After lunch I decided to give Mike a call—he’d find the story amusing, at the very least. I reached him on his cell, and he lived up to expectations. He had a pleasant laugh, but I was determined to take offense anyway.
“I didn’t find it that funny. A little dramatic of them, don’t you think?”
“What, the treatment?”
“If that’s what you call it.”
“You haven’t been doing this very long. Even the big corporate hotels have back rooms. They can legally detain you if they think a crime’s been committed,” he explained.
“And if they don’t think any crime has been committed?” I pressed.
“They just say ‘oops’”.
“Somehow I don’t think goons at the Bellagio or Wynn are taking people to back rooms and digging into people’s flesh,” I said.
“You never know. I’ve heard some scary things about people who take out six figure markers and try to skip out when they lose.”
I wasn’t really buying it. I told Mike I was going to hole up indoors for the rest of the day, and I spent the afternoon surfing the web for information about Cody Masterson and feeling like the world’s worst private investigator.
Around five o’clock my agent called to remind me I had a three-hour engagement the next morning at a tire convention. Conventions were annoying, but they were easy gigs: wander around, hand out a few hundred pamphlets for shock absorbers or dental tape, laugh at a few dozen bad jokes, and pocket a check for $1,500. Conventions were hugely preferable to stuffy VIP cocktail parties, where I was expected to mingle and feign interest in the latest developments in laser orthodontics (this week) or wheelchair equipment (next month). And convention work gave me a cover job whenever my family started nosing around about how I made my money.
After dinner I managed to get to Cougar’s to dance for a few hours. I borrowed some cream from one of the girls to cover up the fingernail marks on my shoulder, but my heart wasn’t in the performance. With my convention starting at ten the next morning, I decided to attend to my three regulars who were partying Friday night and called it an evening by midnight.
The convention at the Bellagio was uneventful except for the ice cream cone that got spilled on my shoulder. The ice cream was chocolate, and my Yves St. Laurent suit was vanilla. Luckily the vendor who spilled it was horrified and cut me a check on the spot for my dry cleaning bill. I felt ridiculous for about an hour, but it proved to be a great, if unimaginative, conversation starter for the men at the convention.
Rachel called me back around 2:00 on Saturday. I got straight to the point.
“It was bound to happen eventually,” she said nonchalantly. “Even a ratty little place like the Outpost keeps a close watch on who comes and goes. Even if Phil was going to talk, they wouldn’t like you nosing around there too much.”
“I suppose,” I said. “But that kind of cramps my style. If I can’t get back in there to talk to anybody, it’ll be hard to dig much deeper.”
She paused. “That’s true. Even if no one who works there now will talk to you, that doesn’t mean we’re screwed. Let me think about it and get back to you, okay?”
Rachel left me a message while I was in the shower, asking me to get in touch with a man named Mel Block, who she said was the Outpost’s general manager before Phil d’Angelo took over. The Mastersons had wanted new blood after George died, and Mel had seemed more than happy to retire to San Diego. Rachel said Mel was one of the few people at the casino who’d been nice to her, but they had lost track of each other in the last few years.
I tried the number Rachel had given me for Mel Block, but there was neither an answer nor an answering machine. I tried calling again twice more that afternoon with the same result. I made an early stir fry dinner and headed over to Cougar’s. Saturday nights were the most profitable of the week (Friday was second), and I expected four or five regulars to pay me a visit. I found six, plus a cute younger guy named Dave who I’d danced for the night before. A regular in the making, I hoped.
I woke Sunday just before noon. My first thought was that I really had no leads to go on, even after almost a week working on the case. It was not just frustrating, it was embarrassing. I called Mel Block’s number in San Diego again with no luck. After putzing around my apartment for an hour I found myself on my balcony with a stack of Shape and Cosmopolitan magazines that had been building up since May. A can of cheddar Pringles somehow found its way into my lap.
My phone rang around two o’clock.
“Raven, this is Sean Whelan with LVPD. Returning your call from the other day.”
I was silent for what felt like a full minute. “Hi Lieutenant, thanks for getting back to me.” I had completely forgotten that I’d phoned him on Tuesday.
“Sorry it’s taken so long. Rough week. Actually I thought I’d get your machine,” he said. “Working on a Sunday, huh?” He was trying to be friendly, but it came off as hollow.
“Nope, I’m not really working. It’s my cell number. I was just wondering if I could talk with you for a few minutes about the Masterson murder case. You were in charge of the investigation, right?”
“Wow, that’s an oldie but goodie. Yeah, I was the lead detective on that one. Your message was kind of cryptic. What exactly can I help you with?”
Whelan’s call had caught me off-guard, and I wasn’t prepared with anything useful to ask him. “I wonder if I could come to your office or something,” I suggested. “Are you in tomorrow?”
“We can’t do this on the phone? I’m a little busy.” He suddenly sounded snippy.
“Sure, just give me . . .”
“Sorry,” he interrupted. “Like I said, rough week. My wife left me, actually. Took the kids to her mom’s place up in Oregon. Kind of sudden. I’ve been out the last two days and I’m just trying to catch up.”
“God, that’s awful,” I said, not knowing how else to respond. We were both silent for a minute. My mind went into overdrive. “Lieutenant, I’m going out on a limb here, but your name is Irish, right?”
“Yeah. I’m a thoroughbred, actually. Why?”
“Well, I’m half Irish myself. It sounds like you could use a pint of Guinness. Or two. We can talk about Cody Masterson and I’ll buy you a couple.”
