Diva Las Vegas (Book 1 in Raven McShane Series) (6 page)

“That’s about the best compliment a lawyer could ever expect to receive,” I said.  “So why aren’t you completely sure about Masterson?”

He sighed and waved the bartender over for another round.  I was still nursing mine, but he’d polished his whiskey off like it was sweet tea.  I began wondering what his plan was for getting home, or if cops simply didn’t worry about DUI’s. 

“I’m set to retire in another year, full pension.  Although if my wife makes it official and divorces me, I’ll be working ‘til I die.  Anyway, the point being I don’t give a shit like I used to.” 

The bartender poured him another double and I put a hand over my glass to signal I was fine.  “What bothered me about that case was how the ball got rolling in the first place.  You know, we were all set to call it a random street killing, a carjacking, until we got an anonymous tip to search Masterson’s backyard.”

I nodded.  “Where you found the gun.”

“Yeah.  We found that thing buried back there, no prints.  It was either wiped down or the killer used gloves.  The point is, either someone knew Cody did it and knew where the weapon was, or someone planted the gun in his yard to frame him.  We went with the first option.”

“Occam’s Razor,” I said.  “Usually the simplest explanation is the right one,” I said.  I pulled that one out of my ass.

Whelan’s eyes got big.  “Wow.  Beautiful
and
smart.”

I twirled my hair playfully and grinned.  “So no one ever suggested someone was trying to set Cody up, right?”

“Exactly.  Well, they had to come up with something, but it was pretty vague.  How else do you explain the murder weapon being buried in your yard if you didn’t do it?”

The beer and whiskey were affecting my brain a little bit, but I was still able to process what Whelan was saying.  I couldn’t help thinking that it was surprisingly similar to what Les Trondheim had told me.  These were the people most intimately familiar with the case, and none of them was as convinced of Cody’s guilt as the man on the street seemed to be.  If these people weren’t certain, it was beginning to make sense that a jury of twelve didn’t find him guilty beyond a reasonable doubt.  On the other hand, lawyers, cops and journalists were trained to be skeptics.  Sometimes the conventional wisdom was right because it was based on common sense.

“Well, I guess it doesn’t look promising for me,” I said.

“Sorry, I don’t know what else to tell you.”

We sat in silence for a minute, our eyes fixed on the baseball game.  I checked my watch discreetly.  It was only 7:45.  That meant we’d polished off a night’s worth of booze in less than an hour, and Whelan seemed only to be hitting his stride.  I expected if I left him alone he’d stay by himself for five or six more whiskeys.  He hadn’t opened up about his marital troubles at all, but it seemed like the man could use some company—and maybe something to distract him from his problems on the home front. 

I didn’t feel like sucking back more drinks and then having to call a cab home, and I wasn’t about to ask Whelan if he wanted to go out for chocolate malts or ice cream sodas.  The idea came to me in a flash.  

Whelan drained his Jameson and replaced the glass on the bar extremely delicately, as though performing a part of some intricate Japanese tea ceremony.  He was starting to seem a bit drunk.  “Easy there, big
fella
,” I said.  “Hey, my friend dances at Cougar’s, and I was going to head over there to catch her on stage.  You in?”  It seemed the perfect way to distract this horny Irishman.

Whelan gaped at me as though I had been speaking Swahili, but his expression was a mixture of confusion and interest.  He looked perfectly sober except for the slightest tinge of pink in his eyes.  Over the years I’d learned that although lots of men weren’t the strip club “type,” very few men actually said no when the opportunity arose.  Whelan did not disappoint.  “You shitting me?” he asked.

“Nope, let’s go.  I’ll get a cab.”

“You sure?  I don’t want to horn in on your social scene or anything.”

“You’d be doing me a favor,” I said.  “I’ll feel like a weirdo if I go by myself.”

“Sold,” he said. 

We got our things together and I left a pile of cash on the bar.
 
After our cab dropped us off, we shared a quick drink and then I handed Whelan off to one of the most popular dancers working that night.
 
When she led him away to the back room, Whelan looked like he’d just won the lottery.
 
