Diva Las Vegas (Book 1 in Raven McShane Series)

DIVA
LAS VEGAS

* * *

Caroline Dries

Steve Dries

I was naked and sweaty and not in the mood to walk in on someone rummaging through my locker.

“Excuse me, can I help you?”  I used my bitchiest voice.

The woman flinched and straightened up to face me.  “Just checking to see if you still keep some hooch around here.”  She managed a weak smile.

“Rachel!”  I was almost speechless.  “It’s been years!”

She shrugged.  “About that hooch . . .”

“Sorry, they made us quit drinking in here.  We’ll have to go somewhere if you want a drink.” 

She nodded somberly.  “Let’s go, then.  My treat.”

I reluctantly threw on some clothes and guided Rachel out the club’s back exit.  It was always nice to see an old friend, but I was in the middle of a shift, and it wasn’t just any shift.  With the orthodontist convention in town, I was walking away from a big sweaty wad of twenties.  But a woman like Rachel Hannity wouldn’t pop in out of the blue if it wasn’t important.

  “Let’s duck in over there,” I said, pointing at Bally’s.  We weaved our way through the casino and up to the esplanade connecting Bally’s with the Paris casino.  We stopped in at Napoleon’s, a stodgy piano lounge that was pretty empty at this time of night.  Rachel headed up to the bar to order us some drinks while I found us a secluded table.

When I’d started dancing a decade earlier, Rachel had been the poster girl for Cougar’s gentlemen’s club, where I still worked.  As the top draw, Rachel became a millionaire before she was twenty-five, but then she upped the ante by landing one of the richest bachelors in town after making a private appearance at his birthday party.  I hadn’t seen her since her husband’s funeral.   

Rachel returned with a martini for herself and a glass of white wine for me.  I would have preferred something stronger, but I let it slide. 

“So what’s going on?” I asked, trying not to seem too impatient.

She sighed.  “For starters, I’m broke.”

“You don’t
look
broke,” I said.  She was sporting at least five carats on her necklace alone, and her princess-cut engagement ring looked like it was on loan from Harry Winston.  Or the Smithsonian.  And her golden hair and perfect magenta nails had obviously received the recent attention of professionals.  Only her tired eyes told a different story.

Rachel took a long gulp of her drink and cleared her throat.  “It’s embarrassing.  After George was killed, I kind of developed a little gambling habit.  He left me a couple million, and I figured, what was the harm?  It kept me busy.  I was bored all the time, and they treated me nice at the casino.  But I had a string of bad luck, and before I knew it I wasn’t gambling with my own cash.  I  was signing papers to borrow money, and then … then after awhile there weren’t any more papers to sign.  It was firm handshakes in back rooms, and promises made in whispers.  I guess I got in pretty deep.”

“How deep?”

“About eight.  Eight million.”

“Ouch,” I muttered.

“And now they took my car.  They’re going to get my jewelry, my house, everything.  I know that.  I don’t really care about that stuff, honestly.  But that won’t cover the debt.  The only thing I have left to give is … myself.”

I remained quiet.  Rachel was in her late-thirties but looked about twenty-five, and if she took care of herself she was still a stunner who sported the best curves money could buy.  I had no trouble believing that there were dozens of unscrupulous moneylenders who would allow her—or
force
her—to “work” off her debt.  That’s probably why they lent her so much money in the first place.

“Anyway,” she continued, “I heard you finally started that investigation business you were always talking about, so I thought—”

I wanted to roll my eyes, but I stopped myself.  My “investigation business” consisted of my probationary private detective’s license and a half-dozen clients who’d stumbled across my half-assed internet website.  It wasn’t even a hobby, much less a business. 

“You thought—” I prodded.

She looked down at her manicured fingers.  “I want to sue Cody Masterson.”

I tried to keep a poker face, but I’m pretty sure I failed.  Three years earlier, Cody Masterson had been tried and acquitted for the murder of Rachel’s husband George.

“For the murder?”  I asked.

She nodded.  She kept her eyes on her nails, which glistened under the soft candlelight. 