He was quiet for a few seconds. “What the hell, okay,” he laughed. “I know, what are the odds, right? I’m Irish and I drink.” His voice sounded a little lighter.
“We can toast the old country.” Like Whelan said, what the hell.
“I don’t give a shit what we toast, but I’m gonna take you up on your offer. I really don’t think you have any idea what you’ve gotten yourself into,” he said, laughing. We agreed to meet at seven at an Irish pub about ten minutes from the Strip. I’d never been there before, but Sean recommended it enthusiastically.
Before I left I finished off some leftover Chinese food and tried calling Mel Block in San Diego, again without luck. I figured Block could be on vacation. It was July, after all, and he might have a summer place or something. But at least there should be an answering machine, I thought. Or maybe I just had the wrong number.
O’Callaghan’s Irish Pub & Grille looked kitschy and formulaic from the outside, as if someone had assembled the place from a build-your-own Irish Pub kit. On the inside, though, it was surprisingly homey and comfortable. If anything, the Irish pub theme was understated. Lieutenant Whelan was sitting by himself at the corner of a large square bar, perched with a good view of the Yankees-Indians game on ESPN. He was bulkier than I’d thought, but I recognized him from the description he’d given me: red faced with a curly mess of yellowish white hair. By the time I sat down, he’d already done some damage to a tall glass of stout. I wondered if it was his first.
He looked like he hadn’t slept well, with bags hanging from his eyes and a pronounced slump to his frame. Or maybe he’d just gone on a three-day bender. We made our introductions and I ordered a Guinness of my own. Whelan wasn’t shy about looking me
over. I was dressed pretty conservatively, with a short-sleeved white oxford shirt buttoned up most of the way and a pair of thin beige linen shorts. Pink sandals were the only interesting thing I was wearing.
“I have to say,” he said, “you’re not what I was expecting.”
“Is that a compliment?”
“I think so. Is it still legal in this country to pay a woman a compliment? Or is that some kind of harassment or something?”
I smiled. “I’ve got a pretty thick skin. You can compliment me all you want.”
“That’s good.” He looked around. “You’re really a detective?”
I nodded.
“Sorry,” he said. “With my wife splitting this week, I’m just paranoid some sleazebag lawyer is trying to get pictures of me with a younger woman.”
I didn’t feel comfortable getting so personal with a guy I’d just met, so I dove in to the purpose of our visit. “I’ve been hired to take another look at the Masterson case,” I explained. “Basically, my client wants enough evidence to take the case before a civil jury.”
“Wow.” He whistled for effect and thought about it for a minute. “You work for Mrs. Hannity?”
“Yes. She’s a friend of mine. I’m wondering what your thoughts about the verdict were, and whether there was much in the way of evidence you had that didn’t make it into the trial.”
“She looks a lot like you, actually. Except that she’s blonde, of course.”
I nodded. He was still on the looks thing. I didn’t feel it appropriate to mention that my boobs were bigger than Rachel’s.
“Fair enough,” he said, picking up on my silent impatience. He drained his beer and signaled to the bartender. “Couple of Irish car bombs for my friend and me.” He turned to me and grinned. “Guinness ain’t working fast enough,” he whispered conspiratorially.
The waiter brought over two foaming pints of Guinness and a pair of shot glasses. He poured a half-inch of Bailey’s Irish Cream in each shot glass and topped them off with Jameson whiskey. He waited a few seconds while the head on the Guinness settled, and then he dropped the shot glasses into the beers.
“Chug,” Whelan said, pushing one of the glasses over to me. We both chugged for what felt like a full two minutes, and both of us wound up wearing brown foamy mustaches.
“Wow,” I said, impressed. “Where has that drink been all my life?”
Whelan seemed pleased. “They’re big with the guys in the fire department. I kind of stole that one from them awhile ago.” He signaled the bartender again and turned to me. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to let you buy me some plain old whiskey. My bladder isn’t what it used to be,” he confided under his breath. I told him I’d gladly join him in a couple double Jameson’s on the rocks. It was my dad’s old drink.
Whelan was a little overweight, but not exactly fat. He looked about fifty-five—old for a cop—but had a full mop of hair. I wasn’t sure how long he’d been sitting at the bar before I got there, but the man seemed like he could hold his liquor and knew what he was doing. I hoped he did, because my stomach was getting nervous about the prospect of drinking whiskey on top of a pint of beer. On top of two-day-old Chinese food.
“So you want to know about Cody Masterson,” he said, and took a long swig of Jameson’s. “I still think about that case, do you believe that? Everyone’s got a white whale, I guess, but that one still nags at me.”
“How come?”
“Well, let me put it this way. If you’re looking for more evidence, you’re not gonna find any. We gave it everything we had, and the jerk still got off.”
“I was kind of afraid of that,” I said. “So you’re convinced he did it?”
He paused, studying the ice cubes melting in his drink. “I’m convinced he should have been convicted,” he said. “Whether he actually did it or not, that’s another question.” He looked at me and smiled. “How’s that for my impersonation of a lawyer?”
“Not bad, except for the fact that you don’t have horns. So what was Cody like in the interrogation room?”
“Cool. Never cracked. Personally I think he’d been very well coached, but one of my guys actually believed him. Remember, he had Charlie Frank representing him. The man is a snake, but if the shit ever hit the fan for me, he’d be the first guy I’d call.”
“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.
Chapter 8
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.”
Diva Las Vegas (Book 1 in Raven McShane Series) Page 5