Diva Las Vegas (Book 1 in Raven McShane Series) (16 page)

 “Good vintage,” I said.  I was talking to an empty room.  Rachel had disappeared into the bathroom, probably to inspect the tub.  She emerged and came over to the windows to take in the view of the Strip.

“Damn,” she said.  “Nice view.”

“So how are the goons?  They keeping their hands off you so far?”

“For the moment.  I threatened to call in the feds and cut a deal, and that seems to have cooled them off.  But I got a voicemail today saying I have to come up with the money by next week.”

“You could always move in here with me,” I offered.

While I was uncorking the bottle she began pawing through my case folder on the table.  At least she’d know I had actually been working on the case, I figured.  I hunted around the room and found the champagne glasses in the mini-bar cupboard.  The champagne smelled vaguely like fresh-baked McDonald’s biscuits, which was a fantastic thing.

“Ooh, he’s cute,” she said to no one in particular.  She was holding one of the newspaper stories I’d printed off the internet.

“Hmm?”

“Nothing.  I forgot about this guy.”

“Who?”

She sighed.  “This guy on the jury was a real honey,” she said.  I sidled up behind her and handed her a glass of champagne.  She took the glass and handed me the printout she was looking at.  Since the trial had been one of the biggest local stories of the decade, the newspaper had written a profile of each of the jurors.  I’d glanced at the story a few weeks ago but never got around to reading it.  I flipped through the pages.  There was a short bio of each of the jurors next to a medium-sized head shot.

Page four showed a guy who definitely qualified as a honey, even on my grainy black and white printout.  “Is that the cute guy?” I asked.

She nodded enthusiastically and took the story back from me.  “Yummy,” she said.

“The guy or the champagne?” I asked.

“Both,” she said.  She took a healthy slurp from her glass.

“Let me see that again.”

I looked carefully at the photo.  It hadn’t jumped out at me right away, but I was sure I recognized the young guy shown in the photo from somewhere.  And then it hit me: he had been swimming in Cody’s pool on Thursday night.

“Fuck,”  I whispered, clutching the page.

“What’s wrong?”

“This guy.  I know him,” I said.  “He knows Cody.  He was one of the guys swimming in his pool on Thursday night.”

She frowned.  “Cody doesn’t have a pool.”

“Long story,” I said.  “I assume you didn’t know Cody is . . . well, he likes guys.”

“You think he’s gay?” she asked, incredulous.

“I don’t care what he is, but this guy in the photo is friends with Cody Masterson.  Good friends.  As in, they swim together in the nude.  And according to this story, he was sitting on the jury that set Cody free!  I thought I recognized him when I saw him in the pool, but I figured he was a model from a jeans ad or something.”

I sat down on the bed.  My mind was spinning.  I supposed it was possible that Cody and this juror had become friends after the trial, but that seemed far-fetched.  It seemed a lot more likely that Cody had bribed some court employee to get his friend on the jury.  Or the guy had been a total stranger whom Cody had bribed after he wound up on the jury.  I turned away from the table and stared vacantly out the huge window at the Strip thirty-one floors below me.  It was still twilight, but the sun had receded behind the Bellagio and the lights were just beginning to take on their familiar nighttime glow.

“Wow,” Rachel said softly, and then she repeated it.  “Wow.”  She came over and stood close to me.  “What does that mean?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I said, still staring out the window, “but it’s not good.”  I stood staring out the window for another minute.  “It probably means Cody bribed someone to get one of his buddies on the jury.”

“Here,” Rachel said.  She filled my glass to the brim and it fizzed over.  I figured each little drop was probably worth about a buck, so I slurped at it quickly before too much spilled on the floor.

I got out my laptop and sat down on the bed.  I pulled up the photos I had taken of the guys in the pool and scrolled through them.  I showed Rachel the photo of the juror.

“That’s him,” Rachel said.  There was no mistaking it.  He was a few years older now, of course, but the shirtless guy hitting a beach ball with his right hand was definitely the same man as the juror in the newspaper profile.  “Wow,” she muttered again.

I continued the slide show on my laptop.  The finale was a few shots of Cody canoodling with his Gillette model friend.  Rachel seemed speechless.

She was studying the pictures intently.  “I just can’t believe it.  Whose pool is this?”

“I think it’s his.  He’s parking his car in the garage, anyway.  I figure it’s a secret hideaway for this whole other life he has.”

“Amazing.  And Amy has no idea?”

“As far as I know.  I haven’t talked to her, though.”

Rachel topped both of us off again and frowned at the empty bottle.  “We’re going to need a bigger bottle.”

I nodded somberly.  I didn’t want to think any more about this case.  “Room service,” I said.

I found the menu and ordered a couple bottles of a more affordable champagne.

Rachel piped in.  “Get some cake, too.”

