Diva Las Vegas (Book 1 in Raven McShane Series) (3 page)

I grabbed a drive-thru salad and scarfed it down during the ninety-five red lights I hit on my way home.  I reflected on what I knew and didn’t know about the murder case so far.  Although everyone seemed to have an opinion on the subject, the only people who definitely knew what happened were George Hannity, who was dead, and his killer.  Nothing I’d learned so far suggested Cody Masterson wasn’t the killer.  That wasn’t the point, though—I had to come up with some kind of evidence that he actually
was
the murderer.  Even though the burden of proof was lower in a civil case, the lawsuit wasn’t going to go forward on the faint hope that a civil jury would take a different view of the case than the previous criminal jury had.  It seemed that the last trial’s outcome had turned on Cody’s personal charm and his credibility, and there was no reason to think he couldn’t reprise that performance in front of another jury.    

There were only two conceivable forms of hard evidence I could dig up to contradict Cody’s story.  If a witness had seen the murder and could be convinced to come forward, that could wrap the case up nicely.  A witness didn’t seem likely, however.  The murder was committed at a deserted intersection in the suburbs after midnight, and the cops had spent weeks canvassing for witnesses.  No one had come forward in the three years since then. 

Instead, it seemed the best available route would be to find evidence that would undermine Cody’s alibi.  For that, I needed to talk to people who actually knew Cody and his wife—people at the casino they owned.  I left a message on Rachel’s cell phone.  Although she was on the outs with the people running the casino now, she might have some ideas on which people inside the casino could be trusted.  I didn’t want to barge in there like a bull in a china shop asking pointed questions about the owners and their pals. 

When I got home, I toyed with the idea of calling up UNLV’s criminal justice program to see if they had any young male interns who wanted some real life experience in the glamorous world of private detective work.  But I gave up on that idea and forced myself to buckle down and do some more homework of my own.  As a privately owned casino, the Outpost didn’t have to file public securities reports or hold meetings with stockholders.  But, being a casino, it did have to make the filings required by Nevada’s Gaming Control Board.  According to the Control Board’s online records, Cody Masterson was the Outpost’s president and chief executive officer.  Amy Masterson, his wife, was listed as the chairman of the board, and the directors of the company comprised, not surprisingly, the two Mastersons, plus the general counsel and corporate secretary, a woman named Laura Clavette.  The general manager and chief operating officer was a man named Philip d’Angelo.  Apparently it took a lot of fancy titles to run a glorified gambling hall.  I figured that all of these people had a vested interest in not telling me anything—they were all, in some way, dependent on Cody’s staying out of trouble.

Rachel called me back around four o’clock. 

“You have to understand, Raven, that I haven’t been in contact with those people since George died.  He was my only connection.” 

“I was thinking, though, that I’d have to get in there somehow and talk to people close to Cody.  Don’t you think the prospect of financial gain would get somebody to talk?” I asked.

“You mean like a reward?”

“Kind of.  After all, a hundred thousand here or there will be pocket change if we win a lawsuit.”

“I guess that’s okay.”  Rachel sounded skeptical.

“But we have to be a little bit tricky about it.  If we just want the information, that’s one thing.  But if we want it to hold up in court, you don’t want the defense to be able to say the witness was bribed,” I said.  “It kind of hurts their credibility if the defense counsel can get them to admit they have a financial stake in saying that Cody is guilty.”

“Good point,” she replied.  I thought she sounded a tiny bit impressed.  “The problem is that Cody doesn’t usually associate with the staff very much.  He sees himself as above most of them, even though just a few years ago he was just a stage dancer like me.”

“He was?”

“Oh
yeah
,” she laughed, apparently unphased by my ignorance.  “I forget the name of the show, but it was one of those all-male revues with a cheesy name, and it played a few years at the Tropicana.”  She warmed to the topic, her voice filled with amusement. 

