Stephanie Caffrey - Raven McShane 01 - Diva Las Vegas

by Stephanie Caffrey

  I returned to my condo feeling refreshed, and after watching a full hour of The View, I figured I had procrastinated enough. It was time to do more homework: I needed to look at the court’s file on the Masterson case. Although the court system made some filings available online, I knew their criminal cases were still only accessible in person at the clerk’s dungeon of massive file cabinets. The kind of work I hated. Handling paper would probably give me paper cuts, I theorized, and my nighttime customers would not like it if I showed up covered in Band-Aids.

  I wanted a babysitter, so I picked up the phone. “Mike, I need to go downtown to the courthouse. Can you show me around?” Mike Madsen was a private investigator who had the misfortune of being assigned as my supervising detective during my first year with a license. It meant he was supposed to supervise my work ten hours a month and certify to the licensing board that I wasn’t a complete nut job. An observant Mormon, Mike seemed like a fish out of water in a town that deemed vice a virtue. I harbored a natural suspicion of people who didn’t drink coffee or alcohol, but Mike had the tall, muscled body of an Iowa farmhand, and his eyes were big and sapphire blue. And I had to respect the fact that he was a different breed from the skuzzy male clientele I dealt with most of the week.

  He didn’t sound enthusiastic about accompanying me downtown. “Haven’t you been down there a lot already?”

  “No,” I lied. “I need someone to show me the ropes.” I wasn’t above using my helpless woman voice.

  “All right. But I have to testify at eleven-thirty.”

  “Fine. You at your office? I’ll swing by and pick you up.”

  That was a relief. The prospect of facing piles of papers by myself gave me unpleasant flashbacks to college, not to mention the aforementioned danger of paper cuts. Mike would protect me.

  I dialed downstairs, and they said my car would be waiting for me out front in five minutes. I sometimes felt guilty about spoiling myself with things like valet service, but I’d worked hard for a decade at a job most people found demeaning, and I figured I was due a little pampering. When I got down to the lobby, Tommy the valet (I didn’t know his last name.) was leaning on my car with a shy smile on his face. Vegas was full of beautiful people in the most unlikely places, and Tommy was one of them. He was probably twenty-two, but he looked sixteen. He didn’t just have boyish good looks—he had jailbait good looks, especially in that tight gray valet uniform.

  Tommy opened the door on my silver Audi TT. He blushed and smiled widely at me like a trained chimp, and then he shut the door without so much as a word. Oh well. At least I’d made him blush. I waved and headed out.

  Mike’s office was about ten blocks from the county courthouse. Downtown Las Vegas was experiencing something of a renaissance, but it was still a museum of 1960’s architecture and buildings built primarily for function rather than form. That is the polite way of saying that Mike’s office was dumpy. He met me at the street.

  “This is your car?” He sounded a little offended.

  I hadn’t found occasion to tell Mike about my other job, and I didn’t plan to. I figured it would be uncomfortable for the guy supervising me to learn that I probably earned five times what he did in a year, not to mention how I earned the money. He already seemed a little afraid of me, and I didn’t want him offended by me as well.

  “Just a little splurge,” I said. “I got it to celebrate getting my PI’s license.”

  “Probationary license,” he corrected as he climbed in. Mike’s idea of dressing for court meant a short-sleeved white shirt and a red tie, like a Bible salesman. The shirt looked cheap, but it showed off Mike’s tanned, muscled arms. He was about the sexiest dork I’d ever met.

  The Regional Justice Center is an imposing, all-business building completed earlier this century at a time when the county actually had money. It’s about twenty stories tall, brick and glass, and is made up of a number of rectangular boxes that make it look like a big city hospital. Mike led the way to the clerk’s office on the third floor. When we arrived the lobby was empty, and I approached a woman behind the glassed-in counter and requested the State v. Masterson file. The clerk, a middle-aged woman whose bold glasses made her look fashionable but not any younger, barely raised an eyebrow. She asked if I knew the case number but then disappeared before I could answer. Apparently she knew exactly where the file was.

