“You told him about Paul Gonsalves?” I asked Carlos.
“I told him.”
Cody stood there, defiant.
“We need to talk,” I said.
“Why are you talking to my friends?” His tone was not friendly.
“I’m an investigator. I talk to people,” I explained simply. “And you gave me a bogus phone number. Why don’t you buy us lunch?” I suggested. “We should sit down somewhere and clear this up.”
“I’m busy, and I don’t have to talk to you,” he said.
“No you’re not, and yes you do,” I replied. “I hate to be a bitch, but you’re the president of a large casino. If you didn’t need to talk to me, you wouldn’t be standing out here on the hot pavement right now. Let’s get past all this, and you can try to talk me out of getting the cops involved. Maybe you can even convince me you’re not a murderer,” I added.
“You know I’m not,” he snipped.
“I’m less certain now than ever,” I said. I motioned with my hand at the expanse of the Strip in front of us. “Lunch. You pick the place.”
Several seconds passed as Cody grudgingly weighed his options. Finally, he turned slightly, grimaced, and began walking south. “Okay,” he said. “Capital Grille.”
We walked in silence the two blocks to the Capital Grille, the upscale steakhouse chain, which was on the opposite side of the mall where we’d just had coffee with Paul Gonsalves. I was underdressed in my tank top and shorts, but they were used to that. It was Vegas. They might have made a fuss at dinner, but lunch on a Tuesday was different. The restaurant was only half full, and I asked for a table in a deserted corner mostly hidden by the bar. It was the kind of lunch you didn’t want being overheard.
The maître d’ showed us our table. I was used to drawing attention from people (a healthy mixture of appreciative leers and disapproving scowls), but Cody was clearly the star of our little traveling troupe. As we walked to our seats a number of people in the lunchtime crowd—women and men alike—stole furtive and not-so-furtive glances at him. It was like I wasn’t even there. Either Cody was used to it or he didn’t notice. I guessed he was used to it. We sat down in silence and ordered Diet Cokes when the waiter arrived. None of us were in the mood for small talk. The drinks came quickly, and we ordered lunch right away. Carlos and I ordered cheeseburgers and Cody got a lobster salad. I decided to begin the same way I had with Gonsalves.
“I have no interest in having you go to prison,” I started. Cody’s expression was stoic. I couldn’t help imagining what would happen to a pretty boy like him behind bars. “And I don’t care about how you arranged for your not guilty verdict, except for the fact that it is a useful thing to know.”
He perked up at my innuendo. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked.
“It means, now that I know about it, you’ve got to tell me the truth about everything else. And it means that you have to help me find out what I need to know.”
“Or else?”
“Exactly. ‘Or else’ is the name of the game I want to play now.” I leaned in and lowered my voice, hoping I could sell him on a lie. “So here’s the ‘or else.’ I’ve already sent a sworn affidavit to my lawyer describing you and your friend on the jury. And there are…pictures. If you want that kind of thing making its way to the cops, I’m sure they’d be more than happy to try you again for murder. Hell, forget the murder. They could put you away for twenty years just for jury tampering.”
“What kind of pictures?” he asked.
“They involve a recent pool party in a deserted subdivision on the east side. Use your imagination.”
“Fuck you,” he said a little too loudly. A fat woman in a bright printed top looked over at us and frowned disapprovingly. Cody’s face was reddening. He gestured at Carlos. “Does this guy ever talk?”
“He’s the strong, silent type,” I said. Carlos narrowed his eyes and looked away. “Look, you don’t have to like me. You do have to help me, though, and I need some answers.”
“Or else,” he repeated sarcastically, rolling his eyes for effect.
“Now you’re catching on,” I said. “For starters, I’ll need to know who you were with on the night of the murder.”
“Why?”
“Because I still think there’s a reasonable chance you’re guilty.”
He sighed. He asked me for a pen and wrote down a name in all caps on the napkin: Oliver Radbourne.