I thought about it for a minute before responding.  I had majored in criminal justice at UNLV, and that probably made me the most knowledgeable person Rachel could trust.  But murders and lawsuits were a little out of my league.  Okay, they were
way
out of my league.

“You’d win millions if you could prove wrongful death,” I said gamely, “but he beat the charge in his criminal case.” 

Rachel nodded.  “My lawyer said we need something more to take to a jury, or this isn’t going to work.  That’s where you come in.”  She finally looked up.

“Makes sense,” I said.  “But why haven’t you already sued him?  It’s been three years.” 

“I didn’t need to.  I didn’t want to re-live all that, and I didn’t get into debt until recently.  I’ve tried to move on, but I don’t see another way.  I’m not going to become a sex slave.”

I asked the obvious question.  “Why me?” 

She hesitated.  “Well, my lawyer recommended a few other people, but it seems nobody wants to touch this.”

Ouch
, I thought.

“Plus, I trust you,” she said. 

I ignored her attempt to sugarcoat it.  It was clear I was the fourth-string choice.  “What’s the time frame?”

“I need the money yesterday.  They left me a note at my house, and the guys who came to take my car were sizing me up pretty good, like they were all going to take turns with me.  It gave me the chills.”

Rachel held my gaze.  She was putting on a brave face, but it was obvious she was at the end of her rope. 

I wanted to make sure she had thought this through.  “Can I ask an obvious question?  Why not just declare bankruptcy?  Or call the cops?”

She smiled half-heartedly.  “These people are good.  When I started losing bigger and bigger, they helped make the pain go away.  A little coke, a little more heroin.  It helped, actually.  But then they got me doing it on tape.  And not just using.  I kind of helped on the distribution end, you know, selling to some of my high society friends.  Now they say I’m looking at federal time.  These people are going to be paid, one way or another.”

I grimaced.  “The reason extortion is illegal is because it actually works.”

She downed a healthy gulp from her glass.  “Look, I know how this all sounds.  I don’t blame you if you’re not interested.  But at least talk to this guy first.”  She fished in her Chanel purse and handed me the business card of someone named Jeffrey Katz, Esq., a partner at Gilread Schwartz & Tannenbaum.

I did a double-take.  “Jeff Katz?” I asked.  “Forty-fiveish, looks kind of like a fat Billy Crystal?”

Her eyebrows rose.  “Friend of yours?”

“Let’s just say he’s a friend of the family,” I said, grinning. 

Rachel chuckled knowingly.  Her lawyer was a guy who loved naked ladies and gave good tips. 

“Well, he’s my lawyer, although I haven’t paid him yet.”  She smiled sheepishly.  “So, will you help a girl out?”  

“Of course,” I said instinctively, powerless to heed the alarm bells going off in my head.  “I’ll talk to your lawyer first thing tomorrow.”  I chugged my wine.  If I’d been wearing a watch, I would have glanced at it. 

“I hope you don’t mind,” I said, “but there’s a convention in town and I really need the money.”

Rachel perked up at this reminder of her past life and then shot me a quizzical look.  “Let’s see.  July is normally slow—just Teamsters and real estate brokers, right?”

I smiled.  “Actually, the orthodontists changed their party to July.”

She squealed.  “Why didn’t you say so?  Get out of here and get back on that stage!”

“I’ll call you.”  I kissed Rachel on the head as I got up to leave.  If there was something odd about ditching an old friend so I could dance naked in front of a room full of glorified dentists, it escaped me.

I woke up late the next day in a strange mood.  I made coffee and treated myself to a midday breakfast of bacon and peanut butter M&M’s on my balcony overlooking the Strip.  The orthodontists had been very kind to me, as expected, but in the light of day Rachel’s troubles had me more than a little worried.  Up until now the few jobs I’d taken had involved insurance cheats and men married to suspicious wives.  I was pretty wet behind the ears, and even Rachel had admitted I wasn’t exactly her first choice in private detectives.  And Cody Masterson, the guy she wanted to sue, was part of a big time casino family.  It made sense that no other detectives wanted to touch this case: detectives work
for
casinos, not against them.  So why was I even thinking about it?  Because Rachel asked me to, I thought.

