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

by Deborah Coonts

  Beckham weighed what sounded like an offer but was semantically nothing more than a statement of fact. A few waggles of his head indicated his waffling. The red in his cheeks faded as serious replaced the anger.

  “You give me something to catch the killer, and I’ll not press charges. I can’t speak for Lucky’s security guards.” Romeo waited, presumably for me to respond.

  “I’ll suggest they don’t press charges, but it’s up to them. But you have to deliver a killer.”

  “Extortion. That’s what was going on.”

  “Pay or your pony dies,” I said. I’d suspected that all along. “You can’t be the only one.” I wasn’t going to share what I knew. “Who else?”

  “Nobody wanted to talk about it. Everybody was scared. Especially since Reno. One of the horses ended up dead.”

  “She proved she wasn’t bluffing.”

  “Yeah. After that, the chatter quieted. Turnbull was the only one who stepped up.”

  “He was helping you?” Romeo paused in his note-taking.

  “More like tagging along.” As he thought about his friend, the fight left him. “Should’ve been me she tried for.”

  “The predators pull from the back of the pack.” The stuff you learn from National Geographic. And as predators, humans were the most deadly. I felt for him, really I did. The responsibility for getting a friend killed would be a heavy burden, even for a guy with anger issues…maybe especially for a guy with anger issues. “You think she killed him?”

  “Don’t know. I was sure it was Dora Bates until someone hung her up. She was just enough of a whack job to do it.”

  I wanted to give him a lecture on mental illness, but Beckham was on a roll and I knew better than to derail a speeding train. He stepped back to the bars. Grabbing them, he got so close he practically poked his nose through. I resisted an involuntary urge to retreat.

  The need to tell us spurred him on and he gained momentum. “She never had any money, always complaining about it. As if any of us was flush. We all struggled for our kids—this is an expensive sport. But every weekend, our teenagers are with us while their friends at home are getting into trouble.”

  “Hanging with their folks—something they’d never do without the incentive of a horse.” The more I learned about rearing kids, the less I wanted to do it.

  “Better than paying to get them out of whatever trouble they find.” He pushed at the curls that stuck to his forehead. Sweat dripped off him and darkened half-moons in the pits of his shirt.

  What exactly made him nervous? Getting out? Getting caught?

  All of the above, if it’d been me. Against all my better instincts, I started feeling a bit sympathetic.

  What would I do if someone was shaking down someone I loved?

  “How much?”

  “Always something barely affordable.”

  “Different amounts for each of you?” That sounded like a play Dora the front office accountant could pull off.

  “At each new city, when we’d pick up our competitor packet, if we were to be targeted, a note would be in there. It would state the amount and where to leave it. All cash, of course, and unique to each location.”

  “Where in Vegas?”

  “I don’t know. This time I wasn’t the target.”

  “Turnbull?”

  “Yeah, he was pissed.” His gaze drifted from mine as he looked over my shoulder, scoping the room.

  “Looking for someone who’ll believe you?”

  His eyebrows lowered as he glared at me and rubbed his jaw. “Should’ve taken care of you when I met you.”

  Behind me, Romeo chuckled, but wisely let me run with it.

  “Maybe, but I’m your best bet right now. Here’s how it went down. You were the one who drew the line in the sand, and you convinced Turnbull to help you. He didn’t have your balls. That’s why they came after your horse.”

  He chewed on the inside of his mouth as he avoided the truth by staring into the dark behind me.

  “Damn fool.” Beckham’s voice held his pain, putting him on the path to redemption.

  So far, he was guilty of stupidity and arrogance and maybe excessive temper, though I couldn’t be sure what I’d do in the same position. But Dora Bates still hung out there. The metaphor made me cringe.

  “What was Turnbull doing that got him killed?” I thought I knew, but I needed to hear it from the horse’s mouth. Pasting on a dispassionate look, I ignored myself and forced my few functioning brain cells to focus.

