Royal Flush

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What critics are saying about

Stephanie Caffrey's books:

"A great, breezy, fun read. Reminded me of Evanovich and Parker. Lots of sex and booze which is so Vegas."

—Chucktown Reader

"This is possibly the best first book of any series I have read. I am always looking for new authors and series, and this one is a true masterpiece. I can hardly wait for the next book."

—Mystery Lover

"This was such a refreshing, honest and out of the ordinary detective story. I think it was a cracking read and highly recommend it."

—Top 500 Amazon Reviewer (UK site)

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ROYAL FLUSH

by

STEPHANIE CAFFREY

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Copyright © 2015 by Stephanie Caffrey

Cover design by Janet Holmes

Gemma Halliday Publishing

http://www.gemmahallidaypublishing.com

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

I had just flicked out the lights and locked my office door, happily envisioning the rousing night I had planned for myself, which involved the perfect binge-worthy trifecta: a two-pound bowl of cheesy pasta, a box of merlot, and a DVR stuffed to the brim with
Dancing With the Stars
. But trouble has a way of finding me, and she did. This version had more mascara than Mary Kay, the shimmering blonde hair of a Clairol model, and a puppy-dog face right out of a Purina commercial. My first reaction was that this was a pretty girl-next-door cutie who was trying too hard to be Vegas-sexy, and it wasn't working to her advantage. She was in her early twenties and smelled faintly of perfume. There was something familiar about her face, too. But one thing was clear: she was a fish out of water. And fish don't do very well in the Nevada desert.

She cleared her throat. "You're Raven McShane? The detective?" Her voice was unusually low and raspy, yet hesitant. The question rang in my ears. It sounded so
official
. I was
the detective
.

"That's me. In all my glory," I said, making a mocking hand gesture highlighting my three-year-old yoga pants and decades-old Notre Dame T-shirt, a remnant of a guy I dated briefly.

"I'm sorry, if you're closing up for the day, I can come back some other time. It's just—"

"No, no," I interrupted. "Let's talk." I unlocked the office door and flipped the lights back on, ushering the young woman inside. My visitor stifled a cringe as she surveyed the place. Dusty fluorescent lights hung from the decrepit ceiling in the lobby. A brown plaid couch sat next to the wall facing the door, and a fake wood desk stood off to the left, its plastic faux-walnut surface receding faster than the Channel 7 weatherman's hairline. The poor desk, with a veritable museum of obsolete technology perched atop its surface, was perpetually unoccupied.

My office was off to the right, and I shooed her inside before she inhaled too much of the whiff of shabbiness that permeated the lobby. The girl was still on edge, so I scrounged up what I hoped was a friendly-looking grin and showed her into a chair.

I sat down and tried to look kind. "How can I help?"

"Well," she started, "it's about my boyfriend. Actually, I don't know if he's really my
boyfriend
or not, officially, you know." At this, she let out a nervous giggle. "But—"

"How long have you been dating?" I couldn't resist asking.

She shifted in her chair. "It's been, like, six months. But, you know, there's distance between us. I live in Los Angeles and he's out here, so…"

I wasn't sure if she had finished her thought, so I paused a few seconds before picking up her thread. And then I felt stupid. "I'm sorry, I don't believe I got your name."

She smiled. "That's okay. It's Melanie Weston."

"Got it," I said, fishing out a legal pad from my desk. I wrote her name on the top of the page and gestured for her to continue.

"So, like, this is weird, okay? I feel bad even doing this. But I need to know, I really do." She paused again, as though she needed encouragement to proceed. She was playing with a gold ring, rolling it back and forth around her middle finger. She seemed nice enough, but my stomach was gurgling and my brain was distracted by visions of noodles and Alfredo sauce.

"So what is it you need to know about him?"

"I need to know if he's for real. If he is who he says he is."

"Okay," I said. Now we were getting somewhere. "And who does he say he is?"

She crossed her legs and stiffened slightly. "It's not as if he brags about it or anything. He only mentioned it once or twice, actually, but now he needs some money. A
lot
of money."

Apparently I was going to have to beat it out of her. "So who is this guy?"

"Okay, his name is Kent. Henry John Kent. He likes to just be called Kent, though. So that's what I call him. And the thing is, he claims he's part of the royal family."

My eyes got big. A
royal
. That was hot stuff, like dating an international soccer star or a tech billionaire. "
The
royal family?" I asked.

"Yes, from England. I don't really know the details, but I think he's like a grandnephew to the queen, or a second-cousin of the queen, or something like that. It's all very sketchy. As I said, he doesn't brag about it or anything."

"No, of course not," I said, suppressing the urge to roll my eyes skyward. The guy whose shirt I was wearing had gone to Notre Dame, and in the space of two weeks he'd found seventy-three different occasions to work his alma mater into our conversations. I doubted that this so-called royal was any different. I could picture the blue-blooded, name-dropping little twit now.
When Auntie Elizabeth and I were out riding, she was wearing the most exquisite jodhpurs you've ever seen! Oh, you've not beeeeen to the country house? You must! That's where I used to play cricket with Wills and Harry.

I shook myself out of it. "So you want to know if it's true? You want to know if you're dating Prince Charming?"

She seemed put off by my tone. "It's not that I
care
. Royalty is outdated and even decadent. In fact, I wish he wasn't a royal. They hunt foxes, you know. And the inequality is outrageous. There are people slaving away at minimum wage while
they
sit around eating crumpets, whatever those are." Her face was piqued, the natural reddish hue contrasting unfavorably with her eyeliner.

