Maria held her hand up to block the sun.
Vance Nixon lived in the last house on a cul-de-sac as far north as a person could live in Las Vegas and not be in the middle of the desert or on top of a mountain. The nearest business was a gun range, but truth be told, Vance could probably just hop the wall that surrounded his house and put up some targets and fire away. This house was the type of place a man lived when he wanted to be close enough to society to enjoy its luxuries but still far enough away that he could tell himself he was roughing it.
The house was well kept, two stories, brown. In the driveway was an RV. Parked in front of the house was a Jeep with oversized tires. Vance was the type of person who advertised how much he loved the outdoors.
Maria made her way up the driveway and headed for the front door. It opened as she climbed the steps, and Vance Nixon stepped outside. He was about six feet tall and approaching fifty years old, though he had the physique of a much younger man. His face betrayed his age though, weathered by all the time he’d spent in the sun. The dark tan of his face made his blue eyes shine all the brighter.
He asked Maria what he could do for her.
Maria showed him her badge and introduced herself.
“We are always happy to be helpful to law enforcement,” Vance said.
“That’s a relief. You might be surprised at the amount of resistance I face from most people,” Maria said.
“I would not be surprised at all. People have no respect anymore. Everything has just gone to shit, so what can I do for you?” Vance said.
“I was curious what services you did for Save Our Homes,” Maria said.
“Not sure I know what you’re talking about,” Vance said.
“You are Vance Nixon, aren’t you?” Maria said.
“Yes, I am.”
“Well, I came across a payment for three hundred thousand dollars that you received from a political group, Save Our Homes, and I was wondering what it was you were paid for,” Maria said.
“I’ll have to consult with my accountant,” Vance said.
“Wow, you must really be rolling in dough if you can’t even remember a three hundred K payment,” Maria said.
“I keep myself busy,” Vance said.
“What type of work do you do?” Maria asked.
“Consulting work,” Vance said.
“That’s a broad field. Encompasses a lot of different things,” Maria said.
“It does,” Vance said.
“Would you care to narrow it down?” Maria said.
“I would not,” Vance said.
Maria looked off at the mountain in the distance. Looked back at Vance. He was just standing there, same pleasant smile on his face, but his eyes had lost their friendliness.
“Your name came up in a missing person’s case, and I’m just trying to clear you,” Maria said.
“Who’s missing?” Vance said.
“I’m not at liberty to say,” Maria said.
“Well, when you are, you let me know.” He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a business card. “And here’s my phone number, so the next time you don’t have to drive all the way out here.”
As she drove away, her phone buzzed. Nazmul.
“Your friend, Mr. Vance, is a very careful man,” Nazmul said.
“I didn’t get that impression from him,” Maria said.
“Your impressions until this point haven’t proven themselves to be very well developed,” Nazmul said.
“Why do I talk to you?” Maria said.
“This man split the three hundred thousand dollars with someone else. He changed one hundred and fifty thousand dollars into Bitcoin and sent it to a cryptocurrency wallet. I have followed the transactions on the Blockchain. The money is sitting there in the wallet,” Nazmul said.
“Whose wallet is it?” Maria said.
“Impossible to know at this time. Whenever the person transfers the bitcoin to change it for real currency, we can find out who it is, but until then, there is nothing more that I can do,” Nazmul said.
“So why did you say he was careful?” Maria said.
“The man travels extensively but never takes a plane or a train or any other public transport. He only uses cash and has no credit cards. His only ATM transactions are in Nevada, so he stocks up on cash before going anywhere so no one can trace him by his banking activity,” Nazmul said.
“So, how did you know he was traveling?” Maria said.
“His wife has an Instagram account. Apparently, the husband doesn’t approve, and she keeps it hidden from him,” Nazmul said.
“That I believe. He definitely seems like the kind of guy a wife needs to keep things hidden from.”
“Did you learn anything useful from him?” Nazmul said.
“Not really. He wasn’t very forthcoming, but he also wasn’t surprised to be speaking with the police,” Maria said.
“So, you suspect he is involved in illegal things,” Nazmul said.
“Just unclear if they are tied to this case or not,” Maria said.
“That payment would seem to tie him,” Nazmul said.
“Maybe. Maybe not. There’s a guy, Pedro Morales. He works at a paper, the Las Vegas Register. You want to see if you can find anything out about him?”
“Is this man involved in Ariella’s disappearance?” Nazmul said.
Maria said she wasn’t sure and gave him Connor and Dillon’s information as well. Told him to look into them, too.
“You think I work for Google now?” Nazmul said.
“More or less,” Maria said. She hung up before he could make any more wise ass comments.
Maria pulled over at a taco truck and ordered two steak tacos and a mandarin Jarritos. She sat at a plastic table and ate her tacos. She wasn’t sure what to do next. Her phone buzzed. Her mother.
“Where are you?” her mother asked.
“Sitting at a table eating a taco in North Las Vegas,” Maria said.
“At least you are off the couch. Have you been by to see Michael?” her mother asked.
“He’s in ICU. No visitors still,” Maria said.
“I trust you are off doing what we talked about,” her mother said.
“I am.”
“Do you need anything?” her mother asked.
“Another taco, maybe,” Maria said.
“There’s no shortage of tacos in Vegas,” her mother said and hung up.
Maria finished her second taco and wiped grease off of her chin with a too thin white paper napkin. She balled up the napkin and the taco wrapper and threw it all in a metal trash can. The sun was low and setting on the west side of the valley.
Vance Nixon wasn’t the type of person she could intimidate. He was the type of person who would only say exactly what he wanted to say and would lawyer up at the earliest sign of trouble. So going back to speak with him again would be a waste of time. Patrick Miller was the same, too well connected to care about the questions of a regular police officer, and he probably had the connections to know that her career was in the crapper.
But Pedro.
Maria had been looking for him when Cassie had told her about Les’s dyscalculia. Maria hadn’t forgotten about him, but he’d fallen by the wayside as far as a priority. But if anyone could answer any questions, it would be Pedro, and he seemed much more likely to fall apart under pressure.
Time to find Pedro.