If anyone could take Whelan’s mind off his troubles, it was
Shayla
.
 

I was getting antsy.  A whole week spent on a single case was a record for me, and I had almost nothing to show for it.  Last night Lieutenant Whelan had pretty much confirmed what I already knew, which was that Cody Masterson was probably, but not definitely, guilty of the crime but that there was no other magic evidence lurking out there that could help Rachel win her civil case. 

Mel Block, the former general manager at the Outpost who Rachel had said I should call, was about the only person in the world I hadn’t talked to about this case.  He was getting on my nerves.  In this day and age, who doesn’t have an answering machine or voicemail?  I even
Googled
him.  A blank.  It was time to pay him a personal visit.  I picked up the phone.

“Mike, it’s too hot here.  You’ve got to come with me to San Diego.”  It was totally out of left field, but I thought it was worth a shot.

Silence.

“It’s for this case I’m working on.  You can bill the time to my client.  And just think, you’d get your ten hours of supervising me done with all at once.”

Nothing.

“Hello?”

“Still here.”

“Well?”

“I have a report I need to get done today.”

“I’ll drive.  Bring your laptop and write it in the car.”

“No,” he said.  There was a pause, and then an opening.  “Where would we stay?”

“I don’t know, maybe a youth hostel?”

“A youth hostel.”

“A little joke.  I’ll find something nice.  Go home, pack for a night, and I’ll pick you up there.  The client has deep pockets.”  I didn’t tell him that the client also had
empty
pockets.

“You don’t know where I live.”

“I’m a detective, remember?”

“Strange how I forget that sometimes.”

“See you at noon.”  What was he so afraid of?  I didn’t bite.  Hard.

That gave me all of an hour and a half to get ready and find a hotel online.  We were only going for the night and I wouldn’t need to pack much.  Packing for San Diego was easy: shorts, tank top, unmentionables, sandals, sun screen.  The hotel was easy, too.  According to the hotel’s website, it had a pool on the roof.  And there was a shopping mall two blocks away in case we needed anything else.

I headed out of my building onto Russell Road and then hopped onto I-15 heading south towards Mike’s house.  He was waiting for me out front of a nice ranch house with a palm tree next to the driveway.  Nothing fancy, but it wasn’t a rat hole either.  Mike had ditched the Willy Loman look in favor of a fitted brown t-shirt, khaki shorts and sandals.  A gray backpack was slung over his left shoulder.  With his sunglasses on, he looked like a model in a sporting goods catalog.  A definite improvement.  He threw his bag in the back seat and got in the car.

“Thanks,” he said.

“What for?”

“I need to get out of here.  I haven’t left town in months.”

“Buckle up,” I said.  I patted him on the thigh.  It had the approximate firmness of titanium.  “Jesus, where do you work out?”

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat.  “Got a gym in the basement,” he mumbled.

I turned and smiled at him.  He was blushing.

Mike clicked away on his computer for most of the ride.  He seemed to have steady work chasing after deadbeats and casino cheats, but it didn’t seem very lucrative.  Or exciting.  After stopping for a light lunch, we hit the outskirts of L.A. a little after 2:00 and then veered south towards San Diego.  I had only been to California a handful of times in my life, but somehow the names of the cities on the exits we passed had a familiar ring: San Bernardino, Riverside, Temecula, Escondido.  I pulled out the map and had Mike guide me to the La Jolla address Rachel had given me.  “He lives on a street named Fairway Road,” he said.  “It’s probably on a golf course.”

I laughed.  “Wow, you could be a private eye.”  Would another pat on the thigh be too bold?  I resisted the urge.  

As Sherlock had predicted, Fairway Road was indeed on a golf course, an off-shoot of Country Club Drive.  The house was a large tan Mediterranean with a red tile roof, and the entire structure was covered in some kind of ivy.  Two immense palm trees stood off to the left, providing shade to most of the yard.  I couldn’t see through to the back, but I guessed that one of the golf course’s holes was adjacent to the back yard.

We parked across the street and I dialed Block’s number one last time.  I wasn’t exactly sure why.  Courtesy?

