Stephanie Caffrey - Raven McShane 01 - Diva Las Vegas

by Stephanie Caffrey

  “And what about Rachel?” he asked.

  “She’s excited. The murder case against Amy is a slam dunk, which means she won’t even have to sue her to get the money. Her lawyer thinks Amy’s going to plead guilty to spare herself any chance at the death penalty. Part of that will include paying Rachel a ton of money in restitution, so she’ll be able to pay off those loan sharks before they get too grabby.”

  He lifted his glass and shot me an infectious smile. “Nice work.”

  “And Rachel’s even talking about buying into the casino. Amy’s going to lose her casino license immediately, and under their family trust the ownership supposedly transfers to a distant cousin, who has no interest in owning it. It could all work out very well.”

  The conversation drifted. It was getting to be the awkward part of the night.

  “Can I drive you home?” Mike asked. The lighting was dim, but I’m quite certain his face had gotten red. I wasn’t sure if it was from the half-glass of wine he’d quaffed or from the suggestive nature of his question.

  I stirred the dregs of my martini, pondering my response. I was old enough to know what he was really asking. After the week’s crazy events I didn’t feel like being alone, and Mike was a rare combination of nice and good-looking. He even had an understated sense of humor. But for some reason his most attractive quality was the fact that he didn’t seem to buy into large swaths of the modern and prevailing worldview. His 1950’s manner of dress was annoying, no doubt. But as I spent more time with him I sensed that he was someone different, someone who didn’t watch the same TV shows as everyone else or subscribe to the same ethos of instant gratification, the chasing of fast money and drugs and good (if temporary) feelings. He did things his way, and that was refreshing. Especially in Las Vegas, the intergalactic capital of superficial and fleeting pleasure. In short, I was tempted as hell.

  “No,” I whispered. “I’ll be fine. All the bad guys are locked up now.”

  Mike gulped, clearly surprised that a girl of my seemingly loose morals would turn him down. What he didn’t know (being a man) was that by turning him down I might be laying the groundwork for something better in the future.

  We parted ways with the necessary awkwardness, and I walked back to the Flamingo, where I sat on my bed pouting for a few minutes. In the loneliness that only a Vegas hotel room can produce, I was rethinking my decision to turn Mike down. It was still early, and I was wired from the day. I got up and started filling the hot tub, and then shed my clothes and donned one of the hotel’s extra-comfy bathrobes. It was time for one final raid of the minibar.

  I chuckled to myself when I found two mini bottles of Cuervo tequila in the fridge hiding behind a half-bottle of wine. Damn, I thought. Mike would have liked this.

  As I was getting up to turn off the water, a hesitant knock came at the door. My heart raced as I scurried to the door to check the peephole. It wasn’t Mike.

  Oh my God. I wasn’t expecting this.

  I flung the door open. “Cody.”

  He smiled. “Your phone must be off. I’ve been calling all day.” He still had his arm in a cast, but he was all cleaned up.

  “Come in, come in,” I stammered.

  He made his way into the room and inevitably peered out at the luminescent Strip.

  He turned around and came closer. “I brought you this,” he said, holding out a shimmering diamond necklace. “To say thanks. Thanks for believing in me. Sort of.”

  I reached out and took it, moving each diamond through the tips of my fingers. I had never owned anything even remotely that beautiful. He took it back and fastened it around my neck.

  “Wow,” he said. “Stunning.”

  I checked it in the mirror, opening my robe halfway to see how it lay on my skin. It was a wow, that was for sure. I still hadn’t said anything.

  “You like it?”

  “I love it, are you crazy? You didn’t have to do this, though.”

  “I know. I just felt bad about how everything happened.”

  A nagging thought crept into my consciousness. “Did you buy this with, uh…”

  He chuckled. “With money I stole from the casino?”

  I nodded sheepishly. It was a stupid question.

  “Maybe. But we were stealing from a murderer, so I don’t feel too bad.”

