style="font-size:15px;"> “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.”
