“Is that against the law?” he asked.
“No, I believe deviled eggs are legal in this state.” If Cody caught my attempt at humor, he didn’t show it.
“Why is it anyone’s business who I was with on any night?” he asked.
Another non-denial. “It’s not,” I assured him. “But you couldn’t tell the jury where you really were that night. You said you were with your wife.”
“I didn’t kill George, so what does it matter where I was?”
“It only matters because you were trying to prove you were somewhere else at the time he was killed,” I said. I think they taught that in Alibi-101.
“But why do you care?” he asked. That was the heart of the matter, wasn’t it? If I thought he was innocent, why had I shown up at his doorstep unannounced and kill the nice little Saturday morning buzz he had going?
“I care because I’ve had my neck gouged, had my apartment broken into, and was a few breaths short of being strangled to death. I thought there was a good chance you could have been involved in those things, which is why I’m here.” I didn’t raise my voice, but I was getting a little tired of the nice girl approach.
“Well I don’t know anything about that,” he said calmly. He wasn’t fidgeting or pacing anymore. I decided he was either telling the truth or an Oscar-caliber actor.
“Supposing I believe you,” (at this, Cody flashed a pained look) “how would you like to clear your name?”
“I thought I already did that,” he said, pouring himself another cup of coffee. “Everyone thought I was guilty, but the jury didn’t, and they spent weeks on the case. My lawyers said the state spent more than a million dollars trying to prove me guilty, but it didn’t work.”
“I’m sure you know better than I do that a helluva lot of people still think you did it,” I said.
He sighed. “That’s their problem, I guess. I can’t help that. Look, you seem like a nice person, but this isn’t the best time. I’ve got to clean up and stuff. Can we meet for lunch or something some time?”
“Fair enough,” I said. He was trying to get rid of me, but he was being nice about it. “Monday work for you?”
“I think so,” he said. Translation: forget it.
“I’ll call you. You have a card or something?”
After a short search he found his wallet, fished out a card and handed it to me. I scanned it quickly: “Cody A. Masterson, President, Outpost Casino and Resort.” Resort, I thought. That was rich. I tried not to guffaw. “You have a cell number?” I asked.
He frowned. It was obvious his buzz was wearing off, and he was becoming more cagey by the minute. I didn’t want to piss him off too much. “Look, we have some serious things to talk about,” I said. “I’m not just going to go away. I’m trying to help you.”
“Okay,” he said. He found a pen and wrote down the number on the back of his business card. We shook hands before I left, and I gave him my own card. On the whole, Cody hadn’t sounded too enthusiastic about the whole business, but I left pretty convinced that he wasn’t guilty of the murder after all. If I had to explain it to Rachel or Jeff, I probably couldn’t. It was more of a gut feeling than anything else. But it wasn’t my job to prove anything—I was just in the evidence gathering business, and the photos I’d taken were going to count for something. The fact that he might actually be innocent didn’t mean a jury wouldn’t award Rachel millions in damages. It was just money.
Chapter 19
Carlos told me he was busy that weekend, so I spent a few hours on Saturday afternoon and part of Sunday morning keeping tabs on Richard Finley and his bachelor party. They were Boy Scouts. Finley and his friends gambled a little more and made it to a showing of Jubilee!, the famous topless cabaret show, except that they went to the matinee version that wasn’t topless. People had a right to be squares, I granted. But then why would they pick Las Vegas for a bachelor party? It made no sense. But I kept these thoughts to myself when I called Barbara Finley to report back around lunchtime on Sunday. She was thrilled that her husband had behaved himself during the whole trip. I headed down to the drug store and printed out a few photos of the bachelor party group, just to prove I’d actually done my job. I sent the photos and a partial refund check of $1,000 to Barbara’s work address. Richard seemed like a basically decent guy (apart from lying to his wife about going to Vegas), and I actually felt a little bad that he was going to be in the dog house as a result of my photos.
