Vegas Stripped (Raven McShane Mysteries Book 2)

by Stephanie Caffrey

  "He's going to Chicago."

  "Okay. Just a minute." He was fumbling around with something. "What airline? United?"

  "Yeah. How'd you know?"

  "It's one of their big hubs. Cheaper flights. Makes sense. Looks like they've got a three o'clock and a four fifty. It's only one forty-eight right now, so I'm guessing he's on the three o'clock, right?"

  "Right."

  "So what are you waiting for?"

  I thought about it for a minute. "Everything. I'm completely unprepared for a trip. And who knows if there's even a seat?"

  "I'm sure you can figure something out," he said and then promptly hung up. It was a little on the curt side for my tastes. But he had a point. What was I waiting for?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  An endless line of slouched, beaten-down tourists wound its way up to the United Airlines check-in counter. Lines aren't really my thing, so I pulled up the browser on my phone and found United's 800 number. After punching a few buttons, I found that, by some small miracle, I was talking to a human being. The flight was almost sold out, she said, but not quite. Which was good. What was bad was the last-minute price of $791. And that was in coach. I could fly to China for less than that, but I ate it and booked the ticket. I wandered over to the little check-in machine near the window, which printed me a boarding pass, and I was on my way. Never mind that I had no clothes, underwear, makeup, or even any reading material. And how long did a flight to Chicago take, anyway?

  Although I had plenty of time, I realized that security was going to be a problem. My purse was not packed for travel. And although Vegas was a town where money talked, I didn't think it prudent to try to slip a twenty to the TSA agent to let me through.

  I went into the nearest ladies' room and examined the contents of my purse. Bye-bye, water bottle. Adiós, hair spray. The lipstick should be fine, I figured. I didn't recall ever reading about any attempts to hijack an airplane with a baby-pink Revlon ColorBurst. All in all, I didn't have to dump as much as I expected. I left the bathroom and made my way up an escalator and through a wide corridor overlooking the baggage claim. A blue-shirted TSA guy with a beer belly the size of a beach ball was playing traffic cop, pointing travelers to one of the half-dozen or so screening lines. From the way the lines were moving, it looked like a cattle prod might have come in handy.

  Huffing it the length of a football field got me to the shortest line, where I unstrapped my shoes and put the rest of my junk on the X-ray conveyer belt. You'd think that a girl who gets naked for a living wouldn't have a hang-up with the full-body scan. Still, I couldn't help feeling like the TSA officer, whose face was so greasy it might catch on fire, was getting a little too much pleasure out of watching me place my arms above my head while he flashed the X-ray camera.

  By the time I got through, I still had forty-five minutes before the flight boarded, so I made my way down the terminal to the Gordon Biersch Brewing Company and ordered a couple double scotches on the rocks. Anywhere other than an airport, I would have received a double-take, or at least a raised eyebrow, but this bartender wisely maintained his stony, impassive expression. If you've ever wondered why there are so many bars in airports, it's because of queasy travelers like me. I assumed my bartender had seen much worse fliers than me.

  I chugged one glass and brought the other with me to B17, where I did an oh-so-casual walk-through to see if I could spot my man. No luck. Maybe he was chugging a few of his own. I found a seat on the periphery where I could scan the crowd without being too obvious about it.

  Boredom set in after a few minutes of pretending I wasn't looking for someone, so I amused myself with a game of Words With Friends on my phone. After a few minutes of being stumped about where to use my X, a hand on my shoulder jarred me. Caught off guard, I tensed up and froze.

  "A lady like you shouldn't travel alone," a man's voice said from behind.

  It sounded familiar, but I couldn't quite place the voice. Before I could turn around, a closed hand appeared in front of my face.

  "Here," he said, "I got you this."

  The hand opened and revealed a thin gold wedding ring.

  Not completely processing everything, I eyed the ring for a second before craning my neck around. The figure behind me was familiar, but different somehow.

  It finally came to me. "Andrew!"

  "Do you like it?"