“Someone’s in there,” Mike said.

“What?”

“Somebody just moved around when you called,” he said.

“Was it an old man?”

“I couldn’t see any details, just the shape of someone moving.”

“Well, there’s only one way to find out if he lives here,” I said, opening the car door.

I walked up the driveway and noticed a small green Volkswagen
Passat
parked on a slab next to the garage.  Mike waited in the car.  Somebody’s home, all right.  I climbed up the brick steps and rang the bell.  While I waited I studied the front door, which was immense and finished in a deep amber stain that brought out the richness of the mahogany.  There was no answer.  The window on the door was too high to peek into, and I didn’t feel like snooping around, especially since Mike had seen someone inside.  Someone who obviously didn’t want to chat.

“So that’s it?” he asked when I got back to the car. 

 “No, we should come back tomorrow too.”

“Next time, don’t call first.  It only lets people know someone is looking for them.”

“Good tip.  For now, let’s check into the hotel and get some food,” I said.  “I’m starving.”

We arrived at our hotel in downtown San Diego around 5:30 and checked in.  We met up in the lobby and the concierge pointed us in the direction of the Gas Lamp District, a historic and slightly touristy section of town about a half mile from our hotel.  We stumbled upon a Mexican place with outdoor seating.  I wondered briefly: do Mormons eat Mexican food?  Then again, why on earth wouldn’t they?

“This okay?” I asked.

“Looks good to me.”

I ordered a blue margarita and Mike ordered a diet Sprite.

We studied the menus in silence.  Mike decided on a baked tilapia special, while I ordered my old standby, ground beef chimichangas.

“You ever drink?” I asked.

“Once or twice.  Religion says we’re not supposed to, you know.”

“Try mine.  Just a sip.”  I pushed my glass in front of him.  I felt like a crack dealer trying to suck in a new customer.

We locked eyes for a few seconds and he gave me a little smile.  “Okay,” he said, “just for you.”

With his finger he wiped some of the salt off the rim of the glass.  Then he took a big gulp.

“Not bad,” he said.  “What’s all in that?”

I explained the basics of margarita mixing to him.  “The key is, never order a house margarita.  They sit in those giant vats all day and there’s almost no booze in them.”

“Good tip,” he said.

The waitress returned a few minutes later with our food.

“Anything else I can get you folks?” she asked.

“I’ll have a house margarita,” Mike said.  The waitress nodded gravely and left.

My mouth was hanging open.  Mike tried to keep a straight face, but he burst out laughing.

“You bastard,” I said.

“Sorry.  I just had to mess with you a little.  I’m not a nun, you know.”

“No kidding.  My great aunt’s a nun and she has a pint of schnapps every day.”

“I’m just like everybody else.  Do you know anyone who follows every single tenet of their religion, every day, all the time?”

I thought about it for a second.  “I guess not.”

Mike’s drink arrived, and we clinked glasses.  He took a big sip out of his straw.

“Yours was better,” he said.

“No shit.”

About halfway through my second chimichanga I realized Mike was getting pretty drunk.  I could tell because he was talking without being asked a question.  He’d only finished about a quarter of his drink, but his liver was obviously out of practice.

“Drink up,” I said.  “They’re going to think you didn’t like it.”

He took a big slurp.  I liked men who responded to gentle nagging.

We finished up our meals and along the way he managed to drink about three-fourths of his margarita.  I paid the check and slurped down the watery green dregs of his drink, which was clearly concocted with children or the elderly in mind.  We left the restaurant and began walking slowly up the street.

“What now?” he asked.

I had no idea.  It was only a little after seven, and I had a nice buzz going.  And Mr. Titanium Thighs was feeling good.  “When was the last time you had a beer?”

He giggled a little.  It was an unseemly sound for a six-one guy like him, but it was kind of cute.  “Is alcohol your answer for everything?”

“No.  Sometimes hard drugs are required.  But if you want me to drink a beer alone, I understand.”

“Okay, okay.  One beer.  How about this place?”  The bar on our right was very touristy, but it looked as good as any, and we could sit outside.  Mike found a seat next to the sidewalk and I went inside to the bar.