By Monday morning I was getting accustomed to my high-roller digs at the Flamingo. Too accustomed. Having a maid clean up every day made me understand how some people could actually live in hotels. I also understood how people got soft. After flailing around in my soft bed for the better part of an hour, I got into the tub and dumped in an entire bottle of fragranced goo that made the entire bathroom smell like a steamy flower shop. Unfortunately, I knew, I couldn’t sit in the tub forever. Jeff might have a lot of VIP points at the hotel, but I’m sure he didn’t plan on blowing them all on me.
I was trying to hide from my growing sense of unease that Cody Masterson might actually be innocent of the murder of George Hannity. If I was right about that, it meant he wasn’t the one trying to have me killed, either. And that meant I now had two major problems instead of one. If things panned out as I thought they might, I’d have failed my client and endangered my own life in the process.
My cell phone rang and forced me out of the tub. It was Mike, and my first thought was to invite him over to join me. I decided to resist. I hadn’t told him about the intruder in my apartment, and for some reason I didn’t want to admit that I’d botched the case so badly that I couldn’t even go home.
“You’ll never guess who just left my office,” he said.
“Elvis?”
He laughed. “Amy Masterson.”
“What did she want?”
“Me.”
“What?”
“It’s been a curse my whole life, but some women just find me irresistible.”
It was my turn to laugh. “I find that hard to believe,” I lied.
“She was a little shy at first, but once I shut the door she was an animal.”
“Seriously, Mike. She’s not your type. So what really happened?” I liked the fact that he was starting to joke around with me. It was a baby step in the right direction. I worried, though, that if Amy ever discovered the secret of tequila, she’d have Mike eating out of her hand. That was a little secret I wanted to keep to myself.
“She was wearing a push-up bra or something, because . . .” He let the thought remain unspoken. “Anyway, when I left her house last week we kind of agreed to meet up again.”
“You didn’t mention that.”
“Well it was just one of those things you say. You know, ‘let’s grab lunch sometime’ or whatever. I didn’t think she meant it. But she did. And she thought it would be more fun to just show up in person rather than try to schedule a lunch date.”
“Wow, maybe you’re right. Sounds like she’s smitten with you. So what did you two lovebirds chat about? Or did you cut straight to the love scene?”
He chuckled. “She was interested all of a sudden in the embezzlement stuff I had asked her about last week. Why was I looking into it? Who was I working for? That sort of thing. But mainly, she wanted me to take her on my desk. And yes, I resisted.”
“Huh.” Having seen Cody with his boyfriends in the pool, I had solved the riddle of why Amy was looking elsewhere for male companionship. But still. The woman was a horny slut. A damned menace.
I wanted to run things past Mike and get him up to speed, but I wasn’t hungry and didn’t feel like sitting at a restaurant with him. Against every fiber of my being, I suggested he could take me to a driving range. He jumped at the idea.
I got there early after sneaking in a quick massage. I had ditched the cheap sandals I’d been wearing in favor of some generic tennis shoes I wouldn’t be caught dead in. The rest of my outfit was new, too: low slu
ng tan Capri pants and a strapless black top. It showed off my body but actually left something to the imagination. It was what some people called “Vegas casual,” which falls somewhere in that gray area between sleek and slutty.
As I waited for Mike at the range, I was bothered by a vague sense that I might be taking things too lightly. After all, my home had been broken into and I was nearly killed. Yet here I was pawing through a bunch of disgusting loaner clubs that looked like they had been through combat. But what was I supposed to do, cower in fear? Leave town? I felt pretty confident that no one had any idea I was staying at the Flamingo, and it seemed like they hadn’t yet figured out that I danced at Cougar’s. Until I learned what was going on, I was determined to go on living my life as best as I could.
Mike arrived earlier than I expected.
“What’s with you?” he asked.
“What?”
“You look like you just won the lottery or something.”