The first step was to talk to Jeff Katz, the lawyer.  It was not a reunion I was looking forward to.  I’d danced for him once or twice a week for three years before he decided to ask me out about a year ago.  I hadn’t been on a decent date in ages, so I foolishly said yes, in violation of club policy and common sense.  After dessert I kissed him on the cheek and whispered in his ear that I wasn’t going to sleep with him.  He reacted like a wounded puppy, and since then I’ve felt awkward around him.  I didn’t feel bad about not sleeping with him, but I did feel a pang of guilt about ordering dessert.  After that “date,” our relationship gradually returned to its refreshingly simple ways: I would take his forty dollars, lead him into a back room, and then I’d take my clothes off and squirm around on his lap for a few minutes.  I much preferred it that way, and I think he did too. 

I put off calling the number on Jeff’s business card for most of the day.  By four o’clock, I had rationalized not calling him at all.  It was Monday, and Jeff usually came into the club on Mondays.  I’d probably see him at work.  On my turf. 

It was still about 90 degrees at eight that evening, so I gave myself some extra time to walk the six blocks from my apartment to Cougar’s, which was a block off the Strip near the Bally’s casino.  I got myself together and headed out on stage to dance with Amanda, one of the few redheaded dancers who worked at Cougar’s.  It was early and still half-empty, so I had no trouble spotting Jeff sitting next to one of the catwalks off the main stage.

Like most men, Jeff wasn’t particularly attractive, but he wasn’t exactly ugly, either.  He had the comfortably puffy body of a celebrity chef and facial hair that wasn’t officially a beard but wasn’t just unshaven stubble either.  His black hair was thinning a little on top, and he tended to overdress for the occasion. 

After our set I walked out to the floor to find Jeff.  I was wearing a black thong and a tiny pink bikini top with Velcro fasteners, and Jeff smiled broadly at me when he spotted me walking in his direction.

“Hey, did you see who just left?” he asked.

I gave him my best smile.  “No I didn’t, honey.”

“JaMarcus Collingsworth.  He was an all pro last year for the Browns.”

“Sorry I missed him,” I said, truthfully.  NFL guys tended to throw money around.

“He’s a pass rusher.  Very small for the defensive line, but he had like twelve sacks last year.  He was on my fantasy team.”  He beamed proudly at his display of useless information.

“Hmm,” I muttered.  I realized I had actually danced for JaMarcus the night before, but I hadn’t believed his story that he was a defensive lineman in the NFL.  I just kept taking his twenties. 

“JaMarcus
is
very small,” I said.  “Surprisingly so.” 

Jeff raised an eyebrow at my double entendre. 

“In my job you learn intimate things about men that you don’t necessarily want to know.”  No wonder JaMarcus had been trying to distract me with all those twenties last night.  I could tell through his pants that the poor man was hung like a toy poodle. 

“You danced for him?”

I nodded.  “He was in here last night, too.”

“At least he’s got good taste in women,” Jeff said approvingly.

I smiled coquettishly and began twirling my black hair with my index finger.  That was my polite attempt to stifle all this small talk and get things rolling.  I grasped Jeff’s arms, hauled him up from his chair with both hands, and led him into the back room.

We had the room almost to ourselves.  The back room was more dimly lit than the stage area and had a number of nooks and corners furnished with leather couches and overstuffed chairs.  My friend Carlos, one of the bouncers, was leaning against the wall doing his best to look menacing.  He nodded stiffly at me and his eyes flickered over my body momentarily before resuming their glazed-over stare.  It was nice to have security back there, but sometimes Carlos could be a little rough with customers he thought were getting too friendly with me.  Not exactly a great climate for tips.

I led Jeff to his usual chair in the far corner, where it was quiet enough to talk.  The couches and bigger chairs were more comfortable for lounging, but Jeff knew better.  Like a lot of regulars, he preferred a chair narrow enough to allow me to swing my legs around his middle to straddle him completely.  I would get to that in a minute.  I began the tease by pushing Jeff gently into the chair.  I stood facing him and leaned over to rub his neck and shoulders while he inevitably gaped at my chest.  As usual, he was smiling like a little boy on Christmas morning.  While I rubbed his shoulders, I leaned slowly into his face so that my breasts pressed up against his cheeks.  As I rubbed deeper I could feel his hot breath on my chest.  I figured it was the perfect time to get some straight answers. 