  His logic was impeccable. With diamonds like this, I could pretty much rationalize anything.

  I thought for a second after an idea popped into my mind. I told myself no, that’s not going to work. But some other part of my brain had seized control of my mouth.

  “Say, Cody, do you like tequila?”

  “I love tequila. Why?”

  “Sit down. I’ll show you.”

  I fixed us both some tequila on the rocks and found some acceptable music on the clock radio. And then I pulled him down onto the bed with me, where we sat close together.

  Cody’s radar was up, sensing danger in my actions. “You know,” he whispered, “I’m…” He let it hang there.

  I played dumb. “You’re what?”

  “I’m gay,” he whispered, almost apologetically.

  “Just play along,” I said. “It’ll be fun. Want to dance?”

  Cody perked up at the idea. He drained his glass and took my hand, leading me over to the window. The cast made his arm jut out at a funny angle, but we were able to improvise a fairly comfortable slow dance. We swayed together to the music, and he let me rest my head on his shoulder. His cologne was intoxicating. Or maybe it was the tequila. No, it was the cologne.

  “How’s this?” he asked softly.

  “Nice,” I whispered. “Very nice.”

  We danced together for song after song, enjoying the pleasing and uncomplicated warmth that strangers sometimes share. Stan Getz’s breathy saxophone was playing a Brazilian jazz ballad on the radio, and neon lights from outside gave rise to a spectrum of twinkling colors on the diamonds around my neck.

  We broke apart only when a commercial intruded on the music.

  “You’re staying the night,” I said, matter-of-factly.

  Cody chuckled. “You really need a boyfriend,” he said.

  “That wasn’t a no,” I pointed out. “Look, it’s a king size bed. No funny business, I promise.”

  He pursed his lips, pondering the proposition. “One condition,” he said, finally. “I’m dialing room service.”

  “Knock yourself out.”

  Twenty minutes later, Cody was gorging himself on spicy chicken wings washed down by Miller Lite, and I was devouring a bowl of chocolate ice cream. After getting ready for bed, I crawled under the covers and started flipping channels on the TV.

  “Hey, go back,” Cody protested. He was lying atop the covers in a t-shirt and some wild red and pink boxer shorts. I flipped back to the previous channel, which was showing something in black and white. I hadn’t registered it at first, but Ingrid Bergman’s statuesque face told me it was Casablanca, a movie I used to watch with my grandmother.

  “Casablanca,” Cody said. “My favorite movie.”

  I looked over at him and smiled. “Cody,” I said. “I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

  * * * * *

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  * * * * *

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Stephanie Caffrey grew up in Wisconsin and has lived in Chicago, Washington, D.C. and London. Although she has traveled the world, her heart belongs to the thumping, degenerate pulse of a city that is Las Vegas. Having stayed at (or passed out in) nearly every casino-hotel on the Strip, she is recognized as an expert on all-things-Vegas, including where to find the best poker rooms, the most decadent foie gras-topped hamburger, and the most effective cure for a tequila-induced hangover. For a brief period in her early twenties, she may or may not have been a topless dancer. A constitutional lawyer by day, she
is married with a young son, who will not be allowed to visit Las Vegas until he’s forty.

  * * * * *

  BOOKS BY STEPHANIE CAFFREY

  Raven McShane Mysteries:

  Diva Las Vegas

  Vegas Stripped

  * * * * *

  SNEAK PEEK

  If you enjoyed this Raven McShane Mystery series, check out this other funny, romantic mystery from Gemma Halliday Publishing:

  ‘SCUSE ME WHILE I KILL THIS GUY

  by

  LESLIE LANGTRY

  CHAPTER ONE

  “On a large enough time line, the survival rate for everyone will drop to zero.”

  ~Chuck Palahniuk, Fight Club

  No one really liked family reunions. I got that. But when I listened to people complain about it ‘round the water cooler, I couldn’t help rolling my eyes. I mean really, try it when you come from a family of assassins. Kind of gives “avoiding Aunt Jean’s potato salad” a whole new meaning.

