So Damn Lucky (Lucky O'Toole Vegas Adventure Book 3)

by Deborah Coonts

  “Where are you taking him?” I asked.

  “UMC,” one said over his shoulder, as they rushed Dimitri out and the crowd closed around us.

  For a moment, no one said anything as we all stared at each other, completely stunned at what had happened.

  “Does anyone know if Dimitri has any family?” I asked, feeling sick to my stomach.

  “He had a wife. She… died,” Molly said, her voice choked with emotion.

  “Anyone else?”

  “He didn’t speak of anyone.”

  That left me to go to the hospital, sign the papers. I’d do it anyway—I felt responsible. He’d died in my hotel, on my watch, and I’d even been warned it was coming. Guilt settled over me, constricting my heart. While Dimitri’s day was worse than mine, it wasn’t considerably worse. I’d almost rather trade places with him.

  Grabbing two security guards from out front, I posted them around the water torture box. “Don’t let anyone near this thing. Not until the police arrive. You got it?”

  If someone had tampered with it, there would be hell to pay.

  ***

  “I always thought this thing was cursed,” remarked Detective Romeo as he paced around the contraption, his hands behind his back, his eyes wide with delight. He looked like a kid at Christmas.

  “Cursed?” Tired of standing while I waited for the police, I had roosted on the steps to one of the set pieces. Everyone else had either scattered to the dressing rooms or milled in the hallways. I wouldn’t let anyone leave until the police arrived. Now that they had, I thankfully transferred the mantle of responsibility to the young detective.

  With his rumpled suit, poorly knotted tie, and raincoat, Romeo was channeling Columbo. Perhaps he was compensating for looking all of twelve years old with his messy sandy-brown hair and guileless face. Or perhaps he didn’t know how to dress. Either way, I was glad to see him—he was my contact with the Metropolitan Police Department (Metro to all of us Las Vegans) and he owed me.

  “Houdini insisted on absolute loyalty from all those around him,” Romeo explained. “There’s a quote attributed to Houdini. Something about wanting his show to be the best in the world while he was alive, and after he was dead, wanting none other to be like it.”

  “So if all his secrets were buried with him, how is this here?”

  “Theodore, the brother, defied Harry. He gave the original torture cell to a friend.”

  My heart momentarily leapt at the name. My Theodore was in Helsinki, or Moscow, or Prague—some faraway place I hadn’t been to and couldn’t picture. Right now I sure could use one of his hugs—but that, of course, wasn’t going to happen—a fact that amazingly made my day even worse. “So you think Harry Houdini cursed this thing from beyond because his brother didn’t do as he asked?”

  “Not really.” Romeo looked a bit sheepish. “But it makes a good story.”

  “How do you know all of this?”

  Romeo reached up as if pulling something from behind my ear, then showed me the quarter in his previously empty hand. “I’m a bit of an amateur magician, using the term loosely.”

  “I never knew that about you,” I said, truly surprised. “Why haven’t you told me before?”

  “It never came up. And besides, I didn’t think being a prestidigitator would add gravitas to my whole detective gig.”

  “Perhaps not, but that word is impressive.”

  Accustomed to my sarcasm, Romeo ignored me.

  “So, if this water torture thing was on public display or whatever,” I said when I couldn’t get a smile out of him, “its secrets must be well-known.”

  “Actually, no. None of those close to Houdini ever breathed a word, and the original torture cell was destroyed by fire.”

  “Yet here it is,” I said, not understanding any of this.

  “Perhaps a replica. There was one, but no one knows where it is. And rumor has it another one was made without permission by the woodworker hired to fashion the original. Or it could be something thrown together from old pictures of the exterior.” Romeo reached out to touch the box, then thought better of it. “I wonder if this is the original replica or the fake?”

  “Can you have a fake replica?” I mused out loud. “And who would care as long as it works?”

  “The person who owns it,” Romeo said, chosing to ignore my musings. “The real replica would be worth close to two million dollars.”

