Vegas Stripped (Raven McShane Mysteries Book 2)

by Stephanie Caffrey

  "Aren't you going to ask why I'm here?"

  "It occurred to me. I figure you're all finished and just wanted to make your report in person."

  That was funny. I had barely even started. "Um, not quite. I was talking to your manager a little earlier today. He mentioned something about digging up dirt? And then he gave me a check that looked like it had an extra zero on it by mistake. So I thought we should get on the same page before I go off on the wrong track here."

  By now Ethan had fully unbuttoned his shirt. "Will it bother you if I change? I hate wearing this stuff."

  "Go right ahead." I sat back and enjoyed the show. Ethan proceeded to throw his shirt into a small hamper, and then he removed his blue pants. He was very trim, like a runner, and had some small tufts of black curly hair on his chest. Not a bad specimen at all, if you were into the lean look. Ethan slipped on some casual tan cargo pants and a gray dress shirt with French cuffs that he left halfway open and untucked. He was playing with his hair in the mirror when he started talking again.

  "I'm sorry if I wasn't completely up-front with you. I hope the check helps make things better. Anyway, Denny's right that there's a little more to this job, and it probably won't be very pleasant."

  "Most of my jobs aren't very pleasant at all. What's so special about yours?"

  "Well, I hear things. We hear things. No specifics, just rumors, okay?"

  "You mean, like voices in your head?"

  Ethan laughed. "No. I mean I hear things about Mickey Mayfield. Even when I was new in town, I started hearing things about him and girls. And I mean girls, not women. Like thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, that kind of thing."

  "That's news to me."

  He nodded. "Yeah, we're pretty well-protected here. The press knows that entertainers and gambling are what keeps this town running, so they actually hold off a little bit. Not like a cover-up or anything. It's just that they don't dig as deep as they do in Hollywood or London or other places. Celebrities actually have a little privacy here."

  "So you want me to do the digging for you, is that it?"

  He looked a little sheepish. "Basically. I know it can't be any fun trying to bring somebody down. But if the rumors are true, imagine the service you'd be doing in getting a guy like that off the street."

  I rolled my eyes. "Yeah, we'd be real humanitarians."

  He ignored my jibe. "You want a drink?"

  "No thanks, I'm working later."

  Ethan opened his mini-fridge and pulled out a hefty bottle of vodka. He poured himself three fingers' worth on ice and then dumped a few glugs of Pepsi in the glass. It was not the classiest drink I'd ever seen made.

  He sat down on the couch next to me and tossed back a third of his drink. "Look, obviously I'm interested in this because I want his job. I plead guilty to that. I want it bad, in case you can't tell. But the fact that I have a selfish motive for this doesn't make it wrong."

  I pondered it for a second, trying not to let myself be swayed by his steely blue eyes and the $20,000 check still burning a hole in my pocket. Ethan was right that I wasn't all that comfortable being hired to essentially destroy someone else's reputation. But he also made a good point: if the rumors were true, then Mickey Mayfield deserved everything he had coming. And more.

  "One condition," I finally said.

  "Anything."

  "You've got to be straight with me from now on. Got it?"

  He flashed his million-dollar smile at me. "Got it."

  "So who did you hear these rumors from? Anybody actually know any victims, or is this all thirdhand?"

  He thought for a minute. "I remember right after I got to town—that was about three years ago—someone made a crack about it. It was a pretty offhanded remark, and I didn't think anything about it. You know, something like 'She's even younger than one of Mayfield's girlfriends!' But maybe a year later, Cindi Parker told me she'd walked in on Mickey and some teenager going at it. She was dating him at the time and wasn't very understanding about it."

  "Wow. You know Cindi?"

  "Kind of. We saw each other for a little while a couple years ago."

  "Is she still working here? I haven't seen any ads in a while."

  "Yeah, she's over at the Orleans a couple nights a month. And she does the L.A. comedy circuit, too. Personally, I think she's getting funnier, but her career isn't quite what it was a couple years back. I tell her she's too good looking for people to laugh at her."

