Wanna Get Lucky?

by Deborah Coonts

  I took another bite of hamburger. “Besides, In-N-Out burgers and fries are two of the four major food groups.”

  “And the other two food groups would be . . .?”

  “Krispy Kreme doughnuts and any kind of M&M’s.”

  Dane threw back his head and laughed. “I like a woman who relishes her food. Those dainty little eaters who order a whole meal then push it around their plate aren’t for me. If you can add barbeque and beer to your list, we could be good friends.”

  Damn, now along with lusting after him, I was starting to like the guy—for sure he’d turn out to be a bum, it never failed. “A list to horrify a cardiologist—I guess we’ll die young.”

  “But happy.” He tucked into his fries with gusto.

  McCARRAN Airport fronted the southern end of the Strip on the east side. The airport worked in opposite rhythm to the city—when night fell, the Strip fired up and the airport wound down. Few flights operated at this time of the morning, although there were the obligatory red-eyes to the East Coast and Hawaii.

  Paolo found the control tower in the web of access roads and runways, and pulled into the parking lot. I rolled down my window, stuck my head out and looked at the dark tower looming above us. “So, what do we do? Knock three times and ask to see the wizard?”

  “Do you ever turn it off?” Dane asked.

  I donned my most innocent expression. “What?”

  “Never mind.” Dane wadded up the refuse from his meal and stuffed it back in the sack. “Coming?” he asked, as Paolo opened the door. Dane unfolded himself from the back of the limo and extended his hand to help me out.

  I let him help me out of the car on the off chance he might turn out to be one of us good guys.

  “We aren’t exactly going up to the tower,” he said. “We are going down to Las Vegas TRACON.”

  “I love it when you talk dirty.” Jesus, was I flirting with him?

  He shot me a grin.

  “And what is TRACON going to tell us?” I asked, forcing my mind back to the business at hand.

  He shrugged. “Don’t know. The radar tracking files may show us where our helicopter went after depositing Lyda Sue in the pirates’ lagoon.” He identified himself into a speaker beside the door, then it opened.

  I followed him down the stairs to the basement. TRACON was housed in a large, windowless room that reminded me of a huge, darkened theatre. Two banks of computers were arranged in concentric semicircles. In the dark, I could just make out several hunched-over figures, their faces illuminated by the displays in front of them. The figures spoke into headsets, their voices modulated so they blended into an indistinguishable background murmur. Additional displays hung at intervals on the wall, each showing various symbols that looked to me like Sanskrit . . . or Klingon.

  “Beam me up, Scotty,” I muttered, unable to help myself.

  “Behave,” Dane whispered through clenched teeth. “These folks take their job seriously.”

  “Oh, sorry.” Pricked by his chiding, I feigned sincerity. “I must have missed the No Humor sign.”

  “You clearly missed the No Sarcasm sign as well.” Dane shot me a dirty look. “Stay here, I’ll be right back,” he ordered as he took off like a scalded dog, making straight for a guy sitting behind a desk in the far corner. Clearly Dane thought there was no need to inflict me on an unsuspecting civil servant. Once in a while I had to agree with his judgment.

  I held up the wall near the stairs. From here, I could watch Dane unobserved. He was bent over a display, his ass pointed in my direction. My mind was just beginning to wander into forbidden territory when my Nextel vibrated at my hip. I was smart enough to have put it on silent. Its normal wail would shatter the silence in this techie mausoleum. Everyone in the joint would probably have a coronary and planes would fall out of the skies.

  I pushed-to-talk as I bounded up the stairs, two at a time. “Hang on,” I whispered. I raced up the stairs and back outside, and stuck a foot between the door and the door jamb so I didn’t get locked out. “O’Toole here.”

  “Hey, Lucky. Where you at?” Jerry was apparently pulling the night shift in Security.

  “I’m hot on the trail of a missing helicopter.”

  “Then you’re gonna like this. I just got a call from some irate Mexican dude—he kept cussing at me in Spanish like I was too stupid to understand.” Jerry chuckled. “The dude was really hot. Even I learned a few words.”

