Ryder pulled a chair out for me at the head of the table, a hint of a smile curling his lips as he waved his free hand toward the seat. I sat, not wanting to be the one to break the formality.
"Well," he mumbled as he sat just next me. He leaned back, one hand draped over the chair, the other resting on his lap. "I'm sure you're wondering why I'm here."
Forgot to flip your calendar since December?
"I am curious as to the FBI's interest in my casino again, yes." I folded my hands in my lap, trying my best to keep the fidgeting to a minimum.
"I have some questions about Mr. Taylor. How well did you know him?"
"Gerald?" That one caught me off guard. What could the feds possibly want with such a sweet old man? Sure, he was a dead, sweet old man, but homicide was usually a local affair that didn't warrant FBI involvement. "He is…" My words trailed off, still processing his death. "He was a regular here. We've seen him a few times a year for quite some time, according to our records." And by records I meant Tate, but he didn't need to know that.
"Does the name Gambia mean anything to you?"
I frowned. "Should it?"
"Members of the Gambia family have stayed at the Royal Palace. Quite frequently, in fact." Whatever he was hinting at, it was well concealed behind his poker face.
"Repeat business isn't unusual. We are one of the top destinations in South Lake Tahoe." I narrowed my eyes at Ryder. "What does this have to do with Mr. Taylor?"
Ryder looked down, and for a moment I thought he wasn't going to answer me. Then he finally said, "It just so happens that Mr. Taylor's last few visits have exactly coincided with those of members of the Gambia family."
"And…"
Ryder cleared his throat and carefully met my eyes again. "The Gambia family business."
"Wait, when you say family, do you mean…" I trailed off as a lightbulb went on in the dark recesses of my brain. Ryder worked the organized crime unit. "You mean like mob?"
He didn't answer me, but his assessing gaze said it all.
I rolled my eyes. "Look, just because somebody with the same last name as some Italian Mafia family stays at the Royal Palace does not mean that we are involved in mob activities!"
"I didn't say you were involved."
I narrowed my eyes at him again. "So what are you saying?"
"I'm saying that we have reason to believe that Mr. Taylor had business transactions with the Gambias."
I pictured the kind, weathered old man I'd found drooling all over our high-roller tables on multiple occasions. I shook my head. "There must be some mistake. Mr. Taylor owned a winery. He wasn't a member of the Mafia."
Ryder adjusted himself in his chair and pulled a little notepad and pen from his jacket pocket. "Our information is credible. You'll have to trust me on this."
I scoffed. Trust was something I was a little short on lately when it came to Agent Ryder.
He shifted his gaze, his poker face slipping for just a moment. "Okay, you'll have to trust the FBI on this, I guess." He raised a brow, and I returned the gesture. "So, I can assume you didn't know Mr. Taylor had ties to the Gambias?"
"Your assumptions would be correct," I conceded.
"Since this is still your casino, I need to inform you that we will be involved in the investigation into the murder of Mr. Taylor."
"Wait—" I said, holding up a hand. "You don't think that the mob killed Mr. Taylor?"
"I can't comment on an ongoing investigation." And just like that, the poker face was back.
I narrowed my eyes into catlike slits and crossed my arms over my chest.
"I trust we have your full cooperation?" Agent Ryder stood and extended his hand.
I rose but refused the hand. If he thought we were friends now, he had another thing coming. "We are happy to cooperate with the FBI," I agreed, hearing the sarcasm dripping from my own voice.
He put the notebook and pen back into his jacket pocket as he rose. "Thank you for your time. We'll be in touch."
No sooner had he disappeared into the hall than Tate popped through the doorway. "Damn, girl. That guy is hot!"
I heard Ryder laugh in the hall as Tate fanned himself. Tate shrugged and put his hands to his mouth in an "oopsie" gesture. "Well, I guess he knows what I think, now."
"Sorry, honey, I'm pretty sure he's not your type." My mind involuntarily wandered to the memory of a sensual kiss we'd shared nearly a year ago. I shook it off. Any romantic interest I'd had in Ryder had died the moment I'd read his brush-off-text while waiting for my very late New Year's Eve date in a crowded restaurant wearing the most to-die-for little black dress known to womankind. Can't make it. Sorry. Call you later. was all it had said. No explanation, no reason, not even a cute emoticon. I'd used the basic break-up lexicon to translate that he'd found a better New Year's offer. The pity on the waitstaff's faces when they realized I'd been stood up ranked among my most embarrassing moments to date.
