Stephanie Caffrey - Raven McShane 01 - Diva Las Vegas

by Stephanie Caffrey

We drove in silence for most of the trip back to the Red Rock Casino where Carlos’s car was still parked. When we hit a long stoplight I asked Carlos the question I’d been turning over in my head.

  “So let’s say you’re on the jury,” I said.

  “Okay.”

  “And Cody and Amy get up and testify that they were having passionate sex on the night of the murder. That’s their alibi.”

  “Okay,” he repeated.

  “And then you’re shown the pictures I’ve taken tonight,” I said. “Do you believe their story?”

  He paused to consider the question. “Depends. You mean knowing only what you just said? It’s fifty-fifty. The fact that they’re screwing other people now doesn’t necessarily mean they weren’t together then. And maybe Cody likes both men and women.”

  “True. How about with all the other evidence in the case, though? The financial motive. The murder weapon in his backyard.”

  “Then I don’t believe a word of it,” he said confidently.

  “Good,” I said.

  He was quiet for a minute before he piped up again. “You know what else? It probably means you could show that Cody didn’t marry Amy for love. She leaves for the weekend, and an hour later he’s in the tub with some naked dude. That means he probably married her only to get at her casino money.”

  I nodded along with Carlos. “So if he’ll marry someone purely for money, it’s not a stretch to think he’d go to other extremes for money as well.”

  “Like blowing off his brother-in-law’s face.” Carlos smiled broadly, clearly pleased with himself.

  “You just earned your paycheck for the night,” I said, grinning. I thought about patting him on the leg, but I didn’t want to give him any ideas.

  I dropped Carlos off, and we made arrangements for him to track down the Indiana bachelor party again tomorrow. They had seemed pretty tame, and I wasn’t worried about watching them every minute of their trip. Heck, they were such lightweights that I might even refund part of Mrs. Finley’s check.

  On my way home I ran through the night’s events in my head. I had started out only wanting to see if Amy was actually cheating on Cody. But I now had damning photos of both of them straying off the reservation, and pretty seriously too. It wasn’t the strongest evidence in the world, but it could create enough doubt about his alibi that a jury might find him liable for George Hannity’s death and make Rachel a multimillionaire. I thought I would run it by Jeff Katz first, though. After all, he was the guy who’d have to prove it in court.

  But even as I patted myself on the back, I couldn’t shake another feeling lurking in the back of my mind. I hadn’t ever spoken a single word to Cody Masterson, or whatever his real name was, but there was something about him that made me question whether he was the type of person who would kill another man in cold blood. I knew it was purely superficial, but I couldn’t get past his looks. He seemed like the kind of guy who was destined to spend his days in satin sheets wearing red silk boxers with hearts on them. A tray of chocolate covered strawberries would be within easy reach. And it wasn’t just his soap opera looks. There was something in his manner that seemed basically gentle, even passive. He was a seeker of pleasure, a playboy. I was beginning to see how a jury might have had its doubts that he was a brutal killer.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The weeknight valet at my building, Vladimir, made my skin crawl. After dropping Carlos off, I had no stomach for dealing with Vladimir’s attitude and dirty looks. Why couldn’t there be a cute little Tommy clone on duty twenty-four hours a day? What did my six hundred bucks a month in condo fees go for, anyway? I decided to skip the valet.

  I pulled into the garage and stretched my legs when I got out of the car. I headed for the elevator, which had a bad habit of always being on the floor farthest away from me. On the way up I decided it would be a good idea to turn on some Wagner and pop open the bottle of Bollinger champagne I’d been saving. It was a special occasion, after all. For the first time since I’d started, I actually felt like I had some useful information on the Masterson case. If nothing else, I had substantial dirt on the key suspect and his only alibi witness, and you never knew where that could lead. I wasn’t above threatening to expose one or both of them if it meant Rachel could pay off her debts.

  My apartment was three doors down from the elevator. When I opened the door, I could immediately tell something was wrong. My skin began to prickle. My heart rate ratcheted up, and I looked around expecting some creepy burglar to jump out at me. But nothing happened. I flipped on the lights next to the door and surveyed the room. Nothing looked out of place. I threw my keys and phone on the table and tossed my purse on the floor.