  My face must have betrayed some skepticism.

  "Seriously," he said, "have you ever seen a really beautiful comedian? Man or woman, it doesn't matter. It just doesn't fit. Comics are supposed to be misfits, outcasts, that sort of thing."

  I shrugged. "So she didn't report Mickey to the cops?"

  "That's what I asked. But she said Mickey swore up and down the girl was eighteen. And she had no real proof. The girl could just have been a young-looking eighteen."

  I nodded. "Age can be hard to tell. Just wait 'til you turn thirty. Those eighteen-year-olds are going to look like kids to you."

  He smiled. "Anyway, that's about all I've got."

  It wasn't much. My expression must have revealed my doubts.

  "Cindi was pretty convinced, though," Ethan said. "Just not enough to make that kind of serious allegation against a pretty well-known celebrity, at least locally."

  "Which is why you want something more."

  "Exactly."

  "All right. I'll see what I can do."

  Ethan nodded approvingly. It also seemed like a dismissal. We stood up, and he drained the rest of his vodka concoction. After the door closed behind me, I heard the mini-fridge open again. Strange, I thought. I was the last person in the world to judge someone else's drinking habits, but that boy was in some kind of hurry to get bombed.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I woke up late on Thursday after dancing until almost four in the morning. Wednesdays in August were normally pretty slow, but there must have been some kind of football players' meeting in town because the place was packed with players and their agents and entourages. In the space of a half hour, I'd been given the phone numbers of two players—one from the Bears and one from the Chargers. I actually recognized the Charger as a perennial all-star receiver, and even though he was pretty cute, I decided not to call either of them after work. I'd been down that road before. All guys like that ever wanted was quickie Vegas-stripper sex, the theory being that what happens here stays here. It wasn't worth it. There were always plenty of girls who would call them up. Usually, the girl would ever so casually mention that she'd like a new Chanel purse or some Jimmy Choos, and most of the guys were happy to oblige. It was a well-worn song and dance. It wasn't exactly prostitution, but it was damned close—especially when the girl went back to the store the next day to exchange the purse for cash. I was too old for that crap.

  After a lunch of frozen burritos and Oreo ice cream, I put in a call to Lieutenant Sean Whelan, the only guy with any pull I knew over at the LVPD. I told him vaguely what I was after and asked him if he could hook me up with someone who worked in crimes against women or crimes against children. He told me to call a detective named Sam Humes but reminded me that no one in the police department would be able to give out the names of any victims.

  Nursing a mug of steaming coffee, I called up Humes and was surprised to learn that Sam was actually Samantha. She didn't feel much like talking. She reiterated what Whelan had told me about not being able to reveal any victims' names or anything about any ongoing investigations. On a hunch I mentioned Mickey Mayfield's name, and Sam grew silent for a second. She wasn't giving anything away, but it was enough to make me think that there might be something there. Ethan wasn't coming out of left field with this, at least. I thanked her for her time and planned my next move.

  I decamped to my balcony and tuned my iPhone to the opera channel. I had inherited a love of opera from my grandmother, and I would swear it had somehow sounded richer and more real on her old Victrola p
honograph than on any of my digital gizmos. After I inherited all of her LPs, I went out and bought an honest-to-god record player at the pawn shop just west of me. But digital music was so easy that I rarely used it. The iPhone started playing Wagner's "Lohengrin," and I closed my eyes and dozed in and out of consciousness for a few minutes.

  Inevitably, my overly caffeinated mind drifted to Mickey Mayfield. People with sexual proclivities don't just drop them like a bad habit. They keep going, sometimes getting even more daring and extreme, until they get caught. If there were rumors about Mickey Mayfield as far back as a few years ago, it was likely that he was still engaging in that kind of behavior. Or maybe something even worse. There was no sense beating around the bush. I had a check for twenty grand sitting on my nightstand and had promised to find out what Mayfield was up to, which meant I had to watch him. I assumed I wouldn't be lucky enough to catch Mayfield doing anything incriminating on my first try, but I wanted to get a feel for what his normal movements were and how he acted offstage. I also needed to figure out basic things like where he lived—he wasn't listed in the phone book—and where he parked his car at the Copa.