And contrary to the text, he hadn't called me later.
I forced my thoughts from my previous pity party and back to why Ryder was crashing my casino yet again.
I'd first met Ryder after my father's death last year, when he'd come sniffing around the casino, investigating mob connections. At that time I'd gone through the classic stages of grief at losing the shiny, good-guy image of my father and his casino. At first I had completely denied that anyone at the Royal Palace would have anything to do with organized crime. I'd been angry that Ryder would even suggest such a thing and quickly moved on to the bargaining stage, looking for alternative suspects who might have had family connections. The first one I'd immediately thought of was Alfie. If anyone fit the stereotypical image of a connected man, it was Alfonso Malone.
While Alfie and I had come to a sort of mutual understanding about our positions at the casino, I couldn't a hundred percent swear that he wasn't connected.
Just like, despite my protests to Agent Ryder, I couldn't a hundred percent swear that members of the Gambia family hadn't been conducting some sort of business on the casino premises.
"You have a memory for names," I said, going with a flattery tactic with Tate as we walked back out into the main lobby. "Do you remember anybody by the name of Gambia staying here recently?"
Tate nodded. "Sure. Lots of times. In fact, Hammerhead Hank Gambia just checked in today."
I exhaled sharply. "Hammerhead Hank?"
Tate shrugged. "You know these Italian guys. They're all about those goofy nicknames."
Right. Goofy. I suddenly found myself glancing around the faces in the lobby, expecting to see Goodfellas mingling amongst the retirees.
Tate shot me a look, giving me his full attention now. "Why do you ask?"
I bit my lip.
Tate wagged a finger at me. "I know that lip nibble very well. What's going on, Tess?"
"Fine," I breathed, filling Tate in on what Ryder had told me about the Gambia family possibly having Mafia connections. Though I held back the bit about Ryder suspecting Mr. Taylor of having the same sort of connections. If it wasn't true—and I really hoped it wasn't, for Mr. Taylor's sake—the last thing I wanted to do was ruin the man's reputation. And while I loved Tate, I knew he could only handle so much juicy information without fear of his social filter exploding and sprinkling the entire South Lake Tahoe area with gossip.
Tate's mouth dropped open in a Nooooo! pose. "So, that's why Hottie McFed came for a visit? He thinks that there are mobsters staying here?"
"Shhh!" I instructed, putting a finger to my lips as a family with three adorable little boys walked by. "Maybe. Possibly."
Tate shook his head. "And to think I sent poor little Juanita up to his room this morning with extra blankets…alone! She could've been whacked!"
I rolled my eyes. "Okay, let's say for argument's sake that Mr. Gambia—"
"You mean Hammerhead!"
I winced. "That Hank is in town to conduct some business of some sort. Who do you think he would be been conducting it wi
th?" I didn't add other than poor Mr. Taylor.
Tate pursed his lips, but he didn't have to think long. In fact, neither did I as I followed Tate's gaze out the glass front doors of the lobby and across the street to the Deep Blue Casino.
"I can think of one guy who's sleazy enough to move in the same circles as a wiseguy like the Hammerhead," he answered.
I could too. Buddy Weston.
Buddy and I'd had a tumultuous relationship in the past. Buddy was known for loving loose pockets, loose women, and loose interpretations of the law. At current, we tolerated each other. Mostly because we didn't have much choice, with our rival casinos being positioned directly across the street from each other.
"Maybe Rafe would know something? Isn't he dating Weston's niece?"
"Tiffany," I ground out. Maybe a little too forcefully. Not that I was jealous or anything. I mean, the woman was a size 2, 32DD who had never worked a day in her life. What was there to be jealous of?
I shook my head. "Let's not involve Rafe."
Tate nodded, giving me an exaggerated wink. "Riiiiight. Need-to-know basis. Ix-nay on the ob-may."
