Lucky Break

by Deborah Coonts

  “I’m fine. So all you have to do is round up all the Lambos in town. Shouldn’t be too hard.”

  I’d have rolled my eyes if he was standing in front of me. “You’re serious, aren’t you? You know all those kids that have been rolling into town? The ones buying table service and bottles of Cristal at Babel and Pandora’s Box and keeping the Babylon in the black?” The question was rhetorical, so I motored on. “They all have serious iron, at least one car for each day of the week.”

  That left Jerry speechless.

  “So not as easy as you might think.”

  “And a lot of them are from the Far East,” Jerry said, sounding a bit more subdued.

  “Just like our white dinner jacket guy. Keep an eye out for him, would you? I have a feeling he’ll be back.” I stared out at the circular drive, the private entrance hidden behind huge gates and sheltered by lush foliage, far from prying eyes. Even the boldest paparazzi hadn’t yet pierced our veil of secrecy. The Babylon prided itself on jealously guarding the comings and goings of our top-tier clients. For once, I wasn’t sure that was a good thing.

  “Anything else?”

  “Not right now. I’ll get Jeremy working on the car, see if he can narrow the pool of possibilities down a bit. And you need to go home.”

  “I’d just be miserable there.”

  “Yeah, well, if you’re carrying the plague or something, and you decide to share, there will be no place you can hide.” I disconnected, then hit Jeremy’s number. The call rolled directly to voicemail. Odd. I stared at my phone for a moment, trying to remember the last time I’d not been able to get in touch with Las Vegas’s premier private investigator. I think he’d been shot or something—at least that had been his excuse. That cold ball of dread in my gut grew heavier.

  “May I call a car for you, Ms. O’Toole?”

  “What?” Jeremy’s voice stopped; I heard the beep. I didn’t leave a message. Instead, I killed the call and put my phone in my pocket.

  “Do you need a car?” The valet looked like he’d just graduated eighth grade. A Dennis the Menace doppelganger, his innocent face hiding a youth spent cutting his teeth on taking the family Suburban for joyrides. Books and covers, I wasn’t one to judge. But the kid wasn’t exactly one to instill confidence in a Ferrari owner leaving his car while he gambled or dallied … or killed a country-music legend.

  “The guy who just left in the Lambo, you know him?”

  “The yellow one with the black dragon logo?”

  A bit more to go on. Not much, but I’d take it. Although I doubted the DMV kept note of distinguishing logos on registered automobiles. “Yes. That’s the one. Do you know the gentleman?” I almost choked on that word. Of course, strip clubs were routinely referred to as gentlemen’s clubs, so perhaps the term didn’t carry the class it used to.

  “Not personally, but by reputation, yes. He’s the son of some bigwig from Macau. Throws his money around but is a real george when it comes to the staff.”

  “Dropping a ton at the tables and the clubs but stiffing the staff. Not a stellar character. And not very bright.” Anyone who even brushed up against Vegas knew the town ran on tips. You grease the right palm with enough green, the world would be delivered to your suite. What was it the Big Boss had said on national television? “You can get anything you want at my hotel?” I’d about had a stroke, but the Earth kept spinning, the cops hadn’t raided our facilities, and Vegas remained the adult playground it had always been.

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Would you have a name?”

  “Goes by Sam.”

  “Sam?”

  “He says just Sam.” The kid, his hands clasped behind his back, nodded. “He thought Joe was too…”

  “Clichéd?”

  The kid didn’t have an answer, and I had the vague feeling he had no idea what I was talking about.

  Not that I expected to find anything, but I made one more circuit of the Kasbah as I called Romeo and gave him the little information I had.

  “We’ll work through the DMV, see if we can narrow it down. Fancy wheels, shouldn’t be too hard. “

  I didn’t feel like educating him, so I simply said, “Thanks,” and rang off.

