Lucky Break

by Deborah Coonts

  Jean-Charles was engaged in animated conversation with a couple I didn’t recognize when I stepped in next to him. Without missing a beat, he snaked an arm around my waist and pulled me close. Pausing, he introduced me. His fiancée! I never tired of hearing it, and, to be honest, it still shocked and delighted me each time he referred to me that way. With the pleasantries over, he picked up the conversation where he’d left off. Parking my head lightly near his, I let the words recede and my thoughts wander.

  Just the nearness of him tingled me in places long dormant if not near dead.

  Teddie was nowhere to be found. A minor blessing, all things considered. I didn’t know why he came anyway. Nothing but bad for him here. He’d left this life. We’d moved on. I’d moved on, despite what my mother said.

  The unease from my brief talk with Kimberly Cho had lessened to a low thrum, like distant traffic, my joy eclipsing that niggling feeling that something was off. Of course, being bushwhacked by Mona and Teddie hadn’t exactly started my evening down a smooth path. Swaying to the music just a bit, making Jean-Charles grin as he tried to concentrate on the people in front of him, sipping my Champagne, I began to relax into the joy of life.

  Big mistake. Tempting Fate had never worked out well for me.

  Detective Romeo materialized at my elbow. Nodding to the others, he leaned in close to my ear. “We have a problem.”

  “Nope,” I said, enjoying the happy bubbles that tickled my nose as I took a big sip of my Schramsberg. Then they tickled and warmed all the way down, settling into a nice pillow of contentment somewhere deep inside. “No, Romeo, we do not have a problem.”

  “Lucky, this is serious. And yes, we have a problem.” He tugged on my arm, sloshing a bit of my Champagne. After counting to ten, twice, I gave him my full attention.

  Even though spit-and-polished in a slim-cut dark suit and Hermès tie, his sandy hair cut and combed, even his recalcitrant cowlick bending to propriety, he looked a little ragged around the edges. His blue eyes dark, his smile absent, a frown puckering the skin between his eyes, he looked at me as a friend, which doused that warmth I’d been enjoying.

  This was personal.

  Brandy, my assistant and his girl, squeezed his arm. Her eyes big as saucers, she remained mute. Not good.

  As I disengaged from my chef, handing him my glass of Champagne, I gave him a reassuring smile. This was his party, his time to shine, and whatever it was Romeo was dragging me into, I’d keep it to myself.

  Yeah, I’m a dreamer.

  Weaving through the crowd, I noticed security was guarding the exits. At this point, I doubted anyone wanted to leave as the party was just getting started, so the fact that they couldn’t hadn’t yet caused any alarm.

  “Lucky. Come on.” Romeo, one hand on the kitchen door, motioned to me with the other.

  I joined him. “What’s going on?”

  “You are not going to like this.”

  “You always say that.” I followed him into the kitchen.

  Two steps inside, I stopped in my tracks. “And you’re always right.”

  Holt Box lay on the floor, a red stain spreading across his chest, soaking his chef’s whites. His face, slack. His eyes, sightless. His skin losing the ruddy flush of oxygenated blood.

  Teddie stood over the body, holding a knife.

  My father pressed to his side, blood on his hands.

  CHAPTER TWO

  FOR a moment time stopped. My heart, too. I tried to process the scene in front of me. Two of Romeo’s off-duty guys working security for the party bracketed Teddie and my father and kept else everyone back. Not hard to do, since the kitchen had come to a standstill. Waiters, cooks, and prep staff stood rooted, open-mouthed.

  Something burned on the stove. Water bubbled in a large pot, billowing steam. I thought I caught the hiss of butter in a hot pan. The roar of a party reaching a crescendo filtered around the swinging doors as they opened and swung back behind me, then opened again, repeating the cycle.

  “I’m assuming he’s dead?” I asked Romeo, my voice a squeak of its normal timbre. A stupid question, really, but, with me, hope was the last thing extinguished by reality.

