie with black and gold lace accents on beige silk, designed to trick the mind’s eye into believing she was naked. Black, knee-high stiletto boots completed her attire; her black, garter-belt straps attached to them, sexy and kinky and fun. The appreciative looks she basked in that night told her she’d chosen her ensemble well. It was going to be a profitable evening.

  The familiar music seemed a bit too loud, making her wince, a little dizzy. She grabbed the pole tighter, aware she was dancing out of rhythm, but knowing the customers were too far gone to notice. It was almost four in the morning, and by that time, most of them were pleasantly inebriated, high on their own excitement and maybe more, living the Vegas dream.

  The only danger was that asshole, Farley, a fat, lewd pig who liked to scream at the girls, giving them a hard time for everything they did, right or wrong regardless. Two minutes of being late or changing clothes mid-shift and she’d get pulled inside the pit manager’s office for another scolding session.

  But she held her head up during those moments, aware they were going to pass and even more aware they were meant to intimidate her into offering sexual favors in return for a privileged work atmosphere.

  Oh, hell, no.

  Not ever. Not even if the prick turned blue in the face from too much screaming, or his waiting-to-happen stroke knocked him dead right before her eyes.

  But even Stan Farley was looking away that moment, focused on a newly arrived high roller who’d taken a seat at one of the blackjack tables with a view of the stage. She didn’t know that one, but judging by the way Farley fawned over him, he must’ve been someone important.

  Someone rich.

  Someone who didn’t care that the odds at his blackjack table were stacked higher against him, just because the table came with a view of full, inviting cleavage and tight little buns.

  Hers.

  She felt beads of sweat bursting at the roots of her hair and forced some stale air into her lungs. Maybe the air conditioning was off, or something. The cigar smoke made it nearly unbreathable, but it was an acceptable tradeoff for being allowed to work the high roller pit, not some fifty-cents-minimum roulette floor, where the tips were always Washingtons, never a Franklin and rarely a Lincoln, and not a whole lot of them to count at the end of a shift anyway.

  No, she’d been lucky, and her luck had started to play in her favor about a month after she’d been hired. For that she had Devine to thank.

  Her sweaty palms made it difficult for her to get a good grip on the shiny, chrome pole, but she managed a back-hook spin and landed facing Devine. Her best friend danced some thirty feet away, on a small, elevated stage set among four high-limit roulette tables.

  She waited until she could make eye contact with Devine and waved discreetly at her best friend. Just seeing her smile back made her feel less lonely, less vulnerable. Maybe she was going to be okay. Maybe things would work out after all.

  Without realizing, she put her palm on her belly in a soft, caressing gesture, aimed to comfort the tiny sparkle of life growing inside her. She wasn’t showing a baby bump yet, but soon that would change, and with it, her entire life as she knew it.

  She skipped out of rhythm again, but soon snapped out of her trance, motivated by Farley’s mean glare. She focused on her customers for a while and, within a few minutes of smiling provocatively and wiggling her rear, a crisp fifty-dollar bill landed under the thin strap of her thong, delivered by long, hairy fingers that reached lower and lingered longer than was necessary.

  Sometimes she was happy the payout was 6:5 instead of 3:2 on a blackjack at the tables facing her; those jerks deserved to bleed.

  But she smiled at the man who’d delivered the tip and mocked a reverence without letting go of the pole. Then she let herself fall into a back bend and frowned when she saw Farley was approaching.

  “What the hell is wrong with you, huh?” he snapped, after grabbing her arm and pulling her close. The music was loud, and no one could hear his words; not that anyone would care if they did. “Could you be bothered to do your job tonight? A deaf penguin has more rhythm than you.”

  “I’m working it, Stan, what the hell? I haven’t taken a break in two hours.”

  “The hell you are, bitch. You see those bozos? If they’re looking at their cards instead of your ass, you ain’t earning your keep.”

  He let go of her arm and disappeared before she could say anything. He was a two-faced creep; with her and the ot
her girls he showed his real charm. For all the patrons and the rest of the Scala staff, he was a perfect gentleman, always dressed in an impeccable suit and starched, white shirts, pleasantly smiling and accommodating.

  She knew better than to let him get under her skin.

  But her head was spinning, and she held on tight to the pole, not as part of her routine, but for much-needed balance. The music changed, and she welcomed the new beat, one of her favorites. She knew the playlist by heart; the casino had a limited supply of premixed tracks, but the customers didn’t seem to care.

