Stephanie Caffrey - Raven McShane 01 - Diva Las Vegas

by Stephanie Caffrey

“I worked ‘til 3:15 last night, so leave me alone,” he whined.

  “This’ll be easy,” I explained as we got in my car. “I just want to talk to a guy, and I want you to stand next to me while I do it.” I pointed at his apartment. “Nice place, by the way,” I said sarcastically.

  He didn’t catch the sarcasm. “Thanks. Just bought it in February.”

  It took a few seconds before I processed it. “You own that place?”

  “Yeah. Sixteen units, fully occupied. So far, on pace for an R.O.E. of twelve percent.”

  “Stop speaking gibberish,” I said.

  “Return On Equity,” he explained.

  “Of course.”

  “My other buildings are nicer,” he said.

  I was impressed, but I decided not to say anything else on the subject since it seemed that everything I thought I knew about him was completely wrong. Carlos kept his eyes closed as we drove back to the Strip, still apparently sensitive to the bright sunlight. He opened them when I pulled into the valet line at the Venetian hotel.

  “Where we goin’?” he asked.

  “Banana Republic.”

  “Shut up.”

  “That’s where this guy works.”

  He made a face. “Dude works at Banana Republic and you need backup?”

  He had a point. “He’s very well put together,” I said lamely. “I just want to be as persuasive as possible.” I explained how Gonsalves had been one of Cody’s pool guests on Thursday night and how he had also happened to serve on the jury that set Cody free.

  I had checked the Banana Republic’s website before picking Carlos up. There were seven Banana Republics in Las Vegas, three of which were within one square mile of each other, and I thought it made sense to start in that area. Our first stop was the Venetian’s Canal Shops. The staff eyed Carlos and me warily. I supposed we made an unusual couple, even in Vegas. It turned out that Paul Gonsalves wasn’t working there, but the manager on duty smiled when I asked about him. Occasionally he subbed at the Venetian store, she said, but he normally worked at the Fashion Show Mall a few blocks north. They seemed relieved when we left.

  We crossed the street and walked the few blocks up the Strip, past Treasure Island, and took the footbridge across Sands Avenue. The Fashion Show Mall was the only freestanding shopping mall on the Strip. It was my favorite. Inside was a mixture of upscale department stores like Saks and countless boutiques and shoe stores. The building’s white stone facade gleamed blindingly in the late morning light. Carlos began to mutter again. He was not a morning person.

  “Don’t you own sunglasses?” I asked.

  “I squint,” he said.

  “And bitch.”

  The shopping mall was austere by Vegas standards—it could just as easily have been a mall in an upscale suburb of Cleveland or Atlanta. Its air conditioning was set to frigid, as though the mall was planning to host a hockey game or an ice sculpting demonstration in the atrium. On this Tuesday morning it was mostly deserted, although a few determined women in comfortable shoes lugged department store bags around. We quickly found the Banana Republic, and in the back corner we found Paul Gonsalves. He was listening to an iPod and folding sweaters. He wore a tight-fitting chocolate brown polo shirt and flat front khakis. Around his waist was a bright red cloth belt that somehow worked with the rest of the outfit, and on his feet were loafers with no socks. We were the only customers in the store. He looked up from his folding as we drew closer.

  “Can I help you find something?” he asked, directing the question at me rather than Carlos. He was just polite enough to not make a face at Carlos.

  “Just browsing,” I said pleasantly. “My friend said you’re the best salesman around,” I added.

  “Really? Who’s your friend?” He stopped folding sweaters.

  “Cody Masterson.”

  Paul didn’t say anything at first, but he managed to eke out a nervous smile. “How do you know Cody?” he asked finally.

  “Oh, I know him from a long time ago. From before his trial,” I lied. “He told me something very interesting the other day about that trial.”

  “Oh yeah?” Paul asked. He was trying to sound casual, but it wasn’t working. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Carlos begin pawing through a neat stack of about twenty freshly folded burgundy polo shirts, as though trying to find one in his size. He flipped each one over and left them all in a rumpled pile.