“Cody came in from Tahoe with his long blond hair and stole the show pretty quickly.  They had a routine where he would go around the audience and lasso a woman and bring her up on stage and do all sorts of suggestive things involving the woman and the rope.  It drove the women wild—myself included.  They screamed like they do for Justin
Bieber
.  Anyway, Amy Hannity saw the show, asked to meet him, and a few months later she became Amy Masterson.”

“Wow.  So both Hannity kids married people who took their clothes off for a living.  George married you, and Amy married Cody.”

She chuckled.  “No wonder their dad wrote that stock option into the family trust.”

“Anyway, I was looking at the forms they filed with the Gambling Board, and it seems a man named Philip d’Angelo is the highest-ranking officer with no ties to the family.  Is that right?”

Rachel sighed.  “Unfortunately.  He wouldn’t have been my choice to run the place, which is what he basically does.”

“Not your kind of guy?” I prodded.

“Phil’s not anyone’s kind of guy,” she chuckled.  “Big chip on his shoulder.  He rose up through the ranks.  Not exactly from the mail room, but almost.  He was a dealer, pit boss, floor manager, and worked security before he took over day-to-day operations.  Great manager, though, and efficient.  He’s a driven guy, ambitious as
hell
.  And he’s one of the few people Cody and Amy seem to trust.  Anyway, I wouldn’t hesitate to make contact with him, but be discreet about it.”

“Of course,” I replied.  Although as a general rule I found it hard to be discreet with anyone.

“Frankly I don’t know him well enough to know if he’s blindly loyal to the Mastersons or whether he might cooperate.  It’s worth a shot, though.”

“Assuming he knows anything,” I added.  “Anyone else I might try?”

“Not that I can think of.  Like I said, I’m kind of out of the loop at this point.  Good luck.”

I hung up with Rachel and couldn’t find any reason to put off talking to Phil d’Angelo, the man in charge at the Outpost.  I called down to the valet to get my car and found my way north up the Strip.  Normally I might have walked the mile and a half, but I’d just showered and the afternoon heat was intense.  It was about 4:30 and the rush hour traffic was in its full glory, made worse by the fact that the faux volcano in front of the Mirage was hissing violently and shooting flames twenty feet into the air.  At that hour, all it took was one rental car full of gawking tourists to bring traffic to a virtual standstill.

I reached the Outpost and reluctantly let a skuzzy looking valet park my Audi.    The casino was appropriately named.  It had actually been something of an outpost in earlier days, an isolated oasis between the Strip hotels to the south and the downtown area to the north.  Now it stood out as an eyesore, as out of place as a pawn shop on Madison Avenue.  The glistening, billion-dollar resorts that surrounded the hotel on both sides had Bentleys and Jaguars clogging their valet lanes, while the Outpost had a single valet line and nothing more fancy than a Buick parked out front.  I felt sorry for my little Audi.  

As I entered through the main doors, I was greeted immediately with the telltale clangs of nickels hitting tin and a chorus of bells and computerized music riffs emanating from the slot machines.  Most of the more modern casinos had some sort of theme or motif to them, but the Outpost didn’t have a theme apart from cigarette smoke.  The smoke was everywhere.  It coalesced into clouds, alive like a swarm of insects, and it lingered in the air, trapped by the low ceilings and an obviously outdated ventilation system.

I made my way to the small hotel lobby, which jutted off at an odd angle from the main casino floor.  The lobby was packed with senior citizens who had just disembarked from a garish tour bus parked outside.  Every last one of them wore colorful neck straps that held the players club cards they would need to build up points to get free lunch buffets and casino trinkets.  Real high rollers, these folks. 

The three check-in lines were jammed, and I scanned the lobby for anyone who could save me some time.  I zeroed-in on a woman, about twenty-five, who stood shuffling papers and clicking away on her computer behind the check-in desk.  She was surprisingly attractive.  Good looking women were a dime a dozen in Las Vegas, but they didn’t usually pursue their calling behind the desks at rundown hotels.  Her window was marked ‘Closed,’ and she didn’t look like she was in the mood to be bothered. 

She seemed to have a sixth sense for anyone who might dare interrupt her work, and she sensed me coming a mile away.  “I’m sorry, I’m not open,” she said, not taking her eyes from her small computer screen.  Her red name tag said her name was Linda.  

