Double Down (Raven McShane Mysteries Book 4)

by Stephanie Caffrey

  “No, no, of course not,” he chuckled, trying to sound like the friendliest sex predator in the world. “It can be anywhere you want. Somewhere right out in public, if that would make you more comfortable.”

  “It would,” I confirmed. No doubt about that. My mind was racing, trying to think of a good spot. And then it hit me. It was so obvious that it had taken a minute. “Let’s meet at Maria’s Mexican Restaurant. A mile north of the Strip, off of—”

  “I know where it is,” he said, cutting me off. “They have great margaritas there.”

  I cringed at his tone of voice. Owen was trying to be so conversational and friendly, as though nothing had happened. It was insulting.

  “When can you get there?” I asked.

  “Twenty minutes.”

  “Do it,” I said and hung up. I looked around me, surveying the room. Ten or twelve people dining in the restaurant plus a half dozen at the bar. Safe enough, I decided. If Owen wanted to try anything with me, he’d have a hell of a time.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Alex was frowning at me, his face a mixture of puzzlement and concern. “Sorry,” he said. “It was impossible not to overhear a lot of that.” I noticed he’d stopped eating.

  “Finish your plate,” I instructed only half jokingly.

  “Yessum,” he said with a deep Southern drawl and a wide smile.

  I moved my half-finished margarita to the empty table next to us to prevent me from instinctively slurping it down. I wanted whatever wits I had to be fully engaged by the time Owen arrived. Since I hung up, I’d been getting a bad feeling about the meeting.

  “You want to stick around?” I asked Alex, trying to make it sound like a casual inquiry rather than the desperate entreaty it was.

  “Wouldn’t miss it,” he said, dabbing a napkin at his mouth. “This stuff really is pretty good, I have to admit.” He surveyed his nearly empty plate. “Did I eat enough to get dessert?”

  I shook my head. I guessed I had it coming, acting like a schoolmarm and ordering him around. “Let’s wait on dessert,” I said.

  Alex pretended to look injured and then leaned back in his seat. “All right, now are you going to tell me what’s going on or not?”

  I nodded. “You want the short version?”

  “No.”

  “I was afraid of that,” I said, checking my watch. We still had fifteen minutes, so I filled Alex in on what I’d been up to, starting with the card counters who were missing money, the disappearance of my client’s wife, and then the business with the preacher who’d drugged me.

  “And he’s coming here in five minutes?” Alex asked, incredulous. “I’m no lawyer, Raven, but I think that’s against the law. He can’t just call up a witness in a criminal case and say, ‘Hey, let’s chat!’”

  I smiled. “You’d be surprised at what people do. You’re working at thirty-five thousand feet up there in the clouds in the boardrooms of the business world. Down here, people are scrappers. This guy does not want to lose what he’s got, so he’s going to try to buy his way out of it.”

  “And you’re going to let him?”

  “No,” I said. “Well, probably not. We all have a price.” I didn’t believe Owen had enough money to meet my price, whatever it was, but I was just being honest.

  “We’ve got to get this asshole off the streets,” he said.

  “I know,” I said. Alex’s anger was palpable. I decided it was better if he wasn’t privy to my conversation with Owen since I didn’t feel like breaking up a fight at the moment.

  “He should be here soon,” I said, standing up. “Let’s go to the bar and wait.”

  Alex joined me, and I politely suggested he sit a few stools down from me, as though we weren’t together.

  “Keep checking your watch,” I said. “That way, he’ll think you’re waiting for someone.”

  Alex was about to say something, but then he bit his lip. “You’re the boss,” he said.

  Wow, I thought. Alex was handsome, rich, and trainable. The trifecta of potential boyfriends.

  We spent the next five minutes pretending not to know each other, not that it would have mattered much. Although I was happy to have Alex there for moral support, it wasn’t like Owen could try anything when there were dozens of people in the restaurant.

  I ordered myself another drink, out of pure habit. After all, I was sitting at a bar. I was stirring the margarita aimlessly when I sensed a presence behind me. The presence cleared its throat.

