Diva Las Vegas (Book 1 in Raven McShane Series) Read Free Page A

Cody Masterson turned up 189 hits, which was too much for me to read in this lifetime.  I scrolled past several pre-murder society page stories and focused in on reports about the murder, Cody’s indictment and the lead-up to trial. 
    There wasn’t a lot to it.  Three summers ago, George Hannity had been shot through the head at close range in what appeared to be a botched carjacking near a posh suburb ten miles east of downtown Las Vegas.  All signs suggested that Hannity had been driving his convertible Mercedes SL-55 to his home when, at a deserted stoplight, someone pulled up, either in a car or on foot, and tried to wrest control of his car.  Hannity was shot and killed, but the police speculated that something had spooked the carjacker and caused him to flee the scene without taking the Mercedes.  No immediate suspects emerged, and the case looked destined to remain unsolved.
    The murder of a young casino owner like George Hannity generated a slew of news stories, most of them under the byline of a writer named Leslie Trondheim.  Her early reports focused on the increase in violent crime that had accompanied the area’s rampant population growth in recent years.  Other stories focused on the family tragedy: Hannity was only in his mid-thirties; had been married to Rachel (who was artfully described by the reporter as a “former entertainer”) for three years; and he controlled thirty percent of an old, yet profitable, casino.  All signs pointed to a long career as a wealthy businessman and community leader.  One article mentioned him as part of a syndicate that was trying to bring a Major League Baseball franchise to town. 
    As I was scrolling through the stories, my computer flashed a warning that the website would log me out in another five minutes.  I hadn’t realized it, but I had been online for almost two hours.  I was getting antsy, anyway.  I was quickly learning that I wasn’t cut out for this part of the job.  I wanted to be on my feet and talking to people, not staring at a bunch of electrons on a screen in a lonely apartment.  I logged out and pulled up the newspaper’s public homepage, where I clicked on the contacts link.
    I dialed the city desk number and the receptionist put me right through to Leslie Trondheim herself.  She sounded polite but impatient.  I introduced myself as a private investigator and asked whether she remembered working on the Masterson murder case.        
    “Of course,” she said shortly.  Stupid question.  It was like asking Dan Rather if he remembered covering the Kennedy assassination.
    “I wonder if you’d have a half hour sometime to talk about the case with me,” I asked.
    “Um hmm,” she murmured.  “Well, I’m on my way out the door right now, but maybe some time next week I could give you that half hour.”  Next week was not going to do me any good.  I thought for a moment.
    “Could I buy you a drink tonight?” I asked.  “Or dinner?”  I’d read or heard somewhere that journalists are notorious cheapskates, and I hoped the offer of free food might do the trick.
    She paused.  I didn’t know if she was really thinking about my offer, or if she just wanted me to think she was thinking about it.  “That might work,” she said coyly.  “Your treat, you said?”
    I smiled.  “Naturally.  You pick the place.”
    She thought for about four nanoseconds and said we’d meet up at Hugo’s, a spot downtown near the newspaper’s main offices.  We agreed to meet there in an hour.  On the way over, I wondered whether talking to a member of the media was such a great idea, but I decided I could probably learn more from her in an hour than I could from an entire week of reading through her old stories.  Money and time well spent.
    Hugo’s Cellar is a joint famous with locals but all but unknown to the millions of visitors who pour into Las Vegas and never leave the area between the Strip and the airport.  Hugo’s