Free Mistletoe and Murder in Las Vegas by Colleen Collins Page A

the stars at the Clark County Defenders’ office. After observing one of Joanne’s courtroom arguments, a gushy Vegas Sun reporter wrote that her speech had been “transcendent.”
    However, at the moment she looked anything but transcendent. Red-faced, she cleared her throat while counting something with her fingers.
    “I’m so sorry…I thought…well, you see I just heard some of my friends had planned to surprise me with a stripper-gram…so I thought you were here to….” She touched her tongue in the corner of her mouth.
    “Strip,” he finished for her.
    Her head bobbed in agreement. “Unfortunately, I’m not prepared to meet potential clients today.” She stepped back and indicated the room. “As you can see, I’m in the process of moving in.”
    Packing boxes, piles of clothes and books surrounded a massive desk. He traced a sugary-sweet scent to a plate of cookies.
    He recalled reading that she had co-habitated with Clark County chief deputy defender Roger Montgomery for four years before moving out of his home a month ago, a date that coincided with her job termination. Obviously she was going through some tough times.
    “I’m not here as a client.” He pulled out his wallet and flashed his badge. "Steve McGill. ATF."
    Only agents’ ID numbers were on their badges, so he could fudge on the name. He closed his wallet and stuck it back in his pocket.
    She touched her neck. “Dressed like that ?”
    This morning he’d dressed in a Hawaiian shirt and khaki pants because he wanted to be comfortable for the five-hour drive from LA to Vegas, plus the weather forecast claimed warm temperatures, which had been true until a few minutes ago when chilly winds started moving in. He had also wanted to look non-threatening should he luck out and find Miss Galvin in her office.
    She gestured to his feet. "I've never met a federal agent who wore flip flops."
    "I've never met a criminal lawyer who asked me to show her my how-ya-doin’s.”
    She sucked in an indignant breath. "As I explained to you, Mr. McGill, I thought you had been hired to…you know.”
    He sensed Joanne Galvin was telling the truth that her pals had hired a stripper…what timing that he showed up instead.
    “Who are these friends?”
    A light wind blew past, scuttering twigs and leaves, and she wrapped her arms around her middle. “What does the ATF want with me and my friends?”
    “Sorry, I misspoke. I’m only interested in talking to you, Miss Galvin, and asking a few questions about Dita Randisi. Just a knock and talk.”
    A look of surprise, then interest, flitted across her face.
    "I'm not her lawyer."
    He believed her. "Did she fire you?”
    “No.”
    “What happened?”
    “Why don’t you contact Miss Randisi and ask her?”
    “I’d like to, but she’s turned off her cell phone service, and has moved out of her apartment. Any idea where she is?”
    She looked genuinely puzzled. “You sure she’s moved?”
    “According to her neighbor, yes.”
    After learning Dita had disconnected her phone, he guessed she had “disconnected” in other ways, too, such as hiding out at a family member’s place. Before he left LA, he called one of Dita’s neighbors, an elderly woman named Beverly Kaufman, and said he had been unable to deliver a package for several days to Dita and would Mrs. Kaufman mind signing for it? She said she would do anything “for that poor girl,” who had been hounded by reporters who had the gall to camp out on her doorstep, even hide in the bushes, but unfortunately she had no idea where Dita went, but someone must have taken her because her car was still parked in its space.
    “I represented her for the arraignment only,” Joanne said. “I am not in contact with her anymore.”
    Walking past Joanne’s older Dodge Neon earlier, parked in one of the two spaces outside her office, he noticed it leaked a pinkish substance, probably transmission fluid. Repairs like that were expensive. And although the