Lucky Score

by Deborah Coonts

  “Knowing Lake, leverage.”

  “And you? You were playing both sides?”

  My father didn’t seem bothered by that. “Been doing it all my life. The key is to be the last man standing.”

  “Given Lake’s current residence laid out on a slab in a cold locker, I wouldn’t let the police in on your theory.” I felt a cold chill. I knew the game, but most days I wondered why we had to play it. Couldn’t we meet in the middle, divvy up the pie, and all go about our business?

  One thing stood in our way: greed.

  “Well, Fox is up to something still. He’s still manning the fort as far as I know, even with his boss silenced.”

  “Any idea who Fox is spying on?” Jerry pushed himself up, then hit the button to raise his bed up.

  “Probably everyone and anyone, looking for leverage, just as his former boss taught him.”

  As we digested that, Clair rushed back in with a new water jug as if she’d been standing outside the door waiting for a sign she was needed. “You okay?”

  Jerry’s smile filled with love and patience. He took her hand and squeezed it, waiting until her gaze settled on him. “I’m okay. We’re okay. Try not to worry.”

  She visibly relaxed. “Okay. Okay.” She set the jug by the sink. “I’m going to get some coffee.” She glanced around our small huddle. “Anyone want some?”

  We all nodded, probably for the same reason: something warm and familiar to ease our pain, although we each suffered from a different kind.

  I leveled a look across the bed. “There’s more to this. What’s the NFL angle?”

  My father settled back. “They’re a wee bit skittish about allowing a team here in Vegas.”

  “Yes. Vegas will strip their lily-white players of their innocence and corrupt their souls.”

  “Something like that.”

  Visions of Beau Boudreaux and his panty-pushing partiers, all of them flouting the rules, danced in my head. At the confluence of youth, Y-chromosomes, too much money and over-the-top adulation, mischief and mayhem, and down-right lawlessness were part of the program.

  Jerry cleared his throat. “And then there’s the security side of it.”

  “We’ve got a bunch of players, perhaps behaving badly, and Fox is in the henhouse.” Yes, I enjoyed saying that. I’m simple. What can I say?

  Jerry pursed his lips and nodded once. “He can spy on anybody.”

  “Do I need to point out that you guys have totally jumped the rails on this? Talk about leaping to conclusions.” My father actually sounded serious. “You’ve no proof he’s doing anything underhanded.”

  My eyes rolled on that one but I refused to dignify his righteous indignation. “I’m assuming if Lake won, the Ponders would be the losers?” My father nodded, but I didn’t need his confirmation. “So, if Lake is as big a scumbag as you say, what did he have on them?”

  My father shifted his gaze out the window as if the view toward the Palms was mesmerizing.

  “Give it up, Father.”

  For a moment I thought he’d get his back up, but finally he wilted. His eyes were bloodshot when they met mine. “Nolan told me this in confidence. He’s divorcing Sky.”

  “Now, there’s a shocker. But if that provided legal grounds for the NFL to jerk chains, the league would be gutted. Perhaps Nolan found out about her arrest for dealing?”

  My father shook his head. “How do you know this stuff?”

  “You pay me serious six figures to know this stuff.”

  “You are an exasperating daughter but a terrific employee.”

  For some reason, I was insulted by the distinction. Shouldn’t a good child also be good at her job? Even when her boss was her father? Why could I never get a bead on what any male in my life expected of me?

  “I play to my strengths.” I didn’t know what else to say, although tipping his chair over backward looked promising.

  “No, it wasn’t about her arrest, not directly. A man in his position would be a complete fool if he didn’t run a very thorough background check on anyone he was going to get into legal bed with. Nolan Ponder is a lot of things, but a fool is not one of them.”

  I wanted to beg to differ. The man had staggered into the lobby, covered in blood, holding a knife, and drugged out of his mind, but we all knew that. Shoving my father into the gaps in his logic wouldn’t get me anywhere I wanted to go. “What was she convicted of dealing?”