  I breathed a sigh of relief. False alarm. I must have been hyped up from snooping around all evening, and downing four Diet Cokes probably didn’t help. I began filling the soaking tub and threw a little ball of goop in there to make it smell like lavender. The champagne was in a half-crate I stored under the bed. I sat on the bed, took off my shoes, and began to rethink my plan. I decided I didn’t feel like drinking warm champagne in a hot tub in July in the desert. Bollinger wasn’t cheap, after all, and I didn’t want to waste it if I wasn’t fully into it.

  Plan B wound up being a cold bottle of Corona Light from the fridge. Make that two bottles. I chugged half a bottle and brought both bottles to the bathroom and set them next to the tub. The tub was half-full already, but it would still be another few minutes. I stripped off my clothes and put on the comfy blue robe I’d had since college. I pulled out Wagner’s Parsifal and turned my stereo up so I could hear it over the noise of the tub.

  I inspected myself in the mirror and found the red marks on my neck were slowly fading away. It was about time. At Cougar’s men paid for the fantasy of perfect bodies and flawless skin, not red and purple welts and scratch marks. I figured those marks had probably cost me a few hundred in tips in the last week.

  I grabbed my half Corona out of the bathroom and headed out to my balcony while the tub finished filling up. The desert breeze felt good, and the beer gave me a cozy warm feeling in my torso. I took another healthy chug of beer and leaned over the railing. The traffic on I-15 whooshed by underneath me. A half-mile away, I could see little people walking up and down the Strip, beginning their night’s revelries. Paris was lit up beautifully, and if I squinted I could make out a few couples enjoying window-side tables at the Eiffel Tower Restaurant.

  It was then that I tried to scream. No sound came out. All I knew was that an immensely powerful, gloved hand had wrapped itself over my mouth. The other arm got underneath my left shoulder and behind my neck, freezing me in a kind of half nelson. I couldn’t move. I squirmed and flailed, but the man behind me had me pinned to the railing. He pushed himself against me. The smell of his big leather glove filled my nose, and I realized then that he was trying to suffocate me. Pure panic set in as he pressed me harder to the railing. I struggled more and more to suck in air through his massive gloved hand, but his strength and weight were squeezing the remaining breath out of me.

  A survival instinct told me the only thing I could do was succumb. I silently sucked in as much air as I could and gradually stopped struggling. I made my body go limp in his arms, hoping he’d let up on his iron grasp of my neck. Through some miracle, he bought it. He squeezed himself against me once more for good measure and then held me up straight. He had let go of my neck, but he was still pressing against me with his whole body. A sicko, for sure. Sure enough, he shifted his weight a bit and took one of his gloves off, probably to undo my robe and get a better feel of my body. When he shifted a bit to free up his other hand, I knew I had a tiny opening. In one motion, I twisted out of his grasp and with all my remaining strength I clocked him on the side of the head with my Corona bottle. He never saw it coming.

  He let out a low roar and stumbled to one knee, holding his face with both of his hands. A mixture of blood and beer foam poured out between his fingers, but I didn’t stick a
round to play nurse. When our eyes met, I saw something eerily familiar, but with his bloody hands covering half his face I couldn’t quite place him. I bolted from the balcony and ran for the door. He was still making animal noises, and I didn’t look back. I grabbed my car keys and phone from the table in the hallway and flew straight out the door.

  I was still huffing it when I got to the elevator. By some kind of miracle, it was still on my floor, right where I’d left it five minutes earlier. I jumped in and frantically pushed the button for the garage about a hundred times as though the elevator would be able to sense my urgency. When the elevator doors finally closed, I found myself staring at a panicked woman in an open robe. I had my phone and keys, but hadn’t thought to snatch up my purse from the floor on the way out.

  My mind raced. I wasn’t going back to my apartment to get my purse—that was for sure. And I knew I was in a bad spot. If I called the cops, it would risk involving them in Rachel’s problems, including her drug dealing. By the time the elevator got down to the garage my only thought was to get the hell out of there.