  “It had to do with an amazing coincidence,” I said. “Something about having a pal on the jury that set him free.” Carlos moved on to a stack of black V-neck vests and began mumbling something unintelligible to himself. The result was another rumpled pile of seventy-dollar brushed cotton sweaters. It was clear that Carlos was making Paul very nervous.

  Paul froze, speechless. His face turned a bright shade of pink.

  “You know,” I said, “I wonder if you could possibly take a ten minute break and have a quick chat with us.” I tried to sound like all we wanted to do was to sell him a subscription to People magazine. Paul took another look at Carlos and decided to take me up on my offer.

  “I’ll just go tell the manager.”

  The three of us left the store, and I led us to a little coffee shop a floor below the Banana Republic. I treated for three espressos. Paul and I sat down at a table. Carlos lingered for a few seconds and then made a show of turning his chair around backwards. He sat down facing us and draped his beefy tattooed arms menacingly over the chair’s back. Carlos was a good actor.

  I showed Paul my I.D. and got down to business. He remained silent.

  “Let me tell you what I’m not interested in,” I began slowly. “I’m not a cop. I’m not interested in people going to jail or getting into trouble.” I scanned Paul’s features for any sign of relief, but found none. “I work for money, and only money,” I continued, “and I don’t give a damn about what happened in the trial three years ago. You and I know that Cody was innocent anyway,” I said. “Frankly,” I added, “I would have done the same thing you did.” I hoped I wasn’t laying it on too thick.

  “Okay,” he said softly. He exhaled deeply, as though a weight had been lifted. He hadn’t yet asked what we wanted with him, which meant he probably knew exactly what we wanted. Carlos made a show of looking bored, which he undoubtedly was.

  “All I want to know is how much,” I said.

  Paul had been looking down at the table. He raised his head up slightly. “How much what?” he asked gingerly.

  “How much does Cody pay you for what you did?”

  “What?” Paul asked. He was trying his best to sound confused. It wasn’t an Oscar-caliber performance.

  Carlos leaned in and spoke for the first time. He spoke softly, but it was loud enough that Paul could hear him. “I told you, Raven. Easier just to go to the cops.”

  “Probably right,” I sighed.

  Paul fell for it. “Okay, look, I got twenty-five thousand then, and I get four grand a month now. Is that what you wanted?” he asked. “Anyway, it’s not all about money.”

  “Sounds to me like it is,” I said.

  “No,” he protested. “I get to hang out with them, you know? Parties, clubs, stuff like that. We travel sometimes.” He was still looking down at the table. “You’re not going to tell him I told you, are you?”

  “Why bother? He already told me most of it himself,” I lied. Paul looked relieved. “The only other thing I need to know is how he approached you. Did he call you or come to your house or what?”

  He leaned forward and placed his elbows on the table to prop his head up with his hands. “It was like three days into the trial, I think,” he said softly. “I was walking home from work, and this guy comes up to me and says he wants to introduce me to a friend of his, Cody Masterson. And I was like, wow, awesome. He is so hot. I’d been staring at him from the jury box for three days or whatever. He must have noticed, so he found out my name, and I guess he had someone follow me. So we met, and talked, and that was that.” It
sounded like a great argument for not letting accused murderers out on bond while their trials were pending.

  I looked at Carlos, and he nodded ever so slightly. It seemed like Paul was telling the truth. I thanked him and told him to go back to work and warned him not to tell anyone about what we talked about, or he would get in trouble with the police.

  “Makes sense,” Carlos said after Paul left.

  “What does?”

  “This day and age, you ain’t gonna just walk up to some random person on a jury and ask if they’ll take some money,” he continued.

  “True.”

  “That’s a felony, right? To take a bribe, you’d either need a lot of money or have some other reason to do it. A personal reason, like sex. Twenty-five G’s ain’t enough by itself,” he said. “Not for me, anyway.”

  “How much would it take?”

  “A million, maybe two. Depending on the case. And no sex predators or serial killers, you know, just something where a guy maybe made a big mistake one time.”

  I chuckled. “It’s good to have principles.” Most men probably had a price, I figured, but few would admit it. “So you think Cody picked Gonsalves as an easy target?”