  “Little stuff. Pot, cocaine, the stuff all the rich kids used back in the seventies.”

  “No opioids?”

  “They didn’t have those then.”

  “Heroin?” At his look, I continued. “That’s the stuff I wish I didn’t know.”

  “I don’t know the particulars, but you should be able to find them.” My father rubbed his chest where the bullet had entered. Whether it hurt or itched, I couldn’t tell. “Nolan is divorcing her because she had a torrid affair with Beau Boudreaux.”

  For once, words fled. Mr. Boudreaux had left that little factoid out of his story. Thankfully, my thoughts settled and it hit me—everybody in this little farce had a viable motive to kill Lake—well, almost everybody. “So, Mrs. Ponder would lose everything if her husband succeeded in divorcing her?”

  “Yeah, but she couldn’t have killed Lake. She arrived after you’d carried her husband up to your office—well after Lake was killed.”

  “And Romeo had said the Ponders’ plane didn’t land at McCarran or North Town, the two fields we have that can handle large jets. I’m still not convinced, but I don’t have an answer. There are plenty of ways to arrive in Vegas.”

  “Pissing in the wind.” I inherited my love of a well-turned phrase from my father, not that I thought his comment was that well-turned.

  “Every stone, Father, every stone. We’ve got a motive for Mrs. Ponder; an opportunity has yet to be determined. What about Mr. Ponder? What does he have to lose that he doesn’t already want to get rid of?”

  Even though it pained him, my father leaned even closer, lowering his voice. “He’s addicted to painkillers. He told me he’s working to get off the stuff, but it’s been a huge struggle.”

  That pushed me back in my chair. “Wow, okay. Is he getting some help with that?”

  “No, he couldn’t afford to, not with the team moving and all. Everything hung in the balance. If his addiction came out…”

  “He’d lose his team.” This time Jerry stated the obvious.

  “Well, somebody damn sure found out.”

  “Lake?” We all said in unison.

  “The pieces are fitting together.” I rubbed my hands. “I love it when things come together.”

  “Do I need to remind you that you can’t prove any of this?” my father cautioned.

  “At least I have an inkling of who may be doing what to whom.” I wasn’t sure how the memorabilia thing tied into all of this, or if it even did, but I had at least five hundred pieces of a thousand-piece puzzle—enough to start seeing the big picture.

  “Where’s Fox now?” Jerry asked.

  “Last I heard, pretending to be you.”

  My father eased his foot to the floor, then leaned forward. “We need you back on the job, Jerry. And soon. When you feel up to it, of course.”

  “I’m fine. But I doubt that when I return will be up to me.” Jerry’s attitude took a swan dive from displeasure to the depths of despair. Vacation was not part of his lexicon.

  “What do you mean?” My father’s interest sharpened.

  “Drug protocol,” I answered, knowing he’d understand the shorthand.

  “That’s absurd.” Red flushed his checks.

  “Your blood pressure.” I waited for the flush to fade. “As Security Head, Jerry comes under even more scrutiny than most. Insurance and legal will confirm. Even I don’t have any wiggle room. We’re going to have to jump through each hoop on this one. Your Mr. Fox insists.”

  That little stink bomb had the desired effect.

  “
You don’t know Fox’s target. Hell, you don’t have anything against him other than he’s by the book.”

  “And sat at the feet of someone who flouted it.” I didn’t mention I had more suspects than Fox. My father knew it and chose to focus on Fox. Understandable, I guess. None of us wanted to believe someone like us was capable of the depravity necessary to do what they did to Senator Lake.

  “What can you do?” my father asked with more than a hint of skepticism.

  “Jerry, you feel up to chasing a few things for me, on the QT, of course?” He brightened. “Thought so. You know the Security Head at Chateau Marmont in L.A., right?”

  “Yeah, she was one of Clair’s bridesmaids.”

  “Cool. I’ve got several things for you.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  RETRACING MY steps to find where I’d left the car, I jumped when my phone buzzed in my pocket.

  Jean-Charles!

  Finally.

  A text.