  I ran to my car, started it up, and gunned it. I pulled out of the garage and turned right, and within a minute I was in heavy traffic on Flamingo Road heading towards the Strip. In front of me lay Caesar’s Palace on the left and Bellagio on the right. It struck me that a giant, anonymous hotel might be the perfect place to lie low for a while and regroup. There was just one problem. Even in Las Vegas, I couldn’t check into a hotel without an I.D. or credit cards, both of which I’d left behind in my purse. I had a little stash of cash in my glove box, but that wouldn’t get me very far. The light changed, and I followed traffic straight across the Strip thinking that having some kind of plan would be nice.

  After I crossed Las Vegas Boulevard I made a left turn, almost at random, into the Flamingo hotel’s parking structure. The only coherent thought I formed was that if someone wanted to find me, they wouldn’t look for me here. I wound my way up through the dark parking structure and found a semi-deserted spot on the sixth floor.

  I turned off the car and tried to calm myself down. The first step was to get some clothes and money. There was a time and place for heroism and self-reliance, but when you’re nearly naked and broke you don’t have a lot of options. It was time to beg someone for a favor. Who, I wondered, would be least offended by my current state of affairs?

  I thought of Carlos first. He’d seen me naked three or four times a week for at least two years. But he would be at work by now and probably couldn’t get away. Besides, he’d never let me live it down. And I wasn’t sure I wanted to owe Carlos a favor. The rest of my dancer friends would be working by now, too, I figured. I thought of Mike. It didn’t feel right to call him, either, especially given my compromised state.

  An unpleasant sensation began roiling in the pit of my stomach. Somehow my gut knew before my brain did. Jeff Katz would come and help me. He had already seen me nude dozens of times, so there was no issue of modesty if I had to change in front of him. But did I want to owe him a favor either? Screw it. I could kiss him on the cheek and call it even. Plus, I needed to talk to him anyway.

  I called 411 and got Jeff’s home number. I half-hoped he wouldn’t pick up.

  “Hello?” First ring.

  “Jeff, it’s Raven. You’re not sleeping, are you?” It was almost 10:30.

  “Raven, wow. What’s up?”

  “I need a favor. I’m at the Flamingo. Can you get over here?” I asked.

  “Uh, sure. I’ve got my kid tonight, and a few of her friends are sleeping over, but I think I can trust them.”

  “You have a kid?”

  “She’s fifteen,” he said.

  “Well, it won’t take too long. I just want you to book a hotel room for me.”

  “Sounds like an interesting story,” he said. He sounded more amused than I would have preferred.

  “Also, I need you to get me some clothes. They have a gift shop here. Just a pair of shorts and some kind of t-shirt or something.”

  “What about panties? And a bra?” he asked hopefully.

  I sighed. “That’s not necessary. Bring them to the sixth floor of the parking garage. I’m at the northwest edge of the lot.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Jeff arrived a little earlier than I expected. He pulled up to my car and brought over a pink bag from the Flamingo gift shop.

  “I had to guess your size,” he said apologetically through the window.

  I looked skeptically at the shorts. They were hot pink. “Size 2? Are you insane?”

  “They were the smallest ones they had.”

  “That’s all right.” It was actually something of a compliment, I figured.

  I scooted over to the passenger seat and tried squeezing into the shorts. It wasn’t working.

  “You of all people should know that I actually have an ass. I think these are designed for ten-year-old girls.” Somehow the shorts fit around my waist, but I could feel my butt ballooning out in back. They would have to do for now. I dug into the bag again and pulled out a blaze orange t-shirt that looked like it was sized for a Barbie doll.

  “Jeff!” I hissed.

  “I thought it’d look good on you.”

  “Not if it squeezes off my circulation.” I got out of the car and contorted my shoulders to try to slip into the shirt. The back ripped open an inch from the neck. At least the tear gave my boobs a little more breathing room. Even with the extra space, they stuck out so much that the shirt didn’t even reach my belly button.