  The file was not as mountainous as I feared. Mike pointed to a small table in the office lobby, and we brought over the two file folders the clerk had given me. I knew they must have backup copies somewhere, but the clerk watched us surreptitiously to make sure we didn’t run off with the file.

  “So what kind of case are you working on?” Mike asked.

  I pointed to the name on the file folder.

  “State versus Masterson,” he mouthed. Mike thought about it for a second and then pulled open the file. He dug out the criminal complaint and began reading. “What exactly are you planning to do with this file?”

  “I’m friends with Rachel Hannity, George Hannity’s widow. She’s asked me to take another look.”

  He folded his arms and bobbed his head seriously. “Uh huh. Take another look at what?”

  “She’s thinking about a civil case,” I said nonchalantly. “Her lawyer thinks they can get a judgment if I can get a little more evidence.”

  “Wow.” He sounded genuinely impressed. “That’s kind of a big deal.”

  No shit it’s a big deal, I thought.

  We pawed through the binders in silence, like two teenagers on a study date. I wasn’t looking for anything specific in the court’s file, but my conversation with Les Trondheim had convinced me that I didn’t know half of what I needed to know about the case. My half of the file contained pretty standard stuff, much of it in the form of pre-trial motions. In college I had spent most of a semester shadowing a criminal defense lawyer, and that was enough for me to forget law school forever. Despite what you see on TV, most legal work involves pushing papers around. The Masterson case didn’t seem any different. There had been some motions about juror sequestration and suppressing evidence, but nothing too interesting.

  The transcripts of the trial were more helpful. One officer described the gruesome crime scene, a stoplight intersection halfway between the city and George and Rachel’s home in the suburbs. I hoped Rachel wasn’t forced to listen to that line of gory testimony.

  Mike cleared his throat. “The DA called your friend Rachel to the stand about halfway through the trial, and Cody’s lawyer made about a million objections along the way.”

  “Who was his lawyer?”

  “Charlie Frank. He’s—”

  “I know who he is. He was the mob’s lawyer, wasn’t he?”

  “One of the best,” Mike said. He had me read a section of the transcript that looked pretty damning for Masterson. Rachel was on the stand testifying that her husband, like most people, would not pause at an intersection and roll down the window for a complete stranger in the middle of the night. The assailant had to be someone he knew, or at least recognized.

  “Well,” I said, “that kind of blows up the defense’s whole car-jacking theory. George wasn’t the sort of guy who would stop to chat with a stranger in the middle of the night.”

  “Nobody is.”

  Mike sat back in his chair and put his hands behind his head. “Add to that the gun found at his house, and the fact that the killer had to be someone, like Cody, who Hannity knew. And there wasn’t really another plausible theory to sell to the jury, either.”

  “Maybe I can quit right now,” I said, only half-joking.

  “I wouldn’t. You only get one chance at a civil trial, and you don’t want to go in unless you’ve got something rock solid.”

  Maybe Mike wasn’t as dumb as he seemed.

  I had read enough of the transcript, and I knew I would have voted to convict Cody Masterson. It was 11:15, and Mike excused himself to leave for court. I thanked him and flashed a big smile. He d
idn’t blush.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I grabbed a drive-thru salad and scarfed it down during the ninety-five red lights I hit on my way home. As I sat in traffic, I was thinking there were only two conceivable forms of hard evidence I could dig up to contradict Cody’s story. If a witness had seen the murder and could be convinced to come forward, that could wrap the case up nicely. I wasn’t holding out hope for a witness, though. The murder was committed at a deserted intersection in the suburbs after midnight, and the cops had spent weeks canvassing for witnesses. No one had come forward in the three years since.

  Instead, it seemed the best available route would be to find evidence that would undermine Cody’s alibi. For that, I needed to talk to people who actually knew Cody and his wife—people at the casino they owned. I left a message on Rachel’s cell phone. Although she was on the outs with the people running the casino now, she might have some ideas on which people inside the casino could be trusted. I didn’t want to barge in there like a bull in a china shop asking pointed questions about the owners and their pals.