  At a dead end, I set a course for Registration. Even though I doubted our dinner jacket guy would have given his particulars to our computer, a guest list for the bungalows at the Kasbah might prove insightful. Since he had a key, I assumed Sam, or whatever his real name was, had at least a passing familiarity with one of our guests. Of course, this being Vegas, physical intimacies didn’t necessarily mean information was exchanged. Short on threads to pull, I decided to give it a shot. But one of the main services we sold to our Kasbah guests was privacy protection. So poking around would be a tightrope walk between privacy and murder to figure out who might know Sam.

  Teddie’s phone call caught me skulking through the rows of slot machines as I worked my way toward the lobby, without alerting Mona and her coffee klatch to my presence. For a moment I wavered. Teddie didn’t deserve instant access, but I suspected friends were in short supply for him about now.

  “Hey. How’re you holding up?” I tried for cheery. Stupid, it came off sounding forced, which it was.

  His sigh wavered through the connection. “Your buddy, Squash, has scored me a suite of my own. Of course, it could use a woman’s touch: it’s a bit Spartan.” Even though he was trying to keep it light, tension stretched his voice tighter than the high-C string on his baby grand. I said a silent thank-you to Squash Trenton. Teddie’s stint as a female impersonator was no secret. Assumptions would be made. Mixing and mingling with the general prison population would’ve been problematic for the guards and painful for Teddie.

  “That’s good.”

  An awkward silence rode on an undercurrent of everything that didn’t need to be said between good friends … best friends of a time.

  “I have a bail hearing in the morning.” He didn’t ask. He didn’t have to.

  “What time?”

  “We’re third on the docket at nine, but you know how that goes. Have you spoken to Daniel Lovato?” A tremor of fear vibrated the last word. He cleared his throat.

  Was he worried that I would refuse or that Daniel would? “Yes.” His breath rushing out gave me the answer I wanted. “No promises. I don’t want to raise your hopes. You have to know what a FUBAR this is.”

  “I know. I didn’t do it. I swear.”

  “We have to prove it, Teddie.”

  He started to talk. I shut him down. “Don’t say anything. You don’t know who’s listening, and I don’t want to get dragged into court to testify. I’ll take my lead from your attorney.”

  “Okay.” His tone suggested he didn’t believe me. “For once, I’m glad that you don’t take direction from anybody.”

  I knew it, but there was a time and place for breaking rules, and this wasn’t either. “Teddie, this one is different. One misstep and you’re on a death row suicide watch. Hang tight. I’m doing all I can. I’ll see you in the morning.” Wanting the connection, needing to know he was all right, I clutched the phone, pressing it to my ear long after I knew he was gone.

  A hand grabbed my elbow. I yelped and jumped. And turned to look into the eyes of an old friend. Hank Pascarelli. He wrapped me in a bear hug, which I enjoyed. Then, hands on my shoulders, he leaned back. “Let me get a look at you.”

  Still in his Hawaiian shirt and khakis, but filling them out better than the last time I’d seen him. “You look terrific, Mr. Pascarelli.”

  “Happiness will do that to you. I got you to thank.”

  Joy hit my heart. “Mrs. Paisley? She feeding you some of her pies?”

  Hank let go of me and patted his burgeoning stomach. “Too many.”

  “And how is Griffin, Indiana?”

  He looked happily confounded. “Who knew I’d find my happy in the fat-big middle of nowhere?”

  Hands on my hips, I gave him a smile. “Indiana is hardly th
e middle of nowhere. Don’t tell me you two are living in sin?”

  “Yep. Damned proud of it, too. But I decided she needed to make an honest man out of me.”

  “You’re getting married?” At the blush in his cheeks it was my turn to give the hug.

  “All the family is coming. Even her Harvard-boy grandson. Good kid. Nice thing you done.”

  I put on my best innocent face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. What’s he studying?”

  “Government. Politics. Communication. Something like that. He’s just started.”

  “Dear God, don’t introduce him to my mother.”

  “Too late. Those two have been scheming.”

  Raising my hands in mock supplication, I said, “I don’t want to know. When’s the big day?”

