Fatal Fortune

  Scrutinizing the statement again, I saw that the last deposit was two days before Robinowitz died. It was the largest one at $9,999, just under the wire for the bank to report the deposit to the IRS.

  I stood up and began to pace the room, trying to work out what the heck was going on. And then I had it. Oppenheimer and Gould had suggested that Robinowitz was borrowing money from his buddy Kato, and if I wasn’t mistaken, they’d said that Kato owned a casino named Lucky Lou’s. And here in Robinowitz’s bank records was the apparent proof of that money changing hands. But what I couldn’t quite figure out was why Kato would agree to give Robinowitz the payments in such small doses. I could see Robinowitz wanting to avoid the detection of the IRS, but wouldn’t the small payments flag Kato’s accountants? It seemed an odd risk to take for a casino operator who had to know he was being watched by the Feds.

  Then I had to wonder if Kato had loaned his friend the entire lump sum to pay his back taxes, and Robinowitz was then just regular about making those deposits every Wednesday at four forty in the afternoon, but my radar kept discarding that idea. I felt strongly that Robinowitz was accepting small lump-sum payments of about twenty-five grand every Wednesday between three and four p.m., then heading to the bank to deposit the first part of that payment, and metering out the next payments when he had time over the weekend.

  “So why go to Austin?” I said as I continued to pace the floor. “What was in Austin, Dave? Candice? You two were seen together here in Vegas. If Candice had wanted to lure you there to kill you, why would she be so sloppy as to show up here in full view of your neighbors?”

  It seemed like a whole lot of work for Candice to put such a charade together when it would’ve been far easier for her to simply sneak over to the doc’s condo one night, kill him while he slept, then slip away unseen.

  None of what’d happened fit with the Candice Fusco I knew. If Candice really was a psychopath who’d somehow managed to fool all of us, who were trained and adept in the art of detecting deception, why would she be so sloppy about killing Robinowitz in plain view of surveillance cameras and attempting to kill Saline? She had to know we would’ve figured out the truth eventually. This just wasn’t Candice’s careful, methodical, well-planned style, and so many of her recent actions were so sloppy and out of character that I just couldn’t understand what the heck she was thinking.

  “And what did Saline have to do with all this?” I asked myself next. “What did a Realtor from Vegas have to do with any of this? Why would Candice lure her to Austin and set her up to take her place in the Porsche when it went over the bridge? Wouldn’t it be easier to find someone in Austin to set up?”

  I moved back over to the chair at the desk and with a sigh I sat down and went over the bank statement again, comparing it to the month before. What struck me as odd was that Robinowitz was taking in a lot of cash, but he hadn’t changed the monthly allotment to the IRS he paid regularly. The guy had had over a hundred grand in the bank, and yet, his most recent payment to them had been for that same five thousand dollars. Why hadn’t he sent in a larger payment when he had the cash on hand?

  I sat back in the chair to think over my next move. Today was Tuesday. I wondered whether if I went to Lou’s the next day, I might snoop around and find out a little more about those regular Wednesday meetings.

  “It’s risky,” I admitted aloud. “But worth a shot.” My mind made up, I stood and put all the old bank statements back, but took the new one with me, as I wanted to keep the evidence of my federal mail-opening crime out of sight.

  Grabbing my purse and my luggage again, I left the condo in search of yet another address.

  Chapter Ten

  • • •

  “Well, this can’t be right,” I said, pulling into the large parking lot of Big G’s, a midsized hotel casino just west of the Strip. I looked down at my phone, then up at the large brass numbers on the side of the white slab building. Still puzzled, I rummaged around in my purse and pulled out the bit of scrap paper I’d written Saline’s address on. The street address was a match.

  Frustrated, because clearly Oscar had given me the wrong address, I pulled farther into the lot and parked in the nearest space. I then called Oscar, but it went to voice mail. “Hey,” I said. “It’s Abby. Call me when you can, but be discreet. Don’t let IA know you’re calling me.”