  “Two million! I guess it’s safe to assume a lesser magician toiling in a show long past its prime probably didn’t have that kind of money. So, if Dimitri doesn’t own it, who does?”

  ***

  I left Romeo examining the torture cell and looking for clues, or whatever it was detectives do. His men were busy questioning everyone who had been backstage, out front, or who had access to the torture cell—a process that would probably take most of the night. The young detective was humoring me, I could tell. It’s not as if I knew a crime had been committed. Was this a trick gone horribly wrong, or had someone tampered with the water box? How would we know if no one knew its secrets?

  Lost in thought, I charged through the casino and ran smack into a chest I recognized. “Dane! What are you doing here?”

  He grabbed my shoulders to steady me. “Looking for you.”

  A long, tall drink of Texas charm, Paxton Dane was a watchdog for the Gaming Control Board; the Babylon was part of his territory. At six foot four, with wavy brown hair that begged for fingers to be run through it, emerald green eyes that seemed to give half of the female population an urge to strip on the spot, and an aw-shucks manner, Dane was a walking, talking, living, breathing sexual tractor beam. Tonight he looked especially hunk-a-liscious, in creased jeans, crocodile kickers, a tweed blazer in browns and greens, and a shirt that matched his eyes and accented broad shoulders that tapered nicely to his narrow waist.

  And wouldn’t you know it, in addition to being the stuff of female fantasies, he was also a nice guy with the whole Southern chivalry thing going on. Add the fact that he didn’t try to hide his attraction to me, and I found resisting him darn near impossible, even with my considerable talents.

  “Why are you looking for me?” I asked, unwilling to resist him holding onto my elbow as he escorted me to the door and the waiting valet. The heat of his hand radiated through the thin cashmere of my sweater. A jolt of attraction arced through me. My brain said no, but my body didn’t speak the same language. Clearly, fighting with myself was a losing battle.… Briefly I wondered if that was even a battle that could be won. If so, between me and myself, who would win and who would lose?

  “I heard about your interesting evening,” Dane said, his mouth close to my ear spreading the warmth. Like liquid chocolate, his voice was smooth, delicious. “I thought maybe I could help.” He whistled in appreciation as the valet eased the Ferrari to the curb. “That car still makes my pulse pound.”

  “And here I thought it was me,” I shot back, then cringed. Sometimes my mouth works before my brain engages—another example of that body/brain disconnect. Flirting with Dane didn’t seem like the smartest thing to do, especially given my libido situation.

  “That goes without saying.” He gave me a wry smile.

  “Did you bring a ride?” I asked.

  “No, Paolo dropped me off.” Paolo was the Babylon’s head chauffeur and he normally worked the night shift.

  “Well, then, Cowboy, put your ass in some class.” I handed the valet a twenty, then folded myself into the car, making a mental note that next time I drove the thing I would not wear such a short skirt. “I’ll give you a ride, but I doubt you’re going to like where I’m headed.”

  ***

  The cool night air streamed in through the open top as I followed traffic up the Strip. There were shorter routes to UMC, the University Medical Center, but with a handsome man in the car and an unsavory task awaiting me, I was in no hurry. Ignoring Dane’s presence, men called out to me from the sidewalks. “Nice car, lady!” one guy
shouted. “Want to take me for a ride?” another added. “I’d like to rev your engine,” a young man shouted.

  Safe in the car, and with a chaperone, I rewarded that one with a wave.

  Dane looked over at me and raised an eyebrow. “Do you always attract this sort of attention?”

  “If I had known what a man-magnet this car was, I would’ve sold my soul a decade ago to get my hands on one.”

  “I wouldn’t think you’d need the car,” Dane said as he put a hand over mine.

  I didn’t have to look at him to see the warmth in his eyes—I’d seen it before—and I could feel it in his touch. “Dane—”

  “I know.” He removed his hand.

  Where his fingers had lingered on mine, my skin now felt cold.

  “Where are we going that I won’t like?” he asked, kindly letting me off the hook.