  “Did you hear the way he was talking about him? It sounded like he would have done whatever Cody wanted for free. Just to be able to hang out with those guys. That kid is into your friend Cody in a big way.”

  “Kid? He’s your age!” I wasn’t sure, but I figured Carlos had to be about twenty-four.

  “Whatever.”

  “So Cody seduces him, which wasn’t hard, and then provides him enough cash so he can enjoy the finer things in life even though he folds clothes for a living.” The kid’s story made a lot of sense.

  “Wonder how Cody comes up with the four grand a month,” Carlos said. “I’m gonna guess his wife doesn’t write the checks to pay off her husband’s boyfriend.”

  I laughed. “You should get your own PI’s license.”

  “No way. Money’s no good,” he said. I took the comment as an unsubtle reminder that I owed him money. I downed the last bitter drops of my espresso.

  “I told you about the guy in San Diego, right?”

  “The old dude with the hot girl working for him?”

  “That’s the guy.” Carlos had a knack for remembering the key details. “He thought there was some kind of financial stuff going on at the casino. The numbers weren’t quite adding up the way he thought they should, and after he left they started sending him a pension he wasn’t expecting.”

  “Um hmm.”

  “Just thinking out loud,” I said.

  Carlos nodded. “Could be a nice pot of money that Cody’s been dipping into himself,” he said. “If it’s worth paying off a guy to keep quiet about…”

  “It’s worth killing for.” We both stared out at the endless expanse of the mall—white marble and glass as far as the eye could see.

  “Well, we know Cody’s getting a lot of money from somewhere, and it’s been going on for years,” Carlos said. “Think about it—he’s paid Gonsalves like two hundred grand since the trial. And we know the old dude thought someone was ripping off a lot of money from the casino,” he continued.

  “It adds up. Plus, he’s got to fund his little bachelor pad somehow. Brand new homes with pools aren’t cheap.”

  We sat there at the tiny table in silence.

  “This case is frustrating,” I finally said. It was the understatement of the year.

  Carlos was thinking about something. “Would you bribe someone on a jury even if you were innocent?”

  I thought about that for a second. “That’s the question, isn’t it?”

  “I would,” he said, answering his own question. “I mean, I might. If it looked bad. System ain’t perfect. It’s just something to think about. Messing with the jury doesn’t mean you’re guilty.”

  “Thanks, professor,” I said. “It doesn’t look good, though, does it?”

  “Nope.”

  “Either way, it means he has to talk to me.”

  Carlos nodded. “Gonsalves is a bargaining chip,” he said. “A big one.”

  I smiled. We were on the same wavelength. “Nothing like having evidence of a felony to get a man to talk. Can I borrow you this afternoon, too?” I asked. Carlos hesitated.

  “My girlfriend’s watching my kid. She’s got to go to work.”

  “You have a kid?”

  “You’re a detective?” He sighed and shot a feigned exasperated look up at the ceiling. At least I think it was feigned.

  I felt idiotic, but that was nothing new. “I think we need to go talk to Cody right away, before he finds out from somebody else how much we know. It didn’t take much to get Paul to talk with us, so who knows what he’ll tell Cody.”

  Carlos sat still, as though posing for an ice sculpture.

  “One hour, maybe two,” I said. “Two hundred bucks.”

  He didn’t say anything.

  “Two fifty.”

  “Kid goes through fifteen diapers a day. They’re expensive,” he said.

  I had the distinct sense he was working me over. “Okay, let’s go. Three hundred is all I can do.” I got up and left, hoping Carlos was coming with. He was.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  We stepped outside into what had become an even hotter and brighter day. Directly across the street, the bronze panels of the Wynn resort complex glowed rust orange in the sunlight, as if burning from within. It was the beginning of the lunch hour, and the sidewalks flowed with bustling conventioneers wearing corporate polo shirts with large nametags dangling from straps around their necks. They moved in packs of threes and fours, all on the prowl for the best meal their expense accounts could buy.