I couldn't help a grin. "What do you think the chances are that Buddy Weston has room in his schedule for me today?"
"Is that a nice way of wondering whether or not he'd have his goons physically throw you out of his casino?"
I shrugged. "More or less."
"Leave it to me, honey," Tate said, shooting me another wink. He pulled out his phone, fingers flying across the keyboard, face going solemn. Within seconds his phone dinged like expensive wine glasses in a toast, bringing a wicked grin to Tate's face. "Georgie, one of the front-desk guys over there—" He fluttered a hand toward the Deep Blue. "—he says Weston is scheduled for his weekly massage in like thirty minutes."
Pushing past my amazement at how fast Tate had gotten the information, I grabbed his elbows and turned him toward the door. "I think we're due for pedicures. My treat."
Tate squealed, clapping his hands. "Hashtag happy! I love it when you spoil me." He stopped, turning a serious, deadpan look toward me. "How are you not married already?"
"I know, right? I just haven't found a guy who likes pedicures as much as you." I smiled at my friend, patting his arm as I prodded him toward the hall. "And, you know, likes women."
CHAPTER FIVE
The Deep Blue casino was a dark concrete building rimmed in flashing blue neon. It was one of the South Lake Tahoe casinos that were located just over the border on the Nevada side of the state line. The esteemed group included the Royal Palace, the Hard Rock casino next door to us, and Harrah's, just to the other side of the Deep Blue. And Buddy was always trying to outshine the other three…literally. The glare off the neon and the recently installed oversized disco ball above the entrance had me shielding my eyes as we entered the building. An enormous aquarium sat in the atrium-style lobby, reaching four stories tall and nearly filling the cavernous space. It housed all sorts of brightly colored tropical fish and several sleek, gray sharks whose predatory smiles often reminded me Buddy himself.
Tate chatted exuberantly about getting some color on his toes this time as we walked past the front desk then froze in his tracks, his hand going to his collar. "Ohmigod, that's him!"
"Who?" I asked, whipping my head around the crowded lobby.
"James Sicianni, the creator of Battle Buffet." Tate pointed toward the concierge desk with one hand and started fanning himself. "He's like Simon Cowell and Channing Tatum all rolled into one. Money, power, and a set of abs you could wash your unmentionables on."
I wasn't sure how he knew about the abs thing, but as I turned in the direction of Tate's starstruck gaze, I had to agree with the rest of his assessment. A tall man with dark hair, perfectly gelled into place, stood near the concierge desk. He wore a dark suit with a classic white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, and had one hand casually tucked in the pocket of his well-tailored pants. The smile he flashed the woman working behind the desk was bright white and filled with charm. She practically drooled in response.
"Come on—you have to introduce me," Tate said, grabbing me by the arm. Before I could protest that I hadn't actually formally met the producer myself, I was being dragged across the lobby.
"James Sicianni?" Tate asked, approaching the man.
He turned our way, much to the annoyance of the female concierge still fluttering her eyelashes at him. "Yes?" he asked politely.
Tate nudged me, not-so-subtly clearing his throat.
"Uh, hi. I'm Tessie King, owner of the Royal Palace."
Sicianni's eyes lit up with recognition. "Of course," he said, quickly extending one hand toward me. "James Sicianni, executive producer of Battle Buffet. It's a pleasure to finally meet you."
As I slid my fingers into his palm, he pulled his other hand out of his pocket and skimmed it over mine, firmly clasping. His eyelids went heavy, looking at me through his lashes, a sultry smile curling his lips. "I was told you were beautiful, but the rumors didn't do you justice." He flipped my hand over, planting a small kiss at my wrist. Slowly, deliberately, he let my fingers slide free.
Despite his immaculate look, I felt dirty, like I needed to wash that hand now. He had a tall, dark, and handsome thing going on, but he was a little over the top for my taste.
And then there was his whole love-of-strippers thing.
I looked over at Tate. He stared at Mr. Sicianni, wide eyed, as if he was going to start fanning himself again. He flung a buoyant hand out toward Mr. Sicianni, doing a deep baritone that I knew he reserved for his manly-man mode. "Tate Lopez. It's an honor to meet you, sir. I'm a huge fan of your show." The men shook hands. Tate girly-giggled toward the end, pulling his hand to his mouth once it was freed.