  “Raven,” he said.

  I spun around on the bar stool, not standing up. Owen was dressed in a crisp blue golf shirt tucked into khaki pants with a dark-brown belt. He wore an ambiguous smile on his face as he greeted me, which gave me the chills. I felt like I was talking to a mannequin at Macy’s.

  “Let’s make this quick,” I said. “You shouldn’t even be here.”

  “May I?” he asked, gesturing to the stool on my left.

  “It’s a free country.”

  He sat down and waved away the bartender. I figured Owen wasn’t much of a drinker. He got off on power and fame, not booze.

  “Like I said on the phone,” he began, “I think there’s been a big misunderstanding here. I mean, consider this from my angle for a minute. Imagine how the church is going to feel when their leader gets dragged through the mud like this. Imagine the effect on the children, who look up to me, and their parents, who rely on me for comfort and hope, a beacon of the Lord’s message that they can—”

  I cut off his bullshit machine. “Cut to the chase, Reverend,” I said. I wanted to slug him, but that probably wouldn’t look good to a jury.

  “Okay, okay,” he said, again with that plastered-on mannequin smile. “To make up for any confusion and hardship you might have thought you experienced—and we would have to sign something agreeing that this was just a misunderstanding—I would be able to offer you—” Owen’s offer was cut short for the simple reason that a beer bottle had been smashed over his head.

  I hadn’t noticed, but Alex had gotten up from his seat and had been eavesdropping on our little conversation. Apparently, it had been too much to take, and he’d borrowed some poor guy’s Dos Equis, which, as luck would have it, was more than half full, judging from how wet Owen’s head was.

  Owen spun around, completely dumfounded. Alex’s anger was bubbling over. He was breathing deeply and had a look of pure malevolence on his face.

  “Get out of here, you piece of shit,” he said, his voice low and commanding.

  Owen had blood and beer dripping down from his left ear but otherwise seemed well enough. He muttered something incomprehensible and then came to his senses. “And who the hell are you?” he asked, finally.

  “Doesn’t matter who I am. I know what you did, and it makes me sick that people like you are allowed to roam free. I repeat, get out of here.” Alex pointed at the door for effect. The bartender had been mopping beer off the bar and had discreetly picked up the phone, probably to call the police in case things got out of hand.

  The manager finally arrived, flanked by two stout Mexican busboys. Both Alex and Owen looked at them and then at each other.

  “He was just leaving,” Alex said, motioning to Owen.

  Owen straightened himself up, sensing he had lost the room, and walked towards the door, grabbing a napkin on the way out and holding it up to his head.

  The manager flashed a questioning look at Alex as if to say “What the hell was all that?”

  “The guy’s a criminal,” Alex said vaguely, “in violation of a restraining order.” That seemed to mollify the manager who turned his attention to Owen who had hurried his pace to get to the exit.

  Alex looked at me. “Sorry,” he muttered. “But that guy is scum. I could just tell.”

  I shrugged. Half of me was pissed because I didn’t get a chance to hear Owen’s offer. But half of me was experiencing a bit of thrill, a medieval tingling over the fact that I had aroused so much passion and an
ger and that grown men were fighting over me.

  Alex looked around the room, aware now that he had become the center of attention. It was a completely incongruous scene. There was Alex, dressed like the banking millionaire he was, breathing heavily and still looking slightly crazed. Beer had sprayed everywhere. Instinctively, Alex reached in his wallet and found a crisp Benjamin. He found a dry spot on the bar and then slid it across towards the bartender. The bartender nodded curtly, Alex’s offense instantly forgiven.

  “I think we should get out of here,” I whispered.

  “Don’t you want to finish your drink?” he asked. He was probably joking, but he didn’t know me very well.

  I pulled out the straw, tipped the glass back, and drained the rest of the margarita. After I licked the salt off my upper lip, I calmly placed the glass back on the bar. “Ready,” I announced.

  Alex and I made our way to the door, ignoring the curious stares of the other patrons.