  “I’d told him to go back to the hotel, that I’d wait for whoever was coming. He said he would. Why didn’t he?” Beckham’s grief rang with truth.

  “Maybe he intended to. Did you think the extortionist would strike while the rodeo was just getting going for the evening, while everyone was around and the risk of being seen was greatest?”

  “No!” Emotion filled that one word. “That surprised the hell out of me. We figured the best time would be when everyone had left and the security guard had too much to keep an eye on all at once.”

  “The sensible time to do it.” I would’ve assumed the same. “But they didn’t.”

  “No.”

  “Is it possible Turnbull saw something? Surprised them in the act?”

  Beckham’s eyes widened. “Sure. His kid’s horse was just down from my kid’s. Before we left for the night, we always checked on them, threw them another flake of hay.” His eyes filled with tears. “They’re really sweet animals. Not so smart, and so trusting. Who would hurt them?”

  “A deranged asshole without a heart.” Vehemence punctuated my words, surprising Romeo, who shot me a look. “My pony saved my childhood. I told you that. You never forget.”

  “Turnbull wasn’t a big guy,” I said, trying to remember from his lifeless body. Darrin Cole’s clown suit was big on him, and Darrin was a good bit smaller than me.

  “Small but he was a scrapper,” Beckham confirmed.

  “So, if he saw someone hurting your horse, he’d jump them, wouldn’t he?”

  “Totally.” Beckham sounded sad. “I shoulda been there.”

  He’d been drinking in a bar. His burden increased.

  “You couldn’t have known.” A few of the tumblers clicked. “You showed up at the barn about when I did. That was the time you thought the rodeo would be ending and the killer would be ready to do his deed.”

  “A bit before, actually. Poppy called me, told me what had happened. When I met you, all of it had just hit me.”

  That was the closest a man like Beckham would come to an apology, especially to a woman.

  Although I was earning his respect, albeit grudgingly given, a hint was there. As I did the talking, the postulating, he kept listening.

  “And you were furious.”

  “Worse.”

  “So, when you saw the red ball thingy and the lipstick…”

  “I went ballistic.”

  “Did you kill Dora Bates?”

  “No.” As he said it, he looked right in my eyes and never wavered. “I’d heard she was hanging out with the high rollers at your place, then when the lipsticks and the red thingy showed up, I was sure it was her.”

  “So, you stole the drugs from the doc and headed for my hotel, ready to give her what she had been giving?”

  “Your hotel?” He gave a derisive snort. “Knew you were too smart to be a cop.”

  I didn’t hazard a look at Romeo.

  “Did you tie the halter rope to the stall?” I explained what I’d seen.

  “No, nobody who knows anything about horses would do that.”

  “Any idea who did?”

  “Nobody I know.”

  I didn’t disabuse him of that notion. I felt sure it would end up, in fact, being someone he knew. Instead, I waited for Beckham to finish the story—he was already in so far, I knew he’d give me all of it. “Tell me the rest. Catching who’s really behind all of this is your only ticket out of here. And I’m your best chance because I
believe you. And I’d be the last person to want to see an innocent man on Death Row.”

  The reminder of the gravity of his situation took the last of the fight out of him. “My kid’s mom took a powder.” That fact alone explained a lot. “I’ve raised Poppy from the time she was barely dry. I’d put the world on my back and give it to her if I could.”

  Parents and the lengths they were willing to go for their spawn still surprised me. “I’m sorry.”

  Beckham reared back. “Don’t be sorry. The woman did me a huge favor. Best gift ever, actually.”

  “What did you find when you got to Bungalow Twelve?”

  “Door was open.” From there, he described the scene exactly as I’d found it. Of course, the killer would know that, as well as an innocent who stumbled on it.

  “And the red ball thingy? Did it come from her jacket?” I held my breath. Curiously, I so wanted him to be innocent.

  Beckham shrugged in resignation. “I don’t know. She had that weird jacket thing on her, her hands tied up like that.” A memory slithered through him, crawling under his skin. “Most of her jacket was under the thing. Only the collar showed, so I couldn’t tell.”

