He had a point. I began looking for people who could have been James Devine, but there weren't many candidates. We ordered in for lunch and finished up our respective DVDs without seeing any sign of James Devine.
"Want to switch? Maybe I'll see something you missed."
Mike shrugged. "It's your dime."
We switched laptops, pressed play, and continued our glazed-over stares at the screens. By the time we'd finished, we had viewed three hours of security footage from two different camera angles covering the times before, during, and after the murder occurred. No Devine.
The room now smelled like processed meat, cheese, and mayo. Mike began cleaning up the remnants of our lunch. "The cameras were moving, which makes it hard. He could easily have slipped through while they were panning in the other direction."
I sighed. "I know. It just would have been nice to have an aha moment, you know?"
"That only happens in books and movies," he said. "So why do you think Ethan's mom is behind this, anyway?"
"Lots of reasons. She was acting weird, for one. She is overprotective of Ethan—they even live together. She saw this Mayfield thing as a complete insult to everything she stood for. I got into her bank account, which she shares with Ethan, and saw some giant withdrawals. Then her boyfriend breaks into her house, steals a backpack, and disappears to Germany."
"Huh," he mumbled. He didn't sound convinced.
"Put it this way," I said. "When I brought the idea up with Ethan, he wasn't surprised. She was that kind of mom."
Mike nodded and stood up.
"Thanks for the help, Mike."
He nodded, looking serious. "No problem. Anyway, I don't know exactly how to say this, but—"
My heart started pounding as he fumbled for the right words.
"Um, well, you really need to take a shower." He flashed a tight smile and scurried off.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Blood from every part of my body rushed to my face. I needed to take a shower? What was Mike talking about? I had taken a shower only four hours earlier. And then it hit me. I grabbed a handful of my hair and held it under my nose. Rather than smelling lavender, I smelled fermented cabbage! That crap was still stuck to me like some kind of unholy curse, pervading the very fibers of my hair. I had washed it twice at home, never dreaming it could be so stubborn. And maybe I had simply gotten so used to the smell of rotting garbage that the rest of me smelled too. I hadn't been this mortified since I'd wet my friend Jennifer's sleeping bag at a seventh-grade sleepover.
Still red faced, I packed the DVDs in my purse and snuck out of there, too embarrassed to say good-bye. When I got home, I Googled home remedies for smelly hair, and surprisingly there were entire web pages devoted to this particular problem. I had never realized so many people had fallen into vats of fermenting cabbage.
I settled on the only trick I could use with things I had in my apartment: the vinegar cure. I first washed my hair in piping hot water to open the hair's fibers (supposedly). I followed that with a vinegar-and-water mixture and let that soak for ten minutes. The final step involved working some baking soda into my hair and scalp, which produced a hissing sound and some serious tingling pain up top. No pain, no gain, right?
Following that, I rewashed my hair with my normal shampoo. A whiff after the shower was promising, but I wouldn't be sure until it dried, or until I had it confirmed by an unbiased and uncabbaged nose. Andrew called me just after three and wanted to meet up. He said he was starving, so I suggested the Heart Attack Grill, but he wasn't that kind of guy. We agreed on a sushi place he said was near his house, about a mile northeast of me.
I got there first and stood lingering in front of the counter, behind which about fifty kinds of raw fish and other seafood were preserved on ice. Andrew tapped me on the shoulder.
"So how did you lose him?" I didn't feel like beating around the bush.
He flashed me a thin smile. "Nice to see you, too." He was wearing an open-collared black shirt that suggested an abundance of pride in the thickness of his chest hair.
"Sorry. What's good here? I'm not a huge sushi person. It's too…healthy." I uttered this last word with an air of disgust.
"I usually go for the unagi and umi sashimi. Eel and sea urchin," he added, addressing my confused stare.
"I think I'll stick with some tuna rolls or something," I said.
We got our food and found a table near the front door. Andrew dug into his plate of raw fish and rice, using his chopsticks to dunk the sashimi in a sauce I didn't recognize. He'd done this before.
"Sorry," he said, mouth half-full. "Haven't eaten anything but the pretzels and peanuts they gave me on the plane."
I shrugged, still trying to decide if I was hungry enough to eat raw fish.
He finished chewing. "So here's how it went. Devine catches a flight to Frankfurt. Direct. I manage to get on the same flight, although it set me back four grand. I follow him out of the airport on the underground train, and we head out into the suburbs. So far, so good."
I took a bite of my California roll, which was surprisingly flavorful and a little spicy. The only other time I had eaten sushi was about five years earlier, when I was escorting a group of Japanese businessmen around town. I remember it vividly because it was the most money I'd ever been offered for sex. I turned them down and quickly gave up on escorting work. I preferred being with other people I knew in a controlled, public space.
"And then he just disappeared?"
"Not yet. I had him getting off the train, where a guy was waiting for him. They got into his car and sped off before I could hop in a cab."
I sighed. It sounded like a wasted trip to me. "So that's it?"
Andrew finished off another piece of sushi in a single bite and then smiled mysteriously. "Not exactly. Like I told you, I got the bag."
"That's great! How much was in there?"
"Twenty grand or so."