  Romeo didn’t bother to answer. Instead he started barking orders to the officers who had filled in the tight space behind us, explaining the opening and shutting of the door. Movement restarted; so did my heart, pounding against my chest. My father gave me a tight look and a shrug, which I couldn’t interpret. Teddie avoided my eyes, which spoke volumes.

  Brandy moved in next to me—a vision in a white sheath, her face needing only the lightest touch of makeup to enhance her natural beauty, her long dark hair pulled back, her face tight, her eyes big.

  I leaned down and spoke softly. “Go back to the party; work damage control. Get Miss P onboard. You two know what to do. Tell Jeremy to meet me at the office later. I’m sure he’ll be there anyway. This is going to be a shit-storm of epic proportions.” Just the thought made me want to run and hide.

  A presence loomed behind me emitting a low, feral growl. The hairs stood on the back of my neck. I turned barely in time to catch his coattail as Jean-Charles hurtled by me. “Whoa. Whoa.” Digging in my heels, I hung onto him with all I had, using my weight as leverage to stop his considerable momentum. “That’s a crime scene. You really don’t want to go adding your DNA do you?”

  That stopped him, but I held on, unsure as to whether he’d stay stopped. He raked a hand through his hair as he worked for control. A man in whom emotions ran deep, Jean-Charles had a temper, but the level of sheer hatred I saw in his eyes surprised even me. Love and hate, two passions equally strong pulling in opposition, like the moon and the sun.

  His mask fell back in place as he turned and glared at me. “I will kill him,” he muttered, the tone of his voice leaving no doubt he meant it.

  I assumed he meant Teddie. “Not if I get to him first.” The level of joy in the anticipation left me breathless. For the first time I understood what the bard meant when he said revenge was best served cold.

  And my father standing there, bloodied and a bit unnerved, sobered me up. Seeing him that way … Dear God, he couldn’t have had something to do with this, could he? An irrational thought, of course. My father wasn’t prone to killing, at least not that anyone had proven. But, even if he had that proclivity, why would he kill his prize pony? If Teddie was right, Holt Box was worth millions to the Babylon.

  Teddie.

  “Somebody get that pan off the stove,” Jean-Charles shouted, then turned on his heel and pounded through the swinging door so hard it reverberated off the outside wall. If some hapless soul had been on the other side, Jean-Charles’s exit would have doubled tonight’s body count.

  Brandy followed him out, tossing a worried glance back at me over her shoulder as she disappeared.

  “Fetch me a plastic bag large enough to hold that knife,” Romeo ordered, extending his hand toward the kitchen staff. Someone managed to locate one, and Romeo held it open in front of Teddie. “Put the knife in here.”

  Teddie’s eyes found mine. He shook his head slightly, then did as Romeo asked. The knife looked old, with a long, narrow blade, the tip angled only on one side. The metal had a green tinge. “I know how it looks,” he started.

  My father elbowed him. “Wait. You need a lawyer.” His eyes found me. “Lucky, will you make the call?”

  I nodded, but the trouble was, I had no idea who to call. We had the requisite team of corporate pitbulls, but none of us had a personal defense attorney.

  “Your mother will know,” he added, as if reading my thoughts.

  “Mother!” I’d better find her before the news of this mess did. “Am I free to go?” I asked Romeo, unsure exactly why he wanted me to see the scene in the kitchen—he knew how much I hated dealing with dead people. Holt Box wasn’t a personal friend. Hell, he wasn’t even an acquaintance. We’d met a couple of times but that had been years ago. I’d met his wife then, too, but could barely remember
her. A slip of a thing, practically mute, but stunning. And I had no idea if he’d kept her or tossed her back, or vice versa. As I turned to go, I stopped, then whirled back around, scanning he room and the small crowd gathered there. My eyes searching, cataloguing.

  Holt Box. Years ago. When I’d been Irv Gittings’ arm candy.

  “What is it?” Romeo watched me.

  My lips pinched into a thin line as I took my time, taking in every detail. Nothing seemed amiss—well, except for poor Mr. Box. “Let me think on it. I don’t know exactly. Not yet.”