  “This is my second dramatic restaurant exit of the week,” I muttered.

  He shot me a look.

  “I’ll explain later,” I whispered.

  When we got to the door, I pulled Alex back.

  “Check that out,” I said, pointing discreetly at a black Lexus in the parking lot. Owen was bent over, leaning down to talk to the driver.

  “I wonder who that is,” Alex said, just loud enough to penetrate the piped-in Mexican trumpet music.

  We watched, keeping our distance. Owen kept looking back at the door, as though expecting us at any minute.

  “There has to be a back exit,” I said, eyeing the car. “I don’t like the way this looks,” I whispered. I couldn’t see the driver Owen was talking to, but the fact that he had backup was disturbing.

  Alex nodded. “You thinking he’s here for you?”

  I shrugged. “Could be,” I said. “If you stood a lot to lose based on a single witness’ testimony, wouldn’t you think about bumping off that witness?”

  This last part must have been overheard by a passing waitress because she turned around and gave me a puzzled look. I glared at her, and she quickly retreated, probably deciding she’d heard me wrong.

  “They’re not expecting me, though,” Alex said. “I’ll pull my car around back and meet you there.”

  I nodded. It probably was an overreaction, but I didn’t feel like exposing myself at the moment. “What do we do about my car?”

  “I’ll have someone get it back to your place,” Alex said.

  “If you say so. Let’s go.”

  I watched Alex get to his car without incident, and then I weaved my way back through the restaurant. There were no other public exits, but that only meant I’d be taking an unscheduled trip through the kitchen. I spotted the double doors and followed right behind a teenage boy who was carrying an empty tray. The red EXIT sign glowed in the far corner of the kitchen, which was a cacophony of chopping, sizzling, and ordering given in rapid-fire Spanish. I smiled at two of the cooks who looked up from their work, but apart from them, no one paid me any attention.

  Alex’s Mercedes-Benz was idling right outside. I double-checked to make sure no one was watching, and then I slipped in.

  He handed me a golf hat, which I reluctantly donned, and then I slipped down in the seat while we exited the lot.

  “I don’t think they noticed,” he said.

  We pulled up to a red light. “Now what?” I asked.

  “I was just thinking that. You probably don’t want to head right home, do you? I mean, with that scary-looking guy…” Alex trailed off and then cursed under his breath.

  “What?” I asked.

  “There’s a black Lexus a few cars behind us,” he said.

  “There’s probably five thousand of them in this town,” I said.

  “Still.”

  The light changed, and we drove ahead, slower than at normal speed. I wasn’t sure if Alex was just an old-man driver or whether he was trying to let the Lexus catch up. I couldn’t see much in my rearview mirror.

  Alex was obsessively checking his own mirror.

  “Don’t keep checking, or he’ll notice,” I said. “It’s called information asymmetry.” I pulled that term out of left field, but it fit.

  Alex snorted. “You sound like one of my consultants.”

  “The point is, if we’re being watched, we don’t want the watcher to know that we know. That gives us an advantage.” It sounded like a real-life private detective thing, but really it was an idea I’d borrowed from the world of poker.

  “You’re the boss,” he said.

  As best as I could tell, the black Lexus was still trailing us by two car lengths. Since we were doing five miles under the speed limit, that was a little strange.

  “Most cars would have passed us by now,” I said. “But he’s staying back there.”

  “Screw it,” Alex said. “I think we have to assume it’s the same guy and that he’s dangerous. That means you’ll be my guest tonight.”

  I cocked my head to the side. “What’s one thing got to do with the other?”

  He turned and flashed me a thin smile. “I live in a gated community,” he said. “I’ll phone ahead.”

  He punched the car’s touch screen a few times and found the number for the front gate.

  “This is Alex McConnell,” he said. “I’ll be at the gate in about five minutes. There is a black Lexus behind me that I do not want admitted. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir,” said the voice, and then Alex hung up.

  “You ever have a first date like this?” I asked.

  “This is nothing,” he said jokingly. “I once dated a Russian assassin. And then there was the Ukrainian spy. Svetlana was her name.”

