Lucky Ride (The Lucky O'Toole Vegas Adventure Series Book 8)

by Deborah Coonts

“Toby Sinclair.”

  It wasn’t a question. I whirled on him. “Oh, no, Counselor. You already have a horse in this race. You’re bought and paid for.”

  He held up his hand—meager defense, we both knew it. “He called the office. I passed him off to a less-than-reputable outfit around the corner. You were the first to call my name in this game of legal Red Rover, Red Rover, so you have my undying fealty.” He pressed a hand to his chest in exaggerated sincerity.

  “He who calls first wins?”

  “No,” he put a hand on my arm and squeezed. “He whose call is accepted first wins.”

  He won that round. “So, what are you doing here?”

  “Playing Tonto, Kemosabe.”

  “Oh, and I’m the Lone Ranger?”

  “You do prefer going it alone, except when you get your ass in a crack.”

  A slam-dunk rebuttal was out of my reach, so I didn’t even mount a defense. “A little bird told you I was on my way?” The idea chafed. Who knew? Better yet, who knew and would tell?

  Even I recognized that cynicism had become my middle name.

  Mentally, I worked through the list of possibilities and couldn’t think of a one. Like Squash said, I liked to run under the radar, and part of my self-delusion was that I could pull it off.

  Chinks were showing in my armor, but I couldn’t fathom a mole in my inner sanctum.

  Squash ended my search for a Judas. “They just released Sinclair from the hospital. You didn’t show up there, so I figured I’d find you here eventually.”

  “You waited in ambush at the hospital all this time? Why didn’t you just call?”

  “I did. Went right to voicemail.”

  “Sorry, I went down for the count. And since then…” If I’d seen that he’d called, I spaced it.

  “I didn’t leave a message. I wasn’t worried—our worlds tend to collide.”

  Like highly-charged particles speeding through a vacuum at the speed of heat. “Is this soon enough?”

  “Your timing is impeccable.” He bit back a smile as we arrived shoulder to shoulder at the intake desk. The female cop behind the Lucite blushed when Squash graced her with his patented grin. Her look of adulation evaporated when I spoke. “Lucky O’Toole. Detective Romeo is waiting for me.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Who knew those two words could hold such indifference and contempt at the same time? “And Mr. Trenton?”

  “He’s with me.”

  “Oh.” Crestfallen, she buzzed us through the doors. “Down the hall to the right.”

  I didn’t tell her I could find the interrogation rooms in the dark. “Thank you.”

  Shoulder-to-shoulder, Squash and I cleared a path down the hall. “One of your fan club?” I asked, then gave myself a silent talking-to for even going there. I never had been a grass-is-greener kind of gal…had I? Run at the sign of a guy with a rope? Did that have the ring of me in it?

  “Jealous?” He shot me a sideways glance.

  “No. Impressed.”

  With a folder under his arm and a sour mood I could read from where I stood, Romeo met us coming the other way. “Interrogation Room Three,” he said to me, ignoring Squash. “What’s he doing here?”

  “Anything I need.”

  “Convenient. Can’t wait to see how you play this one.” He grabbed my elbow, slowing me down. Squash took the hint and walked on.

  “You do know you have too many men in your life as it is, don’t you?”

  Since I knew his motivation, I wasn’t offended at the insinuation. “Better than anyone.”

  “Good.” He stepped back. Straightening, he tugged on the hem of his suit jacket, but even I could’ve told him those wrinkles were there to stay. “You really clocked Mr. Sinclair. Hairline fracture. Hell of a cut—took the plastic surgeon two rows of sixty sutures each. Sinclair’s acting like he’s lingering on the edge of a concussion, but the doc felt sure he was overplaying it.”

  “The bottle was all I had. He was assaulting the ladies.”

  “They told me.” We joined Squash, who waited outside the interrogation room.

  “You okay with me watching from behind the glass?” he asked Romeo.

  “If we end up in court, his statement’s discoverable anyway.”

  Squash took that as a yes and disappeared through a door to his left.

  With his hand on the doorknob, Romeo asked me, “Do you think Bates was our extortionist?”

  “This is starting to feel like one of those Agatha Christie novels where everyone had a motive for murder.”