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said, “I’m here to see Mr. d’Angelo.  I’m an old friend.”

She finally looked up from her screen and paused.  “Um, I don’t think he’s in right now.  I can check for you if you give me two minutes, okay?”  She shot me a very winning smile, probably thinking I was the head honcho’s daily call girl.

“Of course,” I said.  After three or four minutes, she left her post and disappeared into a back room.  I used the opportunity to catch a nicotine buzz off of the lingering smoke cloud.  When Linda returned, she told me with overstated sadness that Mr. d’Angelo was not presently in, but if I left my name she would make sure he knew I stopped in.

“No thanks,” I said.  “I’ll just try to catch him another time.”  I knew my name would mean nothing to d’Angelo by itself, and I didn’t feel like leaving my business card and announcing to the whole casino that a private investigator had stopped by.

As usual, my decision to have a healthy salad for lunch was backfiring and I had become ravenous for real food involving meat and cheese.  I wandered out of the lobby and decided to brave the casino café for a little snack.  The Outpost’s restaurant was as utilitarian as they come.  The goal, evidently, was to satisfy the appetites of gamblers as quickly as possible so they would return to their tables or slot machines without any needless delay.  I sat at the counter by myself and ordered a beer and a cheeseburger.  The beer arrived in about twenty seconds, and the burger followed not too long after.  Two bites in, I heard the swivel chair next to me squeak as someone sat down.

“Always nice to see an old friend,” the stranger remarked.  I had been attacking my cheeseburger with the single-mindedness of a frenzied shark, and I was forced to finish chewing and gulp a slug of beer before turning to address the stranger on my right.  He was lean and tanned, with a full head of black hair and a face lined by a combination of sun exposure and—I took a wild guess—second-hand smoke.  His dark eyes peered into me, and I thought I detected a faint smile, as though he enjoyed catching me off-guard and in the middle of a bite. 

“Uh,” I coughed.  “I’m guessing you’re Mr. d’Angelo,” I said lamely.  Linda must have pointed me out to him.

 “You must be a detective,” the man quipped sarcastically.  His eyes became lighter, even more amused than before.

“Actually, I am.”  I needed another slug of beer to clear my throat.  His eyes shot up in surprise, and he looked me over without a hint of self-consciousness.  “Well, if this is about that red light I ran in 2003, I confess.  Take me away, officer!”  He thought he was pretty funny.

“No, I’m a
private
investigator.” I gave a polite chuckle.  “Raven
McShane’s
the name.”  I offered my hand, and he shook it.

“Phew!” he exclaimed in mock relief.  “Call me Phil.  How can I help you?  Does my ex-wife think I’m making more money than I claim?”

“Not quite.  I’m actually here about casino business.”  I looked around, trying to appear casual.  The guy behind the bar was pretending not to listen.  “I guess I shouldn’t beat around the bush,” I said softly.  “What I’m really interested in is Mr. Masterson’s past brush with the law.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Phil asked.

 “Well, obviously he was found not guilty, but a lot of people were surprised by that verdict.” 

“I’m surprised every morning when I wake up alive,” Phil said, shrugging.  He narrowed his eyes and sized me up.  “Look, I don’t know what your angle is, but I think I see what you’re getting at,” he said, standing up.  “You want me to betray my boss and I’m not going to.”

“Okay.”  I gave up, shrugging.  “Loyalty is a rare thing these days,” I observed.

Phil thought for a second.  “Yes it is, but the
Hannitys
have always treated me right, and I don’t see any reason to help you out,” he explained.  “No offense.”

“No, I understand.  Thanks for stopping by.”

“Enjoy your burger,” he said curtly as he stood up.  He took a last look down my shirt.  “By the way,” he said, “you’d probably make more money as a cocktail waitress than a two-bit private eye or whatever you are.”  He turned and walked away.  Rachel was right: this guy was an asshole.  I sucked down the rest of my beer and tried to think of a Plan B.