  He gave me the particulars, and I meticulously entered them into the calendar on my phone, the one I could never remember to look at. “You give your bride a hug for me. And best wishes to both of you.” With a song in my heart, I said goodbye. Challenging Fate and my mother, I threw back my shoulders, thrust out my chin, and walked on air all the way out of the casino, through the lobby, arriving in front of Registration just as my confidence flagged. A one-woman army against the forces of evil—daunting odds even for a betting woman—and I wasn’t holding up well.

  Sergio Fabiano, our front desk manager, paced behind the long registration counter like a caged lion contemplating his opportunities for escape. His dark hair, which he wore long, angled across his face. Looking up, he flipped it out of his eyes and gave me a tight smile. With his flock of adoring females absent, lacking the glow of their adoration he looked almost human … a Greek god dropped to Earth to walk among us mere mortals. A bit fastidious for my tastes, though—I drew the line at a boyfriend who was prettier than me. Teddie came perilously, close and, yes, he looked better in my clothes than I did. His legs weren’t bad either.

  Teddie.

  “I’m very sorry about Mr. Teddie.” Sergio took a step back. My eyes must’ve gone all slitty. Loosely interpreted, that was my body language for “run.” “He did not do this.”

  “Of course not.” I tried to loosen up. As Mona always said, worry did nothing but make you look like a Shar Pei. And anger would get you ten to life. Neither good end goals—not that I made a habit of listening to my mother. That could land me in jail or an asylum.

  Slipping between two queues of guests, I basked in the buzz of several languages swirling around me, excitement burbling in each curious word. All shapes and sizes and in various states and styles of dress, our guests were united in holiday cheer, each of them clutching a free beverage of their choice.

  Leaning on the counter, motioning him close, I lowered my voice. “I need a list of the guests in the bungalows.”

  Sergio’s eyes widened, but he knew better than to ask. “Many of them register under false names.”

  “Vegas, where you can buy an alternate identity for the weekend. So helpful.”

  Sergio leaned into me, getting too close for my comfort. The nuance of boundaries and personal space still eluded him. “That depends on what you’re looking for.”

  My flat stare pressed home the point.

  “Right.” He moved back, leaving a cloud of Aramis or one of those other cloying colognes men often hoped would render females weak-kneed and compliant.

  They only made me sneeze. I held my breath, hoping to maintain my dignity. When I thought the urge had passed, I took a tentative breath. The sneeze had been hiding, and it was pissed, now doubling me over in a flurry of horrible honking like geese heading south for the winter.

  One upside—the lines on either side stepped away, giving me elbow room. One kind woman offered me a tissue.

  Apparently clueless as to his guilt, Sergio waited for one of the agents to finish checking in a couple, then eased her aside. His fingers flew over the keyboard, then he relinquished the machine back to his agent. “I’ve printed the list to my terminal in the back.” As he disappeared through the doorway, I understood his logic as I watched the agents printing and grabbing papers from the various printers. The list couldn’t fall into just any hands—access to the bungalow list was coveted by the media sharks always circling, looking for a tasty celebrity morsel.

  While I waited, I turned and faced the lobby, leaning back, my elbows braced on the counter. Christmas had come to the Babylon. Festive greenery bedecked with rainbowed glass balls laced the countertops and railings. Evergreens sprouted through piles of brightly wrapped packages in every available nook and cranny and bookending the various couches and furniture clusters. Children, high on rumors of Santa’s imminent arrival and the obligatory holiday sugar overload, rushed around like terrified cows being herded by helicopter, darting this way and that, bouncing off each other and the legs of strangers.

  Holidays pressed home the point that parenthood should not be entered into lightly, a mantra I made my own.

  Music provided a soundtrack to all the chaos. The familiar strains of Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer filtered through the hubbub, making me smile. Somebody had a sense of humor. I liked it. Laughter made everything better.

  Except murder, the black cloud following me around. So far, I hadn’t seen but a hint of a silver lining. Tomorrow’s bail hearing would either brighten the sky or bring a deluge.

  Sergio cleared his throat behind me, saving me from a mental stroll through that dark wood. His face clouded as he scanned the names on his list. “I am not so sure this will help.”

  I took the list to make my own assessment. Unknown names. Several Sams, as suspected. You’d think those intent on some reputation-damaging fun might be a bit more creative.

