Read Online Diva Las Vegas (Book 1 in Raven McShane Series) by Caroline Dries, Steve Dries - Free Book Online Page B

pockets.
    “You don’t know where I live.”
    “I’m a detective, remember?”
    “Strange how I forget that sometimes.”
    “See you at noon.”  What was he so afraid of?  I didn’t bite.  Hard.
    That gave me all of an hour and a half to get ready and find a hotel online.  We were only going for the night and I wouldn’t need to pack much.  Packing for San Diego was easy: shorts, tank top, unmentionables, sandals, sun screen.  The hotel was easy, too.  According to the hotel’s website, it had a pool on the roof.  And there was a shopping mall two blocks away in case we needed anything else.
    I headed out of my building onto Russell Road and then hopped onto I-15 heading south towards Mike’s house.  He was waiting for me out front of a nice ranch house with a palm tree next to the driveway.  Nothing fancy, but it wasn’t a rat hole either.  Mike had ditched the Willy Loman look in favor of a fitted brown t-shirt, khaki shorts and sandals.  A gray backpack was slung over his left shoulder.  With his sunglasses on, he looked like a model in a sporting goods catalog.  A definite improvement.  He threw his bag in the back seat and got in the car.
    “Thanks,” he said.
    “What for?”
    “I need to get out of here.  I haven’t left town in months.”
    “Buckle up,” I said.  I patted him on the thigh.  It had the approximate firmness of titanium.  “Jesus, where do you work out?”
    He shifted uncomfortably in his seat.  “Got a gym in the basement,” he mumbled.
    I turned and smiled at him.  He was blushing.
    Mike clicked away on his computer for most of the ride.  He seemed to have steady work chasing after deadbeats and casino cheats, but it didn’t seem very lucrative.  Or exciting.  After stopping for a light lunch, we hit the outskirts of L.A. a little after 2:00 and then veered south towards San Diego.  I had only been to California a handful of times in my life, but somehow the names of the cities on the exits we passed had a familiar ring: San Bernardino, Riverside, Temecula, Escondido.  I pulled out the map and had Mike guide me to the La Jolla address Rachel had given me.  “He lives on a street named Fairway Road,” he said.  “It’s probably on a golf course.”
    I laughed.  “Wow, you could be a private eye.”  Would another pat on the thigh be too bold?  I resisted the urge.  
    As Sherlock had predicted, Fairway Road was indeed on a golf course, an off-shoot of Country Club Drive.  The house was a large tan Mediterranean with a red tile roof, and the entire structure was covered in some kind of ivy.  Two immense palm trees stood off to the left, providing shade to most of the yard.  I couldn’t see through to the back, but I guessed that one of the golf course’s holes was adjacent to the back yard.
    We parked across the street and I dialed Block’s number one last time.  I wasn’t exactly sure why.  Courtesy?
    “Someone’s in there,” Mike said.
    “What?”
    “Somebody just moved around when you called,” he said.
    “Was it an old man?”
    “I couldn’t see any details, just the shape of someone moving.”
    “Well, there’s only one way to find out if he lives here,” I said, opening the car door.
    I walked up the driveway and noticed a small green Volkswagen Passat parked on a slab next to the garage.  Mike waited in the car.  Somebody’s home, all right.  I climbed up the brick steps and rang the bell.  While I waited I studied the front door, which was immense and finished in a deep amber stain that brought out the richness of the mahogany.  There was no answer.  The window on the door was too high to peek into, and I didn’t feel like snooping around, especially since Mike had seen someone inside.  Someone who obviously didn’t want to chat.
    “So that’s it?” he asked when I got back to the car. 
     “No, we should come back tomorrow too.”
    “Next time, don’t call first.  It only lets people know someone is