“You drove here, right?”

She nodded.

“You’re not driving home.  Do you have any aspirin?” I asked.

“I have ibuprofen,” she said.  “You got a headache?”

“Not yet, but you might want to leave the bottle on the night stand.  You’re going to need it in the morning.”

I woke up surprisingly clear-headed.  Rachel lay next to me, bundled in the soft comforter.  Only a thin slit of light peeked in between the thick hotel curtains—she must have remembered to close them.  Rachel (and three bottles of champagne) had helped me forget about the Masterson case the night before, but things were coming rushing back to me whether I wanted them to or not.  I turned the problem over in my head as I lay staring at the ceiling.  Nothing made much sense.  One possibility was that one of Cody’s pre-existing friends could somehow have been picked at random for jury duty.  I dismissed that out of hand.  No one was
that
lucky.  Another explanation was that the juror and Cody had somehow innocently become friends after the trial.  That seemed more likely, but still a long shot.

Unfortunately, foul play made a lot more sense.  Cody must have tampered with the jury somehow.  Maybe he had found a way of bribing the court clerk and arranging for one of his friends to be selected for jury duty.  Or maybe the juror had been selected legitimately and Cody found a way to get to him.  I didn’t really care how he’d done it.  Either way, he looked ten times more guilty than he did yesterday, and I felt a hundred times more stupid for believing he could actually be innocent.   

Rachel stirred, and after a quick cup of hotel coffee she washed up and left.  I kept looking at the printout of the newspaper profile of Cody’s juror friend.  According to the article, his name was Paul Gonsalves.  He still looked hot, I mused, even though he was probably a crook.  Then again, I’d wanted to jump Cody’s bones despite the fact that he was possibly a murderer and almost certainly a jury-tamperer.  I sure could pick ‘
em
.

I decided I wanted to talk to Paul Gonsalves before confronting Cody or anyone else about it.  He was not listed in the phone book.  Like most people in this town, he probably relied exclusively on his cell phone, which would be unlisted.  My high-roller suite came with free wireless internet access, and I did some Google searches on Paul Gonsalves.  They all produced lots of interesting but useless information about a tenor saxophone player of the same name who had played with Duke Ellington’s band.

I wasn’t a big internet junkie, but I was at least aware that dozens of social networking sites existed online, and it seemed like all of the younger dancers at Cougar’s had their own
Facebook
fan pages.  They were constantly updating them to let the world know what TV shows they liked, what kind of cereal they had for breakfast, and what their latest hair color was.  I couldn’t believe anybody cared about such things, but whenever I logged on dozens of people had commented on the most mundane aspects of my friends’ lives, and frequently they offered their own insignificant observations as a counterpoint.  Sure enough, after poking around for a few minutes I found a Paul Gonsalves from Las Vegas on
Facebook
.  I had found my guy.  Paul’s posts and his photos revealed him to be a vain young man, although any man with his face and
pecs
could be forgiven for vanity.  His info page described his interest in modeling and contained page after page of amateur photos of him in various poses.  Some of the poses were suggestive, and all of them were shirtless.  His listed his age as 23, and he described himself as “gay / bisexual” and “looking.”  His interests included reading, hanging out with friends, shopping and dancing.  Unfortunately, his page didn’t say anything about accepting bribes, conspiracy or obstruction of justice.  Beyond that, I learned that he was an atrocious speller and worked at Banana Republic.  It was time to go shopping.

In the shower I pondered how to approach things with young Mr. Gonsalves.  He seemed the kind of person who might require a soft touch, but I was getting distinctly sick of soft touches.  After I showered and dressed, I called Carlos and woke him up.  He didn’t seem to mind, probably because I owed him about six hundred dollars for his work following Richard Finley around town last week.  Even so, I decided to wait until he got in the car to tell him we were going on a mission to the Banana Republic.

I’d never been to Carlos’ house, so he had to give me directions.  I arrived around 10:45 and was surprised at how run-down Carlos’ apartment building looked.  It didn’t make sense.  I knew he made a decent enough living at Cougar’s, and lately I had been throwing him a thousand or more a month with odd surveillance jobs.  To each his own, I guess.  I rang the bell.  Carlos emerged slowly, squinting into the bright sunlight.

“Man, this is cruel,” he said, grimacing.  He pulled down the brim on his black White Sox cap to shield his eyes from the sun.  He wore a tight white t-shirt and baggy black pants.  Two or three gold chains dangled from his neck.  I’d told him to look intimidating, and he fit the bill nicely.  He looked like a Hollywood version of a  gangster.

“You whine a lot for someone with guns like that,” I said, eyeing his 18-inch biceps.  “Let’s go.”

“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, his eyes 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 company’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 free-standing 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,” he said.

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 at this club called Razor, and was probably drinking a little.  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.