  “What did you do then?”

  “Ran.” Pink crept into his cheeks.

  “Why?”

  Angling away from me, he gave me one squinty eye. “Scared the shit out of me.”

  “Why?” I had a feeling the answer wouldn’t be the obvious one.

  “Murder’s some serious shit.” He waffled a bit, then gave us the real reason. “When we were breaking up, the ex accused me of trying to kill her.”

  “Did you?”

  “No. I got mad, sure. Lost control. I pushed her down on the bed, but that was it. Nobody believed me. Did some time for felony assault.” He stared down Romeo. “I couldn’t have your kind digging that up and leaping to conclusions.”

  I jumped in before anyone said something they would regret. “Do you think Dora Bates killed Turnbull?”

  Beckham pursed his lips. “For sure she was shaking us down—and more than just me and Turnbull. Think about it. Where else would she get the green to stay in that fancy little hut at your hotel?”

  The guy had a knack for being irritating, but he asked good questions.

  “Were you with the rodeo in Reno?”

  “Yeah. We joined there.”

  “Did you know the Browns?”

  “The folks whose horse died? No. We hadn’t had a chance to meet too many people.”

  “You’re from Oklahoma, right?”

  “Lawton.”

  “Is that near Wichita Falls?”

  “A short drive. Why?”

  I ignored his question. “Do the names Sara Pickford or Dr. Dean ring a bell?”

  “No.” He didn’t seem surprised at the names.

  “What did you do with the evidence you stole?”

  “And the drugs,” Romeo added just as I was about to.

  “Ditched them in one of the bins in the place where all the shops are.”

  “The Bazaar?”

  He shook his head. “I guess. It was close to that place with the drinks.”

  “Daiquiri Den,” I said, turning to Jerry.

  He stepped away from the group and talked in hushed tones into his security handset. Depending on timing, we might get lucky.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  THE night had fallen dark and deep by the time I found myself behind the wheel, the Ferrari growling as if it knew where we were going.

  Home.

  The spotty traffic thinned further by the time I’d flown through the mousetrap, headed north on the 95, then peeled off on the Summerlin Parkway, and I found myself virtually alone. Vegas changed as the night progressed toward dawn, the frenetic party giving way to the…hangover. I hadn’t thought of it quite that way before, but it fit. The Bacchanalian overindulgence giving way to the recovery.

  To start again the next day.

  But for now, rest.

  Romeo’s text followed Jerry’s. Both confirmed they’d found the evidence where Beckham had said it would be. The vials of barbiturates looked full. The red thingy and the lipsticks were still in the plastic bag, although, since they’d been out of the chain of custody, their usefulness in court was gone. But Romeo had delivered all of it to the Coroner’s Office. Maybe his staff would work their magic and give me a thread. I’d find out in the morning.

  The girls were asleep at the Babylon with a security detail keeping an eye out. Doc Latham had been released. With Doc Latham unwilling to press charges and Romeo himself ambivalent, he’d booked Beckham on the murder charge, more for his own good than any real chance we had our killer. With his runaway anger, there was no telling what Beckham would do. Keeping him on ice for twenty-four hours wouldn’t hurt anyone, and it would give us more time to pull all this together. Twenty-four hours. Not much time.

  So, with everyone tucked away and nothing more to chase right now, I planned on curling up with my chef and his promised bottle of wine.

  Yes, it was late. But chefing was a late business. In fact, I might even beat him home.

  Home.

  There was that word again.

  Quiet reigned in Summerlin. The city still slept, not yet yawning into a new day. One garbage truck lumbered ahead of me. Thankfully, it continued on as I turned into the subdivision—Eagle Hills, a nice combination of affluence and keeping it real. Out of habit, I reached over my head to punch the button, then realized not in this car. My Porsche had been programmed with the code—part of the old me that had been incinerated.

  A borrowed car. A borrowed life?

  No, it felt real; it just didn’t feel like mine.

