Diva Las Vegas (Book 1 in Raven McShane Series) by Caroline Dries, Steve Dries

important right now, or at least that’s not what your client hired you to sniff out.  That would take forever, and for you it’d be impossible.  The real question is, did George Hannity find out about a skim before he was killed?  And if so, was Cody involved?”
    “I don’t think I’m with you all the way,” I said.
    “The point is that any embezzlement operation is irrelevant unless you can show that George Hannity had actually found out about it.  Otherwise there’d be no reason to kill him.  So if you can show that he knew about it, and if you can show that Cody’s tied into the whole thing, that might be enough to take him down.”
    I nodded.  “I get it.  If I find out Hannity knew nothing about it, I can drop it and focus on other things.  No sense going off on a wild goose chase if I don’t have to.”
    “Exactly.”  Mike had a good point.
    We got back to Las Vegas just in time for the tail end of rush hour, and I dropped Mike off his house.  He gave me a smile and thanked me for dragging him along.  But that was it.  Shy Mike was back.
    I got home and checked my mail.  I was surprised to find a cashier’s check for $4,500 along with a copy of my retainer agreement signed by Barbara Finley, the woman from Indiana who’d called the week before.  I was almost certain she’d been scared off by my hourly rates, but I was happy to be wrong.  As instructed, Barbara included a note describing what she’d sniffed out about her husband’s itinerary.  He’d be arriving Thursday morning on Northwest Airlines flight 903, staying at Mandalay Bay with a party of five or six, leaving Sunday.  She’d also enclosed a few pictures of her husband to help me identify him.  Easy work—no hassle, paid up front, nobody gets hurt.  The best part was that clients like Mrs. Finley were always happiest when I had nothing interesting to report. 
    The sun was creeping lower and lower, and after the long road trip all I wanted to do was open a bottle of champagne and lounge on my balcony to watch the Strip light up at night.  Actually, what I really wanted was for Mike to join me in the hot tub in the pool downstairs, but it seemed like he only put out after tequila.  I made a solemn resolution to get him drunk more often.
    In a rare moment of genius I came up with a way to be lazy and get some work done at the same time.  I could call Rachel.  We hadn’t talked much about my progress so far.  Probably because I hadn’t made any progress.  I picked up the phone and dialed her cell number.
    “How’d you like to come over for some champagne?  We can order food and watch the Strip light up from my balcony.”
    “Um, okay.  What’s the occasion?”
    “Just want to talk a little about the case.”  I cringed, unable to believe my own fib.  I fessed up.  “Actually, it’s really just an excuse to open some bubbly.”
    She laughed.  “You need an excuse?  Just give me your address and I’ll get there in a half hour.”
    That gave me enough time to dig out a few bottles I had stashed away underneath my bed.  One for the freezer, one for the fridge.  I was glad Rachel was joining me.  We’d been great friends five years ago, but things had changed when she married George.  But even after George was killed Rachel didn’t make any efforts to restart our friendship.  I supposed that once you were admitted to high society, there wasn’t much reason to rekindle old friendships with commoner like me.
    Rachel was on time.  It was still over 90 degrees outside, and she was dressed for it.  She wore casual athletic shorts, sandals, and a thin brown zip-up cotton top.  When we got outside to my balcony, she removed the top.  She knew I was checking her out, so she made a little display out of it by swinging her top around above her head.  She was pushing forty, but she looked fantastic in the skimpy red bra she wore underneath.  The washed-out Rachel I’d seen at Cougar’s a week