  "What, the ring or your disguise?" He was wearing a white dress shirt opened three buttons to reveal a thatch of chest hair. He was also sporting a gaudy gold watch, three or four gold rings, stylish eyeglass frames, and a Cubs baseball cap.

  He smiled and sat down next to me.

  "It's cover. We're a couple. Nobody expects a married couple to be tailing them halfway across the country."

  I kinked my head to one side. "I can't argue with that, I guess. A little much, though, don't you think?"

  He smiled. "Could be. Try it on."

  I slipped it on my left ring finger. Not a bad fit, I had to admit. It could have used a little more horsepower in the diamond department, but it would do.

  "Nice look for you," I said, hoping the sarcasm was evident.

  "Just enough, I think. All this stuff distracts the eye. If someone stared at my face for ten seconds, they'd have no trouble recognizing me. But no one will get past the gold or this impressive thicket of—"

  "That's enough, Magnum," I said. I wasn't a big body hair person, and I especially didn't think it was anything to brag about. I always figured that the amount of body hair a man had was directly proportional to the chance that there was a chimpanzee not too far up on his family tree. "So what are you doing here?"

  He feigned injury. "Nice to see you, too!"

  "Sorry, I just wasn't expecting company."

  "It's okay. I just figured I'd tag along. I went to college in Chicago, so I might be able to help navigate. What's that you're drinking there? Iced tea?"

  I smiled sheepishly. "Little bit stronger than that."

  Andrew chuckled. "No wonder my dad liked you so much."

  On the whole, I was grateful to have company. Tailing a creep across state lines was a little outside of my comfort zone. On the other hand, I knew that my comfort zone wasn't going to expand if I always had someone tagging along with me to help. Another concern was that I didn't know Andrew well enough to be completely comfortable about his motive to "tag along," as he put it. I knew that the opportunity to have an overnight trip with a stripper wasn't exactly a routine occurrence in the life of a married man, so I figured there was a healthy chance he might be expecting to engage in some extracurricular activities. If things started going in that direction, I'd have to stamp that out quickly. Andrew was pretty cute and all, but marriage is one of those things I don't mess with. Half of my best nighttime customers were married guys, but all they were doing was looking and maybe fulfilling some kind of fantasy their wives wanted nothing to do with. That's how I rationalized it, anyway.

  At the moment, Andrew was eyeing my cell phone, which was still open to my Words With Friends game. "Gox," he said matter-of-factly. "Put the X in the triple box—"

  "Stop! I know it's not exactly the New York Times crossword, but half the fun is figuring it out for myself."

  "Suit yourself," he said.

  "And what the hell is a gox?"

  Andrew looked pleased with himself. "It's an abbreviation for gaseous oxygen."

  I sighed and shut my phone off, not wanting Andrew to be peering over my shoulder while I mouthed out potential words to play. "No sign of Devine," I said, changing the subject.

  Andrew smiled. "Yeah, he must have had a bad Thai meal or something. He's been in the can the last fifteen minutes."

  I crinkled my nose. "That would explain a lot. At least we know he's here. But did you have to give me the gory details?"

  Andrew shrugged. "This business is all about the details."

  "Good tip," I said, stifling a yawn. The scotch on an empty stomach had gone straight to my
head. I was getting nice and relaxed, but I needed to stay awake, at least until we boarded.

  Andrew gave me a subtle nudge and nodded his head ever so slightly to our right. I discreetly scanned the terminal until my eyes rested on a man with a backpack. In one hand was a giant Coke bottle, and in the other was a large yellow-and-red bag of what looked like Funyuns.

  "No wonder his digestive system is rebelling," I said. I squinted to get a better view of Devine. "Those aren't regular Funyuns, either. They're the Flamin' Hot version."

  Andrew frowned. "I can't believe they're allowed to sell onion rings in an airport. I mean, who's going to want to sit next to that guy on a plane for three hours?"

  "Well, he'll probably be sitting alone for most of the flight. In the toilet." Given my own issues with food, I didn't know where I got off judging Devine's gustatory habits. But when you're in an airport waiting for a flight, any conversation topic that passes the time is fair game.