  “UMC.” I shivered as I said the letters. Nothing good ever brought me to a hospital—at least not since I was born in one, but I don’t remember that. The last time I’d been there The Big Boss had died, once, been shocked back to life, then had emergency heart surgery. “I need to check on the magician and see if they can give me a preliminary cause of death.”

  “Wasn’t it an accident?”

  I gave Dane the whole story, as it existed so far—the rumors that Dimitri Fortunoff was the Masked Houdini, the death threats, the Chinese Water Torture Cell.

  “If you don’t know how he was supposed to get out in the first place, how will you know if someone rigged the water thing so Mr. Fortunoff couldn’t escape?”

  “I’ve asked myself the same question and I still have no idea. But if we can start ruling things out, like drugs or a heart attack, maybe we can close in on what really happened.”

  “That’s gonna be like trying to scratch your ear with your elbow.”

  I had a sinking feeling he was right.

  ***

  The emergency room at UMC was a hive of activity when Dane and I pushed through the doors, adding our bodies to the bustle. After waiting in front of the check-in desk for several minutes, I finally managed to get the attention of one of the nurses.

  With hollow eyes and the pallor of the walking dead, she pushed a strand of hair out of her face and hooked it behind an ear as she gave me the once-over. “What can I do for you?” she asked. Even her voice sounded exhausted.

  “A magician from the Athena was brought in a little while ago,” I said. “Tall guy, dressed in vintage swim trunks. He drowned. I’d like to talk to the doctor who signed his death certificate.”

  The nurse again brushed at the strand of hair that refused to remain moored behind her ear and out of her face. She consulted a clipboard. “Hon, we’ve had two ODs, a gunshot wound, three stab wounds, several heart attacks, and one guy with a lightbulb broken off in his… well, never mind.” She glanced up at us and gave a weak smile. “But no drowned magicians.”

  “Really? You sure?” I leaned across the counter and looked at her list. “The paramedics said they were bringing him here.”

  The nurse snatched away her list. “No drowned magician.”

  “If they didn’t bring him here, where did they take him?”

  ***

  The night was still relatively young when, with Dane dogging my heels, I pushed through the doors into the lobby of the Babylon Resort and Casino—my home away from home. Which, come to think of it, due to the hours I worked, felt more like home than home did. Not good.

  The Big Boss’s pride and joy, the Babylon was an architectural work of art with its soaring ceilings covered with blown glass hummingbirds and butterflies in flight, polished marble floors, and intricate inlaid mosaics. Bright swags of multicolored cloth tented above the reception area, reminiscent of an Arabian market. Adjacent to Reception was the entrance to The Bazaar, an avenue of high-end shops where the top luxury brands beckoned conspicuous consumers with a dazzling show of bling and wildly expensive designer threads, shoes, and accessories. People came from far and wide to gaze in awe, even if they couldn’t spring for any of the treasures.

  A river of water, our very own version of the Euphrates, meandered through the lobby and into the casino beyond. Lined with flowering plants and filled with goldfish and carp, the stream hosted several pairs of swans and numerous families of ducks—one of The Big Boss’s touches that necessitated a vet on retainer for bird birth control. Swans are foul-tempered beasts and too many ducks can get messy—and they breed like rabbits; we learned that the hard way. Railed footbridges arcing over the Euphrates provided easy access to the other side as well as picturesque spots for photos.

  Directly across from the reception area, separated behind a wall of floor-to-ceiling glass, loomed an indoor ski hill of man-made snow. The runs were closing for the night. A few people still stood at the window, watching the skiers making their last dash down the hill. While a ski slope wasn’t particularly consistent with our Ancient Persia theme, it got people in the doors, which was the whole point. The Big Boss was a genius when it came to pulling people inside—the critical Vegas success skill.

  Dane and I dodged a cluster of folks, their faces turned skyward as they admired the ceiling and its splash of colorful creatures in flight. We headed for the stairs that would take us to the Mezzanine and my office.

  Once out of the lobby, with our footfalls echoing off the metal stairs and reverberating in the stairwell, Dane asked, “What next?”