"Amazing. How did you manage that?"
"In Chicago. I followed him into the bathroom, and he put his bag down in the stall. I went into the stall next to him and waited until he was, well, in a position it would be hard to get up from. I snatched it and ran out of there before he could get out of the stall."
"Couldn't he just find you in the terminal?" I asked.
"He could, but I wasn't holding the bag anymore. I never took it out of the bathroom. Before I ran out, I stashed it in another stall behind the toilet. He ran out expecting to find someone running away with his bag, but as soon as I got outside I did a one-eighty and casually walked back into the bathroom. We crossed paths, but he never blinked an eye because he was looking for someone running away."
"Ooh, you're good. Ninja good." It was a pretty nifty plan, I had to admit. "So what, you just went through his stuff in the bathroom?"
"Yeah, I took all the money and dumped the bag in the trash."
I had figured on there being more than twenty grand in that bag. I momentarily wondered if Andrew might have kept some for himself. Only Patty would know how much cash she had in her house, so I let the matter drop until I could mention it to her. In the grand scheme of things, it wasn't that important.
"I suppose it's a lot better than nothing. Although I looked at the casino security tapes, and I couldn't find Devine anywhere."
He scoffed. "Those things are notoriously bad. They move all over the place."
"I know, but it would have been nice."
He pushed his empty plate away from him. "Yeah, but we've got more than enough. We don't need to prove Ethan didn't do it, we just need to create reasonable doubt. And here we've got a guy with a criminal record who's the boyfriend of Ethan's mom, who's angry as hell at Mayfield. She arranges to pay him lots of money right around the time Mayfield is shot. Then we see the boyfriend flee with all that money."
I nodded. He had a good point, and I hoped Ethan saw it that way too. "Maybe you should be the defense attorney," I joked.
He smiled. "Thought about it once
, but I didn't feel like moving to Boston for law school."
If he was trying to imply that he'd gotten into Harvard Law, I wasn't buying it.
"Anyway," I said, changing the subject, "we're meeting with Ethan and his lawyer tomorrow morning. You coming?"
"Wouldn't miss it. Ten o'clock, right?"
"Yup."
Andrew apologetically said that he was exhausted and needed to get home for a nap, and that was just fine with me. We parted ways, and I headed back to my office, where I could think better. There were too many distractions at home.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Mike was talking to someone on the phone when I got back to the office. I fired up my computer and leaned back in my chair while the computer resurrected itself from its electronic coma. I was thinking about the meeting with Ethan tomorrow, and it occurred to me that we had never broached the matter with Ethan's mom herself. Patty could easily have come forward by now to save her son, but she hadn't. She was apparently going to let her son take the fall, although it obviously bothered her. But I wondered if some gentle prodding might get her to come clean and spare Ethan the choice between turning on his mom or rolling the dice.
I was still tasting spicy tuna, which was not unpleasant. Andrew was on to something with the whole sushi thing, and as I was considering adding more sushi to my diet, Mike wandered in.
He sidled up to my desk and made a show of sniffing the air around me. "Vinegar?"
I sighed. "Is it bad?"
"Not really. Probably a good idea. What was the deal there, anyway?"
I was silent for a second while I pondered how to respond. "You ever hear of kimchi?"
"Yeah."
"Well, I had a run-in with some. In fact, I took a swim in a whole vat of it. Apparently, it's not easy to get rid of the smell."
Mike was looking at me with a look that suggested he couldn't tell whether I was joking or being serious.
"It was in Chicago," I said. "Long story, but it ends with me slipping into some warm, bubbly fermenting cabbage. Next topic."
He smiled. "That's kind of a relief, actually."
"That's a weird thing to say."
"I mean, it's not like you have a problem or something. It's not a condition, you know, like you have bad BO. It's just a temporary thing."
I nodded my head in understanding. "Right. Good to know you care."
"Just sayin'."
"So I'm thinking of going and accusing a woman of murder for hire. You want to come along? It might be fun." I batted my eyebrows up and down.
"Can I crack a window in the car?"
I rolled my eyes at the ceiling.
Mike flashed me a toothy smile. It was nice that he was becoming comfortable enough around me now to make little jokes like that, I thought. Baby steps.
"I'll drive. We don't want to stink up your nice, uh—" I realized I had no idea what kind of car he drove. In my mind a voice was chanting Don't say Buick. Don't say Buick.
"I've got a Buick Regal. You probably wouldn't like it."
Was there a more boring car ever built? I shook my head in mock disgust. "Let's go."
We emerged into the curse-inducing afternoon heat and hopped into my Audi TT. From downtown it was a straight shot on Highway 95 out to Ethan's house on the west side of town, and we managed to avoid the worst of the rush-hour traffic.
"So he lives with his mom?" Mike asked.
"They're very close. He's the only child, and she never married the father. So it's been just the two of them for twenty-something years."
"And she's one of these helicopter moms, you think? The kind that would do anything to help her son get ahead?"
"Seems that way," I said, pulling into her driveway.
We climbed out and rang the doorbell. Mike pressed his face up close to the window. "A lot of times people are home but don't answer," he explained. "They try to get a peek, though, and that's when I see them."