  The airline didn't seat Andrew and me together, which wasn't surprising. He boarded first, followed by Devine. I was in the last group to board. Everyone else in my group was huddled near the gate, eager to hear the call to board. It was a phenomenon, like bottled water, that I failed to understand. What was the big rush to sit on a cramped aluminum tube? It wasn't like it was going to take off early if we got on the plane sooner.

  After finally being called to board, I found myself walking down the aisle past Andrew, who was comfortably ensconced in first class with a fluffy pillow, a cocktail, and a shit-eating grin on his face. He winked.

  "I thought we were a couple," I hissed. For good measure, I let my purse hit him in the face as I passed. I found my seat in 7B right between a stick-thin teenage boy with earbuds and a plump, red-faced woman of about seventy who was wearing an overly tight Green Bay Packers sweatshirt. The inner Sherlock Holmes in me deduced that Chicago would not be her final destination.

  I buckled up and sat there stewing about Andrew's first-class accommodations. If the entire point of first class was to make the other poor schlubs jealous, it was working. I even considered removing my fake wedding ring in protest against my jerk of a fake husband, but I decided it would be better to relax and try to get some rest. I had forgotten to keep an eye on Devine, but I knew we'd spot him on the way out. What happened then would be anybody's guess.

  I pretended not to be anxious while the plane revved up, and then it was the usual nerve-wracking start-stop-start-stop for about ten minutes until we finally got off the ground. I could have used another scotch by then, but in steerage I'd have to wait about a half hour.

  I dozed off for a blessed half-hour nap. The flight was as smooth as I could have hoped for. As predicted, Devine needed to use the bathroom more than once, taking his backpack with him each time. Whenever he passed my seat, I found occasion to turn my head away so he wouldn't notice me. The woman next to me had won $600 playing penny slots, so she kept my spirits up during much of the flight by regaling me with stories of conquests over various slot machine games I'd never heard of. Our flight arrived in Chicago three minutes ahead of schedule.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  I met up with Andrew near the gate, and we moved casually off to the side where we could watch to see where Devine was headed. He came up out of the gate about two minutes after I did, and we began following him at a healthy distance. We weren't too worried about keeping up since we knew he'd have to go to the baggage claim to get his bags.

  Andrew broke our silence. "Nice flight?"

  I sneered at him. "Go to hell." I was pretty much over my jealousy of his first-class seat, but I decided to keep giving him some grief over it.

  "Tell you what," he said, touching my shoulder. "On the way home, we'll switch."

  I perked up. "You're on."

  After waiting for Devine to use the bathroom yet again, we tailed him through the terminal and down the escalator to the baggage claim. Since we'd been on the same flight, there was nothing unusual about us winding up in the same place. We'd only have to lie low once we left the airport.

  As we passed the second-last gate in the terminal, something on one of the overhead televisions caught my eye. I grabbed Andrew and held his arm.

  "Look up," I said.

  "What the—"

  We were both staring at a woman reporting on the Headline News Network live from the Clark County Jail. The text at the bottom of the screen read: "Murder Suspect Ethan Longoria Injured in Jailhouse Fight."

  In the din of the airport, we had to get up close to the TV in order to hear the report. From what I could make out, Ethan was in stable condition, but the reporter didn't have many details about the fight or what had caused it.

  Andrew was shaking his head. "How can they let this happen?"

  "Turn on your phone," I said. "Maybe someone's called."

  While we waited for Andrew's phone to boot up, I checked my own phone, which was blank, as usual. Sure enough, Andrew had a voice-mail message.

  "It was my dad. He said there's no reason to rush back. They might move Ethan to a medical unit or to the federal holding pen if they think there's some kind of further danger to him, but he said it's probably just a jailhouse fight that got out of control. Nothing too serious."

  "Wow, I just hope he's okay. Maybe he'll get some sympathy from the jury out of this."

  Andrew was looking back at the TV. He let out a low chuckle. "Looks like it's already working."