“Before we get too hot and heavy,” I said softly, “can I ask you a couple of questions?” 

He reluctantly came up for air.   “Uh, of course.”  He would have said anything at that point.  I eased his forehead back into my chest. 

I continued rubbing his neck while I whispered in his ear, “How do you know Rachel Hannity?” 

His head resurfaced again, his hair now slightly mussed.  “What?  I know her, yes.  I do some estate work for her.  Why?”  He was babbling. 

“She wants me to do a job for her.  Something involving Cody Masterson.”

Jeff jerked his head back and stared at me, thoroughly confused.  “What are you talking about?” 

“I have a little side business.  I have private investigator’s license, and Rachel and I are friends.”  I hadn’t told him about any of this during our so-called date.

Jeff let out a harrumph of befuddlement, but he seemed to be taking the news in stride.  “Well, I’m sure you’re great,” he said.  “But why do you need a side business?  I’ve probably
given
you enough to retire on already.”

I patted his head appreciatively.  He was exaggerating, but it was true that I’d probably taken ten grand off him in tips in the last few years.  “These things aren’t going to look like this forever,” I said, grabbing my silicone-filled D-cup breasts.  “I need some way to make a living when they start sagging.”  According to Dr. Ruiz, that would never happen to my breasts, but the rest of my body wouldn’t be so lucky.

Jeff seemed skeptical.  “A private investigator, though? It seems a little mismatched for your, uh, talents.”

I shrugged.  It was none of his business what I did, but he was a good tipper so I decided to play along.  “I didn’t spend four years in college to get naked for a living.  This job pays the bills, but I want to have a more normal life at some point.  When I started college I thought I might want to become a cop, but the cops aren’t going to hire someone with my work history.  So I thought I’d go out on my own.”

He nodded approvingly. “Makes sense.
 
I didn’t know you had a degree,” he added.

“Yeah.
 
I didn’t plan it this way.
 
I started doing this to help pay my tuition, and before I knew it I was pulling in five hundred a night.
 
And that was ten years ago.
 
Kind of hard to walk away from.”

“Especially since you get to meet people like me.”

“Um, yeah, that makes it all worthwhile.”
 
My sarcasm drew an injured look from Jeff.
 
“Anyway, Rachel is in trouble.  She says you’re going to help her sue Cody, but you need someone to dig up some new dirt.  Something the cops didn’t have the first time around during the murder trial.  Is that about the gist of it?”

“You hit the high points, yeah.”

“So is there anything you haven’t told Rachel about this?” I asked. 

He frowned.  “Like what?”

“Well, you and I both get paid by the hour.  Sometimes we tell people only the things they want to hear.  It’s only natural.”

Jeff’s eyes had found my chest again, but he did his best to answer my question.  “You probably know that nobody’s ever done well for themselves by taking on an old line casino family like those people.”

I shrugged.  I remembered that Cody Masterson was Rachel’s brother-in-law for a short time.  Like Rachel, he had married into the Hannity clan, owners of an outdated Strip casino called The Outpost. 

“I’m not too worried about that,” I said.  “If things don’t work out, I have a pretty lucrative gig to fall back on.”

Jeff gestured to my bikini, which was still clinging to my chest.  “Speaking of which . . .”

I held up one finger.  “So you think she can win?”

“Anything can happen,” he said.  “Look, if you’re asking if I’m just stringing her along to get some billable hours, it’s not like that.  She hasn’t even paid me yet, now that I think about it.  With some new evidence, we can convince a jury that the guy did it, and that he owes your friend about fifty million bucks for killing her husband.”

That was good enough for me.  I leaned in to whisper in Jeff’s ear.  “Enough talk.”  I  wriggled out of my thong and undid the Velcro on my bikini top.  As usual, he watched me as though he’d never seen a naked woman before.  I enjoyed that about Jeff, at least: his lust was unconditional.