“Right.” Romeo scoffed. “You want to meet me in the Kasbah, Bungalow 7?”
“Mrs. Holt Box? I wouldn’t miss it. On my way in a few. Wait for me.” I re-pocketed my phone and eased my way to the front of the closest registration line. After a few moments, and I saw where the bottleneck was, fingers drumming on the countertop as the agents waited. I motioned the Front Desk Day Manager over, a newbie I didn’t recognize. She apparently knew who I was. I never got used to that—it was weird being known by people I’d never met. “Having problems with the computers?” I asked.
“Really slow today, getting odd error messages.” She brushed a wisp of blonde hair, tucking it behind her ear. Round face, competent manner, not harried but not happy either.
“Open the last line yourself.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I know that won’t solve the computer issue. Have you called IT?”
“They’re working on it.”
Hit me where it hurt. Was I being paranoid, or was this part of a grand plan? I needed to find Irv Gittings and make a few connections, the last one hopefully being the one that let loose the two thousand lethal volts on Ol’ Sparky. Of course, that was wishful thinking—death by electrocution was not available in Nevada. Pity. It’d be perfect for Ol’ Irv. Regardless, it was a good metaphor and the thought made me happy… not proud, but happy.
After I carefully culled the waiting lines to populate the new one so we wouldn’t have mutiny as the stragglers in the back rushed to get ahead of those who had been waiting, I made a few calls to get more registration agents and more servers to ply the unhappy with joy juice. I stayed until all that could be done was in place, then plotted my course for the Kasbah, running headlong into Flash’s look of exaggerated patience.
“Remember me?”
“Seriously? Who could forget?” I felt fairly sure the last guy who had left Flash cooling her heels had found himself under-dressed in a very public place. Not something I aspired to.
“What about Mrs. Box? Is she a suspect?” Flash circled me. Dressed today in more subtle shades of neon, her red hair a cascade of curls that clashed with the particular pink she had chosen, which was probably intended, her lips painted to match, the gold hoop earrings, white ceramic J-12 on her wrist, and hunger in her eyes, she was the perfect predator—something I loved and hated about her in equal measure.
At five feet, she was under my line of sight by a good margin. Looking over her head at the throng, I plotted my course and hoped that, if I ignored her, she’d go away. That tactic had never worked before, but hope is a pretty big thing for me, my last tether to some semblance of sanity. “Have you found Jeremy?”
That stopped her incessant questioning. “What?”
Dead tired, and balancing perilously close to the edge of defeat, I decided to take the offensive, in every way. “First, you know I can’t tell you anything about an ongoing investigation, so quit hounding me.” She started to argue. I silenced her with a glare. She knew me well enough to know when I’d had my fill of bullshit. “And didn’t I ask you to find Jeremy?”
She angled a sideways, narrow-eyed look at me. “Did you?”
“If I didn’t, I meant to. He’s not answering his phone.” I’d dialed him several times on the way back from the hospital. Still voicemail. I didn’t like it. He’d had more than enough time to pout. And I’d asked him to find someone who was proving to be very dangerous indeed.
Irv Gittings wasn’t Ol’ Irv, the old joke, anymore.
“If I didn’t ask you, who did I ask?” I raked a hand through my hair as I scanned the lobby and tried to find myself.
Flash looked at me, eyes wide, blinking rapidly, a rabbit facing a fox. “Are you okay?”
“Of course. I’m peachy. Holt Box is dead. Teddie is in jail. Jean-Charles is pretending this isn’t a problem. My father is in ICU with a real problem, so maybe Jean-Charles knows what he’s talking about. Jeremy isn’t answering his phone. Miss P, who is scheduled to marry in a few days, is married to someone else. And Dane …” I clapped my hands. “Yes! Dane, he’s the one I set off after Jeremy. I must call him. My hotel is due to open in time for New Year’s. I’m sure there is a punch list a mile long awaiting my attention. Jean-Charles’s restaurant opening has been … delayed. So, of course I’m okay. No, no,” I placed a hand on her shoulder and leveled a benign smile, “I’m better than okay. Why do you ask?”