  Pressing the bar on the exit door and pushing it open, I threw over my shoulder, “I hit the phones. I’m going to find where they took that magician if we have to call every hospital in town.” For-profit hospitals had been sprouting like weeds in the suburbs, so I had my work cut out for me.

  “Let’s split the city. You take the west half, I’ll take the east,” Dane offered.

  “Deal.” The light in my outer office still glowed, so I didn’t bother rooting in my bag for my keys.

  Miss Patterson, my stalwart first assistant, manned her desk like a captain at the helm of her ship. A fabulous almost-fifty with spiky golden hair, warm eyes, and the best bullshit meter of anyone I’d ever met, Miss P was the compass that kept my office on course. I’d be totally at sea without her.

  Tonight, she wore a trim, gunmetal gray suit with a hint of lace at her décolletage, a stunning David Yurman necklace of turquoise and gold, matching earrings, and a hint of wicked in her eyes, placed there, no doubt, by her much younger lover, the Beautiful Jeremy Whitlock.

  She greeted me with a fleeting smile and a raised eyebrow when she saw Dane behind me. If she had an opinion about his presence, I couldn’t tell. Her manner was efficient, her tone clipped when she said, “Good timing. Your mother is holding on line one.”

  And this night had been going so well…

  My mother, Mona, gave a whole new meaning to the term ‘high-risk pregnancy’—her meteoric mood swings put anyone who crossed her path in mortal danger.

  At an age where she should have been looking forward to grandchildren, she found herself inexplicably with child. She had been sixteen when she had me—an inconvenience that could have been due to hormonal overload and its resulting stupidity. But now, being of a certain age and having had some prior experience, Mona should have known better.

  To compound matters, she hadn’t worked up the courage to tell The Big Boss he was going to be a parent…again. I was the sole keeper of her secret—lucky me.

  “Mother,” I said, keeping my voice passive until I could gauge her mood.

  “Lucky, darling, could you stop by when you have a moment? I need your help.”

  Sweetness and light. So unexpected. I smelled a rat. “What with? I’m working a pretty big problem of my own.”

  “Oh, it won’t take long,” she said breezily.

  I heard my father’s voice in the background, a scuffling noise, then his irritated growl boomed over the line, “Could you get up here? Your mother is plotting the annihilation of the Pussy Palace and I need your help.”

/>   ***

  Still clutching the receiver after the line went dead, I must have looked stricken as Miss P and Dane stared at me owl-eyed from the doorway.

  “Is everything okay?” Miss P asked, clearly alarmed.

  “Do either of you know what the Pussy Palace is?” I slowly recradled the phone.

  “I do,” Dane announced, looking a little sheepish, “It’s a new whorehouse in Pahrump. I believe it opened in that abandoned hotel just down the street from your mother’s place.”

  “I don’t think I’m going to ask how you know that,” I said, narrowing my eyes at him.

  “I don’t think I would answer if you did.” He gave me a look of pure innocence.

  My mother owned Mona’s Place, the self-styled “Best Whorehouse in Pahrump,” and she would consider competition moving in an act of war. Giving weight to her delicate condition, I made a mental note to lock up all the firearms.

  “At least that explains why Mother is on the warpath and The Big Boss is at the end of his rope. I’ve been summoned to referee. Could the two of you start on the call list?”

  I saw the question in Miss P’s eyes. Raising my hand, I stopped her. “Dane can explain it to you. I shouldn’t be too long unless The Big Boss strangles the woman before I get there. And frankly, if he does, he’d be doing us all a huge favor.”

  ***

  Mother had moved into The Big Boss’s apartment on the top floor, the fifty-second, of the west wing of the hotel. For some odd reason, I liked the fact that my parents were living in sin, thumbing their noses at the world—there was a cosmic symmetry to it. They’d met at a party when Mona was a teenager turning tricks and lying about her age. The Big Boss, twenty years her senior, was a golden boy in the casino business. They’d fallen madly in love. The resulting pregnancy—me—had been an inconvenience and an embarrassment to my father’s employers.