  I gritted my teeth and kept quiet. Jerry loved to string me along when he had something really good to tell me.

  “Anyway, it seems this guy works as security at Spanish Trail,” he continued.

  I couldn’t stand it any longer. “Jer, I’m getting older by the minute.”

  “Right. Our missing helicopter is sitting on the ninth green of the Lakes golf course at Spanish Trail Golf and Country Club. Doors are unlocked, but no pilot. I promised the security guy a hundred bucks for not calling the police.”

  “I could kiss you!” I reclipped the Nextel just as Dane materialized at my elbow.

  “Who could you kiss?” he asked.

  “Jerry. He found something for me. Did you find out anything from Captain Kirk in there?”

  “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” Dane said with an evil grin.

  “Okay, smart-ass. You first.”

  We both walked toward the waiting limo. “It seems our boy circled around for a while after the gal took a header. Then he asked for clearance to Northtown.”

  “Northtown?” I asked as Dane waved Paolo away and opened my door. We both settled in, this time side by side.

  “North Las Vegas Airport, a general aviation field off Rancho.”

  “I know the place.”

  “My buddy checked with their tower. It seems the chopper landed there, but only stayed for a few minutes. The guys in the tower either couldn’t see or didn’t notice whether anyone got on or off. Once he was airborne again, they cleared him to the west. From there the trail goes cold. After the chopper exited the airport’s airspace, the pilot turned off his transponder and disappeared off the radar.”

  “Transponder?” I asked, then thought better of it. I could get a lesson in air traffic control some other time. “Never mind.”

  “Now I get to see yours,” Dane reminded me.

  “Well,” I said as I settled into the deep seat. “Before I turn my cards over, I call and raise you one dinner at the restaurant of my choice.”

  He whistled. “It must be good.” He narrowed his eyes as he looked at my face. “Or you’re bluffing.” He waited a moment then said, “Okay, I’ll play. What do you have?”

  I smiled and pressed the intercom switch. “Paolo, take us to Spanish Trail, the east entrance, please.”

  “REMIND me never to play poker with you,” Dane said as he and I stared at the Babylon’s missing helicopter silhouetted by the eerie yellow glow of the streetlamps.

  We were standing on what I had been told was the ninth green of the Lakes course at Spanish Trail. And sitting right in front of us, big as life, was our missing helicopter. In the dark, the faint glow of the streetlights reflected off its bubble cockpit. With its rotors sagging limply, the helicopter looked like a giant dragonfly.

  A man emerged from the shadows. He wore the uniform of the security guards at Spanish Trail. “You guys from the Babylon?”

  “I understand I owe you a great deal of thanks,” I said as I rooted around my Birkin. I was able to find three twenties, a five, and four crumpled ones. I felt like a kid amassing his allowance. I led Dane a few steps away. “Do you have two twenties?”

  “What?”

  Clearly he hadn’t been paying attention. I nodded my head toward the security guard, who waited patiently, not facing us, as if money were beneath him. “Two twenties.”

  “Oh. Let me see.” He opened his wallet. “Two tens in here.” Then he started pulling things out of his pockets. “Here, hold this stuff.”

  I extended my cupped hand
s. In them he deposited several over-laden key rings, two handfuls of coins, two rifle bullets, a roll of antacids, multiple wadded-up receipts, and several crumpled bills, which he extracted. All of it weighed more than my Birkin.

  “With all this stuff in your pockets, what keeps your pants up?”

  “The dictates of fashion.”

  I made a rude noise. “There are no dictates of fashion in Vegas.”

  “Good point. How about several local laws and the presence of an unwilling female, not to mention the security guard lurking in the trees? Will that do?” He smoothed the bills, then held them out for me. “Two twenties, as requested.”

  “Unwilling female?”

  “You haven’t exactly extended the welcome sign.”

  “This is Vegas, Tex. If I threw myself on my back in front of every pretty boy I see, I’d never get any work done.”