  When I got home, I poured myself a Diet Coke and put on an old Metropolitan Opera LP of La Bohѐme. Last year I inherited a few boxes of classical and opera albums from my maternal grandmother, and I was surprised to find that a lot of companies still sold turntables. Some people even claimed that vinyl produced a richer sound, but my ear wasn’t expert enough to notice. Either way, the LPs reminded me of my grandma, who was about the only member of my family who hadn’t recoiled when I told her I’d decided to work in Las Vegas full time. She might have felt differently if she’d known what I did for a living, but I think it was best for all concerned to pretend that I was a professional show model and not a stripper.

  With a young Pavarotti for company, I forced myself to buckle down and do some more homework. As a privately owned casino, the Outpost didn’t have to file public securities reports or hold meetings with stockholders. But, being a casino, it did have to make the filings required by Nevada’s Gaming Control Board. According to the Control Board’s online records, Cody Masterson was the Outpost’s president and chief executive officer. Amy Masterson, his wife, was listed as the chairman of the board, and the directors of the company comprised, not surprisingly, the two Mastersons, plus the general counsel and corporate secretary, a woman named Laura Clavette. The general manager and chief operating officer was a man named Philip d’Angelo. Apparently it took a lot of fancy titles to run a glorified gambling hall. I figured that all of these people had a vested interest in not telling me anything—they were all, in some way, dependent on Cody’s staying out of trouble.

  Rachel called me back around four o’clock.

  “You have to understand, Raven, that I haven’t been in contact with those people since George died. He was my only connection.”

  “I was thinking, though, that I’d have to get in there somehow and talk to people close to Cody. Don’t you think the prospect of financial gain would get somebody to talk?” I asked.

  “You mean like a reward?”

  “Kind of. After all, a hundred thousand here or there will be pocket change if we win a lawsuit.”

  “I guess that’s okay.” Rachel sounded skeptical.

  “But we have to be a little bit tricky about it. If we just want the information, that’s one thing. But if we want it to hold up in court, you don’t want the defense to be able to say the witness was bribed,” I said. “It kind of hurts their credibility if the defense counsel can get them to admit they have a financial stake in saying that Cody is guilty.”

  “Good point,” she replied. I thought she sounded a tiny bit impressed. “The problem is that Cody doesn’t usually associate with the staff very much. He sees himself as above most of them, even though just a few years ago he was just a stage dancer like me.”

  “He was?”

  “Oh yeah.” She laughed, apparently unfazed by my ignorance. “I forget the name of the show, but it was one of those all-male revues with a cheesy name, and it played a few years at the Tropicana.” She warmed to the topic, her voice filled with amusement.

  “Cody came in from Tahoe with his long blond hair and stole the show pretty quickly. They had a routine where he would go around the audience, lasso a woman, and bring her up on stage and do all sorts of suggestive things involving the woman and the rope. It drove the women wild—myself included. They screamed like they do for Justin Bieber. Anyway, Amy Hannity saw the show, asked to meet him, and a few months later she became Amy Masterson.”

  “Wow. So both Hannity kids married people who took their clothes off for a living. George married you, and Amy married Cody.”

  “Yeah, their parents were pissed.”

  “Anyway, I was looking at the forms they filed with the Gambling Board, and it seems a guy named Philip d’Angelo is the highest-ranking officer with no ties to the family. Is that right?”

  Rachel sighed. “Unfortunately. He wouldn’t have been my choice to run the place, which is what he basically does.”

  “Not your kind of guy?” I prodded.

  “Phil’s not anyone’s kind of guy,” she chuckled. “Big chip on his shoulder. He rose up through the ranks. Not exactly from the mail room, but almost. He was a dealer, pit boss, floor manager, and worked security before he took over day-to-day operations. Great manager, though, and efficient. He’s a driven guy, ambitious as hell. And he’s one of the few people Cody and Amy seem to trust. Anyway, I wouldn’t hesitate to make contact with him, but be discreet about it.”

  “Of course,” I replied. Although as a general rule I found it hard to be discreet with anyone.

  “Frankly, I don’t know him well enough to know if he’s blindly loyal to the Mastersons or whether he might cooperate. It’s worth a shot, though.”