  That‘s right. Family of assassins. I came from a line of murderers dating back to ancient Greece. Mafia? Puhleeeese. Ninjas? Amateurs. Illuminati? How pedestrian. My ancestors had invented the garrote, ice pick, and arsenic. And Grandma Mary insisted that the wheel had actually been devised as a portable skull crusher. I’d tell you the names of some of our famous victims throughout history, but I’d had to sign a confidentiality clause in my own blood when I was five. So you’ll just have to take my word for it.

  I turned the engraved invitation over in my hands and sighed. I hate these things. We only held them once every five years, but for some reason, this time, the reunion was only a year after the last one. That meant someone in the family had been naughty. That meant one of my relatives was going to die.

  As I stroked the creamy vellum paper, for a brief moment I thought about sending my regrets. But only for a moment. After all, it wasn’t an option on the R.S.V.P. card. Unlike most family reunions with sack races, bad weather and crappy T-shirts, where to refuse to go only meant you weren’t in the ridiculous all-family photo, to turn down this invitation was death. That’s right. Death. Any blooded member of the family who didn’t show was terminated.

  Now, where had I put that goddamned pen? I rattled through the “everything” drawer, looking for the onyx pen with the family crest engraved in gold on the side. It may sound pretty calloused to throw a centuries-old family heirloom in with tampons, fishing hooks, batteries, and ten-year-old packs of gum, but I didn’t exactly have the usual family sense o’ pride.

  I found it behind some broken cassette tapes and dusted it off. The coat-of-arms practically glowed on the cold, ebony surface. Crossed sabers entwined with an asp and topped off with a vial of poison. Lovely. Really sent that warm, homemade chicken-soup kind of feeling. And don’t forget the family motto, carved in Greek on the side which translates as, Kill with no mercy, love with suspicion. Not exactly embroider-on-the-pillow material.

  The phone rang, causing me to jump. That’s right. I was a jumpy assassin.

  “Ginny?” My mom’s voice betrayed her urgency.

  “Hey, Mom. I got it,” I responded wearily. Carolina Bombay was always convinced I would someday skip the reunion.

  “Don’t use that tone with me, Virginia.” Her voice was dead serious. “I just wanted to make sure.”

  “Right. Like I’d miss this and run the risk of having my own mother hunt me down.” For some reason, this would be a joke in other families. But in mine, when you strayed, your own family literally hunted you down.

  “You know it makes me nervous when you don’t call the day you get the invitation,” Mom said, whispering the words the invitation. It was a sacred thing, and to be honest, we were all more than a little terrified every time we received one. (Did you ever notice that the words sacred and scared differ only by switching two letters?)

  “I’m sorry,” I continued lying to my mother. “I just popped the R.S.V.P. into the mailbox on the corner.” And I would, too. No point taking any chances with my mail carrier losing it. That would be a stupid way to die.

  “Well, I’m calling your brother next. I swear, you kids do this just to torment me!” She hung up before I could say good bye.

  So, here I was, thirty-nine years old, single mother of a five-year-old daughter (widowed—by cancer, not by family) and still being treated like a child. Not that my childhood had been normal, by any means. You grew up pretty quick with the ritualistic blood-oath at five and your first professional kill by fifteen.

  To be fair, Mom had a right to be nervous. She watched her older sister, also named Virginia, get hunted down by Uncle Lou when she had failed to appear at the 1975 reunion. That really had to suck. I’d been named after her, which kind of jinxed me, I think.

  In case you hadn‘t noticed, my immediate family members were all named after U.S. states or cities (Lou was short for Louisiana, much to his dismay, and Grandma Mary was short for Maryland). It was a tradition that went back to our first ancestors, who thought it would be a cute idea to name their kids after locations, rather than actual names. My name was Virginia, but as a kid I went by Ginny. Of course, that had changed in college when everyone thought it was a real hoot to shorten my name to Gin. That’s right. Gin Bombay. Yuck it up. I dare you.