  Change, not my best thing.

  I needn’t have worried about not having the clicker—Jean-Charles had beaten me home…and barely; the light was still on. It flicked off as I pulled in and killed the engine.

  “I thought I heard you.” My man met me at the door, relieving me of my purse, then giving me a kiss warm with the promise of more.

  “You left the door up.” Not an admonishment, but a question.

  “I do every night until I know you aren’t coming.” He looped an arm around my waist. Conjoined, we walked through the kitchen; spotless, yet the aroma of pizza lingered. “Take out?”

  “Chantal, she is tired of cooking at night.” His niece, Chantal, a full-fledged teenager, was following in her uncle’s footsteps and attending a prestigious cooking school nearby. “I am worried she does not have the calling here.” He patted his chest over his heart.

  “She’s a teenager longing to be an adult but with no clue how much work is involved once you get there.”

  He deposited me at the couch then peeled off, slipping behind the bar. The wine he’d promised was already chilling. “You are a wise parent.”

  “No, a terrified one.”

  “All parents are terrified.”

  “I don’t believe you.” With a groan, I sagged into the welcoming softness of overstuffed cushions. After kicking my shoes off, I leaned back, my arms over my head, stretching until every vertebra in my spine crackled and popped, releasing its tension—the very definition of hurts so good.

  “Why this?” He pulled the cork, sniffed it, then poured a taste into a glass. After swirling it, he stuffed his nose in the bowl of the glass.

  That always struck me as either silly or bad manners, but when it came to wine, I was woefully unsophisticated.

  He handed me a glass then took a spot next to me, our bodies touching at the hips and shoulders. In that way he was like a puppy, needing the tactile connection, not that I was averse. “This wine, it is very nice. The grapes, they grow only on Santorini. Have you been?” At the shake of my head, he continued, “It is so peaceful.”

  “As only sleeping in the caldera of an active volcano can be.”

  “You are missing my point.” Mock petulance—he looked so much like his son…who was five.

  “No, I’m playin
g with you. It amuses me—what can I say? I’m shallow that way.”

  “Indeed. We must keep the flame of a child inside.”

  “There you go, sounding all grown up again.”

  Holding his glass at an angle to the light, he admired the soft golden hints. “It is pretty, no?”

  I took a sip. “Yum, dry, acidic, mineraly, but smooth.”

  “Yes, this.” With his eyes closed, he savored the wine.

  I’d asked him once why he did that, closed his eyes while sipping wine. He’d told me for the same reason he closed his eyes when he kissed me—taking one sense away focused the others, making the experience so much more.

  Yes, falling in love with him had been a given from the get-go.

  Done savoring, he opened his eyes, then angled toward me, crossing one leg over mine. He stretched an arm along the couch behind my shoulders, his fingers lightly caressing my neck and shoulder. He smelled of hamburgers, grilled onions, and contentment. “So, why do you not believe all parents are scared?”

  “Because none of them look scared.”

  “If we let the children sense our fear, all will be lost.” He said that in all seriousness.

  “So, it’s a game?” I didn’t mean to mock him, but my voice held that tone.

  “As is all of life. A game with not so many rules where we all must try not to make mistakes as we go, but knowing we will. The learning comes in the recovery.”

  As I sipped my wine, I tucked in closer to him—if that was possible—and really thought about what he said. “Compassion is in accepting our fallibility.” And I had no idea how the perfectionist inside of me could handle that. But I also knew she had to for me to have a chance at happiness. In my defense, while I held others to a very high standard, I held myself to an even more exacting one.

  An explanation that no longer held the comfort of an excuse.

  Piercing the veil of my own self-delusion—a start down the path toward self-acceptance. Damn, I hated change.

  “I knew you would say it better than me.” Jean-Charles pretended to be impressed with my grasp of my native language.

  “You’re cute, but patronizing doesn’t suit you. English is my first language.”

  “No.” He touched my heart. “This is our first language, the one that connects everyone. The rest is just to confuse us.”