Flash pulled in her reporter claws, probably more out of self-preservation than good intention. “Well, you don’t have to be worried about Jeremy. He’s got a stake-out going and is keeping on the down-low.”
“Good to know.” I thought about asking for more, but, if either Dane or Flash had anything I knew they’d tell me, so asking was wasted breath and time.
Flash darted a worried look at me. I half expected her to press a hand to my forehead looking for signs of imminent death. “Would I be able to help with any of the other stuff?”
“I just gave you the laundry list. Knock yourself out. Now, I’ve got a job to do and so do you.”
“Come over here just a minute.” She pulled me to the side, tucking us both into a small alcove. She pulled some papers out of her large messenger bag that she’d flipped around to ride on her back. Two photos. She handed me one. Irv Gittings and a woman I vaguely remembered but couldn’t place. “Who’s this?”
“Mrs. Holt Box.”
The second one I knew. Kimberly Cho. “What do these mean?”
Two women. One man. All somehow involved in … what?
But Irv Gittings was that connection I’d asked for. “A piece to the puzzle. Thank you.”
Flash preened.
“Keep digging?”
“Couldn’t stop if I wanted to.” We both understood the meaning of work addiction. I made myself feel better about it by calling it diligence. Flash didn’t see the problem so didn’t need to explain it away.
“Now, could you please try to find Jeremy? Like actually talk to him? He won’t take my calls thinking Miss P put me up to it.”
Flash looked offended. “She would never!”
“You and I know that but men and their egos.” She nodded as if I made perfect sense, which was sort of scary. “So could you try?”
She nodded, her look as serious as if I’d asked her to hide the Holy Grail or something.
I watched her as she cut a path through the crowd and disappeared over the bridge and into the casino. I dialed Dane’s number, dodging and darting my way through the lobby.
The call rolled to voicemail, and I started to panic. Before I had time to completely blow a gasket, my phone vibrated in my hand, impossible to hear above the excited cheers and the canned music as I worked my way through the casino angling toward the Kasbah.
“You need to hear what Shooter has to say,” Dane started in before I had a chance.
“What does Shooter have to say?”
“It’s about that bayonet and the gun. He’s got a lead on it.”
I skidded to a stop, surprising the couple behind me who plowed into me. Thankfully, they weren’t carrying drinks. I staggered. The man grabbed me, holding on until he was sure I had my feet underneath me—a stretch, all things considered. Rocking on my moorings, battered by the shit-storm of life, I seemed to be perpetually on tilt. I nodded my thanks. “He has a lead on the gun?” Had I told Dane about the gun?
“Got the info from Romeo. Figured I could work that angle. You’ve got enough on your plate.”
Wow, help without hinder, go figure. “That’s great. But what about Jeremy?”
“He’s gone radio silent. Got a stakeout going. He said he’d be in touch.”
“That sounds promising.” I started walking toward the Kasbah again, this time a bit more aware of my surroundings. “How’s he doing?”
“Not good, but he can do his job.”
“It’s not like she’s in love with the good doctor.”
“You don’t think?” Dane’s voice lowered, th
e timbre warmed with a hint of empathy. “First loves can be powerful. Make you do things.”
I knew that song and could hum all the bars myself, even without Teddie’s encyclopedic grasp of all thing musical. “I really don’t need that problem.”
“Hers or yours?”
“Hers. Mine’s done, the show is over, curtain closed.” How had I lost control of this conversation?
“You think?”