  “Or at least a strong desire to see the deceased…deceased.”

  “Same difference, but your version is more eloquent. From all accounts so far, she had a sweet gig. But, as most who walk on the wrong side of the line, she pushed it too far, stepped on the wrong set of boots.”

  “The trick is figuring out who thinks murder is a good solution to a pesky monetary problem.”

  “That’s why we’re here, Grasshopper.” He was sounding more like me than I was.

  “Anything you want to add before we do our tag-team thing?”

  I gave him a synopsis of what I’d overheard in the girls’ trailer.

  “They corroborate.”

  “No doubt.” A bit of indignation at being lumped in with the less-than-truthful crept in. “You stop believing me and I’m implementing Plan B.”

  “I misstated. Your story corroborates theirs.” Too little, but not too late. “You have a Plan B?”

  “Please, I may be a corporate grunt, bought and paid for, but so far I’ve avoided the shackles.”

  “So you think.” He said it under his breath but loud enough for me to hear. “What’s Plan B?” he added to head off my verbal parry.

  “Passion on the Beach.” That got the hoped-for response—not a word, just a wide-eyed stare. “It’s a juice bar. I have the concept all figured out—passion fruit will be the main ingredient.”

  “On the beach?”

  “Kauai. Maui is a bit overrun these days and I don’t want to work too hard.”

  “You’d make it three days, max, then be bored out of your skull.”

  “You asked me if I had a Plan B. I didn’t say it was a good one.” Now that I had him back on his heels, I pressed my advantage. “Right now, before we begin, I do have one question.”

  He used his frown as a shield—hardly intimidating on someone who looked all of twelve. “You never ask my permission for anything.”

  “Truly, my bad. I’m sorry.”

  He blinked rapidly, not sure what to make of me.

  Inconsistent was my middle name—didn’t he know that?

  “Okay.” He sounded hesitant. “Fire away.”

  “Can I be the bad cop this time? You promised. Besides, you just look so nice.”

  With his black eye and black mood, he was morphing into the bad cop in front of my eyes, but I didn’t tell him that—I’d told him that enough times already.

  He rolled his eyes. “I know better than to take you seriously in situations like this. And, no, you can’t.” He held up a hand. “We don’t do that anymore.”

  “What?” My air left in a deflating whoosh. “Since when?”

  “Since they figured out that intimidation sucked as an interrogation technique. It gives you bad results. People start telling you what they think you want to hear because they’re scared.”

  “Works when they use it on me,” I groused as he turned his back and pushed through the door. “I shoulda known they’d take all the fun out of it.”

  Romeo ignored me—he didn’t hold the door.

  Sinclair was seated at a gray metal table that was bolted to the floor in the middle of a consistently gray room. The dark rectangle of two-way glass filled the wall behind him. A camera mounted high in the corner blinked its red eye at us.

  His hands folded in front of him, his head down, Sinclair didn’t look up as Romeo and I took the two chairs across from him.

  Romeo put his folder i
n front of him. If Sinclair had any interest in what was inside, he didn’t show it. “I’m Detective Romeo with the Metropolitan Police Department. This is Ms. O’Toole.”

  Tilting his head, Sinclair angled a look at me. His eyes were dark and carried a hint of hate. Of course, that might be his normal look. I didn’t know and wasn’t anxious to find out. “We’ve met.”

  Steri-Strips held the gash closed supporting the tiny black ones that ran like tracks along the contour of the cut. The smear of blood or iodine stained his forehead a light reddish brown. Some blood had pooled under the skin below his left eye and was now turning purple. If he wasn’t a badass, he now looked like one.

  “That’s one heck of a buckle.” Romeo said in an I’m-your-friend-and-just-want-to-chat amicably. “I couldn’t help but notice it.”

  As an opening salvo, that one surprised me. And I decided I wasn’t a fan of the new buddy-buddy interrogation technique. I was more of a thumbscrews and waterboard kind of gal. Not technically accurate, but not a gross overstatement either.

  Apparently, the Universe wanted to prove me wrong (nothing new there)—Romeo’s approach worked and Sinclair gave the young detective his undivided attention. “From another life.”

