Chapter Sixteen
Jagger
“Jagger? Phone call.”
Denise stood in the breakroom doorway as I waited for the coffee maker to finish spewing my morning jolt of caffeine.
“Thanks, Denise. Do you know who it is?” I hoped it was Bailey, though he’d probably call my cell phone if he wanted to talk.
“Detective Spitzer with LVPD Narcotics.”
I nodded and grabbed my coffee to head back to my desk to take the call. I hoped Spitzer had some news for me.
The weekend had been long, but thanks to Dixie, I wasn’t too lonely. I spoke with Bailey several times about what was going on in Carson City, and I could tell he still wasn’t satisfied with his progress in finding out what was happening with his brother.
He’d hinted that someone close to the governor might have something to do with the blackmail threat, but he didn’t come right out and say who. I was suddenly very worried about him.
I picked up the receiver and hit the blinking light. “Jagger Hansen.”
“Hey, Hansen, it’s Spitzer. I have some news for you. I went to the evidence locker and pulled the used Chimi handbag. There was nothing inside it when it was pulled from the trash can. The liner was ripped at the seam, which could mean there had been something inside, under the liner.
“I’m going to the shop where the bag was stolen from to talk to the manager. I’m hoping to look inside a handbag like the one we have in evidence so we can get an idea of what it should have looked like.” Sounded simple enough.
“Want someone to come along?” I was itching to figure out this whole thing.
“I wouldn’t mind the company. Meet me there in half an hour.” He hung up, clearly not well-versed in telephone etiquette. I hung up the receiver, shaking my head.
If I could get Spitzer to put me in touch with Boyd Newton, could I get the guy on the phone with Bailey? Maybe Boyd had information Bailey could use?
Dixie was in the break room, napping in her large bed after having already eaten her breakfast. I’d taken her for a long run early this morning before the sun made the asphalt and concrete hot enough to burn her feet.
I considered getting a treadmill to put in the garage next to Bailey’s bike so Dixie could get exercise whenever the streets were too hot for her to run outside. It probably wouldn’t hurt me to use it as well.
Fitz touched my shoulder. “How was your weekend? Is Bailey coming back anytime soon?”
“Not yet, but I’m hoping soon. Do you think Sawyer could come by my house and start Bailey’s bike? Maybe he could take it for a short spin to keep it in good shape for when he gets back? I know absolutely nothing about motorcycles.”
Since Sawyer belonged to a motorcycle club, I didn’t think it was an unusual thing to ask of him. What was in it for him, though, to come out to my place near the mountains when they lived closer to the office?
“If he agrees, I’ll grill some steaks and make a salad for dinner. I’m afraid that’s the extent of my cooking talent.” An offer of dinner might sweeten the pot.
Fitz grinned. “I’ll call him. Do you want him to do it tonight? He’s working the midnight shift at the dispensary the rest of the week. One of the managers is out of town.”
“Okay. If he’s agreeable, shoot me a text. I’m heading to The Strip for a meeting with Detective Spitzer. It’s about Maria Ramirez.”
Fitz stood. “Maria Ramirez? You mind if I tag along?”
“No. Not at all. We can have Denise forward any bail calls to us. Any word from Sparky about how things are going in Florida?”
I didn’t really understand why it was so important for the three of them to go to Florida on such short notice. Sparky mentioned it had something to do with an arson case he’d worked on before he moved to Las Vegas. There wasn’t a lot more said about it.
“Denise, Jagger and I are going down to The Strip. Do you mind forwarding any bail calls to us? We’ll be back in time to take over the phones so you can go to lunch.” She nodded.
Fitz then turned to me. “Ready?”
I grabbed things from my desk and walked to Denise’s. “Dixie has been fed and walked. I’ll take her out when I get back. We went for a long run this morning, and she’s probably tired.”
“Got it. Be careful. If we get any calls, I’ll let you know.”
Fitz opened the door, and we headed out into the heat. I walked toward my truck, but Fitz laughed. “Hell no. I’m not riding with your cheap ass. It’s too hot to go without air conditioning. I’ll drive.”
“It’s not because I’m cheap, jackass. It’s because I like the fresh air.”
Fitz started the truck and cranked up the A/C. He laughed as we drove along South Rainbow to West Russell Drive. After a few minutes, he made a left onto South Las Vegas Boulevard, and we were thrust into the morning traffic on The Strip.
“Sawyer texted that he’ll be happy to come for dinner tonight. He’s more than willing to check out Bailey’s bike for you.”
“Great. Thank you, Fitz. I truly appreciate it.”