  “Yes, but all work and no play—”

  “Makes Lucky a dull girl, I know. Now, about work. Take those twenties and the other money buried under your stuff here and give it to the guard.”

  “What are we paying him for?”

  “Just do it.”

  He did, and the guard melted into the shadows.

  When Dane returned, I handed him all his stuff back, dropping only a few coins in the process. “Sure makes it easier to find lost helicopters when someone calls and tells us where it is.” Yes, I have a knack for stating the obvious. “So, what do we do now? Should we call the police?”

  He walked slowly around the helicopter. “Eventually. But what do you say we take a look inside first?”

  “After you. But don’t touch anything,” I said. Working in a casino, I’d seen my share of crime scenes. I knew the drill.

  Dane pulled a handkerchief out of his shirt pocket, covered his right hand and reached for the door.

  I grabbed his elbow, stopping him. “What if somebody’s in there? Do you have a gun?”

  “It’s hanging on the rack in the back of my pickup.”

  “Guarded by the coonhound, no doubt. But, I’m serious, what if there’s a body in there?” A vision of Willie having met his demise in a prolonged and excruciating way popped into my head. I crossed my fingers.

  “If it’s a body, we certainly won’t need a gun.” Dane threw the words over his shoulder as he turned to examine the helicopter.

  I was right behind him. A shiver chased down my spine—I looked over my shoulder but saw no one. This whole thing was creeping me out.

  Using the handkerchief, and touching only the edge of the handle to avoid smearing any prints, he lifted the latch of the rear door on the right side. “If I remember correctly, Lyda Sue went out this way.” He eased the door open, then flashed the beam of a flashlight Paolo had lent him around the interior.

  Half expecting another dead body to fall out of the thing, and half hoping it would be Willie, I held back, keeping Dane’s body between me and the helicopter.

  “Nothing unusual here,” Dane muttered.

  Drat, no dead Willie. In fact, no Willie, dead or alive.

  Dane then trained the beam of light on the door latch. “Hmmmm . . .”

  “What?” I leaned around him to get a peek at what he was looking at.

  He pointed to the inner workings of the latch. “See how this bit of metal is shinier than the rest? It almost looks like someone filed it so that . . .”

  I could just make out what he was talking about. “Yeah?”

  “And these striations in the metal?”

  “Barely.” I drew back. “What does it mean?”

  Dane stood and looked at me. The look on his face frightened me.

  “Murder.”

  THE next hour was a blur. We called the police and they arrived with sirens blaring, which, I’m sure, endeared us to the sleeping residents of Spanish Trail. We gave our statements—several times—then finally, were allowed to leave.

  The clock struck three bells as I dragged my sorry ass through the front door of The Babylon. My brain had ceased working an hour ago, and my body was threatening mutiny. I had one last thing to check on before I headed home.

  My luck appeared to be holding. Sergio still manned the front desk.

  “Can you give me a quick rundown before I quit for the night?” I asked as I propped myself up against the check-in desk.

  “The megamillions lady and three of her friends are ensconced in the Sodom and Gomorrah suite with their three masseurs—they requested tall, blond and decidedly male—and a feast fit for a king. I have the Ferrari waiting for the body shop to open.” He ticked them off his fingers as he recited. “Let me see, there was something else . . .”

  I wish he hadn’t told me about the masseurs and Mrs. Paisley and friends. I’m very visual. I closed my eyes and tried to shut my mind to the images flashing across it. Were the young men part of the feast fit for a king? “What’s the latest on the naked stair dweller?” Another wonderful image. If I ever got to sleep, my dreams were going to be doozies.

  “Ah yes, Reverend Peabody.”

  “Reverend Peabody? You’re kidding, right? Of what church? The Church of the Seven Virgins?”

  Sergio offered a tired smile. “As of last hour, the doctor had checked on him several times, and each time he was resting peacefully. However, I don’t envy him the headache he’ll have in the morning.”

  “So he’s all right?”

  “Yes. The doctor will keep checking on him.” Sergio paused. A slight frown creased his flawless face.

  “How did you figure out who he was?”