“Oh, that.” I smiled. “I had the best massage a few hours ago. This guy at the Flamingo is incredible. Usually the male masseuses have something to prove, you know, to show you how strong they are.”
“Maybe they overcompensate because they work in spas,” Mike suggested. He put his bucket down in the stall next to mine.
I ignored his little jibe. “I don’t know, but I already made another appointment with Eduardo for next week.” I bent over my ball and promptly whiffed at it.
Mike stifled a chuckle. He made a show of stretching his back and arms while I pretended not to watch. While he was preening I decided to fill him in on what had happened.
“It’s not worth it,” he said simply. “I don’t care if you’re charging a thousand bucks an hour. It’s not worth risking your life for a client. This is just about money, after all.”
He was right, and I knew it. Even so, I wondered what other options I had. “But it’s not like I can just call up Rachel and say ‘I quit’. They know my name. They know where I live. I’d have to leave town entirely.”
“And you don’t have enough to get the cops involved?”
“I talked about it with Jeff Katz, the lawyer who works for my client. I think the guy on my balcony was a security goon from the Outpost. He had a mustache. Looked kind of like the guy on the Brawny paper towel rolls. But I can’t be sure. He was covering his face when I got my only look at him.”
Mike’s eyebrows were raised. “Why was he covering his face?”
That was part of the story I’d skipped over. “Well, I kind of clubbed him over the head with a beer bottle. He was bleeding pretty badly.”
Mike smiled for the first time. “Good girl.”
He took out his driver and cranked one to the 275-yard marker.
“Still not impressed,” I said.
He ignored me and swung again. Same result. “So you think Cody Masterson is behind all this, pulling the strings?”
“I was just getting to that. In short, no. You can laugh and call it women’s intuition or whatever you want, but I talked to him and I don’t think he did it.”
“Did what, the murder?”
“Right.”
“Wait, you talked to him? When? How?”
“I just went over to his house on Saturday morning. He was pretty stoned, actually, so I think he was being honest.”
Mike seemed befuddled. “What chapter of your Detective 101 textbook told you to just waltz up to a murder suspect’s house and have a chat with him?”
I grinned. “I kind of make it up as I go along.”
Mike scratched his chin and frowned. He was at a loss for words. After a few seconds he tilted his whole head backwards and let loose with a long, rumbling chuckle. “That must be the understatement of the year.”
I grinned. “The problem is, that leaves about two million other people in this town who could be trying to stop me.”
“That’s comforting,” he said. “What about what the old guy told us in San Diego? Maybe the whole security staff was robbing the place blind and they killed Hannity to keep it quiet. It would make perfect sense that they don’t want you poking around. All it would take is for one of them to get wind of what you’re up to.”
I nodded. “That’s about the best theory I’ve got at this point. It won’t make Rachel very happy, because she wants to nail Masterson and get a judgment against him. But at this point I’m more concerned with nailing whoever’s trying to kill me. And I’ve got to assume that he—or they—are the same ones who killed George Hannity.”
Mike was looking thoughtful again. “How sure are you about Cody?”
“You mean about his innocence?”
“Yeah.”
“I’d say sixty, seventy-five percent. Why?”
“It’s up to you, obviously. But if you think he’s in the clear, why not have him help you out? I mean, he’s the boss over there, right?”
I nodded. “Technically he’s the boss, yes. President. But it doesn’t sound like he has much day-to-day control. But I see what you mean. If Cody’s not the enemy, he’s one hell of a good source of information.”
Mike looked serious again and swung. He turned to face me, proud of himself. “It’s risky, for sure, but you’ve already talked to the guy in person. Seems you’re pretty fearless.”
“I like a challenge,” I said. I tried to give Mike a sultry and suggestive look, but I probably just looked idiotic.
Mike and I left the range around 7:15, before I could injure myself or anyone else. I needed to pick up a few things from my condo, and I didn’t feel safe going there alone in case someone was still watching the place. Mike agreed to meet me there.