  “Assuming he knows anything,” I added. “Anyone else I might try?”

  “Not that I can think of. Like I said, I’m kind of out of the loop at this point. Good luck.”

  I hung up with Rachel and couldn’t find any reason to put off talking to Phil d’Angelo, the man in charge at the Outpost. I called down to the valet to get my car and found my way north up the Strip. Normally I might have walked the mile and a half, but I’d just showered and the afternoon heat was intense. It was about 4:30 and the rush hour traffic was in its full glory, made worse by the fact that the faux volcano in front of the Mirage was hissing violently and shooting flames twenty feet into the air. At that hour, all it took was one rental car full of gawking tourists to bring traffic to a virtual standstill.

  I reached the Outpost and reluctantly let a skuzzy-looking valet park my Audi. The casino was appropriately named. It had actually been something of an outpost in earlier days, an isolated oasis between the Strip hotels to the south and the downtown area to the north. Now it stood out as an eyesore, as out of place as a pawnshop on Madison Avenue. The glistening, billion-dollar resorts that surrounded the hotel on both sides had Bentleys and Jaguars clogging their valet lanes, while the Outpost had a single valet line and nothing fancier than a Buick parked out front. I felt sorry for my little Audi.

  As I entered through the main doors, I was greeted immediately with the telltale clangs of nickels hitting tin and a chorus of bells and computerized music riffs emanating from the slot machines. Most of the more modern casinos had some sort of theme or motif to them, but the Outpost didn’t have a theme unless you counted second-hand smoke.

  I made my way to the small hotel lobby just off the casino floor. The three check-in lines were jammed, so I scanned the lobby for anyone who could save me some time. I zeroed in on a woman, about twenty-five, who stood shuffling papers and clicking away on her computer behind the check-in desk. She was surprisingly attractive. Good-looking women were a dime a dozen in Las Vegas, but they didn’t usually pursue their calling behind the desks at rundown hotels. Her window was marked CLOSED, and she didn’t look like she was in the mood to be bothered.

  She seemed to have a sixth sense for anyone
who might dare interrupt her work. “I’m sorry, I’m not open,” she said, not taking her eyes from her small computer screen. Her red nametag said her name was Linda.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m here to see Mr. d’Angelo. I’m an old friend.”

  She finally looked up from her screen and paused. “Um, I don’t think he’s in right now. I can check for you if you give me two minutes, okay?” She shot me a very winning smile, probably thinking I was the head honcho’s daily call girl.

  “Of course.” After three or four minutes, she left her post and disappeared into a back room. I used the opportunity to catch a nicotine buzz off of the lingering smoke cloud. When Linda returned, she told me with overstated sadness that Mr. d’Angelo was not presently in, but if I left my name she would make sure he knew I stopped in.

  “No thanks,” I said. “I’ll just try to catch him another time.” I knew my name would mean nothing to d’Angelo by itself, and I didn’t feel like leaving my business card and announcing to the whole casino that a private investigator had stopped by.

  As usual, my decision to have a healthy salad for lunch was backfiring. I had become ravenous for real food involving meat and cheese, so I wandered out of the lobby and decided to brave the casino café for a little snack. The Outpost’s restaurant was as utilitarian as they come. The goal, evidently, was to satisfy the appetites of gamblers as quickly as possible so they would return to their tables or slot machines without any needless delay. I sat at the counter by myself and ordered a beer and a cheeseburger. The beer arrived in about twenty seconds and the burger followed not too long after. Two bites in, I heard the swivel chair next to me squeak as someone sat down.

  “Always nice to see an old friend,” the stranger remarked. Since I’d been attacking my cheeseburger with the single-mindedness of a frenzied shark, I was forced to finish chewing and gulp a slug of beer before turning to address the stranger on my right. He was lean and tanned, with a full head of black hair, and a face lined by a combination of sun exposure and—I took a wild guess—second-hand smoke. His dark eyes peered into me, and I thought I detected a faint smile, as though he enjoyed catching me off-guard and in the middle of a bite.