  “It’s a good look for you,” Jeff said. “Trust me.” He hadn’t even pretended to look away while I tried it on, but I didn’t care.

  “I’m used to dressing like a high-priced call girl, not some cheap whore from the eighties.”

  “I can go back down and get something else,” he offered.

  “Screw it. I guess I can wear this for a few minutes. You’re the one who has to be seen with me. You can be my john. Let’s go check in, and then I’ll explain what’s going on.”

  My laptop was still in my car, so I decided to bring it with us. By the time we reached the lobby I had begun to reconsider Jeff’s offer to get me some different clothes. Each step I took made my shorts ride up higher and higher, and my butt cheeks were eventually in full view of anyone who wanted a peek. It didn’t bother me that people were looking. It bothered me that they were getting their looks for free.

  Jeff went up to the desk to book a room. I decided to wait for him in the casino where I stood a chance of blending into the garish carpeting. Luckily, Jeff returned before anyone tried to hire me for a quickie.

  “We have to go back to the gift shop,” I said. “This is ridiculous.”

  I was used to feeling idiotic, but this was a new low. I managed to select a few pairs of non-pink shorts and a couple t-shirts in my size. I found a couple pairs of Flamingo boxers that looked comfortable, too. Jeff paid for them without comment.

  I put my hand out for the room key, and Jeff obliged. “I’ll meet you down here in ten minutes,” I said.

  I managed to scoot into an elevator just before it closed and punched the button for floor thirty-two. On the long ride up I studied myself in the mirrored door. Pink and orange were not a good look for me. I looked like a giant sherbet cone having a bad hair day. I turned around and tried to get a look at my butt. I cringed. It was a miracle I hadn’t been arrested.

  The elevator doors finally opened and saved me from the grim stream of consciousness my mind had been heading down. I got out and followed the long hallway down to the last door on the end. The door opened on the first try with the key card, and I walked in and plunked my stuff down on the floor. The room was a pleasant surprise. Instead of a standard room, Jeff had booked me some kind of high-roller suite. To the left was a massive sitting area with thick tan carpeting, a small dining set, and a pair of leather recliners. In the far corner, two suede couches faced an amazing corner view looking down at the Strip. There was a Jacuzzi
tub in the marble bathroom, and two very large TVs. The bedroom was its own separate room. I smiled. Jeff had done well.

  I changed into something less objectionable and found Jeff downstairs inspecting a counter of overpriced chocolates in the gift shop. He seemed disappointed by my change of clothes.

  “Maybe I’ll wear the outfit you bought me for Halloween,” I said. “Although usually I don’t wear much more than a mask. Anyway, how about buying me dinner? All I’ve had since lunch was half a bag of pretzels.”

  “Sure. They have a good café here. Lindy’s, a New York deli.”

  After wandering aimlessly for five minutes, we were informed that Lindy’s had closed ten years ago. In its place was a tropical themed restaurant. At this hour it was half-empty, and we found a spot at the counter. The waitress took our orders. Two cheeseburgers, with fries, and two large Heinekens. Jeff assured me they went great with junk food.

  “Anyway,” I began, “someone broke into my apartment. He was waiting for me on the balcony, and he almost killed me.”

  Jeff’s face immediately became serious. “Wow. I’d say you could come stay with me, but Anna and her friends have taken over the house and…”

  “No thanks.” I cut him off. Not in a million years. “The suite is beautiful, by the way.”

  “You’re worth it. Actually, it was free. So don’t worry about it. I have a lot of points built up at these places.”

  “Really?”

  “I play a lot of craps.” He smiled lamely. “So who was this guy on your balcony?”

  “I can’t be sure. I didn’t get a great look at him. But I’m pretty sure it was a guy from the Outpost. He has sandy brown hair and a mustache, and he’s built like a refrigerator. He was one of the guys that was in the back room with me.”

  “The back room?”

  “Oh yeah, I suppose I haven’t seen you in awhile. The guy on my balcony and the head of casino security threw me out and banned me from the place. The security guy got a few million of my skin cells under his fingernails.”