Diva Las Vegas (Book 1 in Raven McShane Series) (10 page)

I laughed.  “Is that a compliment?”

“You’re a very pretty young woman,” he said.

What was I, his niece?  “Thank you,” I said.  “I suppose I could try wearing a sweatshirt and maybe a baseball cap.  But only if I can’t find someone else to do it.”

“Sorry, Raven.  Looks like you’re doing your own dirty work on this one.”

I sighed.  “Thanks for coming with today, though.”

“Two and a quarter hours,” he said.

“I’ll make a note of it.”

I headed home and called Carlos Villaregosa, my bouncer friend from Cougar’s.  The husband of Barbara Finley, the nervous housewife from Indiana, was arriving the next morning, and I was planning to sleep in.  Carlos had tagged along with me a few times before, and he’d never turned down an easy paycheck.  He didn’t disappoint.  I gave Carlos the details of Finley’s arrangements and scanned one of his photos and emailed it to him.  Following this guy around was something Carlos could do by himself.

“A bachelor party.  Nice,” he said.  “Maybe they’ll end up at Cougar’s.”

“Yeah, then you can work both jobs at the same time.”

“It’s called efficiency.”

“You have a camera?” I asked.

“Cell phone.”

“Good enough, I guess.  Just let me know if he gets himself in trouble.”

I danced at Cougar’s until the wee hours on Wednesday night and slept in on Thursday.  I decided to take most of the day off.  It wasn’t a difficult decision: I had zilch to go on and my phone hadn’t exactly been ringing off the hook with other work.  And what had seemed like a nugget of useful information from Mel Block hadn’t produced any significant new leads to go on.  Neither Rachel nor Amy had noticed anything unusual about George’s behavior before he was killed, and no one besides Mel seemed to think that anyone was ripping the place off.  If George hadn’t found out about any kind of skim operation, there wasn’t much point in poking that hornet’s nest.

After lunch I went shopping at the Palazzo.  I was drooling over a pair of Christian Louboutin leopard print pumps when one of the waifish clerks shot a death stare at me.  It wasn’t completely her fault.  She was new, and I was dressed like a mid-priced whore who had no business looking at a seven-hundred-dollar pair of shoes.  But still, I didn’t like her.  In fact, as a general rule I hated anyone that thin. 

I waved at her and she reluctantly came over.  Her nametag said her name was Marissa.  “Do you have these in a size nine?” I asked.

She made a face.  “I’ll have to check in back.”  Oh, the horror. 

She returned and shoved a shoebox at me.  I sat down and tried them on.  They looked fantastic on me.  Not that Marissa would admit it.  She was a big time clerk at a shoe store, after all. 

“I’ll take them,” I said. 

Her mask of superiority vanished for a split second, and she flashed me the briefest of smiles.  A real human being was in there, somewhere.  Unfortunately for her I had already decided I was going to out-bitch her. 

“Just have Claire put it on my tab,” I said, handing her my driver’s license.  Claire was the manager.  She had sold me two dozen pairs since the store opened two years ago, and I had an open line of credit.  That meant Claire would get the commission and not the witchy Marissa.  I felt a pang of remorse, but it passed quickly.

I browsed around some of the other stores, but it turned out I wasn’t in a shopping mood.  Something was nagging at me about Mike’s experience with Amy Masterson, and it wasn’t just misplaced jealousy.  Not too long ago, Amy’s husband Cody had made women scream and throw their panties on stage when he danced.  It bugged me that his wife would now be so starved for male attention that she apparently had a guy on the side and was hot to get Mike into bed as well.  It didn’t make sense.  It was starting to look like there might be more to Cody’s and Amy’s marriage than met the eye.  I found a bench in the mall and called Rachel.

I caught her in her car.  “Quick question,” I said.  “How are Cody and Amy as a couple?  Are they close?”

“I think so,” she said.  “At least I’ve never heard otherwise.  Why?”

I told her about Mike’s encounter with Amy.

“Huh.  I guess I haven’t really socialized with them much since George died.  They could be fighting or something for all I know.”

“Ok, thanks.”

I didn’t have anything else to go on, so I figured it might be an angle worth exploring.  Amy had been Cody’s only alibi witness during the trial, corroborating his story that they’d both been at home together in bed on the night of the murder.  Bad habits don’t come out of the blue.  If they were cheating on each other now, I figured there was a chance they were cheating back then.  It wasn’t much, but it was something.  If I could show that they weren’t really happily married at the time George Hannity was murdered, it would undercut their story that they were together in bed when the murder happened.