I found my apartment in about the same condition I had left it. Out on the balcony there were no signs of a struggle. The blood was cleaned up, and there was no broken glass anywhere. Someone had turned the faucet off and drained the tub. The idea that someone would come back and clean up the place was almost as disturbing as the break-in itself.
“Nice place,” Mike said. He seemed vaguely bothered by it, the way he’d reacted when he saw my new Audi. He had to know I couldn’t afford the car and the condo based on my paltry detective business alone, but I hoped he wouldn’t ask too many questions.
I found a grocery bag in the kitchen and stuffed it with clothes. I found my purse and wallet untouched. I also dug out the file folder I had begun putting together on the case, which included a stack of printouts of news stories, the trial transcript, and a few notes I had made along the way. No sense leaving that where anyone could get to it. It was eerie being back in there, and we left as soon as I was packed up.
I told Mike I could get back to the Flamingo by myself. He wasn’t giving off any signs that he wanted to come with me, although that was nothing new for him. I decided not to look desperate, so I just said goodbye and thanked him for letting me watch his rear end while he swung at golf balls.
When I got back to my room I put my bag of clothes on the floor and set the file folder on a table in the corner. I plopped down on my bed and immediately regretted not inviting Mike in. It wasn’t even eight yet, and I was wired. Wired, and a little freaked out after returning to my apartment. Actually, I was a lot freaked out. I think I had been living in some advanced stage of denial, but when I saw my balcony again it had all come rushing back. And there was something distinctly creepy about the idea of someone returning to my apartment to clean things up.
In short, I didn’t feel like being alone. I took a chance and dialed up Rachel. I hadn’t wanted to worry her or make her feel guilty for what had happened to me, but I didn’t feel like calling anyone else. She was free.
“Wow,” she said when we got into my room. “You wouldn’t expect this kind of room in a place like this.”
“Snob,” I said, laughing.
“You’re right. In the old days, the Flamingo was where the real high rollers stayed.”
I’d told her to bring a bottle of something, and she wowed me. “Holy shit,” I said. Martinis te
nd to give me a potty mouth. “This is like four hundred bucks a bottle.” Over the years, a few of my best customers had invited me out with their groups of friends and business associates, as though I were some sort of low-rent geisha. In the process, I’d managed to develop a decent appreciation for champagne. Or at least an appreciation for how much different champagnes cost. Krug 1998 was no slouch.
“George didn’t leave me too much money,” she explained, “but the wine cellar is still very well stocked. Luckily the goons don’t know about it yet.”
“Good vintage,” I said. I was talking to an empty room. Rachel had disappeared into the bathroom, probably to inspect the tub. She emerged and came over to the windows to take in the view of the Strip.
“Damn,” she said. “Nice view.”
“So how are the goons? They keeping their hands off you so far?”
“For the moment. I threatened to call in the feds and cut a deal, and that seems to have cooled them off. But I got a voicemail today saying I have to come up with the money by next week.”
“You could always move in here with me,” I offered.
While I was uncorking the bottle she began pawing through my case folder on the table. At least she’d know I had actually been working on the case, I figured. I hunted around the room and found the champagne glasses in the mini-bar cupboard. The champagne smelled vaguely like fresh-baked McDonald’s biscuits, which was a fantastic thing.
“Ooh, he’s cute,” she said to no one in particular. She was holding one of the newspaper stories I’d printed off the internet.
“Hmm?”
“Nothing. I forgot about this guy.”
“Who?”
She sighed. “This guy on the jury was a real honey,” she said. I sidled up behind her and handed her a glass of champagne. She took the glass and handed me the printout she was looking at. Since the trial had been one of the biggest local stories of the decade, the newspaper had written a profile of each of the jurors. I’d glanced at the story a few weeks ago but never got around to reading it. I flipped through the pages. There was a short bio of each of the jurors next to a medium-sized head shot.
Diva Las Vegas (Book 1 in Raven McShane Series) Page 14