Page 30

A Real Looker

The first thing that struck Padma about Brenda Chavez, the casino’s new director of security, was: they were the same height and Brenda wore sensible shoes.

Sturdy, black leather oxfords with thick crepe soles.

The kind of shoes Padma imagined those elderly female sleuths in English detective TV shows wear as they ride their bicycles around the village square on the way to the church garden party, where a corpse is tucked behind the rosebushes.

Yet even in flat Doc Martens, Brenda exuded a calm, confident, commanding air.

No wonder Hank hired her.

Hank had slid the folder holding Brenda’s résumé across Padma’s desk, and she had glanced at it, noting the degree in criminology and her experience as a private investigator.

There had been letters of recommendation from the local police chief, several area lawyers, and two judges.

Well, if Hank was happy, Padma was happy.

The boob generally hired well.

Having left the crowded funeral reception upstairs, Padma struggled to keep stride with Brenda.

Taking careful steps, she peered into every doorway as they walked along the slippery floor, through the maze of basement hallways, past the casino bank, and to the maintenance room, where she’d had the offending slot machine hauled.

Padma was impressed that Brenda, with barely a week on the job, knew her way around so well.

Additionally, whenever they encountered staff, Padma noted how they greeted Brenda by name, stepped aside for her, opened the door, picked up a pen she dropped.

The little things that showed she was already receiving the respect Padma kept hoping she’d find for herself.

As Brenda pushed through a fire door, she asked Padma, over her shoulder, “Are you looking for something?”

Padma flinched.

She’d tried not to be obvious as she’d scanned the floor.

“I, I, uh, I lost an earring down here a couple of weeks ago.

I keep thinking it’ll turn up somewhere.”

Brenda had seemed satisfied with her answer and nodded.

The two women came to stop in front of metal doors with a small, wired window that neither of them was tall enough to see through, although Padma, in her four-inch heels, had a fighting chance.

Brenda swiped the lock with the key card from around her neck.

There was a click, and she pushed the door open.

Padma hadn’t been in the room before.

It was a large, cavernous space, painted gray all around—walls and ceiling.

Tiled floor.

Fluorescent lights hung like piano keys along the ceiling, emitting their telltale, barely audible buzz.

Padma knew this lighting made her look sallow, but fortunately, there were no potential husbands here.

A few doors led off the room, and through a wall of windows to the side was a lunchroom with a kitchenette, four side-by-side vending machines, and a long table surrounded by several chairs.

In the center of the main room stood the offending slot machine.

Padma frowned, folded her arms, and circled and studied it.

It was just a machine.

Unplugged now, merely a metal cabinet with buttons, a dark screen, and plastic signage.

Yet if someone had been stealing from the casino, it held the answers. Maybe.

“How can we tell who had access to it?”

Padma asked.

Brenda swung open the door.

About a foot from the floor, amid a myriad of wires, a niche held a small booklet.

“Dates and times of maintenance are recorded here, and initialed.

Virtually all the initials are DB, that would be Dave Brand—”

Padma’s head jerked up.

“Dave Brand? The slot tech who died.

That makes sense.”

She studied the pages to see if there were any other initials, but only a few here and there.

Must have been when he was on vacation.

And then, of course, after his final entry, the day of his death, other initials appeared.

Padma mused.

“He was a real looker.”

“Really?”

Brenda seemed intrigued.

Padma perked up at the opportunity to dish.

“Oh my gosh.

I don’t remember seeing him in person, but I’ve seen pictures of him.

Tall, well built.

Nice smile, chiseled jaw.

He was old, like, in his sixties, probably close to retiring, but whoa, I bet he was something when he was younger.

I was actually just looking at pictures of him, when he was probably about forty, upstairs at Hank’s funer—”

Padma felt her scalp tighten.

If someone was ripping off the slot machines, it was probably Dave Brand.

He had unlimited access.

But could he have done it alone? Why would Hank lie about knowing him? Dave and Hank both died in horrible accidents weeks apart.

Could the looker and the boob have done it together?

Goosebumps rippled up her arms.

Padma looked to her left, then to her right.

She checked the door behind her, ensuring it was only her and Brenda in the room.

Brenda was thumbing through the maintenance booklet.

Could anyone else have figured this out, or just her?

If Padma blew open some huge casino robbery ring, she’d be legendary.

Finally, she’d be respected.

Even by her mother.

She’d be able to call off The Matchmaker.

If there was something happening here, and if she cracked it open—after just two months on the job—there’d be no stopping her.

How to proceed?

“Can we get the inside of the machine fingerprinted?”

Padma asked.

“Do you want me to bring in the police?”

“No! No police! We’ll handle this internally.”

If what Padma was thinking had actually happened, the police would be the last people her mother would bring in.

Padma knew how her mother would handle this. Quietly. And decisively.

Her mother would call in her professionals.