  He nodded like that was a normal thing. “That’s why I wanted you here,” he said, in answer to my unspoken question. Lucky me. “Any idea why somebody would want to kill Holt Box?” He directed the question to me, but his gaze encompassed my little posse of Teddie and the Big Boss.

  Nobody said anything.

  Even I clammed up despite being privy to a very damning motive Teddie had, including his admission that he’d like to kill Holt Box. Said in the heat of anger, he hadn’t meant it literally. At least that’s what I chose to believe. It’d come out. But later. Not with an audience who I’m sure was videoing the whole thing on their phones and salivating over being the first to upload it to YouTube. Maybe they’d even cash out with an exclusive to one of the gossip rags.

  Satisfied no one felt compelled to blurt out an ill-advised comment, I left them to Romeo. Pushing back through the swinging doors, I knew how Dorothy must’ve felt going to bed in Kansas and waking up in Oz. On this side, everyone partied on, oblivious to homicide in the kitchen only steps away. I snagged two flutes of Champagne from a passing waiter and slugged one, depositing the empty on his tray. The other I clutched so tight I risked breaking the stem.

  My mother held a group of men under her spell. I shouldered my way through until I got her attention—it took squeezing her arm.

  “Oh, Lucky. How nice. Perhaps you’d care to weigh in on whether we all should admit that sixteen thousand hookers and nine vice cops is the equivalent to non-enforcement of the archaic law that makes prostitution a crime in Clark County. Wouldn’t it be better to legalize what’s already happening here? Collect taxes and protect not only the johns but the girls as well?”

  Prostitution. A divisive topic even in Vegas, especially in Vegas. From the clenched jaws and hard eyes of some of the men ringing her, Mona was working on a homicide of her own.

  All eyes turned in my direction. I felt a drop of sweat trickle down the side of my face. Holding my Champagne, I swiped at the drop with the back of my hand. “Sex. A potent drug, with the argument for legalization equally as unclear.” I grabbed Mona’s elbow as I forced a smile. “But someone once told me that sex and politics were not topics meant for a cocktail party.” I pulled mother away from her fans.

  “Lucky, really. If I’m to make any changes in this town, I need to bend some ears, get people to listen.”

  “Not here. Not right now.”

  “What’s all this about?” Curiously, she didn’t adopt her normal huffy tone; in fact, she sounded amused. Maybe her running for office wasn’t a bad thing on top of the whole late-in-life twin thing. Dealing with Mother was like handling a two-year-old: keep them busy, keep them tired, and they can’t do you any harm.

  I held a chair for her at a table off to the side in a corner by the window, then joined her. “It’s Father and Teddie.” I lowered my voice and made sure no one was listening. Then I explained the scene in the kitchen. “Father said you’d know who to call.”

  Mona sat like a statue, immobile, her smile fixed by fear. “Of course, Squash Trenton.”

  I blinked a few times, looking for the punch line. There wasn’t one.

  “He’s in the book.” The color drained from Mona’s face. “You don’t think your father …”

  “Of course not. Knowing him, he was trying to help. Unfortunately, someone had already permanently retired Mr. Box.” I could say the words, couldn’t admit the possibility. Instead, I gave Mother a pointed look that even she was clever enough to read.

  A hand snaked to her throat. “Teddie,” she whispered.

  I leaned back and drained most of my Champagne as I looked at the Strip through the windows, the lights painting the night sky with bright, fun come-ons promising loose slots, cheap food, and fun. None of that here. “I don’t know. Something’s not right.” I chewed on my lip as I tried to find the way out of the maze without success. Murder didn’t mesh with the Teddie I knew. Of course, neither had duplicity and cheating, yet, he’d proven both were part of his skill set.

  “I wonder what Teddie has to say for himself?”

  The large atrium-style vestibule of the Clark County Detention Center was virtually empty, which seemed odd for a Saturday night, especially with Christmas so close I could feel it breathing down my neck. Decorated in early institutional, the space held little warmth and hints of fear. A few lonely decorations hung from a string of lights over the intake desk, a token effort in rather bad taste. Even the few plants bent under the weight of hopelessness. My footfalls echoed eerily, like the last walk of the accused.