  Mayfield was doing his show at the Copa at 8:00 and 10:30. I didn't figure I had any shot getting invited back to his dressing room, and I didn't want to tip my hand anyway. I wanted to watch from a distance. But I didn't feel like going back there and sitting through two of his shows, especially by myself. I called my friend Carlos to see if he was free.

  "I'm not working, but I'm not exactly free, either. Got a thing with my girlfriend."

  Telling vague half-truths was Carlos's way of negotiating for more money. "Um hmm. She won't mind a couple hundred extra bucks, I'm sure."

  "She doesn't like me working for you. I think she's jealous."

  "Oh, come on. Tell her you're definitely not my type."

  "I did. She's more worried that you are my type."

  "Whatever. Just work it out, okay? We're going to the Copa."

  He sighed. "I'll work it out."

  "Meet me in the Copa's hotel lobby at eleven."

  "Got it. You owe me though."

  Carlos was a bouncer at Cougar's, the so-called gentlemen's club where I danced three or four nights per week. He'd seen me buck naked hundreds of times, but he never failed to give me a full-body inspection each time I was in his field of vision. In fact, he had an uncanny ability to get himself assigned to work the same nights I worked, and he usually managed to situate himself within the club so he could watch me most of the time. Carlos had a girlfriend, but he'd let it be known in no uncertain terms that he'd dump her in a heartbeat if I even winked at him. I wasn't planning to.

  Carlos wasn't just a bouncer though. After working together a few times, I learned that he was working on his MBA at UNLV and already owned some rental properties in town, which made his stock go way up with me. Every once in a while I'd call him to help me work a case, and he'd saved my ass a month earlier in a shootout. In the process of working together, I'd actually come to like him a little bit, although I would never let on for fear of getting his hopes up.

  I hung out at home and ordered in for dinner. Carlos and I met up at Copa at eleven.

  He was immediately wary. "So what are we doing here? Watching out for some card cheat? This better not be boring."

  I gave him a quick rundown of the situation. Carlos had never heard anything about Mayfield and young girls, but that wasn't too surprising. I fished in my purse and handed him a thick wad of twenties that I'd picked up at the ATM. Ethan's twenty grand meant I wasn't going to be shy about spending money to get information.

  "Wow, payment in advance? That's a first."

  "No, it's not payment. It's for you to use tonight. I want you to ask around here—valets, bellhops, guys who work for cash tips—see if any of them can give you a lead on which car in the lot is Mayfield's. And if they know anything, keep the cash flowing. What kinds of stuff does he do after work? Does he stay and play poker, or does he get out of here right away? That kind of thing. He's pretty new here, but he's the biggest draw in the place, and I bet people are talking. But be a little discreet about it, okay?"

  Hotel valets and doormen were notorious for knowing everything that went on in their hotels. They knew the best meals to order, the best slot machines to play, and they usually knew about all kinds of things that weren't exactly legal. Contrary to popular belief, prostitution was illegal in Las Vegas, which meant that information about prostitutes had to be communicated through word of mouth and informal channels. Some of the guys working the door could end up as de facto pimps, and they often took a percentage of the profits for girls they recommended. I figured those guys would know if Mayfield was into any of that stuff.

  Carlos looked unimpressed with my plan. "Aren't they going to be wondering why I'm asking?"

  "Tell them you're a big fan and you want to meet him."

  "That guy is a loser," he protested.

  "Well, obviously some people like him. You just have to pretend to be one of them."

  He made a face.

  "Trust me," I said, "these people live for cash. You start flashing all that green at them, they're not going to give a damn about who you are or why you're asking."

  "And what are you going to do?"

  "Same thing. Except instead of cash I'm going to use my…personality."

  Carlos chuckled and immediately looked down at my chest. Again. I was wearing a tight bra that created cleavage Dolly Parton would be proud of. I was quite certain I'd be able to get some useful information.