  Meet me in your office?

  At least he was still “talking” to me. The choice of my office put a pall on everything, though. Neutral ground? No witnesses? Time spent trying to read anything into his choice was time wasted. But preparing for the worst was the only disappointment-avoidance ritual I knew.

  Jean-Charles waited in my office when I breezed through the door. Brandy and Miss P were playing scarce.

  Cowards.

  “Hey.” I tried to sound normal, whatever that was. As if nothing had happened, I guess. I gave him a kiss when he rose to greet me. Thankfully, he returned it, and with more warmth than I deserved, which made me feel like slinking away to look for a rock to crawl under.

  Suffering from a high tide of self-loathing and a low ebb of courage, I put the desk between us, settling in my chair which groaned under the assault. I so needed to get the thing fixed or turn it into kindling. My ego, delicate as it was, could only take so much.

  “I am sorry I did not take your calls,” Jean-Charles started with a soft lob, his delicious accent covering any hint of displeasure in the French way. “That was small of me, but I thought we ought to speak in person.” Dressed in his chef whites, his soft brown hair curling slightly over his collar, his blue eyes dark and serious, he looked delish as always, but he also looked like he had gas. Or something painful to say.

  “Talk in person? A classy version of the we-need-to-talk text?”

  He looked confused. I didn’t explain. If he came here to call our engagement off, then he wouldn’t appreciate the smartass. My heart constricted. Faced with the thing I thought perhaps I wanted, I realized I hadn’t a clue. Every choice came with a compromise, and I’d been working to keep it all.

  And therein lay the problem.

  “You are feeling okay?” Jean-Charles was usually kind, except when he was angry.

  In desperate need of an emotional life preserver, I took his kindness now as a good sign. “My stomach’s on fire. Someone put a hot poker through my temple. I can’t seem to drink enough water. And my self-loathing has soared past previous levels. Other than that? Fine.”

  He didn’t smile, but the color of his eyes lightened and the tick that had been working in his cheek disappeared. “According to Jordan, you had a rough night.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t witness it.” I brushed the hair out of my eyes and summoned my courage. “They called Teddie. He stayed with me.”

  “I know. He called me.”

  That surprised me. Given how Teddie had treated me recently, I thought any hint of gallant was gone. “He did?”

  “He loves you.” Jean-Charles clearly didn’t like the idea, but he’d accepted it. “He loves you enough not to help you sabotage what might be a stellar future because you are afraid to listen to your heart.”

  I wondered which future he referred to. The one with him or one with Teddie…or maybe even my job, but I’d have to do a whole lot more before someone higher up wanted to scour the jails looking for someone who would even consider taking my job.

  “I am not afraid of my heart.” The problem was my heart was having a bit of trouble giving me clear guidance.

  “I will not argue or parse words. That is right, non?”

  I nodded. When the pressure was on, he got the English right—more evidence he pretended not to know American idioms or high-level vocabulary for my amusement. One of the many things he did for me.

  He pressed himself up from the chair. “You must take some time. Figure out what it is you really want.”

  “I know what I want, but I’m afraid I don’t deserve it.” The words tumbled out on a whisper before I could stop them.

  He opened his mouth to speak, and then clamped it shut, pausing while he searched for the right words. “Can you explain?” He lowered back down slowly.

  “I’ve never admitted that to anyone, least of all myself, and you want more?” My world reeled. Deep dark secrets I’d only heard whispers of in the darkest hours when defenses were sleeping and courage low. Everything I’d felt and heard as the daughter of a town pariah hammered me. Then my mother sending me away and my father not admitting I was his for two decades after I showed up on his doorstep looking for a job, any job, finished me off. I’d been fifteen—a hard age made more difficult by my family. Jean-Charles had heard the story, or the abbreviated one that skipped along the surface like a rock thrown at the perfect angle. Now we’d both mine the damage. “I have never been quite sure I deserved love, was worthy of it.”

  “That is absurd.” Even with the French flair added, the words were still demeaning in their dismissal.