I could go for some crumpets right now, you little commie,
I thought. I tried to re-center my focus on her story rather than judging her. And, in a flash of brilliance, I remembered I had some walnuts squirreled away in my desk somewhere. That might hold me over until dinner.

"Anyway," I said, "if you don't really care about royalty, why do you want to know?"

"Well, as I mentioned, now he wants some money. He says he's fighting another cousin over the title to an estate in the north of England, and the legal bills have wiped him out. His parents aren't alive to help anymore, and if he doesn't pay his lawyers then the cousin will inherit the property. It's a good investment, he says. If I lend him the money, he'll pay me back double if he wins his court case."

A zillion cynical thoughts and questions raced through my mind as I chomped on some nuts. Among these were,
Are you insane?
And,
Run, run for the hills!
But Melanie's voice was so earnest and hopeful that I couldn't bear to let her down hard. I just hoped she wasn't responding to any late-night emails from Nigerian princes who needed fifty grand to unlock
their
royal fortunes.

"I see," I said. "An orphaned cousin, a land dispute, an estate. Anything more, and an episode of
Downton Abbey
is gonna break out."

Melanie winced, again not appreciative of the cynicism that must have been creeping into my voice.

"Sorry," I said. "But obviously you have some concerns, or you wouldn't be here."

She nodded. "Right. It's just that it's a lot of money, that's all."

"How much are we talking about?"

"He said a quarter-million would hold him for a year's worth of lawyer fees."

An involuntary whistle escaped my lips. "That's a lot of money, no doubt about it. Especially to borrow from a twenty-something woman who may or may not even be your girlfriend."

"I'm twenty-four," Melanie said softly.

I leaned back in my chair, which rewarded my effort with a low creaking noise. "Okay, and so the obvious question is: how do you have that kind of money to lend? You wouldn't bother hiring a detective if you couldn't afford the loan in the first place."

She uncrossed her legs and looked down. "It's family money. I have a trust fund, and—"

"Wait, you said your name was Weston? As in the Weston Wing of the LA Art Museum?" I wasn't exactly an art snob, but I had just been there a year earlier, and the name jumped out at me. In fact, the only reason I remembered it was that the wing housed a giant sculpture made entirely from parts of different colored toilets. Now
that
was my kind of art.

She smiled. "That's my grandpa Hugo. He started an oil refining company during the Depression, and then the war hit and everybody needed lots of fuel. The short version is that now the company has twenty-thousand employees, and my dad owns part of the Lakers."

That was a nice short version, I had to admit. "Wow," I said. "So I assume at some point you let it slip to this, uh, Kent, that you had some money jingling around in your pockets, right?"

Melanie sighed. "I felt as if I had to keep up, you know, with him being royalty and all. It's not as if I was always talking about Daddy's helicopters or anything like that. But Kent's been to my apartments, seen my car, and my jewelry, I suppose, too."

"Your apartments? Plural?"

She smiled. "One in LA and I got one here a few months ago. Just for visiting, you know. Actually, you and I are neighbors," she added enthusiastically.

"You mean—"

 She smiled. "Yes, I live in your building. The penthouse on fifty-one. Not the one with the great view, the other one."

That would explain why she looked vaguely familiar. "So that's why you're here today? Because we're neighbors?"

She shrugged. "Pretty much. I did a little searching online, and most of the stories about Vegas detectives came back to you. You got Ethan Longoria off the hook, after all. So I figured you could help me out."

She was referring to a young singer who'd been wrongly accused of murder. Through a little bit of luck, I'd managed not only to prove him innocent but to avoid getting myself drugged and murdered in the process. So far, in my months-long career as a private eye, I'd managed to find myself in the headlines more often than most people do in a lifetime. Apparently it was good for advertising, but I didn't want to make it a habit. The body count was getting too high.

"So tell me a little more about Kent," I said.

She beamed. "He's very nice. Bold. Fashionable, but not over the top."

I cut her off. "I mean, I'd like to know about his roots, his life. What is he doing in Vegas, for example?"

Melanie nodded. "Studying. UNLV has one of the top hospitality programs around, and he's here for a masters in hotel management."

I frowned. "Seems an odd choice, doesn't it? Hello, I'm the Earl of Chattingham. Welcome to the Best Western. Enjoy your stay!"

She was shaking her head vigorously. "No, no. See, he wants to turn his family estate into a resort, where people can come and live like earls and dukes for a week. It's actually not a bad idea, I think."

I shrugged. It was clear she was buying Kent's story hook, line, and crumpets. But at least she had enough sense to hire someone to check the guy out. "I suppose a resort could work," I said. "But he has to win his court case, and that will take money."

Melanie nodded. "Right."

I surreptitiously dug out a few more walnuts and jammed them in my mouth, something I should have done
after
speaking, not before. "And how did you two meet?" I asked.

She chuckled. My question had come out about as garbled as you'd expect with a mouth full of walnuts. "He was in LA visiting one of his friends, who was the brother of the guy I was dating at the time. We all met up, and the two of us hit it off. I admit, it was partly his accent. What is
with
that?"

I shook my head. "That whole British thing doesn't do it for me, I have to admit. They're all so pasty white. And their heads are too big for their bodies. Ever notice how British men have no shoulders? Their heads are just perched up there like big jack-o'-lanterns. Come to think of it, I've seen more than a few carved pumpkins that had better teeth."