  Hanging up the phone, I leaned back in the seat and waited impatiently. After ten minutes of staring at the phone, willing it to ring (if only my psychic sense could control minds!), I gave up and looked around.

  I felt a little exposed as I sat and waited for Oscar’s call, and thought several times about giving up and just heading back to the apartment Candice had rented, but something was keeping me there. So I stuck it out another half hour until my stomach gave a loud rumble.

  “Well, I gotta eat,” I reasoned. Starting the car, I backed out of the space and drove down the aisle toward the exit, but at the juncture I suddenly had the urge to turn left instead of right. Listening to that whisper of intuition (hoping it would lead me to a good cheeseburger or pizza joint), I turned left and followed the drive around the building to the other side, where there was an additional exit for the street around the corner from the one I’d come down, and right across that street was Lucky Lou’s.

  I stopped the car and stared. Lucky Lou’s was a casino of about the same size as the one I was about to exit. And right then I knew there was some kind of connection between Robinowitz and Saline, because it had to be more than a coincidence that the address that Oscar had given me for Saline and the casino that Robinowitz had frequented every Wednesday, where he collected payments from his buddy Kato, were directly across the street from each other. There had to be something more to it.

  I made a U-turn just in front of the exit and went back to park the car. The sun had nearly set, and business at Big G’s was starting to pick up. Once I’d found a space for the car, I grabbed my luggage to use as a prop and headed inside.

  The casino was fairly predictable: big interior with a low ceiling, filled with the echoing sounds of bells, whistles, and jingles as old folks sat in front of electronic gambling machines and played poker, blackjack, and whatnot.

  I took a whiff. The place smelled of cigarette smoke, spilled liquor, and desperation. It looked about as good as it smelled. The walls were a dark wood paneling, which hid the nicotine pretty well. A few waitresses walked around in formfitting miniskirts and low-cut blouses. They all seemed a bit annoyed, as if they’d been groped one too many times by the patrons, and you could see the dark glint in their eyes, like if one more dirty old man grabbed for their butt, they’d go waitress-postal on his ass.

  I moved through the first row of beeping, buzzing machines to the center of the main floor, which was outfitted with an oval bar. There was a big sign on the counter that read SMILE! IT’S HAPPY HOUR! A few people sat there, but no one looked happy. Least of all the bartender. Still, when he saw me with my suitcase, he pointed to his left. “Check-in is up the escalator.”

  “Thanks,” I told him, heading in the direction he’d pointed.

  I rode the escalator to the second floor and found this much more refined. The walls were painted an aqua green, offset by gold leaf crown molding and lots of white marble. For a minute I didn’t quite know what to do. I wasn’t about to “check in,” as I didn’t have a reservation, and no way did I want to stay at a noisy casino, but something on my radar had tugged me in here. Feeling a bit discouraged, I looked at Saline’s address again, and realized that she’d added what I’d thought was an apartment number.

  But the number listed didn’t make much sense, because it was room number 46E. A hotel of this size wouldn’t have rooms numbered like an apartment, would it?

  Wondering if maybe the concierge could help me, I took the bit of paper with Saline’s address on it over to him and he smiled as I approached. “Hi, there,” I
said. “I’m wondering if you might help me out. My cousin gave me this address when she told me to come see her, and I think there’s a digit missing, or maybe that E should be . . . I don’t know, a three?”

  I showed the paper to the concierge, and he said, “No, she got it right, ma’am. There are fifty condos in the hotel, and it looks like hers is on the top floor.” The helpful man then pointed across from us to a dimly lit corridor and said, “If you take that hallway all the way down to the other side of the casino, you’ll see a set of elevators dedicated to the condos. Just put in your code, and it will take you all the way up.”

  “My code?”

  The concierge cocked his head. “Yes, the security code. Didn’t your cousin give that to you?”

  “Uh, no,” I said, trying to look helpless and overwhelmed. “This is my first time in Vegas and Seely has never been great with the details, or answering her phone.” For good measure I held up my cell and wiggled it, like I was totally frustrated with her. “I mean, come on, cuz! Get it together for your favorite relative’s birthday visit!”