“Is Oliver a real person?” I asked.
Cody was not amused. “You might have to take my word for it. Oliver has no clue about the whole thing. He was in town from London for a few days, and I doubt he even heard about the murder or the trial afterwards.”
“So it’s basically a piece of worthless information,” I said. “I track down this guy six thousand miles away and ask where he was five years ago on such and such a night, he’ll have no idea.”
“Probably. But if you mention my name, he’d be able to work out the dates and times, though. I haven’t seen him since then.”
“Sounds like you boys really hit it off,” Carlos muttered.
Cody shot him a death stare while I stifled a laugh. I took the napkin and filed it away in the back pocket of my shorts. I’d probably throw it out later.
“You don’t seem overly eager to help me prove your innocence,” I said, stating the obvious.
“It’s not that simple,” he added.
“Why not?”
He looked me directly in the eye and lowered his voice. “Are you some kind of idiot? Do you think I like walking around having everyone think I’m a killer? Don’t you think I would have cleared my name already if it was that easy? I don’t need you, or anyone, swooping in here to help me.”
I liked the stoned Cody much more than this guy. It was clear he wasn’t finished with his little hissy fit, so I kept my mouth shut.
“Of course I want to prove to everyone that I’m not a murderer,” he continued.
A light bulb went off in my head, and I couldn’t help interrupting. “But if you disclosed your true alibi—Oliver Twist, or whatever his name was—your lovely wife would have amazingly excellent grounds for divorcing you and leaving you without a dime.”
His eyes narrowed, but he didn’t say anything.
“Which is why,” I continued, “when the opportunity presented itself, you decided to try your hand at buying off the jury rather than asserting your actual alibi, which is pretty flimsy to begin with. You got to have it both ways. A verdict in your favor while holding on to the rich wife and casino.”
He started shaking his head. “It’s not that simple,” he repeated. He sipped nervously from his soda. “You’re forgetting something. The fact is, it’s very convenient to have people think I’m guilty.” Our food arrived, and we sat in silence while the waiter and an assistant arranged our plates in front of us. The waiter sensed we were in the middle of something and flashed a thin, efficient smile before disappearing.
“Convenient?” I prodded.
“Well somebody killed George Hannity,” he said, digging into his salad. I thought about that for a minute while chewing my burger, which was medium rare and very good. Cody had a point. Assuming he was innocent, the situation had worked out pretty well for whoever the real killer was. Because everyone assumed Cody was actually guilty, the cops and DA’s office never bothered to continue searching for George Hannity’s murderer. The heat was off.
“It’s convenient,” I repeated, “and if that situation were suddenly stirred up by a nosey investigator, someone would be bound to get really pissed off.”
“Now you’re getting it,” he said. He didn’t look quite as angry as before. I hoped that getting some of these things off his chest was making things better.
“And that’s where my interest goes beyond the purely financial,” I said. “As I’ve already told you, someone is trying to get rid of me. They broke into my apartment and almost killed me. And I’ve had to move in with my uncle in H
enderson,” I lied. No sense letting anyone know where I was actually sleeping these days. “I don’t think they’re going to stop unless I get to them first.”
He nodded. Carlos had dug in to his fries with both hands.
“My point is, even if you don’t want to stir up the pot, that’s a luxury I can no longer afford.”
“What am I supposed to do?” Cody leaned back from the table. “I wasn’t there, and I don’t know who killed George.”
“Suppose I believe you,” I said. “Who else would have done it? Who had the motive to get rid of George?”
Cody put down his fork and paused. He chose his words carefully. “I don’t know. A lot of people. George had a different vision of the place than almost everyone else.” I wondered if it was possible to be any more vague. “Plus,” he added, “it could have been a random act of street crime.” It didn’t sound like even he believed that theory. It was crap. I decided to answer his crap with a whopper of my own.