Knowing that you’re one-hundred percent definitely going to hell can be very liberating sometimes, and this was one of those times.  Mike had said “one” beer, so I wanted to make it worth our while.  The bartender assured me that the “imperial” amber ale they had on tap was their strongest beer, and I ordered us a couple of them in the twenty-five ounce size.  The glasses were roughly a foot tall.

I hefted the two glasses onto the table like some Bavarian fraulein, somehow managing to keep most of the liquid from spilling.  “What the hell is this?” Mike asked.

“I’m trying to get you drunk,” I said matter-of-factly.

He shook his head in quiet resignation.

We sat for awhile in silence, watching tourists walk by in the dimming daylight.  The gas street lamps fired up and came slowly to life.  A cop on a chestnut horse trotted towards us.  Just before passing by, the horse paused, looked directly at me, and unleashed an avalanche of poop right on the curb.  God’s judgment, no doubt.

I stole a furtive glance at Mike.  He’d knocked off half of his beer and hadn’t thrown up yet.  A good sign.  He was staring at the poop.

“You don’t have to finish your beer just to impress me,” I said.  “There’s a pool on the roof of our hotel, you know.”

Mike looked across the table at me.  His eyelids were a little droopy, but he seemed okay.  He took a long look at his half a beer and gave it thoughtful consideration.  “I could go for a swim,” he said.

We stood up from the table.  He stumbled just a bit and reached out to the table for support.  I took his arm and led him out to the sidewalk.  We walked together, in silence, back to the hotel.

“Meet you at the elevator in five minutes,” I said.

Mike nodded somberly.

I freshened up and changed into my black bikini.  I found a comfy white hotel robe in the closet and went out to the elevator.  I had half expected Mike to pass out face-down on his bed, but there he was.  He didn’t have a robe on.  Just his t-shirt and black swimming trunks.

“Good planning,” I said, eyeing his shorts.  His ripped thighs bulged out beneath them.

“I swim at the downtown Y almost every morning.  I figured you’d spring for a  hotel with a pool.”

On this Monday night the pool area on the roof was deserted.  Dim accent lighting highlighted a narrow lap pool that lay near the roof’s edge, and an elevated hot tub stood off to the side, partially obscured by a few shrubs.  We stood there surveying the scene.  I took off my robe and threw it on a lounge chair.  Mike looked at me and gulped.

“Holy . . .”

I smiled.  “Hot tub?” I asked.

He followed behind me.  My thong didn’t leave much to the imagination, and I hoped he was helping himself to a good look.  I bent over and pressed the button to get the bubbles going before I climbed into the tub.  I watched Mike take off his shirt, revealing a muscular, lean torso and rippling arms, and for that brief moment I felt a little bit of the thrill that men must get when they come to Cougar’s.

We sat quietly in the Jacuzzi for a few minutes.  The sound of the pump motor running and bubbles fizzing drowned out everything else.  I had been leading Mike down this path all evening, so I was pleasantly surprised when he actually took the initiative and grabbed me under the water.

“What took you so long?” I whispered.

He responded by grabbing me harder and pulling me onto his lap.  He proved to be a great kisser, and I managed to keep our lips locked while I undid my top.  His hands did the rest.  We wriggled out of our bottoms and thrashed around the hot tub.  The Mike I knew was gone, a million miles away.  The new Mike still didn’t speak, but his movements were confident and his hands were strong.  After a minute he backed himself onto one of the stairs in the tub and pulled me onto his lap, facing him.  After that, I lost all track of time and movement.  I moved with him, on him, lost in the wetness of his mouth and the hot steamy water we splashed in.  After an eternity of motion my arms got sore from holding onto him, but I wasn’t going to let go until he was done with me.  I clung tighter to his chest, and as his breathing got heavier he grabbed me even closer until it hurt.  With a flurry of thrusts he heaved himself into me and finished, falling forward onto me and submerging both of us in the water.  We came up gasping for air, and I put my arms around him and held him.  Our chests both heaved together, seeking oxygen, and we didn’t move for a very long time.