  “It’s your birthday?” the concierge asked.

  “Tomorrow,” I lied. Man, I was a lying savant today.

  The concierge seemed to take pity on me. “Punch in six-two-four when you get into the elevator, then hit the button marked E, and it’ll take you to your cousin’s floor.”

  I reached over and squeezed the kindly man’s arm, gushing with thanks, and then hurried off to find the elevator.

  About five minutes later I stepped out onto the top floor and looked around. The place was elegantly appointed with an off-white Berber carpet, cocoa-colored walls, and a deep espresso-colored chair molding. Along the walls were vintage photos of Vegas from the fifties and sixties, beautifully framed. And not a speck of dust anywhere.

  I went left from the elevator, down the corridor watching the numbers next to each door. At last I got to door number 46E and not knowing what else to do, I knocked. Of course there was no answer, but I’d been sort of hoping that maybe Saline had a roommate. Thinking this was a giant waste of time, I was about to turn away when my radar pinged and the memory of Bill reaching under Robinowitz’s flowerpot for the spare key floated to my mind. Curious, I dropped my gaze to the little welcome mat in front of Saline’s door. Could it really be that easy?

  I cast a glance up and down the corridor before bending down and lifting up the mat. There, shining up at me, was a silver key. “Wow,” I whispered, a little amazed at my good fortune. Inserting the key into the lock, I crossed my fingers and turned the lock. It gave way and the door clicked open.

  “It’s not really breaking and entering if there’s a key under the mat,” I told myself as I slipped inside.

  Flipping the switch next to the door, I sucked in a breath as the condo came to light. It was gorgeous. Lightly stained hardwood floors spread out underneath my feet, offset by an array of plush white lambskin rugs, and a seating area that was arranged like something right out of Architectural Digest. A plush, oversized white sofa and love seat dominated the space, with indigo blue pillows lining the backrest, and a lovely plum-colored throw over one arm of the sofa. The walls were painted a plum so light and soft it was almost translucent, and a tall tropical plant butted up next to a set of nearly floor-to-ceiling windows with an amazing view of the distant mountains to the right and a view of the Strip to the left. A galley kitchen was off the entryway, and I turned to admire its white windowed cabinets, stainless steel counters, and matching appliances. The energy felt feminine and so easy and carefree that I thought, if I’d never met Dutch, I could’ve lived in a place exactly like this.

  I moved through the condo to the bedroom, and was awed again. The walls were just a blush of color, tinted a shade of apricot. The bedspread was silk, pearly and white; it begged to be sat on. I indulged with a contented sigh. “I want to marry this bed,” I said, lying back to get the full experience. Closing my eyes, I thought, I’ll just lie here for a quick sec and then I’ll snoop around and head out.

  I’m not sure what time it was when I woke up. I only know that I was in the middle of a crazy dream where Candice pointed a gun at me and said, “It’s not how it looks,” right before she pulled the trigger. The second I jerked awake, I knew I wasn’t alone.

  For a solid minute I simply lay there, frozen in fright. The room was dark, so I couldn’t see much, and I didn’t want to make any moves that might indicate I wasn’t still asleep. Adrenaline flooded my system, and I felt the thud of my heart against my rib cage. For many seconds I tried to figure out where I was and who was in the room with me. My brain hit on the where first, and I wanted to slap myself for the stupidity of falling asleep in Saline’s condo. I knew I was tired when I sat down on the bed—I never should’ve laid back and closed my eyes.

  Still, all that regret wasn’t going to help me now—I had to figure out who was in the room with me and how the heck to get away without being thrown in jail, or out the window.

  Just as I had that thought, a light flicked on. I put a hand up to shield my eyes. I couldn’t pretend to be asleep any longer.

  “Who the hell are you?” a male voice demanded.