“I know about the money,” I said suddenly. Both Carlos and Cody looked directly at me, and I thought I detected the beginnings of a wry smile working their way across Carlos’s face. “The money” could have meant a million things, and I just wanted to see what Cody’s reaction to the accusation would be.
“What money?” he asked. I didn’t give him any points for originality.
“I think you know very well, Cody. You really expect us to believe that the casino is reporting all the money it should be reporting? I’ve heard otherwise. And now I discover you’ve been paying piles of money to Paul Gonsalves for years.” I decided to let Cody make the obvious connection himself.
“I have money of my own,” he said defensively. “I get three hundred thousand a year as president of the casino. My wife gets ten times that that just in dividends every year. I don’t need to steal anything. Paul is small potatoes.” I’d never heard anyone under forty use the phrase “small potatoes.” It all sounded a little artificial.
“And I suppose your wife Amy is fine with you paying this handsome young man so much money?”
He shot me a withering look. “Very funny.” He looked at Carlos for support, as though Carlos would take his side. Carlos began sucking suggestively on a French fry.
“Look,” Cody continued, “obviously you’re in way over your head here. I appreciate the fact that you have at least considered the possibility that I might be innocent. Most people haven’t gone that far. But I’m not interested in helping you on your little project.” He stood up abruptly. “You can send me the bill for lunch,” he said and walked out.
Carlos was smiling, obviously amused. “That is messed up,” he said.
“You think so?”
“I mean, the guy basically admits to felony bribery and then won’t help out the only person in town who doesn’t think he’s a cold-blooded killer.”
“It is messed up,” I agreed. “I guess he didn’t believe me about going to the cops.”
“You going to?” Carlos asked.
“Nope. Not yet anyways. I need to figure out who’s after me, because it’s obviously not Cody.” We got the check and headed back to the car. I drove him home, and Carlos’ pretty young girlfriend was peering through the door when we got back. She waved and flashed a phony baloney smile at me.
Before he got out, Carlos coughed a loud ahem and started rubbing his fingers and thumb together, as though moving some invisible money back and forth. I had planned ahead, luckily. I caught his drift, fished a wad of bills out of my purse, and handed him close to a thousand in cash.
“Thanks,” he said simply and went inside.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Back in my hotel room I flipped on the TV and fired up my computer. I had some loose ends to clean up. First, I picked out three photos of Cody and Paul Gonsalves in the pool and shrunk them down to a more manageable size. I then attached them to an email and sent them to Jeff Katz, whose email address was on the business card Rachel had given me. The photos weren’t conclusive evidence of anything, but they showed that Cody and Paul were obviously close friends—or more. I explained in the email that Paul had sat on Cody’s jury and told Jeff what to do with the pictures in the event I washed up on the shores of the Colorado River. I was sure Jeff would find the whole thing amusing.
After that, I pulled up my Westlaw account and ran a real estate search on Cody’s party house. The deed was held by a limited liability company called CAM Holdings, LLC, and I found that company registered in Delaware, with Cody A. Masterson as its principal agent and sole owner. I figured the limited liability company was probably just an extra step to hide his property from Amy.
I then ran some Internet searches on Oliver Radbourne, the name Cody had written down for me at lunch. Cody had already lied to a jury and given me a bogus phone number, so there was no reason to believe he was telling me the truth about this guy. A three year old photo of an Oliver Radbourne turned up in the online archives of Yachting magazine. This Radbourne was from London and definitely fit the bill in terms of the kind of man I expected Cody Masterson would hang out with, except that he was older than I would have thought. Late thirties, with a receding hairline—definitely not in the same league physically as Cody himself or his pool friends, but then again he was probably much richer. His name popped up in other publications, one of which described him as an “eligible” bachelor on the French Riviera scene in Cannes. A company called Radbourne and Associates, Ltd., an architecture and design firm specializing in hotels, had a web page listing contact information for a number of individuals, including the founder, Oliver Radbourne. It listed a London address and a long distance number I had no idea how to dial on my phone.