  Bombay had been the last name of my family since the beginning. Women born into the family weren’t allowed to change their names when they got married. In fact, the husband had to agree to change his name to Bombay. You could guess what happens if they refuse.

  Non-blooded Bombays were allowed to miss the reunion, as were children under the age of five. Bombays had to let their spouses in on the “family secret” by the time the first reunion in their marriage rolled around. It wasn’t exactly pillow talk. And of course, you weren’t allowed to leave the family once you know, or well, you knew what happened.

  Most of us didn‘t even tell our spouses until the first five-year reunion. I guess I’d been lucky, if you could actually call it that. My husband, Eddie, had died of brain cancer four years into our marriage. And even though I’d seen the lab results, I still eyed my cousins suspiciously. And while I’m fairly certain we haven’t figured out a way to cause cancer, with my family, you never know.

  Roma, my daughter, had been born one month after Eddie died. I’d given her the traditional place name, but rebelled against the state thing. I called her Romi. I smiled, thinking about picking her up from kindergarten in a few hours. She was my whole life. All arms and legs, skinny as a stick, with straight, brown hair and big blue eyes, Romi had given me back my laughter when Ed passed.

  My heart sank with a cartoon boing when it hit my stomach. Romi was five. This would be her first reunion. She would have to be drawn into that nest of vipers that is the Bombay Family. Her training would begin immediately after. And in a couple of weeks, she’d go from playing with Bratz dolls, to “icing” them. Shit.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “We are all dead men on leave.”

  ~Eugene Levine, comedian

  The doorbell rang and I automatically checked the monitor in the kitchen. Yes, I had surveillance monitors. Hello? Family hunts us down! Remember?

  “Hey, little brother.” Despite my weary voice I gave Dakota a vigorous hug.

  “You alright?” he asked more with mischief than concern.

  “You’re joking, right?” And I knew he was. Dak loved Romi almost as much as I did. He just found the whole family of assassins thing amusing most of the time.

  “Well, we went through it and survived. Besides, the training is pretty harmless for the first few years.”

  “Harmless? That’s an interesting way to describe turning your kindergartner into a cold-blooded killer.”

  “Maybe you could write the guidebook! The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Turning Your Kindergartner into an Assassin.” Dak laughed in that easy way he had about him. Single and thirty-seven, he was handsome and funny. And I should mention that he was single by choice. Dak, like most of the people
in my family, had “commitment issues.” Personally, I thought they took the family motto a little too seriously.

  I rolled my eyes, “Yeah. That would work.” Hey! Was he calling me a complete idiot?

  “Look, Ginny, it’s not like you can refuse to go.” He looked sideways at me. “You are going, right?”

  “Duh! Do you think I’m stupid? Like I’d let you raise and train Romi!”

  I loved my brother. We were close. We even collaborated on jobs. He had taken this whole Prizzi’s Honor lifestyle in stride. After three millennia of contracted kills, the family was extremely wealthy, and we all lived off of huge trust funds. In the past seventy-five years, after some smart investing, no one has had to do more than one or two hits a year. So we all lived comfortably. And we got Blue Cross and dental.

  Dak eased back in the kitchen chair, rudely devouring my Pepperidge Farm Milano cookies. Bastard.

  “Look Ginny, it’ll be fine. Romi can handle it.”

  I shook my head. “That’s not all I’m worried about.”

  He stopped eating, and for a moment I thought I might have a few cookies left. “Oh. The other thing. What’s up with that?”

  “I don’t know. You hear anything?”

  Dak shook his head. “I heard Uncle Troy almost got busted in Malaysia last year. But he’s on the Council, and they don’t bust you for almost fucking up.”

  I snatched the Milano bag from him. There was only one left. “Yeah, I haven’t heard anything either.”

  “I guess we just see who shows up and…” He gave a dramatic pause a la Christopher Walken, “…whoever doesn’t.” (Insert creepy, “dun, dun, dun,” music here.)