From the scraps Mike had overheard of Amy’s telephone conversation, it sounded like she was being picked up at home by “Eddie” later that night.  Mike had no idea what time.

Carlos called my cell while I was walking back from the Palazzo.  He reported that the bachelor party group had checked into the Mandalay Bay hotel, and for the time being they were sunning themselves at the pool.  Carlos was bored.

“You up for a change of pace?” I asked.

“I’m gonna fall asleep watching these guys,” he said.  “I got class at seven, though.”

“Class?”

“I’m in summer school.”

“Getting your G.E.D.?”

He was silent for several seconds.  “No.  I’m six credits short of my MBA.”

Oops.  Carlos and I were casual work friends, but by design I hadn’t gotten too personal with him.  “Wow, you’re a regular Alex P. Keaton.”

“Who?”

I guessed that Carlos was only five or six years younger than I was, but these days that felt like an entire generation.  “Never mind.  Anyway, I’m going to sit outside a house in Summerlin, try to get a few photos.”

“Somehow I thought your life would be a little more exciting.”

“Come on, it’ll be fun.”

“Why you need me?”

I figured he was trying to work me for more money.  I decided to call his bluff.  “Yeah, you’re right.  You should focus on your studies.  Forget it.”

“Okay, fine.  It’s just a marketing class,” he said.  “I can skip it.”

I said I’d pick him up outside of Mandalay Bay around 5:30 and we’d head over to Summerlin.  I hopped in the shower when I got home.  When I dried off my phone was beeping at me.  Change of plans.  Carlos had left a message saying the bachelor party was headed over to the Red Rock Casino, and he wanted to know if he should follow them or come with me.  I called him back and told him to follow them there.  Red Rock was only a few miles from the Masterson house, and I said I would swing by and pick him up there around 6:15.

I reached the casino around six and used the self-park.  The Red Rock was a trendy off-Strip resort geared toward people who wanted luxury in the desert but didn’t want to fight the crowds on the Strip.  From what Carlos had said, the Indiana bachelor party was just looking for a change of scenery to play some craps.  Nothing too risqué for a Thursday afternoon.  Red Rock had five craps tables in action, and I spotted Carlos pretending to play a slot machine near one of them.  He was wearing a black White Sox cap tilted sideways and baggy black jeans.  An oversized baby blue UCLA basketball jersey hung loosely over a tight white t-shirt.

“Any luck?” I asked, nodding at the slot machine.

Carlos pretended to look disgusted and started shaking his head at me in disapproval.  “G.E.D. my ass,” he muttered.  “I was top twenty percent in business at UNLV.”

“Thanks for the résumé update.”  I wondered briefly why he spent his nights working at a strip club instead of some corporate gig or something.  Oh wait, I think I know.

“Anyway, no, I haven’t won anything from this stupid machine.  I put a quarter in but I still haven’t pressed ‘spin,’” he said.  “The math is against you, so why play?”

“
Shhhh
,” I hissed.  “Saying things like that could get you killed in this town.”

He smiled.  “I’m not afraid.”

I glanced over at the group of men standing at the craps table.  “How are your boys doing?”

“How are your girls doing?”  He made a show of looking down my shirt.

I sighed.  “You’ve seen me buck naked a thousand times.  Can’t you keep your head at eye level for two minutes?”

He shrugged.  “I know what I like,” he said.

“You better behave yourself, or I’ll tell your girlfriend.”

He looked genuinely scared.  “Okay, okay.”  He tilted his head toward the craps table.  “That fat guy is Finley.”

“Fat guy” was being kind.  Richard Finley’s three hundred pounds didn’t sit very comfortably on his five-seven frame.

“Seems kind of like a square,” I said.

Carlos nodded.  “More like a blob.  But you’re right.  When they got here, the whole group bought cigars.  A few of them giggled like little girls when they lit up.”

“Yikes.  They probably think drinking caffeinated coffee is wild and crazy.  So Finley is the best man.  Which one’s the groom?”

“I think it’s that guy with the sunglasses.”

“Looks like another winner,” I said.  “He thinks he’s Roy Orbison?”

“Who?”