  “National Champion Bull Rider.” Romeo gave a low whistle. “The toughest.”

  Like a bladder being filled with hot air, Sinclair’s ego inflated before our eyes, straightening his posture. If his head got any larger he’d need a custom cowboy hat.

  The guy had to know Romeo was playing him…

  “For a moment, I was on top.” Sinclair’s face clouded and he sagged a bit, like coal as it burns and drops into a super-heated pile. “Knew it couldn’t last.”

  “It’s not supposed to,” I added, desperate to poke a pin in his bubble. Male egos—at once irritating and awe-inspiring. As a female, I wished I could capture some of that overblown confidence, but the XX-chromosome rationalist always shot me down.

  “I’ve been around. Not news to me.” Sinclair stared up at the camera in the corner, weighing his words.

  Romeo and I waited as if we had all the time and patience in the world. Time, I could give. Patience? Don’t make me laugh.

  After toting up all the pros and cons, Sinclair looked at us both straight on. “Look, I know you know my story and this is just your way of getting me to tell it. So, here it is.” He leaned forward, focusing on Romeo, man-to-man.

  I didn’t feel left out—last thing I wanted was to be pulled into a my-dick-is-bigger-than-yours game. Winning would be too easy, but I didn’t think crushing my opponent would help us get what we came for. I was beginning to understand the rationale for the kinder-and-gentler interrogation approach, not that I liked it any better.

  But, if it could help us find a killer, I was all in.

  Romeo held his ground.

  “That fuckin’ a-hole, Darrin Cole, helped me into an early retirement. Problem was, I wasn’t so ready to go, seein’ how my 401K wasn’t fully vested.” He gave a little snort of derision.

  “How’d he do that?” Romeo, the awe-gee-shucks interrogator, sounded like he really wanted to know.

  “By not doing his job. I took a bad ride—twisted my leg coming off of Blindside. That bull is fun to ride, has a bit of killer instinct in him.” He gave a tight smile. “I went down and like he sensed I was hurt, that damn bull turned on me. Cole was right there. It was his job to keep the bull off of me.”

  “He didn’t do it.” Romeo filled in the easy blank, urging Sinclair deeper into the meat of the story.

  Sinclair took the bait and warmed to his tale. “Thank you, Captain Obvious. Pansy Ass Cole cowered back. The bull got me right in the side. Got my liver and a few other important things. I damn near bled out. Also stomped my hand pretty good.” He held up his left hand; the fingers were a bit mangled, the palm closed in on itself slightly. “Broke most of the bones. Shredded tendons. I’ve got enough Gor-Tex in there to make a fucking jacket.”

  “You’re left-handed?” The question blurted out of me before I could help it.

  Sinclair eyed me as superfluous. Romeo nodded, urging him to answer. “Was. It was my dominant hand. After the bones healed and the docs did what they could, it still was pretty useless, as you can see. Learned to do everything with my right, but it’s still not natural.”

  I’m not sure whether his answer kept him in the pool of knot-tying suspects or not. “And now, regardless of your hand, with your other injuries the docs won’t clear you to ride again.”

  “They say I’m a medical risk, lucky to be alive. What the fuck do they know?”

  They took away what he loved, what fed his soul. A grudging respect bloomed somewhere inside. Not that I wouldn’t crucify him if he’d killed Turnbull and Dora Bates, but I understood.

  “I’m stuck handling the bulls rather than riding them. Gotta pay the bills.”

  “Yeah, the 401K thing,” I said.

  He gave me the dim light of his full attention. “I think you’ve got a bit of meanness for me like that bull.” The way he said it almost sounded like a compliment.

  “Only if you’re hurting people. Did you let that bull into the arena? Maybe give Cole what he gave you?”

  “Hell, no. There were a bunch of people in there.”

  “But you figured Cole would sacrifice himself to draw the bull away from them. Not a bad idea, really, when you think about it.”

  He absorbed that, then leaned back in his chair, his arms open. “Look. I know how it all looks.” He flicked a glance my direction. “Especially since you caught my act with the ladies.”

  Oh, the guy was a fast learner.

