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. It was six zillion degrees outside, but the driving range pumped cooled air into little golf cabanas that surrounded each tee box.
I ignored Mike’s 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. When I returned 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 realized it wasn’t even eight yet. 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. “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 of his money,” she explained, “but the wine cellar is still very well stocked. Luckily the guys I owe money to 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 headshot.
Page four showed a guy who definitely qualified as a honey, even on my grainy black and white printout. “Is that the cute guy?” I asked.
She nodded enthusiastically and took the story back from me. “Yummy,” she said.
“The guy or the champagne?” I asked.
“Both,” she said. She took a healthy slurp from her glass.
“Let me see that again.”
I looked carefully at the photo. It hadn’t jumped out at me right away, but I was sure I recognized the young guy shown in the photo from somewhere. And then it hit me: he had been swimming in Cody’s pool on Thursday night.
“Fuck,” I whispered, clutching the page.
“What’s wrong?”
“This guy. I know him,” I said. “He knows Cody. He was one of the guys swimming in his pool on Thursday night.”
She frowned. “Cody doesn’t have a pool.”
“Long story,” I said. “I assume you didn’t know Cody is…well, he likes guys.”
“You think he’s gay?” she asked, incredulous.
“I don’t care what he is, but this guy in the photo is friends with Cody Masterson. Good friends. As in, they swim together in the nude. And according to this story, he was sitting on the jury that set Cody free! I thought I recognized him when I saw him in the pool, but I figured he was a model from a jeans ad or something.”
I sat down on the bed. My mind was spinning. I supposed it was possible that Cody and this juror had become friends after the trial, but that seemed far-fetched. It seemed a lot more likely that Cody had bribed some court employee to get his friend on the jury. Or the guy had been a total stranger whom Cody had bribed after he wound up on the jury. I turned away from the table and stared vacantly out the huge window at the Strip thirty-one floors below me. It was still twilight, but the sun had receded behind the Bellagio and the lights were just beginning to take on their familiar nighttime glow.
“Wow,” Rachel said softly, and then she repeated it. “Wow.” She came over and stood close to me. “What does that mean?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” I said, “but it’s not good. It probably means Cody bribed someone to get one of his buddies on the jury.”
“Here,” Rachel said. She filled my glass to the brim and it fizzed over. I figured each little drop was probably worth about a buck, so I slurped at it quickly before too much spilled on the floor.
I got out my laptop and sat down on the bed. I pulled up the photos I had taken of the guys in the pool and scrolled through them. I showed Rachel the photo of the juror.
“That’s him,” Rachel said. There was no mistaking it. He was a few years older now, of course, but the shirtless guy hitting a beach ball with his right hand was definitely the same man as the juror in the newspaper profile. “Wow,” she muttered again.
I continued the slide show on my laptop. The finale was a few shots of Cody canoodling with his Gillette model friend. Rachel seemed speechless.
She was studying the pictures intently. “I just can’t believe it. Whose pool is this?”
“I think it’s his. He’s parking his car in the garage, anyway. I figure it’s a secret hideaway for this whole other life he has.”
“Amazing. And Amy has no idea?”
“As far as I know. I haven’t talked to her, though.”
Rachel topped both of us off again and frowned at the empty bottle. “We’re going to need a bigger bottle.”
I nodded somberly. I didn’t want to think any more about this case. “Room service,” I said.
I found the menu and ordered a couple bottles of a more affordable champagne.
Rachel piped in. “Get some cake, too.”
“You drove here, right?”
She nodded.
“You’re not driving home. Do you have any aspirin?” I asked.
“I have ibuprofen,” she said. “You got a headache?”
“Not yet, but you might want to leave the bottle on the night stand. You’re going to need it in the morning.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
I woke up surprisingly clear-headed. Rachel lay next to me, bundled in the soft comforter. Only a thin slit of light peeked in between the thick hotel curtains—she must have remembered to close them. Rachel (and three bottles of champagne) had helped me forget about the Masterson case the night before, but things were coming rushing back to me whether I wanted them to or not. I turned the problem over in my head as I stared at the ceiling. Nothing made much sense. One possibility was that one of Cody’s pre-existing friends could somehow have been picked at random for jury duty. I dismissed that out of hand. No one was that lucky. Another explanation was that the juror and Cody had somehow innocently become friends after the trial. That seemed more likely, but still a long shot.