  “It is how I feel. Denigrating my feelings is not the path to understanding.” I didn’t move, barely drew a breath; if I did, I would shatter.

  He knotted his hands in his lap as he leaned forward, emotion pulsing through him. “You are so confident, yes?”

  “In my work, yes. People don’t have to like me. I don’t risk myself; I just have to be good at it.”

  “You hide behind your competence, no?” He leaned back, relaxing into the chair. “I understand these things.”

  If he was going to give me a lecture about “just fixing it,” I wasn’t sure I could be responsible for what might happen. The truth, long buried, fought to rush through the fissure I’d created. I wanted to stop it, and yet I wanted the relief of saying the words, expressing the anger. More than anything, I wanted him to understand.

  “You are strong on the outside. People see that and assume you are not a little girl on the inside. We are all the children we used to be. Yes, with time and help and understanding, we can glue some of the broken pieces back together.”

  “How do you do that?”

  He rose from his chair and extended a hand. “Come.”

  He led me to the couch where I snuggled in beside him, absorbing his comforting warmth. “Your parents, they think only of themselves.”

  Blasphemy to a little girl taught to please, but it had the ring of truth.

  “You care for them, yes, but they didn’t care for you. Oh, they kept you safe, but they hurt you when you needed them the most.”

  Afraid to speak, I nodded as tears welled. I swiped at them with an angry pass. I had cried enough for the me I used to be. Now it was time to fix it.

  “I am angry.” There, I’d said it. I was angry at my parents, both of them. Mona, my mother, kept me in a perpetual pissed-off position. My father, I cut him some slack, not sure why. Maybe because Mona had lied about being underage when they’d met and conceived me. Everything snowballed from that little lie.

  “They deserve your anger.” Jean-Charles pulled me closer. “But you can’t change what has happened.”

  “A few “I’m sorrys” would go a long way to healing the hurt.” That really wasn’t true. I’d gotten the best apologies I was going to get from each of them. What I really wanted was to make it all different.

  “Have you told them?”

  I waffled on that one. I thought I had. Maybe I hadn’t, not truly or ho
nestly. “It’s hard to share the things I’m keeping secret even from myself.” I’d been avoiding myself for so long now I wasn’t sure I knew how to get acquainted—it was like the worst blind date imaginable. My hands shook with the need to dull the edges with a shot of something, anything above eighty-proof. I wove my fingers together, my knuckles white as I gripped against the urge to pour myself a dose of the Wild Turkey in the cabinet. A few feet away. I was entitled. No one would judge me.

  No one except the most important person…me.

  Jean-Charles smiled as I looked up at him. “What’s the first step to solving a problem?”

  His words brought a smile. “Joining the long chorus of quoting me back to me, are you?”

  “And?”

  “The first step to solving a problem is admitting you have one.” I parroted a line I’d said a million times.

  “The first step is always the most difficult.”

  Okay, a bit too paternal, but he was trying. Points for that.

  One more thing welled up, dark and evil, shaming me. My hands still shook, so I dug in my nails—the pain gave me focus as I tested myself. One toe over the imaginary line into total honesty which, at this moment, I was thinking might be highly-overrated. All in or get out of the game, right? I pulled in a deep breath, then another. Before I started seeing stars, I leaped. “I don’t think I can forgive them.” The words came out strong and unafraid, surprising me.

  Jean-Charles gave a Gallic shrug, which I felt rather than saw since I didn’t have the courage to look at him. “It is not about forgiveness.”

  “It’s not?”

  “Forgiveness is an emotion; you feel it or you don’t. It is no matter. To live with the hurt, to heal, requires understanding. Before you argue and say that is nothing more than an explanation, it is not an excuse. Yes, another of your best phrases and one that is most true in many cases.”

  “But not now?”

  “No, in this case, you cannot ask people to be who they are not. If you wish to move past the hurt they gave you, then you must understand who they are and accept they did their best.”

  “Even though woefully inadequate?”

  “If it was their best, that is all you can ask.”