I sighed.  “He’s the guy who invented wearing sunglasses indoors.  Ever hear the song
Pretty
Woman
?”

Carlos gave me a blank look, and I decided it was hopeless.  We both turned discreetly to watch the group play craps.

The woman shooting the dice was a gray-haired librarian type who looked befuddled by the whole game.  She was probably just being a good sport by rolling the dice for her husband’s sake, I figured.  The woman managed only four rolls of the dice before crapping out.  The whole table groaned in unison, but Finley and his nerdy bachelor party didn’t seem too upset by their bad luck.

“You got some
pics
of them?”

Carlos scrolled through a few photos he’d taken on his cell phone.  “Why do you need pictures?”

“I don’t, but I like to show the client I actually did my job.  They tend to get suspicious if I just tell them I didn’t see anything and then cash their check for five grand.  Anyway, these guys don’t seem like they’re going to get into much trouble today.  Let’s get out of here.”

Although it had cooled off a little this week, the parking garage was still brutally hot when we left Red Rock.  We took my car.  The Mastersons’ subdivision in Summerlin was only a few miles north of the casino, and we wound our way through rush hour traffic in less than fifteen minutes.  I circled around the cul-de-sac at the end of the road and did a quick drive-by of the house.

“Lights are still on,” I said.

Carlos nodded.  “Somebody’s home.”

I parked on the opposite side of the street about two houses down.  We were out of the way but close enough to get a clear view of the front door.  

“Okay, so why are we here?” Carlos asked when I turned off the engine.  I had filled him in on the basics, but not much else. 

“Okay.  One of the keys to the murder trial was Cody’s testimony that he and his wife were together on the night of the murder.  And she backed him up on it.  She said not only were they together, they were having wild sex the whole night.”

Carlos nodded.  “I remember that part.” 

“So I came here yesterday with another PI named Mike.  Amy was here alone, and Mike went inside to talk.  While he was there, he overheard her on the phone planning a long weekend with someone who sounded like a boyfriend,” I said. 

“So we want to catch her in the act?  You trying to blackmail her?”

“Not exactly.  I just want to see what the hell’s going on with her marriage.”

“Gotcha.”  Carlos turned on his iPod and put in his earbuds.  He fished in the backpack he’d brought with him and hauled out a massive business textbook, which he began reading and highlighting with a pink highlighter.  I peeked.  The pages seemed to be nothing more than squiggles, numbers and Greek symbols.  I frowned at him.

“Portfolio theory,” he explained.

“Whatever.”  I shrugged and resumed my blank stare directed at the Masterson house.  Within minutes there was movement in the house behind the partially closed blinds.  Someone was moving back and forth in what looked like the master bedroom.  I figured it was Amy finishing up her packing.

The minutes ticked by and the activity in the house stopped around 6:40.  It was still bright out, although the palm trees were casting longer and longer shadows as the sun quickened its descent behind the Masterson house.  I had my rear-view mirror turned so I could see any oncoming traffic, but not a single car had made an appearance.

“Quiet around here.”  I said it loudly enough to be heard over Carlos’ music.

Carlos nodded.  “People who have houses like this can afford to get out of town for the summer.”

Good point.  Things remained quiet until about 7:15, when a white Cadillac Escalade appeared out of nowhere in my rear mirror.  I slunk down low in my seat as it barreled by and turned sharply into the Masterson driveway.  Amy’s visitor was in a hurry.  I reached in the back seat and whipped out my camera, a digital Olympus with a 15x optical zoom lens.

Carlos frowned.  “You and your photos.”

“Never hurts to get dirt on somebody.  Even if this doesn’t lead to anything useful, it might give me a little leverage on her.”

Carlos pondered that.  “I like your style,” he said.

Amy appeared at the door before the driver even put the car in park.  She’d been waiting for him, and even from a distance it was obvious she was in a stormy mood.  She
propped
her front door open and began hurriedly hauling a series of Louis
Vuitton
designer bags out to the Escalade.

The SUV’s door opened and the driver got out.  “Shit,” I whispered.

“What?”

“I know that guy,” I said.  “See these red marks on my neck?  They’re from his fingernails.”  I remembered his name tag: E. Holman.  He must be “Eddie.”

Holman walked gingerly over to meet Amy behind the Escalade.  I chuckled involuntarily.

“What now?”