  The TV report had cut from the live reporter to an interview with a law professor named Laura Clavette, a semi-famous talking head from Stanford who seemed to spend more time on television than in the classroom. She was explaining her view that there were serious problems with the Longoria case and even expressed her hunch that he could be innocent.

  "Well that's something," I said.

  Andrew grunted. "That woman will say anything to get on TV. She's really great about standing up for the rights of celebrities and rich people. That takes real guts." His disgust was palpable.

  "Well, she's on our side right now, so we'll take it."

  The news went to commercial, so we hustled down to the baggage claim and spotted Devine hovering near carousel number six, which had not yet started spitting out luggage. We found a position near his right flank and sat down on one of the few benches in sight.

  "So we haven't discussed the backpack yet," Andrew said.

  "I'm assuming it's cash. You?"

  "No idea. You're the one who saw him rummaging around their house."

  "I didn't see him actually take it though. I was hiding in the next room hoping he wouldn't hear my heart beating."

  "So you think Ethan's mom hired him as a hit man and then refused to pay him?"

  "Could be. Or he just decided he wasn't comfortable hanging around town anymore. I would probably go to Zambia if I'd just killed a guy."

  Andrew frowned. "Zambia? Where the hell do you get Zambia?"

  "It just popped into my mind. Places starting with Z have a kind of exotic ring to them."

  Andrew rolled his eyes up at the ceiling. "That's really profound."

  I shrugged. "So where would you go, Magellan?"

  He chuckled. "I like you, Raven. Where would I go if I'd just killed a guy? Probably Venezuela. They have nice weather down there, and they hate our government, so I wouldn't have to worry about extradition."

  "Any guesses why he's here? Why Chicago?"

  Andrew fished around in the little attaché case he had brought and whipped out a short stack of papers. He rifled through them and handed me two sheets stapled together.

  "I dug that up before I got here," he explained.

  If your goal was to be a two-bit criminal and con man, James Franklin Devine had a rap sheet to admire. He began his illustrious career in 1992 with a bust for receiving stolen property. That was in Cook County, as in Illinois. A couple other property crimes followed, and then there were a string of check-kiting busts around the turn of the century. A lot of fines, probation, bu
t no time. The big one seemed to be a Class D felony for aggravated fraud, which had landed him at Centralia Correctional Center for twenty-eight months in 2002.

  "Seems like a real nice guy," I said. "The kind you want to bring home to momma."

  "Keep reading. It gets better."

  Devine seemed to keep himself out of trouble for a little while after getting out of prison, but by 2006 he had a misdemeanor bust for consumer fraud, whatever that meant. The big hit was another felony for aggravated fraud in 2007. Andrew handed me a news story he'd printed off the Internet.

  "Defendant in Illegal Scheme Cites

  Charles Ponzi and Bernard Madoff as Heroes"

  "Do you believe that?" Andrew asked. "The guy's busted cold on this little rinky-dink Ponzi scheme he's running, and when he's testifying at his sentencing, he says Bernie Frickin' Madoff is his hero."

  "I'd like to see the look on his lawyer's face when he said that."

  Andrew laughed. "That's the other funny thing. He represented himself. Anyway, he got four years for that, three and one half with good behavior. He's out in late 2010, and whaddya know, he decides maybe the desert would be good for his sinuses."

  Devine was still waiting for his bags.

  I handed the papers back to Andrew. "So the guy's a creep, but none of this points to violence, much less murder."

  He shrugged. "With him, it's always about the money, though. I'm guessing the stakes were a lot higher here."

  Just then Devine perked up at the arrival of a pair of black, faux-leather suitcases, so we stood up and eased behind him.

  He hefted both suitcases off the carousel at the same time and then began rolling them behind him as he made his way to the exit. He was heading for the taxi stand.

  Andrew and I followed at a healthy distance, but at this point we couldn't let him get too far out of sight. Devine hadn't seemed to have noticed us at all so far, so we cut in front of a gangly man in his seventies and snuck in line right behind Devine. The line was four deep, but it moved quickly. Devine got into a minivan cab, and we found ourselves in a beige-and-red model driven by a guy who was a dead ringer for Osama bin Laden.