  “I just wanted to give Cole a bit of what he gave me. I didn’t know the guy in his suit wasn’t him.”

  “And the rope around his neck?”

  Sinclair tried to shrug away from the question. “Just to scare him a bit.”

  “Did you tie the knot in it?”

  His eyebrows arched then fell back into place. “No, it was the girl’s rope. She’d been practicing.”

  I stilled. “Which girl?”

  “The cute kid with the freckles, Poppy.”

  The breath I’d been holding left me in a sigh. “She tied the knot?”

  “How would I know? Why don’t you ask her? Or better yet, why don’t you ask her father? He does everything for the kid but wipe her ass. Wouldn’t put that past him either.” Sinclair gave me a leer, his tongue between his teeth.

  Ah, now I had someone to strangle. I was feeling better.

  But, instead of giving him the satisfaction of knowing he’d burrowed under my skin like a tick, I kept my expression flat, my voice hard, my manner calm. Why didn’t they award Oscars to everyday people? “What else did you do to Turnbull besides threaten him?”

  “Nothing. He took off like a scared rabbit. I had no idea it was him—his face was smeared with white paint like the clowns use. They weren’t due up for a while, so I thought maybe I’d caught him putting on his clown face. Trevor was an okay guy, and he’d jump at his own shadow, so not exactly fun to get all lathered up.”

  “You two had argued in the barn. What about?”

  “Who told you that?” I stared at him until he continued. “A bull; we argued over a bull. He thought he was a killer and would get out and hurt someone. Wanted me to get rid of him, but he was the hardest to ride. Separated the men from the boys.” He rubbed his side and stretched, an involuntary action.

  “That the same bull that hurt you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What happened?”

  “I told Turnbull to fuck off and he did. Like I said, he wasn’t one to put up much of a fight.”

  “Like the girls, Suzie and Becky?” My voice held a cold steel edge.

  He shot me a look and wisely said nothing.

  “And where were you when you encountered Turnbull?” Romeo asked.

  “By the side entrance where Rico parks his tractor, but I thought he was Cole.”

&
nbsp; “So you said.” I had a feeling Turnbull hadn’t backed down quite as easily as Sinclair wanted us to believe.

  The guy was a creep and had a habit of bullying people. Hurt and anger could warp a guy, but enough for murder?

  I wondered what being scared would look like on him. “This is a great story, but it’s not the one you started into with the girls,” I said. In the trailer, in that fraction of a second before his lights went dark, he’d had enough time to process my presence. So I knew the truth. Couldn’t wait to see how he’d spin it.

  “I was pushing to see what they thought they saw and what they’d told the cops.”

  “You have a habit of pushing people around, don’t you?” Romeo had picked up a bit of my mad.

  “Only when they deserve it.”

  “Did Mr. Turnbull deserve it?” I leaned forward, pressing my advantage.

  “Turnbull?” Sinclair spat the name like an epithet. “He was a pansy. Just cared about his kid and her stupid horse.” He turned to me. “Did you know horses have brains the size of a walnut? A huge, strong animal, and stupid as all get out.”

  Romeo grabbed my arm, knowing I was about to draw an obvious comparison. I resisted…barely. Life held so few perfect opportunities…

  “I really didn’t mean to hurt him. You have to believe that.”

  “But you meant to hurt someone and he was collateral damage.”

  Sinclair shrugged and crossed his arms, a satisfied look on his face as if he’d managed to hoodwink us. “Not hurt them. Scare them.” Then he seemed to sober as if prodded by some dim chime of wisdom. “I didn’t mean for the dude to stroke out.”

  “Where’d you get the rope?” I asked, inserting the question in his moment of comfort like a surgical blade sliding between two ribs.

  “What?” The question knocked some of the arrogance out of him. “What do you mean?”

  “I think the question is self-explanatory.” Romeo used his grown-up voice.

  “I…I…I don’t know. Around.”

  “You’re telling us a very nice, hand-braided custom lariat was just lying around?”

  “Yeah, that’s exactly what I’m telling you. I was back by the side entrance and saw who I thought was Cole. Lit my fuse, I can tell you. I grabbed a rope and headed after him. Got the loop around him as we ran down the side of the arena.”