  Cheers erupted at the table in front of her, and one of the players lifted his arms in the air, beaming. The croupier pushed an impressive pile of chips in front of the man, and she quickly flashed her megawatt smile and made lingering eye contact. He didn’t disappoint; he picked one of the chips and sent it flying her way. She caught it gracefully, then placed it on the floor, next to the pole. Her barely there panties weren’t made to hold casino chips.

  When she looked up, she startled.

  It was him. It was Paul, and he was furious, by the angle of his eyebrows, by the deep ridges flanking his mouth.

  He stood right there, next to her stage, glaring at her with a loaded gaze filled with such hatred that her breath caught. He beckoned her to come closer without making a single gesture. She approached him hesitantly and crouched to bring their eyes on the same level, aware not even Farley would dare say a word. She shot a quick glance toward Devine’s stage, but she was gone, nowhere in sight.

  His eyes drilled into hers, close enough she could see his dilated pupils. Without a word, he shoved a purple and white chip deep inside her bra, then grabbed the thin strap, pulling her closer to him. He said something, keeping his voice low and menacing. She couldn’t make out his words but didn’t dare to ask. She wanted to explain herself, wanted him to understand her motives, but she couldn’t find her words.

  She didn’t want his money, and she didn’t deserve his anger.

  When he finally let go of her strap and pushed her away, she almost fell. Her knees were shaking, and she felt the urge to sit for a moment, to catch her breath. She grabbed the pole tightly and did a clumsy back slide against the shiny surface, landing hard on her butt, then folded her legs to the side. She let her head hang low, and her long, wavy hair covered her face, hiding the fear in her eyes until it subsided a little.

  Then she wrapped her hands around the pole again, planning to stand and do a pirouette, but her arms and legs felt numb, listless. She tried to breathe, but air refused to enter her lungs. Frantic, she looked around, searching for someone, anyone, who could help. Only one man was looking at her, but her desperate and silent plea was misunderstood.

  The man licked his lips, arranged his crotch with a quick gesture, then looked away at another dancer.

  She gasped for air a couple of times, then the bright lights of the casino seemed to dim, inviting darkness to engulf her view of the lively floor. Silence came, heavy, palpable. Against it, not even her own heart beats could be heard.

  Defeated, she let go. Her body landed on the stage floor with a loud thump that no one heard. Unnoticed, the white and purple casino chip fell out of her top and rolled onto the floor, stopping under a table.

  For a long moment, Farley thought the immobile pose was part of Crystal’s routine, some new dance move that she was trying. Customers really enjoyed seeing girls crawling on the stage; it made the viewers feel powerful, superior, in control. By the time Farley realized he’d been wrong, she was already gone. His chubby fingers felt for a pulse and found nothing.

  Now he’d have to call the cops and close the pit. His worst nightmare.

  Assignment

  I pulled into the familiar parking lot at the Henderson Police Department, then walked quickly toward the entrance, while memories flooded my mind. That modern building had been my precinct for years, before being transferred to the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department, Sector M. It felt familiar, yet strange somehow, already eroded, faded from memory, although it had only been a week since I’d moved.

  What a week that had been.

  I hadn’t even met my new boss, who happened to be vacationing in the Caribbean at the precise moment I reported for duty. I was going to meet him today; Captain Morales, the head of the Homicide and Sex Crimes Bureau of the Las Vegas Metro PD. Famous for his crime-clearing rate, the captain had a reputation for being a stickler for procedure.

  Fantastic. Just what I needed.

  He’d probably be thrilled to meet me, the disciplinary transferee who’s lucky she still had a badge. I cringed, and not even a deep breath of fresh, cold, desert air could scatter the gloomy thoughts that invaded my mind.

  As for my new partner, I didn’t even want to start. He’s a good cop but… How did I manage to get the relationship between us so bloody complicated in only one week? I had no excuse… I had years of experience as a homicide detective in Las Vegas, well, in the neighboring City of Henderson, but still. And that’s on top of the years I’d beaten the streets of my native London as a detective sergeant, then as the youngest inspector in the city’s modern history.

  Then, why did I feel like a rookie, like one who screwed up?

  Well, that’s because maybe I did.

  I let him get too close, and for that, there’s no logical explanation, no rhyme nor reason.

  Ah… Bloody hell.

