Page 28 of Your Every Wish

If it is, no one can accuse Willy Keil of being ostentatious. Or pretentious. “Where’s the address? I don’t see it.”

“Right there on the curb.” Emma pulls into the driveway.

I get out of the car and walk to the front curb. Sure enough, it’s the right address. I don’t know why but I’m overcome by disappointment. “Wow, it’s like a teardown.”

“It is not.” Emma turns to stare at the front facade of the house.

It’s a smallish, plain-Jane, white Spanish-style ranch, dwarfed even more by the mansions on either side of it.

Just your run-of-the-mill Vegas tract home.

The only thing it has going for it is its red tile roof, which lends it a modicum of vintage charm.

And, of course, the multimillion-dollar view.

The house is perched above the Pacific, and from the driveway I can see waves crashing on the shore below.

“Pull up the code.” Emma walks to the front door, impatient. “You got it?”

I find Mr. Townsend’s email once again, scroll down until I find the password he sent, and punch the numbers into the keypad. The door makes a beeping sound, and I can hear the deadbolt turning. It’s like any smart lock, except this one is monitored by the federal government.

Emma pushes the door open, and we go inside.

The foyer is empty but pretty with its Saltillo-tile floor and arched entryway into the living room, our next stop.

As I suspected, the view is unrivaled from more arched windows.

The windows remind me of a Taco Bell. The same Saltillo tiles are carried out in here too.

There’s a Kiva-style fireplace outlined in bright Mexican Talavera tile and a chunky wooden mantel and wooden ceiling beams. Other than those features, it’s your basic rectangular room with a few leather couches, a recliner chair, coffee table, and a big-ass flat-screen TV.

Our next stop is the dining room. The dining table—Spanish revival, if I had to guess—only seats four and seems disproportionate to the size of the room.

Not surprising that old Willy didn’t have many friends.

There’s a matching buffet against the wall.

The entire set could be an antique or a good knockoff, who’s to say?

We wander into the kitchen, which by today’s million-dollar-home standards is rather cramped.

No center island, no gleaming stone countertops (more Talavera tile), no state-of-the-art appliances.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s nice, lived in.

But for a guy who made his living gambling, I expected something showier.

Gold-gilded ceilings, museum-quality nude sculptures, Italian fountains.

I wonder if Emma is as underwhelmed as I am. Neither of us has said a word since we walked in. This was our father’s house. If we were expecting it to tell a story about the man, we were sorely mistaken.

“Is this what you thought it would look like?” I finally ask.

“I don’t know. Shall we continue to explore?”

I tacitly agree and we move on to the other side of the house.

The first room is clearly Willy’s office.

It’s torn apart. The feds clearly had a field day in here.

The faded spot on his desk where there must’ve been a computer is empty except for a rope of cords.

Files and paperwork are strewn across the floor and books have been knocked down from their shelves and are everywhere.

Emma picks up a heavy bound one and studies the spine.

A photograph of an old woman leans against the wall on the floor underneath a wall safe that’s been opened. Inside, the shelves are bare except for a watch, a ring, and a photo album.

“Should we take them?” I assume the watch and ring are worth something.

Emma doesn’t answer, she’s too busy studying the picture of the old woman. “Who do you think this is?”

“I have no idea. Would your mom know?”

“Maybe. We can start a pile on the desk.” She gingerly places the picture there.

I add the ring, which has some kind of insignia on it, and the watch.

“What about the photo album?” Emma asks.

“Oh, right.” I take it from the safe and put it next to everything else.

Emma reaches out to touch a crocheted Afghan that’s folded over a wine-colored leather wing chair, then picks it up and sets it on the pile. There’s not much trunk space in my car and I wish she would save it for the good stuff.

I zoom in on a collection of crystal glassware on one of the shelves of the built-in wet bar.

They’re monogramed with Willy’s initials, probably a gift.

One of his fans from the gambling world might be willing to pay big bucks for them.

I gather them up and put them with our collection.

At least the Afghan will help cushion them in the car.

A couple of framed photos have been knocked into the sink; one of them is of a man who resembles Willy, at least according to the pictures I’ve seen of my late father.

Emma watches me as I study the photo. “It’s his brother. He called me once, looking for Willy. My hunch is he needed money; he had that desperate thing going on.”