  I sucked in my breath at the last name on the list.

  Mrs. Holt Box.

  She’d checked in last night. “I need a copy of this signature, please.”

  Miss P hunkered behind her old desk in the front office, wearing yesterday’s clothes, her eyes red, her hair flat, and her smile absent. Guess life had given me my moment of happiness. Now it was back to business.

  “If we have a bungalow available, will you move Mr. Pascarelli and Mrs. Paisley? They’re back and getting married and bringing all the family.”

  Miss P didn’t perk up like she usually did with good news and a fun job, but she did nod and make a note as she dabbed at her nose with a tissue.

  “Did you go home?” I parked my butt on the corner of her desk and resisted the Siren call of the messages overflowing my in-box.

  All hang-dog, she shook her head.

  “You hang that head any lower, you’re going to be drooling on the desk. You know how much I don’t like that.” I boosted myself from my perch. “Come with me. Some medicinal spirits are in order.”

  She still sat where I’d left her when I returned with two breakfast portions of Wild Turkey, each in its very own Flintstone’s jelly-jar glass. I balanced the two glasses in one palm, and with a hand under her elbow, I encouraged Miss P to her feet, then guided her to the couch in my inner sanctum. Thankfully, Tool One and Tool Two were not taking turns with the hammer today, so we had my office to ourselves. The lone light bulb added ambiance, the weak light masking the layer of dust covering everything. “Sit.”

  She perched on the edge of the couch, her knees pressed together like a pious schoolgirl, the jelly jar I’d thrust into her hands cradled in her lap.

  “Down the hatch.”

  She threw back her drink like a pro, only gasping a little as the firewater lit a path all the way down. “Dear heavens.”

  “As invectives go, a bit on the weak side.” My need a bit less, I sipped my drink. While I loved my joy juice, the breakfast bit was a stretch. My desk chair groaned as I sat. “Can you add to the punch list oiling the springs in this thing? It’s giving me a complex.”

  Owl-eyed, Miss P blinked at me.

  Toeing open the bottom drawer, I put my feet on it and leaned back. “Feeling any better?”

  Staring at h
er feet, she shook her head. “I guess you heard,” she said, her voice thin, her shoulders slumped in defeat.

  “All I heard was something about some guy—”

  “Cody Ellis.” She squared her shoulders a bit and met my eyes.

  “Right. Mr. Ellis—”

  “Doctor.”

  “Really?” So the ladies had been right. And I’d been thinking some Iowa farm boy. A youthful indiscretion. Life never missed a beat to show me how wrong I could be. Color my interest piqued. I tried to hide it, but Miss P had encyclopedic knowledge of my quirks and nuances. “Okay, some doctor asshat shows up—”

  “He’s not an asshat.” Miss P’s cheeks flushed, either from anger, embarrassment, or a firewater kick start … or all three.

  “He’s not?”

  She shook her head, looking like she’d lost her last friend. Or had found an old love.

  I squinted my eyes, as if that would help me read the answer in her aura or something. Silly, but an undercurrent ran beneath this conversation, if it could be called that—and undercurrent I couldn’t quite get the drift of.

  Oh, this was not good. “So is he your husband?”

  “That’s what he says.”

  “And this is a bad thing, right?”

  She plucked at an invisible speck of lint on the sleeve of her sweater and looked up over my left shoulder. “Of course.”

  What was it the experts said? If a person looks up and left while answering a question, they’re lying? This time I slugged the rest of my drink. “What about Jeremy? I’m taking it he knows.”

  “He was there.”

  We both had empty glasses. I solved that problem with a quick trip to the kitchenette in my old office. This time Miss P didn’t need any encouragement. My day still in front of me, and Teddie’s life on the line, I decided to throttle-back on the high-octane and put my jelly jar down, then moved it out of reach. “And you’re sure you don’t know where he is?”

  “No. He said he needed some time. So I haven’t tried to reach him, not that he’d answer.”

  That could explain my inability to reach him, but there also was another explanation. I called Dane.