  I shook off the feeling of uneasiness, straightened my back, and walked through the main door situated at the center of a façade made entirely of glass panels in a modern arrangement that reminded me of a barcode, of all things. I expected to see smiling faces greeting me as I crossed the lobby, but there were none. Most cops were out in the field already, and the receptionist was someone new. I actually had to show my badge and sign the registry, and she didn’t crack a smile the entire time. She sized me up with a quick look, head to toe, and only the faintest glimmer of envy lit her eyes before her self-imposed, cold indifference returned in full flux.

  “Detective Baxter, yes, I have you picking up Darrin Casarez,” she stated with the professional tone that receptionists always take with people they don’t know.

  She directed me, but I already knew where I was going. The perp, handcuffed and secured to the bench he was sitting on, shifted in place and rattled the chain that attached his cuffs to the bench when I approached.

  “Hola, bonita,” he called in a guttural voice, “set me free and I’ll be yours forever.”

  I stared blankly at him, while making an effort not to laugh. He was a skinny fellow with oily hair and numerous piercings, including a nose stud that sparkled, most likely a real diamond. Whenever I saw nose jewels, all I could think of was how were people managing such accessories when they caught a cold? Did it hurt when they sneezed?

  Seeing I had stopped in front of him, he continued his plea with increasing enthusiasm and dramatic inflexions worthy of a five-season, prime-time, soap opera. “I’ll do whatever you want me to do, okay? I swear… anything. Just break me out of these chains, te lo ruego!”

  He was the only detainee lined up for transfer to Central Booking, so I assumed he was Darrin Casarez, the cargo I’d been asked to haul over to my new precinct, just because I lived in Henderson and it was on my commute. I ignored his plea and walked over to booking, accompanied by his calls for help and mercy. Someone yelled, “Shut the hell up,” from the bullpen, but that only bought us a minute or two of silence. I signed him out and said goodbye to the booking clerk, one of the few who remembered who I was.

  Then I took out my handcuff key and approached Mr. Casarez.

  “Yes, yes,” he shouted, his pitch high with delight. “Yes, I’ll be your sex slave, do anything you want.” He grinned widely, showing two lines of small, crooked teeth.

  If he thought his banter was going to earn him anything but annoyed indifference, he was sorely wasting his breath. But then again, he didn’t strike me as the rational, thinking type, just the smar
t-assed, big-mouthed variety. He wasn’t much of a challenge, this bloke. He weighed maybe a buck-fifty or less, and was three inches shorter than me, even in my work flats. I had every reason to believe the transfer was going to be uneventful, albeit irritating, but Darrin Casarez had other plans.

  He watched me unlock his cuffs, getting ready to restrain him again with my own zip tie handcuffs, at which moment his grin died and his jaw slacked under the weight of disappointment, while a flicker of despair glinted in his eyes.

  “You a cop, bonita?” he asked quietly, disgust seeping through his voice. “What a waste of a fine piece of ass.”

  Then, lightning fast, he wriggled free from my grip and made for the exit. He stopped abruptly, practically tripping over himself, when he noticed a cop’s service weapon in an open drawer of a desk in the bullpen. He grabbed it with shaking, unsure hands, then he sprinted forward, quick as a rabbit.

  “Gun!” I yelled from the top of my lungs, giving the few people in the bullpen a heads-up. I cursed under my breath and ran after him, while an unwanted thought slowed me down, making me a little hesitant.

  Only last week I’d been transferred for beating a detainee while he was in my custody. The fact that I had a reason for it had made little difference; barely enough to keep me employed, on notice, and with a twelve-month reduction in pay. Hence, I thought I’d better not do any damage to Mr. Casarez, not put a single fingernail scratch on his face. Definitely not put a bullet anywhere in his body.

  Ah, the hell with it. That didn’t mean he got to play prison break on me before I had my first cup of tea for the day.

  “Freeze,” I shouted as I pulled out my gun, but he kept on going fast, halfway to the front door. I holstered my weapon, sprinted forward, and caught up with him just as he threw himself against the glass panels, bouncing off into a heap on the floor. He’d slammed against the wrong door, the one that is always locked. The gun he’d stolen clattered as it fell onto the tiles. I picked it up, secured it, collected my unruly cargo with a firm grip around his thin arm and slammed him against the wall. As I zip-tied his wrists behind his back, I uttered a few words only he could hear.