  The evening had taken a bit to unravel, but unravel it had. Questioning by the police has such a chilling effect on frivolity. The police worked through the guests, taking statements, trying to get a handle on who exactly had come and gone from the kitchen. Not an easy task, and it took time. But, with alcohol plentiful and flowing freely, the mood had remained calm and even a bit excited—it’s not everyday the average upper-crust denizen was invited to a murder, even in Vegas.

  So I was later than I’d thought I’d be. I’m sure Squash Trenton had the meter running while he waited. But, never having met him, I didn’t know what kind of man he was; but he was a lawyer, enough said.

  I assumed the man chatting up the night staff as he leaned on the counter, his butt toward me, was the lawyer I was looking for. Something he said got a rousing chuckle from his rapt audience.

  I cleared my throat.

  Squash finished his joke before he rose and turned. Younger than I thought—I figured he’d be my father’s contemporary—he lazily took me in, focusing on parts below my chin, which I’d thrust out in challenge.

  Red hair, longish, seductively curly. Blue eyes—I was expecting green. Warm, with a laugh lurking. No freckles—they wouldn’t dare. A whittled face supported by a strong jaw.

  By the time he’d finished his visual assessment, I was more than a little steamed, which I think might have been his point. So I tamped it down. “You done?”

  His eyes rose to meet mine. He didn’t apologize. “That is some dress.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  Dressed in jeans so old and soft that, excepting the seams and stitch lines, they were hardly blue anymore, a pair of Topsiders minus the laces, and a T-shirt a tad too tight for his toned and buffed torso, no belt, no socks, no ring, Mr. Trenton didn’t seem too upset about being called out on a Saturday night. Nor did he seem to be in much of a hurry.

  “Who am I here to see?” he asked, shrugging into his lawyer manner with the ease of donning a comfortable sweater.

  Good question. “I guess it depends on who they arrested.” Romeo had been hip-deep when I’d left what was left of the party. As I’d calmed Mother, keeping her from clawing her way through the cops to get to her husband, and directed Miss P, Brandy, and every staff member I could corral as to how to handle the mushroom cloud of impending publicity fallout, I’d seen him escorting Teddie and my father out through the back entrance. Jean-Charles had been doing damage control as well. I’d wanted to join him, rush to help, but I had my hands full with my own responsibilities. Such was our life. We both got it, not that we liked it.

  I felt so alone. More alone than I’d ever been when on my own. Used to being two, his absence cut deeply.

  As Squash grabbed his jacket, suede, worn to old-shoe comfort, with tattered fringe, he gave the officer behind the counter a quick nod. Apparently, that was the magic signal to unlock th
e doors.

  Stepping to the side and sweeping his arm in front of him, he ushered me through the door, then fell into step at my shoulder. I knew where I was going.

  Romeo met us at Interrogation Room One, his shoulders slumped under the weight of the murder of a country-music icon. I didn’t have the heart to tell him the vultures were just beginning to circle. “Your father is free to go.” The young detective, with eyes far older than his years, raked a hand through his hair, standing his cowlick at attention. Then he wiped tired eyes. “God, what a shit-storm.”

  Romeo had been a bright-eyed kid when we’d first met, not too long ago. I didn’t even want to count the days, mere months, I thought. I knew they shouldn’t have been sufficient to age him as they had.

  “Has Mr. Rothstein been charged with anything?” Squash asked.

  “No, not yet.” At my look, he hastily added, “Most likely not at all. We’ll give the evidence to the DA. He’ll decide what to take to the Grand Jury. But I don’t see any reason to hold him right now. It’s not like he’s a huge flight risk.”

  “And Teddie?”

  “He’s going to stay at the insistence of the great State of Nevada. Lucky, I don’t need to tell you, it looks bad.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Squash said.

  Romeo grew into his boots as he stared down the attorney. “Take your best shot, counselor. And, for the record, we’re on the same team. I want to find who killed Holt Box, perhaps even more than you do, but right now, things are pointing to Mr. Kowalski.”