Unfortunately, foul play made a lot more sense. Cody must have tampered with the jury somehow. Maybe he had found a way of bribing the court clerk and arranging for one of his friends to be selected for jury duty. Or maybe the juror had been selected legitimately, and Cody found a way to get to him. I didn’t really care how he’d done it. Either way, he looked ten times more guilty than he did yesterday, and I felt a hundred times more stupid for believing he could actually be innocent.
Rachel stirred, and after a quick cup of hotel coffee she washed up and left. I kept looking at the printout of the newspaper profile of Cody’s juror friend. According to the article, his name was Paul Gonsalves. He still looked hot, I mused, even though he was probably a crook. Then again, I’d wanted to jump Cody’s bones despite the fact that he was possibly a murderer and almost certainly a jury-tamperer. I needed a boyfriend more than ever, I thought.
I decided I wanted to talk to Paul Gonsalves before confronting Cody or anyone else about it. He was not listed in the phone book. Like most people in this town, he probably relied exclusively on his cell phone, which would be unlisted. My high-roller suite came with free wireless Internet access, and I did some Google searches on Paul Gonsalves. They all produced lots of interesting but useless information about a tenor saxophone player of the same name who had played with Duke Ellington’s band.
I wasn’t a big Internet junkie, but I was at least aware that dozens of social networking sites existed online, and it seemed like all of the younger dancers at Cougar’s had their own Facebook fan pages. They were constantly updating them to let the world know what TV shows they liked, what kind of cereal they had for breakfast, and what their latest hair color was. I couldn’t believe anybody cared about such things, but whenever I logged on, dozens of people had commented on the most mundane aspects of my friends’ lives, and frequently they offered their own insignificant observations as a counterpoint. Sure enough, after poking around for a few minutes I found a Paul Gonsalves from Las Vegas on Facebook. I
had found my guy. Paul’s posts and his photos revealed him to be a vain young man, although any man with his face and pecs could be forgiven for vanity. His info page described his interest in modeling and contained page after page of amateur photos of him in various poses. Some of the poses were suggestive, and all of them were shirtless. His listed his age as 23, and he described himself as “gay/bisexual” and “looking.” His interests included reading, hanging out with friends, shopping, and dancing. Unfortunately, his page didn’t say anything about accepting bribes, conspiracy, or obstruction of justice. Beyond that, I learned that he was an atrocious speller and worked at Banana Republic. It was time to go shopping.
In the shower I pondered how to approach things with young Mr. Gonsalves. He seemed the kind of person who might require a soft touch, but I was getting distinctly sick of soft touches. After I showered and dressed, I called Carlos and woke him up. He didn’t seem to mind, probably because I owed him about six hundred dollars for his work following Richard Finley around town last week. Even so, I decided to wait until he got in the car to tell him we were going on a mission to the Banana Republic.
I’d never been to Carlos’s house, so he had to give me directions. I arrived around 10:45 and was surprised at how run-down Carlos’ apartment building looked. It didn’t make sense. I knew he made a decent enough living at Cougar’s, and lately I had been throwing him a thousand or more a month with odd surveillance jobs. To each his own, I guess. I rang the bell. Carlos emerged slowly, squinting into the bright sunlight.
“Man, this is cruel,” he said, grimacing. He pulled down the brim on his black White Sox cap to shield his eyes from the sun. He wore a tight white t-shirt and baggy black pants. Two or three gold chains dangled from his neck. I’d told him to look intimidating, and he fit the bill nicely. He looked like a Hollywood version of a gangster.
“You whine a lot for someone with guns like that,” I said, eyeing his 18-inch biceps. “Let’s go.”
Stephanie Caffrey - Raven McShane 01 - Diva Las Vegas Page 14