“How did he find you?” I wonder if he even knows I exist.

“I assume a Google search. I’m easily found.”

Right, her advice column.

“He probably tried to find my mom but got me instead,” Emma says.

“What did you tell him?”

“That I hadn’t seen Willy since I was three. That his guess was as good as mine of where Willy was. He didn’t even bother to ask about me, how I was doing, or any of the things you would ask a niece.” She gives a nonchalant shrug, but it’s got to hurt.

“Let’s check out the primary.” I lead the way to the end of the long hall, assuming that’s where whatever fits the key will be.

Every room has a better view than the last and Willy’s bedroom is no exception. I bet if I opened the window I could hear the sea.

“Oh boy,” Emma says.

“Yeah, the feds did a number in here.”

The box spring and mattress set has been pulled off its frame and cut open with a knife. Lord knows what they were looking for that Willy would’ve hidden in his bed.

More books are scattered across the floor, some with the pages torn out.

His dresser drawers have all been ransacked, his underwear and socks dumped in a heap in the corner of the room.

His walk-in closet is in even worse shape with suits, shirts, and ties flung far and wide, some torn.

Even his shoes are in disarray. Any hope of salvaging his designer wardrobe is completely dashed.

“Why did they have to be so careless with his things?” I say more to myself than to Emma.

“They were probably just trying to be thorough. But yeah, it feels pretty hate-filled.”

“Why? It wasn’t as if he murdered someone. He acted on a stock tip, for God’s sake. I’m not saying that what he did isn’t gaming the system or fair”—I gaze around his trashed closet—“but this seems like overkill.”

Emma picks up a sports jacket from the floor and rehangs it. “There’s a possibility they were looking for something else. Bookmaking is illegal in California. Perhaps they thought he was running an operation out of his home.”

“I doubt it. He was too smart for that. Besides, if he was, why live in Vegas half the year?”

She turns in place. “He sure had a lot of clothes for a guy who was a recluse.”

I reach for a sweater under a couple of pairs of shoes. Cashmere. I try to flatten out the wrinkles with my hands. “Is it worth taking any of this stuff?”

“We should donate it to the Goodwill or one of those organizations that help unemployed men find jobs.”

Leave it to Emma. Miss Do-gooder. “I don’t know how you and I are even related.”

“Kennedy, you’re a good person masquerading as someone who doesn’t give a shit. But I’m on to you.” She grins.

“And you’re delusional. Come on, let’s explore the backyard.”

There’s a set of French doors from Willy’s bedroom that opens onto a patio. There’s no infinity pool, just a garden-variety kidney-shaped one. They’re a dime a dozen in Vegas.

“It doesn’t appear that the agents were interested in anything back here.” Emma steps closer to the pool.

“Looks like it could use some chemicals.” The water isn’t Jell-O green like the pool at Cedar Pines, but it needs a cleaning. “You think the pool boy was let go?”

“The entire staff. You see that over there?” She shields her eyes and I follow her direction across the expansive yard.

“Is that what I think it is?”

We walk around the pool and across the yard where the grass is nearly four feet tall to what is indeed a putting green.

“I knew he bet on golf, but I had no idea he played.” Then again, why would I?

“Hmm, I wonder where his clubs are. I didn’t see them in the house.”

“Probably the garage. Let’s find them.” I turn back.

The house has an attached four-car garage, which seems like overkill for the modest size of the home. But it’s here that I have the highest hopes. We have to go back inside to get into the garage because we don’t have a key to the exterior door, or the automatic opener.

We work our way to the laundry room, which connects to the garage. Expectant, this is where I hold my breath waiting to land the jackpot.

But the space is empty and when I say empty, there’s not so much as an oil stain on the epoxy floor.

“What? Wow.” I walk around the cavernous space, disappointment stabbing me in the gut. “You think the feds seized his cars, too?”

“Could be, but it does seem odd. Asset forfeiture usually involves property used or derived through a crime. I suppose if he bought the cars with the money he got from insider trading, they could take them. And Willy did love his cars. According to my mom, he loved cars as much as he loved gambling. He did get his start in the car business, after all.”

I stare up into the rafters. No golf clubs either. Not even a rake or a shovel. “Don’t they have to give us an inventory of what they took?”

“I would think so. But I’m hardly an expert in property seizures. We can ask Mr. Townsend.”