“See how he walks?  He’s limping.”

“You like to laugh at cripples?”

“I did that.  Kneed him right in the nuts.”

Carlos made a face.  “That
ain’t
right.”

“Don’t get on my bad side, kid.”

Holman pressed a button that opened up the car’s massive rear hatch.  Inside was a large black leather duffel and a set of golf clubs.  Amy’s voice was echoing around the deserted cul-de-sac.  She was carping that he was late.  Carlos took the camera from me and zoomed in.

“She’s hot,” he announced.

I snatched the camera away from him.  “How does your girlfriend put up with you?”

“I work a lot.”

I snapped a few more photos.  Carlos was right: Amy Masterson was a good looking woman.  Blonde, about thirty.  Curvy enough but with the skinny, athletic build of a tennis pro.  Her round face made her look a little like the Swiss Miss girl.  Holman went into the house and hauled out Amy’s set of golf clubs.

“Well, it looks like they’re fighting, so we’re not going to get a shot of them kissing or anything,” I said.

“Did you get the golf clubs?  That’s good enough.  They’re obviously going away together.”

I nodded.  “I wonder what she told Cody she was doing for the weekend.  Or if he even cares.”

They climbed in the Escalade and Holman backed it out.  I began to panic.  I hadn’t appreciated just how high the SUV stood to the ground compared to my little Audi.  As they turned towards us, I realized Holman would have a clear angle to look down into my car as he passed us.  We were sitting ducks.

“Crap,” I said.  “Carlos, don’t get the wrong idea, but I need you to kiss me right now.”

Carlos didn’t need to be told twice.  He lunged towards me.  I was aiming for his chin, but he found my lips and locked on.  I wrapped my arms around him and held on until the low growl of the Escalade’s engine had passed us by.  His back and shoulders were amazingly muscular.

“You can let go now,” I said.

He was grinning sheepishly.  “First she plays hard-to-get, then she’s all over me!”

“Yeah, right.  I think that means I don’t have to pay you for today.”

“Admit it.  You enjoyed it.”

“Dream on.”  I wasn’t going to give an inch.  But I admitted to myself that it wasn’t a totally unpleasant experience.

I was fixing my hair in the mirror when another car came upon us without warning.  It was a low-slung red convertible driven by a blonde man in sunglasses.  Before it reached us, I ducked down and pinned my neck against the frame of the door.  Carlos was peeking over the dash.

“The car’s pulling up the same driveway,” he said.

I inched up in the seat and got a look for myself.

I recognized him from the newspaper.  “That’s Cody all right.”

“No wonder she was in such a hurry to get out of there with her boyfriend,” Carlos said.  “Cutting it pretty close.”

Cody parked the car in the driveway, and I looked through the zoom lens.  “Damn,” I said under my breath.  Cody Masterson was easily the best looking man I had ever seen in person.  Or anywhere.  He was a trim six feet, with longish light yellow hair tucked back behind his ears.  He was wearing a thin linen short-sleeved shirt and tight gray pants with black shoes.  Work clothes, I guessed.  Businesslike, but stylish.  He didn’t have leading man looks—he was too beautiful to be taken seriously.  Cody was more like a soap opera star.  The kind of guy who was born to split his time between the gym and the bedroom.

“Look at that butt,” I said.  I don’t know why I said it, but I did.

“It’s not bad,” Carlos conceded.

I continued admiring Cody through the zoom lens as he walked up to the house.  “You have to admit, that man is fine.”

“Oh, he’s a dreamboat,” Carlos lisped in a high-pitched voice.

“Oh, come on.  You can admit when another man is attractive.  Why are men so touchy about that?”

“Admitting another dude is good looking is the first step on the path to turning
maricón
,” he explained.  “Everyone knows that.”

“That’s stupid.  You’re saying you can’t tell the difference between Cody Masterson and Carrot Top?”  The comedian Carrot Top always seemed to be playing somewhere in Vegas, which meant that his pasty white face and gnarled red hair were constantly plastered on giant billboards everywhere you looked.  I had known people who’d changed their routes to work just to avoid them.

“Carrot Top.  Now that’s one ugly homey,” he said.

“I want to see what Cody’s up to.  You want to stick around?” I asked.

“It’s your money.  I’m supposed to work at nine but I can call in.  Thursdays in July are usually slow until after midnight.”

“Call in,” I said.