  I chuckled, grateful for a little comic relief. We were entering a more exclusive part of town now, where the streets were named with whimsical Anglo references like Avalon Lane, Meadowshire Court, and Windsor Drive.

  The Lexus was still behind us.

  Alex pulled into a well-maintained long driveway lined by ubiquitous palm trees. We curved around a bend, where the security gate appeared. Actually, it was more of a security house, a small red-brick structure with a large window revealing not one but two guards sitting inside. A sign warned No Admittance Without Identification.

  “He’s still back there,” Alex said.

  I checked my mirror. Too late, the driver had realized he was heading up a dead end. Either he was going to have to back out awkwardly or do a U-turn at the security gate. Or he could take the guard by storm in a firefight, and then we’d all go down in a hail of gunfire.

  The security guard smiled at Alex and then pointed at the Lexus behind us.

  “That the car you called about, sir?” he asked.

  Alex hushed him. “Just pretend it’s not there, unless of course he tries to get in. We don’t exactly want him to know that we know he’s following us.”

  The guard seemed to take a few seconds to comprehend, and then he smiled. “Got it, sir. We won’t let him by.”

  Alex nodded and then eased his car through the security gate, which the guard had opened. When I checked my mirror again, the Lexus had disappeared.

  “He’s not following,” I said.

  “That’s probably a good thing. I don’t think Leon there would have put up too much of a fight.”

  I was barely paying attention to Alex. Instead, my attention was dominated by the mansions we were passing, many of which had to be north of ten thousand square feet. Unlike many Las Vegas neighborhoods I’d been to, however, these homes all looked classy and stately rather than obnoxious. The neighborhood fit Alex nicely, I decided.

  He weaved the car into a cul-de-sac and then pulled into a long driveway that led up a steep hillock and then swerved around to the left where his house lay in front of us. After seeing all the mansions on the way in, I couldn’t avoid a small pang of disappointment upon seeing Alex’s house. It looked like a mission-style ranch, the kind you might see in California,
with clean lines at right angles and no ornamentation whatsoever. It was big and beautiful and in great taste, but it was no mansion. Alex pulled the car into the four-car garage and then, after parking, he raced around the front of the car to open my door for me. I took his hand and smiled at his gallantry.

  “Nobody saw us come in, right?” he asked.

  “Not that I could tell. Why?”

  “Just paranoid about my wife, is all. She’s probably gathering dirt on me to use against me in the divorce. If they get some snapshots of me bringing a…” he trailed off.

  “Bringing a stripper back to your house?” I asked, following him into the house.

  “Well, yes,” he said, a little embarrassed. “That’s it exactly. Come on in,” he said. “I’ll show you the guest rooms.”

  Rooms, plural, I thought. Interesting.

  I followed Alex down a hallway, and within five seconds, I realized I had been wrong. Very wrong.

  The hallway was elevated, with hardwood floors suspended by steel cables, our path glassed in up to waist level. It turned out we had entered on the third floor of the house, and I now found myself looking down at a massive three-story atrium, a monument to modern architecture—glass and steel everywhere, with the same wood floors on each level. This was no humble ranch house. It was a megamansion.

  “This is beautiful, Alex. It’s a little deceiving from the front,” I said.

  He smiled. I’m sure he’d heard the same comment a hundred times. It turned out that the house had been built into a hill that concealed the bottom two floors in front. But from my vantage point, I could see down into the kitchen and through its floor-to-ceiling windows out into the backyard where there was some kind of party deck and a giant pool.

  I wasn’t done taking in the view, but he rushed me along the hallway and to a corner suite which looked out over the backyard.

  “This is the guest suite?” I asked. “I can’t imagine what the master looks like.”

  The room, although heavily modern, had rough stone inlaid into the walls which gave it a warm feeling. The bathroom had slate-gray floors and a giant soaking tub, and there was even a little nook around the corner that had a marble countertop, sink, and microwave, and the all-important coffee maker. There was even a little basket of different kinds of coffees.