Mr. Sicianni nodded to Tate. "Thank you. It's always nice to meet devoted fans." He shifted to look at me again. "I hear an apology is in order, Ms. King."
"For what?"
"Chef Dubois is a bit…" His words faded, his eyes searching the room as if the right word were etched on the wall. Finally, he nodded, glancing back to me. "Eccentric."
Egotistical jerk was more fitting, but okay. "You don't owe me anything." I wafted a hand in his direction, shaking my head as I backed toward the hallway that led to the spa.
He motioned toward the glass bar at the center of the casino floor to our left. "May I buy you a drink?"
Tate sucked in a squeal beside me.
"We have an appointment." I glanced at my phone for the time then back to Tate. "In ten minutes."
Tate's face fell.
"Another time, then," Mr. Sicianni said in way that made me think that was an order more than an offer. Something told me he didn't take no for an answer very often.
"Of course," I murmured, just a teensy bit freaked out. And kinda feeling like I needed a shower.
* * *
We followed the etched, sandy-looking path off to the right that led to the Deep Blue Beach Spa. We were met at the door by a tiny young girl holding a clipboard. She was wearing a T-shirt with a graphic of a clamshell bra and khaki shorts covered by a plastic grass skirt. She shook her hips halfheartedly and mumbled robotically, "Welcome to the beach. Have we reserved a heavenly slice of our oasis for you?"
"No," I offered, looking past her at the empty overstuffed chairs at the pedicure stations and the hallway past them that led to the massage rooms. Weston had to be in one of them. "Do you have an opening for two pedicures?"
Tate squeaked a bit and shifted his weight from foot to foot in anticipation.
She looked at her clipboard and back at us, her expression never changing from the blank, benign mask. "I'll have to check the computer."
I gazed back into the room, where several employees were sitting on the rolling stools, talking among themselves, painting their own nails. I exchanged a bewildered look with Tate as the girl walked over to the kiosk by the entrance and logged into the computer.
"Good news," she muttered while splaying her hands to he
r sides, still not smiling, still in a monotone voice. "You've just booked two tickets to paradise. Pack your bags and follow me, please." Shoulders slumped and hips forcing the skirt to move as she walked, she led us to the pedicure area.
Two of the nail techs bounced to attention, bright smiles lighting their faces. They were dressed just like the young receptionist, though they filled their uniforms out much better. They shook their hips with a bit more exuberance, motioning toward the chairs in a wavy, hula-like dance.
One girl bubbled, "Hi, I'm Amanda, and I'll be taking very good care of you today. Please remove your shoes and have a seat. Would you like a drink before we begin?"
Tate clapped a few times, beaming. "Two appletinis, please." The girl nodded and turned to leave. "Wait," he called, halting her hip-shaking exit. He turned to me. "Did you want anything, doll face?"
I held up a finger and nodded. After she left, I tapped the other girl on the shoulder as she filled the soaking tubs at the base of our chairs. "Can I use the ladies' room first?" I was pretty sure I'd seen the restroom sign at the end of the hall, past the massage rooms. She smiled and pointed in that direction.
Bingo.
I made my way slowly down the corridor in a very James Bond kind of way. Hugging the wall and checking back toward the nail room every few seconds, I leaned toward each door, listening for Buddy Weston's booming voice. If memory served, it had a distinctly lecherous quality that I knew I'd recognize. At the end of the hall, I found my mark.
"What the hell do you mean he's won four straight hands?" I heard his voice yell.
I put my ear to the door.
There was a pause then, "Well, comp him a room and get him the hell off the gaming floor. Now!"
It sounded like he was on the phone. I sucked in a deep breath for courage, not knowing what stage of undress he might be in, and shoved the door open.
I found Buddy sitting on a chaise lounge in nothing but a fluffy white robe and bright-blue slippers emblazoned with the Deep Blue logo. The robe was open to the waist, affording me a view of his chest, where mounds of dark, curly hair fluffed out of the gap. His legs, which were nearly as hairy as his chest, were crossed at the ankles, with the robe tucked between his thighs just enough to cover the goods.
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