Fitz maneuvered the truck behind the fancy casinos on Las Vegas Boulevard and into a parking garage. We made our way to the resale shop where we were meeting Ms. Baker, the store manager.
“Welcome to Chloe’s Closet. How may I help you?” a young woman asked.
“Hello. Is Ms. Baker available?” The young woman looked at both of us with confusion.
“Detective Spitzer and Agents Hansen and Morgan for Ms. Baker. We have an appointment.”
Spitzer stuck out his hand. “Fitz. Good to see you.”
Before he could shake my hand, a middle-aged woman approached us. “Gentlemen. If you’ll follow me.”
We followed her through a white door and down a hallway to an office. There, a tall, elegant woman stood with a red handbag. “Good day. Detective Spitzer, here is an identical handbag to the one the woman shoplifted.”
She handed it to Spitzer, and he opened it with the gold double-C clasp. He examined the red lining inside, and I noticed it was loose.
“The lining was ripped right here.” Spitzer pointed out the seam along the bottom of the bag.
“You couldn’t fit much money or drugs in there. It would hardly make it worth stealing the purse, wouldn’t it?” Fitz had good instincts. He must have been a hell of a US Marshal.
“What else would be valuable enough to steal a—” I reached for the handbag and flipped the price tag. “Whoa! Do you sell a lot of these?”
All three of us gasped in unison. “Two thousand dollars?”
Ms. Baker smirked. “If it were brand new, off the shelf, it would be eight thousand. Clearly, not for the faint of heart. But yes. Those purses aren’t easy to come by.
We resell at a discount, based on our assessment of brand, model, condition, and market demand.
These particular handbags are no longer produced, so the demand is higher than many others on the market. ”
“Seriously?” Ms. Baker only nodded.
As I looked at the size of the bag, I decided whatever had been in that thing had to be small.
It was a fancy evening bag with just enough space to hold a few things: lipstick, powder, maybe a credit card.
I remembered that much because it was what my mother would carry in her evening bag when she and my father went out.
“Ms. Baker, may I ask what you think would fit inside that lining?” Spitzer asked.
“Not much. Some small paper notes, maybe? Cash? Perhaps a key? That’s about it, I think.”
I glanced at Spitzer before smiling at Ms. Baker. “Thank you for your time.”
The three of us left the store and walked to a table near a coffee cart. We sat, and Fitz and I stared at Spitzer.
“I have no idea what the hell would have been in that purse.”
I wasn’t sure if I could believe Spitzer’s bullshit. The guy was a detective, but he could have been playing with us to see if we knew something we hadn’t told him. Hell, if I were still in law enforcement, I probably would have made the same play.
I had a thought. “Do you think they keep records on how you get these items to sell? Are they on consignment, or does the store buy them outright and sell them, keeping the money?” Seemed like an avenue that hadn’t been explored.
Spitzer perked up. “Yeah. I’m going back in.”
I wasn’t going to be left behind. We followed Spitzer back into the store and found Ms. Baker returning the purse to the shelf.
“Ms. Baker, one more thought. Do you have any records for the purse we have in evidence? If so, I’d like to have copies. I didn’t see anything else in the evidence bag.”
Ms. Baker rushed away and returned a moment later with a copy of a receipt for the purchase of the purse. Unfortunately, the name of the person who sold the purse was left blank.
I turned to Spitzer. “How’d Maria get caught?” I had a feeling Maria wasn’t the one to rip that lining.
Spitzer pulled out his phone and seemed to scroll for a minute.
“A clerk gave a statement that she noticed Maria didn’t have her purchase in a bag when she walked out.
The clerk called mall security, and they came along just as she tossed the handbag into a trash can.
They asked her to show them a receipt, but she didn’t have one, and she said the Chimi bag wasn’t hers.
They got it out of the trash can and called unis. ”
We left the store and returned to our table at the café. Maybe I was making a mountain out of a molehill? “What do you think?” I asked Fitz.
“Where did Maria work?” He aimed his question at Spitzer.
“Uh…” Spitzer pulled out his phone and scrolled through it for a moment. “Horseshoe Casino as a cocktail waitress.” He glanced up at Fitz and me, likely trying to gauge our interest.
Fitz chuckled. “Back when I was a marshal in the Dallas field office, there was a case with a smash-and-grab gang. The group was a dozen or so men and two women we knew about.
“It all involved sending information the old-fashioned way—paper and pen. The store employee would get a call from a burner phone. It was the location scout—whom we never caught and nobody was ever able to identify—relaying the location of the next robbery.