  “Security gave me the name he registered under. Needless to say, it wasn’t his real name. I put two and two together when I kept fielding calls from a lady from Iowa looking for her husband. She said he was supposed to be in his room, but he hadn’t called, and she hadn’t been able to reach him.”

  “You’ve checked his room?”

  Sergio nodded. “Empty. And I confirmed his identity with her—she described him to a T. At first, the wife was unwilling to tell us who he was, but I convinced her I needed to know his real name so that I might find him.”

  “Did you tell the wife we had him?”

  “Of course not. I wanted to talk to you first.”

  “Perfect. Next time she calls, tell her that half our phone system is on the fritz, including the phone in her husband’s room, and that you personally checked on him. He is, in fact, asleep and you didn’t see any need to awaken him. In the morning, when our Reverend Peabody from Iowa awakens, give him coffee, intravenously if necessary, a hand towel for modesty’s sake, and some aspirin, then have someone bring him to my office. I should be in by nine at the latest.” I looked at my watch. “I may not be functional, but I’ll be here.”

  I stepped through the front door and out into the night air. The artificial daylight created by the lights of the Strip held the darkness at bay. I paused and took a deep breath. The heat of the midsummer’s day had given way to the coolness of a high desert night. Dry and still, the air was like wine, and I drank my fill.

  My nerves were as frayed as the end of a broken rope.

  Try as I might, I couldn’t shake the image of Lyda Sue’s body flailing like a broken rag doll as it hurtled earthward. Could it really be murder? And on top of that, add The Big Boss’s strong hint that Paxton Dane was something less than the good guy he appeared to be.

  I was toast.

  My thoughts shifted to Paxton Dane. I had a hard time believing he was a bum. He seemed fine to me—more than fine, in fact. However, I learned my lesson long ago—my taste in men sucked. Since I was unable to stop fantasizing about Paxton Dane, history dictated he would turn out to be a bum. So, no welcome mat for Mr. Dane.

  A nice walk and I’d be home.

  A voice interrupted my reverie. “Ms. O’Toole?”

  I recognized Paolo’s voice. I opened my eyes, which took longer than normal to focus. When they did, I saw Paolo, his smile a beckoning beacon, standing at attention next to the open d
oor of the limo.

  “Need a ride home?”

  I sighed with relief. “You, my friend, are a prince among men.”

  HOME for me was the whole thirtieth floor of The Presidio, Las Vegas’ premier multistory residence—or so said the sales brochure. A tower of glass, The Presidio was home to professional athletes, entertainers, extraordinarily rich foreigners . . . and me. My best friend, Teddie, occupied the penthouse one floor up.

  In contrast to its exterior, the lobby was warm with wooden floors covered with thick luxurious area rugs in rich shades of orange and red. Lush landscapes graced the faux-painted walls. The spa and fitness facilities were reputed to be the best in the city. The Presidio also housed the Silver Club, again supposedly Las Vegas’ best private club. Who made these pronouncements, I didn’t know, but you couldn’t verify them by me—I’d never been to either one. I worked for a living. No, to be more precise, I didn’t actually have a life. I worked and slept—not “a life” in anybody’s book.

  Forrest, the security guard, nodded as I staggered though the doors. A mountain of a man, all sinew and bulging muscle—he was the security guard from central casting. Rumor had it, he’d played in the NFL for a couple of years then blew out a knee. A nice guy, but I had no intention of ever making him mad.

  “Ms. O’Toole. Tough day?”

  “A little tougher than most.”

  “Yeah, I caught the news.”

  All I could do was nod. “Is Teddie home yet?”

  “Not yet.”

  Teddie’s show would have been over hours ago. I guess he’d gone out after. Everybody had a life except me.

  I nodded as I stepped into the elevator, waved my magic key card over the pad and punched the button for home.

  The elevator deposited me in the middle of my living room.

  “Where you been, bitch?”

  God, I’d forgotten about the bird. My one foray into pet ownership and it had to be a belligerent macaw with a foul mouth. I walked over to Newton’s cage. “Glad to see you, too, my pet.”