  He shook his head. "You've got to be careful with those things."

  I smiled. "I know what I'm doing. Let's split up and meet back here in an hour. He's onstage right now. His 10:30 show probably won't end until midnight, and we can take it from there."

  Carlos nodded and reluctantly shuffled off toward the exit.

  CHAPTER SIX

  I did a slow walk-through of the casino floor. I wasn't sure exactly what I was looking for, except that I wanted a friendly face that might not mind answering a few questions. My first victim was a bored-looking pit boss at one of the blackjack pits. There was only one live blackjack game in his pit, and with the other seven tables deserted, he found himself watching the live game from a distance. I did a slow walk-by, hoping to catch his eye. It worked, and I flashed him a smile as I passed. I did a loop around the pit and came back to chat. His name tag read Phil.

  When I waved him over, he seemed happy to have something to do other than watch a few elderly Asian guys play blackjack. "How can I help you?" he asked.

  "You probably won't be able to help me," I began. I was going for a bimbo effect, which wasn't much of a stretch. "I'm a huge fan of Mickey Mayfield. I've seen his show, like, twenty times."

  Phil flashed a broad smile. "Oh yes, he's very funny, isn't he?" The staff at any casino was trained to talk up the in-house acts, so I couldn't tell if he was being genuine.

  "He's amazing," I gushed. "Anyway, I was kind of hoping to, you know, meet him. In person. Does he ever hang out here at all?"

  He paused to consider my question. "Well, not that I know of. I probably couldn't tell you, though, even if I knew!" He continued beaming at me.

  "So he doesn't play at the tables or anything after his shows? Or maybe he hits the bar?"

  Phil shook his head apologetically. "Sorry, I wish I could help you. But I don't think I've seen him in here more than a couple times since he started last month."

  I pouted. "Oh well, thanks anyways!" I threw in a mindless giggle for effect and moved on.

  Phil was nice but not very helpful. I supposed it would have been way too easy if Mayfield routinely headed out on the casino floor after his sets. That way, I'd be able to follow him right from here to his car and get a lot more information about him. Instead, it was going to take a little work.

  I breezed past a few banks of Wheel of Fortune slot machines and spotted a cocktail waitress prancing by with impressive speed.
I sat down at a Blazing Sevens slot machine and flagged her over. Her name tag said Lurlene.

  "What can I get for you, sweetheart?" She had a Texas drawl that her male customers must have lapped up.

  "I'll have a gin and tonic if it's not too much trouble. I'm in the business myself, so just catch me when it's convenient. I'll be right here!"

  "Really? Where do you work?" She wasn't shy about sizing me up. "Bellagio? Wynn?"

  Now that was a compliment. Those casinos only hired the best-looking women to serve drinks. "No, hon, I'm on a riverboat on the Mississippi. Between Iowa and Illinois. Just in town here for a quick visit."

  Her eyebrows went up. "How do you like working on a boat? Does it sway a lot?"

  I chuckled. "Nope. It's pretty much permanently moored to the dock. You don't even know you're on a boat, really. I wanted to move out here and try to find a job, but my family's back home, and my little one's in school there."

  She nodded understandingly. "I'll get right on that gin and tonic," she said sweetly. "Maybe it'll be a double!" She gave me a conspiratorial wink.

  This whole lying thing came a little too easily to me, I thought. I felt bad about telling such a terrible fib, but it wasn't much worse than the lies I told men four nights a week when they asked if I liked them. Plus, I reminded myself, this was for a good cause.

  I sat at the slot machine and quickly frittered away twenty bucks, all in the name of getting a free drink. I knew I had to be actively playing a game in order to qualify for the free drink, so I plugged another five-spot into the money feeder and sat there staring blankly at the machine. I wasn't going to lose more money just sitting here. After going mad with boredom, I was just beginning to think that Lurlene had forgotten about me when she returned and handed me a double gin and tonic. I noticed that none of the other customers had a glass as big as mine.