  I took a steadying breath and sat up. In the chair next to the bureau sat a man I thought was likely in his mid-to-late thirties, with slicked-back black hair, a gorgeous square face, and eyes so dark they were ebony. He looked a lot like Don Draper from Mad Men. “Kara,” I said, thinking I might as well stick to the fake name I’d used with Bill Cox.

  One of the man’s brooding brows arched skeptically. “That’s not what your driver’s license says.”

  Belatedly I realized he held my purse in his lap. “If you already know who I am, then why’d you ask?”

  The eyebrow dipped down again and I regretted my flippant reply. “What’re you doing here?” he said next.

  I scooted back on the bed a little. It was a stall tactic. The guy was giving off a dangerous vibe, and I was sorta hoping that he actually would call the police and have me thrown in jail, versus tossing me out that window. “I’m a friend of Saline’s,” I said, deciding there was nothing in my purse to indicate otherwise. “We met in real estate school a few years ago, before I moved to Texas.”

  “I’ve never heard her talk about you, Abigail Cooper from Austin,” he said.

  I cocked my head. “Oh yeah? And you’ve known Saline how long?”

  “Two years.”

  I shrugged. “Then you’ve known her long enough to also know that she’s pretty tight-lipped about her personal life.” I hoped I’d guessed her personality correctly, or at least given this guy pause before he decided to have me arrested.

  He pursed his lips, and I could tell I’d hit on the truth. “Okay, Abigail Cooper, friend of Saline’s, how’d you get in here?”

  “She gave me a key,” I said, and motioned to my purse, where I’d put the key from under the mat.

  Don Draper dug through my purse again and I had to fight against the urge to jump off the bed and grab my purse back. He came up with the key and his frown deepened. “When did she give you this?”

  “You ask a lot of questions for a guy who hasn’t even introduced himself yet.”

  He set my purse aside and withdrew a gun from under his jacket. “Sorry. The name’s Smith.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Smith, as in Smith and Wesson?”

  “So you’ve heard of me.”

  “You’re a popular guy.”

  “How’d you get the key?”

  “Like I said, Saline sent it to me.”

  “When?”

  I shrugged. “Maybe a week or two ago.”

  “Why?”

  “I was having a hard time getting over a breakup, and she suggested that I come out to Vegas for a couple of days to take my mind off it.”

  Draper pointed to the large emerald-and-diamond-encrusted wedding
band on my left hand. “A breakup? You and the hubby split?”

  I smiled wickedly. “No. But don’t tell my husband about my ex-boyfriend.”

  For the first time Draper’s hard expression softened, and he even gave in to a chuckle. “Yeah, okay. You’re just the kind of friend Saline would have.”

  “So where is she, anyway?” I asked, wondering if this guy, who seemed to know Saline intimately, would also know what’d happened to her.

  Draper’s expression became hard again, except for his eyes; they betrayed his worry. “Don’t know,” he said. “I was hoping you could tell me.”

  I pretended to look surprised. “What do you mean you don’t know? Aren’t you her boyfriend?”

  “Fiancé.”

  I waved a hand. “Whatever, Don Draper. I just want to know where she is.”

  “Don Draper?”

  “Saline told me you looked like the guy from Mad Men.” I was hoping to convince this guy that Saline and I were buds by dropping a few personal details that would be hard to refute.

  Draper rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Frank,” he said, pointing to himself. “But most people call me G.”

  I blinked. “As in ‘Big G’?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Ah. So you own the place.”

  “Didn’t Saline tell you that?”

  “Nope. She said you were rich, but she didn’t say you owned a casino.”

  “When was the last time you talked to her?”

  I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “Hmm, I think it was right after my boyfriend and I split up, so, maybe last week sometime.”

  “And that’s when she sent you the key?”

  “Yeah. I got it a few days ago wrapped in a note with her address on it.”

  Frank tucked his gun away, and inwardly I relaxed a little. “Did you call her to tell her you were coming?”

  “No. I wanted it to be a surprise. I found out how dumb that idea was when I got here and nobody was home.”