  We stood on the corner next to the mall in a large open plaza dotted with carts selling sunglasses and t-shirts. Salesmen were hawking timeshares to anyone naïve enough to stop and listen. In the corner, next to the street, were a dozen or so display boxes stuffed with flyers and color pamphlets advertising women you could hire as escorts. I got out my phone and dialed the number Cody had written on the back of his business card. There was no answer, and the voicemail of someone named Phil Ebert kicked in. Shit, I muttered. I hadn’t thought to check the phone number, but I should have. Writing down a bogus number was exactly the kind of thing a half-stoned guy might do when trying to rid himself of a stranger asking a lot of questions.

  I was pissed. “Let’s find some cover,” I said.

  Carlos and I found a small rectangle of shade under the wide awning of a tourist information stand. I paced in and out of the sun for a few minutes trying to figure out what to do. Carlos lost interest and wandered off. I decided to take a chance and call Cody’s work line. A woman answered, sounding friendly. Mr. Masterson was in the office, she said, but he was in a meeting. I could make an appointment if I wanted. I said no. The casino had about a thousand security cameras, and I’d be pretty noticeable. I figured I’d get beat up long before I even got close to Cody’s office. I thanked her and hung up.

  There wasn’t much at this point that I was certain of. But I knew three things. First, I needed to talk to Cody Masterson. Second, the Outpost casino was only two blocks away. Third, I had just rented Carlos for the afternoon. A crude plan began forming in my mind.

  I found Carlos busying himself with a glossy color pamphlet proudly advertising “Nevada’s Nastiest Women.” There was a large XXX on the cover. The XXX was stamped diagonally across a color spread showing a dark-haired woman wearing leather and wielding some kind of billy club menacingly at a blond woman in white. The blonde was supposed to look like an innocent, but she looked just as trashy as the brunette.

  “Carlos.”

  “No way,” he said. He didn’t look up from the magazine.

  “What?”

  “I am just along for the ride, man,” he said. “Nothing else.” He was reading my mind.

  “How would you like a quick makeover?” I asked. That wasn’t wha
t he was expecting. I explained the gist of my half-baked idea, and he surprised me, first by listening patiently and then by going along with it. We headed back inside the mall and made our way to the Macy’s men’s department.

  On the way to Macy’s we passed Saks Fifth Avenue. Carlos nudged me encouragingly as we passed.

  “No,” I said. Carlos pretended to pout.

  At Macy’s I bought Carlos a long sleeved white oxford shirt. That would cover up his tattoos, at least. I also got him a pair of navy slacks and a black leather belt. He had jet-black basketball shoes on, and I figured they would do. Carlos looked good. He shoved his other clothes into the Macy’s bag and handed his Sox cap to me for safekeeping. He spent about five minutes fiddling with his hair in the mirror.

  We walked the two blocks up to the Outpost and found the employee entrance on the north side of the building. There didn’t appear to be any key card required, and no security was visible inside. The hallway behind the entrance made an L, and I guessed there was a reception or security desk involved somewhere along the way.

  “Tell anyone who asks that you’re there to see Mr. Masterson,” I said. “It’s urgent and involves a close friend of his, Mr. Gonsalves. That should be enough to get him to see you. When you get in tell him I’m outside, and we need to talk immediately, or I’ll go to the cops about what Gonsalves told us. Got it?”

  He looked at me skeptically.

  “What’s the worst that could happen?” I asked.

  “They could kill me and bury me in the desert.”

  “Bah,” I chortled. “The chances of that are less than fifty-fifty.”

  Carlos grunted and went inside. I moved about fifty feet away from the door and made sure to turn my back to the security cameras watching over the parking lot. I felt awkward standing alone in the parking lot, so I dug out my phone and played hearts against the computer. As usual, the computer was cheating.

  My back was turned when I heard the door shut, and I spun around to see Cody Masterson emerge accompanied by the newly preppified version of Carlos. Neither looked excited to be reuniting with me.

  “You could have called me,” Cody said. He was dressed in a navy pinstripe suit and crisp white shirt with a ruby red pocket square. Without a tie, it was an unusual look but one he was able to pull off. “What’s so urgent?”