I chuckled. "Well, I think she'd be more likely to answer if there weren't some weird guy peering into her window."
"I'm not weird," he protested as the door clicked and Patty appeared.
"Hi, Raven," she said. "Any good news for us?"
"Hi, Patty. This is Mike Madsen, another private investigator. Mind if we come in?"
She made a grand, full-body shrug. "Come on in! It's a party!"
As we followed her in, Mike looked at me sideways and then put his hand up to his mouth and made a drinky-drinky gesture, the universal symbol indicating that someone's had a few adult beverages. It wasn't exactly surprising to me. If my only son was going away for a murder I'd arranged, I'd probably start the party at 10:00 a.m. every day.
She guided us into the expansive kitchen, where we took seats around the granite counter. I cleared my throat. "We wanted to talk to you about some developments we've made in the case that could help Ethan out. In fact, we think they could exonerate him entirely."
She perked up. "Oh? Do tell!"
"Well, Patty, they involve a man named James Devine. Do you know him?"
Patty's festive aura dissipated faster than an ice cream cone in the desert. Her expression became stormy, as though gearing up for a battle she knew she'd have to fight sooner or later.
"I know him," she said. "Is that a crime?"
I smiled reassuringly. "Of course not. It's just that—we think he was involved in Mayfield's murder. And if you know him and have any idea how he could have done it, that would obviously really help Ethan out."
She tapped her fingers on the countertop sharply. "I do not," she said icily.
"Okay. Would you like to hear what we've learned so far?"
"Not particularly, no. In fact—"
"We found the gun," Mike interjected.
She seemed unimpressed. "What gun? I can assure you that my fingerprints aren't on it. I've never touched a gun in my life."
Her attitude was getting on my nerves. "That's what we came to ask you, Patty. We don't think you shot a gun at all. We were talking about James Devine, remember?"
She stood up abruptly and walked over to her liquor cabinet. "I need a drink," she announced and poured herself two inches of vodka. When she placed the glass under her refrigerator's ice maker, the ice came out in an avalanche and splashed vodka all over her and the floor. Mike and I stifled giggles.
Patty spun around, embarrassed and angry. "I'll see you tomorrow at jail, Raven. I'm busy right now."
We stood up. Her body language and her answers to our questions were pretty damning. They weren't reflective of someone who was innocent.
We exchanged curt good-byes and headed back to the car.
"She's guilty as hell," Mike said, surprising me with his mildly un-Mormon language.
I nodded. "That wasn't a very good performance. Hopefully, Ethan decides to put the blame on her."
"You really think he wouldn't?" Mike asked as we pulled out of the driveway.
"He claimed that he wasn't inclined to. But that story could change if he's facing life in prison or the death penalty."
We drove out of the subdivision and headed back to the freeway. As we sat at a traffic light, I realized that it was the same light I'd been at the day before when I drove Bob Weber home from the Copa. I wondered how he was doing, and if he was even still alive.
"Mike, you want to make a little detour?"
"Um, okay."
I chuckled silently to myself. Mike's easygoing nature was the opposite of Carlos, my bouncer friend, who would have made a stink and fought me for ten minutes just to get me to shell out a little more money. Maybe I should take Mike along with me more often.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
We made an illegal right turn from the left lane and swerved onto Durango Drive, following it about a half mile to Bob Weber's street. A sleek and beautiful gray Mercedes CLS was parked in Bob's driveway.
"That's not going to last," I muttered. If that was Bob's car, the sharks would be circling it in no time.
"Whose ho
use is this?" Mike asked.
"The guy who lives here is the entertainment director at the Copa. He's the guy who hired Mayfield. Anyway, I found out that they both owed money—lots of money—to the same loan sharks, and neither guy could pay. So they came up with this scheme. It's actually kind of clever. This Weber guy uses his position at the Copa to give Mayfield a very nice contract, and they end up splitting the money and repaying the sharks. The trouble was, Mayfield only lasted a few weeks."
"Okay, so why are we here exactly?"
"Just a feeling. I actually drove Weber home last night because he was afraid his car was rigged with explosives. He's got no chance of paying the sharks back and really nothing to live for, basically. I'm kind of worried about the guy, to be honest."
"All right. Let's go check on him."
We walked up to the front door and Mike did his window thing again. He wasn't trying to be surreptitious about it, he said. The point was to let whoever was inside know that you saw them. Once eye contact was established, the occupant would be shamed into answering the door. It was an interesting theory.
"Not seeing anything here," he announced. We waited another minute.
"Obviously someone is here," I said. "You don't just leave a new Benz in the driveway if you're not home."
Mike nodded. "Want to check out the back?"
"Sure."
We headed back to the driveway and poked our noses around into the smallish backyard.
"How worried about this guy are you?" Mike asked.
"Well, I barely know him, but here we are. He was that bad yesterday."
"Okay. Let's knock."
We went to the sliding French door at the back of the house. The vertical blinds were drawn, but it was clear the lights were on inside. I pounded on the screen.
"Bob, it's Raven," I yelled. "From yesterday. I just want to make sure you're okay."
Vegas Stripped (Raven McShane Mysteries Book 2) Page 17