I called my cell phone operator to ask for help dialing the international number, and the operator put me through directly. I felt like June Cleaver. Radbourne was not in—the office was closed, the receptionist said—but she could take a message. I left my name and number but didn’t expect a speedy callback, given that his office was probably eight hours ahead of Nevada time.
After that I opened up my bookkeeping program and began trying to reconstruct how I’d spent my time on the case over the last several days. I had gotten sloppy about keeping records in the past, which always meant it was harder to collect on an invoice at the end of a job. Maybe Carlos had the right idea, I thought: only take cash, payable right away or at most within a few days. After about an hour of reconstructing the past week, I finished my calculations and hoped Rachel wouldn’t mind paying me the $13,900 in fees and expenses I had racked up so far. Assuming she could eventually afford it, that is. All in all, I think I had earned it. The Flamingo suite and my intimate relationship with its mini-bar were another matter altogether.
Jeff called me while I was in the shower and ended his message with the instruction that I should call him back if I was still alive. Funny guy. Jeff wanted to see how I was doing and offered to take me out for dinner. I was still a little wary of his motives, but he’d been behaving himself very well lately. I told him I was dancing later and he could come in for a freebie. I didn’t want to go to dinner with him, but I looked forward to running things past him and getting his legal take on things.
I got lost in the casino for a few hours to let the maids clean my suite. Talk about an expensive afternoon. The video poker gods were not with me, and the craps table wasn’t much better. This was why I don’t gamble very often. If I weren’t staying on Jeff’s VIP account, I think the hotel would comp me my suite for a week based on my losses that day alone. When I got back to my room I ordered takeout curry from my favorite Indian place. The skinny Indian delivery boy recognized me and gave me a funny look, probably confused about why I was staying in a hotel when I lived in a condo across the street. But, as usual, he didn’t say a word to me.
I floundered around for awhile after dinner and got to Cougar’s early. I didn’t really feel like dancing, but I knew it would take my mind off things. It proved to be even slower than usual for a Tuesd
ay night in July, and I spent more time on stage than I had in months. The wad of singles I earned dancing on stage wouldn’t put a dent in what I’d lost at the tables that afternoon. I even put on my tallest pair of hooker heels, but they didn’t seem to help.
Things picked up around nine-thirty when some elderly Japanese men arrived. From experience, I knew they tended to prefer blondes—their image of the perfect American woman was Pamela Anderson, circa 1996. But Mr. Takada took a shine to me and had me on his lap for a good half-hour. I think I outweighed him by twenty pounds. I probably cut off the circulation to his legs, but he didn’t seem to mind.
The Japanese left by 10:30, and I pondered leaving early. That was the nice thing about being an independent contractor: I could lay myself off anytime I felt like it. But soon enough an attractive sandy-haired guy in his late twenties approached me while I was walking back from the locker room for one last go-round on stage.
“How much for a lap dance?”
“For you?” I gave him a once-over and smiled. “Half price. Twenty bucks.”
“Actually it’s for a friend of mine. It’s his birthday. Here’s a hundred.” He flashed a tight smile and pressed a hundred into my palm. “He’s with another girl back there already. They’re just finishing up.” He seemed a little nervous, but that was nothing unusual. A lot of guys weren’t comfortable talking to women at all, much less nearly naked women in four-inch stilettos.
I put the money in my hidden pocket and headed over to the back room. Mandy was the only girl dancing back there. She was a real professional, a stunning blonde who would have been a Victoria’s Secret model except for the fact that she was only five-foot-four. She was perched on the lap of a guy in dark gray slacks and nice-looking dress shoes. He was facing away from me and seemed to be enjoying having Mandy’s 34-C’s in his face. I caught her eye. She nodded and flashed me a one-minute sign with her hand.
Stephanie Caffrey - Raven McShane 01 - Diva Las Vegas Page 16