“Not your business.” At one point in the past, I’d fought an attraction to the long, tall drink of Texas moonshine, but not anymore, at least that’s what I told myself. There was that whole trust thing he’d managed to shatter. But, then, he could turn around and do the nicest things and make me feel like he could see inside, and worse, that he got me. How could I keep him as a friend, let him in, but not drink his brand of Kool-Aid? Why were men so damned difficult? Living, breathing, pheromone-reeking, emotional landmines. Why couldn’t I just have one that I could hang in the closet, like an old coat, bringing him out when needed? I could dress him up, have him wine and dine me when my ego needed stroking, and other parts, too, then hang him back up when done and close the door. Unfortunately, the Rulers of the Universe hadn’t been bright enough to ascribe to my vision. Pity.
“And Miss P’s problems aren’t yours to solve,” Dane added, just in case I’d missed his point the first time.
“Can we stop talking about this?” I breezed past the same security guy at the entrance to the Kasbah. The fact of the matter was, I was much more adept at solving other people’s problems than my own, something I probably should worry about, but my plate was full—sort of an endless logic loop that had trapped me.
The security kid jogged after me and stopped me with, “Excuse me, I need to see your room key.”
I whirled. “Not me. I run this joint.” At his grin, I relaxed. Life had me hardwired to the pissed-off position. “Sorry. Good job.”
“What are you sorry about?” Dane asked in my ear.
“So much that if I even walked into a Catholic church, the priests would line up to take my confession. But I wasn’t talking to you. Tell me about Shooter.”
“You need to hear it from him.”
Feeling my frustration starting to boil over again, I tried to slap a lid on it. “Dane, I don’t have time for a side-trip to east-Jesus.”
“Good thing both me and Shooter are at the Calibers and Old Coots Show setting up in the convention hall.”
I’d forgotten the antique gun show due to start tomorrow! “I’ll be awhile, but I’ll meet you there.”
“We’ll be here for the rest of the night.”
“What time is it anyway?” I glanced toward the curved drive fronting the Kasbah, surprised to see darkness. Either night had fallen or there had been a cataclysm of epic proportions. Either way, captives insulated in the casino wouldn’t be aware, or care.
“Later than when we started talking.” He rang off.
He had a point—this was Vegas, where time was irrelevant and sleep in short supply.
I dropped my phone in my pocket as I raised my hand to pull the bell at the door of Bungalow Seven. The door whisked open on silent hinges, revealing a disheveled detective looking like he’d stayed out way past curfew.
“Thanks for getting here so quickly,” Romeo deadpanned.
Used to guff from everybody, I narrowed my eyes and tuned into my sarcasm radar. Nothing pinged. Romeo looked dead on his feet. I thought I’d seen the same clothes on him for days, but I couldn’t be sure—the days were running together.
“After this, you’re going home, or wherever it is you sleep these days,” I sounded all motherly, which sort of appalled me. I’d always been the generation bringing up the rear in my family. Now, while still a part of the same branch on the family tree as my brand-new siblings, I was old enough to be a generation ahead, not something that made me feel like dancing. In fact, it made me aware of time flowing by. I didn’t like that either. My youth, where time had seemed limitless, was now officially dead. And I didn’t even have time to mourn.
At my reference to alternate sleeping arrangements, Romeo didn’t reward me with his normal blush—pale apparently was his new shade and nonplussed his new attitude. He opened the door wider and stepped to the side. “The shooter in the Casino has all the Homeland Security guys lathered up like rabid dogs. And they’ve been chasing my tail for the better part of the day.”
I resisted stepping inside, savoring just a moment more of not knowing. “Hmmm, it’s a wonder I haven’t heard from Agent Stokes.”
Romeo motioned me inside, a matador tempting a bull, not that the metaphor fit me or anything—although there was that pissed off position thing.
“Agent Stokes is sitting in your office.”
Homeland Security, could life get any more fun? “Another reason to buy that one-way ticket to a galaxy far, far away.”
“Yes, well, that galaxy came with an evil empire, Darth Vader and a Death Star, as I recall.” Romeo really was turning into a great friend.
“But that was a long, long time ago. I’m sure the Jedi have a handle on it by now.”
“Good thing somebody does,” Romeo said not sounding at all like he believed it.
I stuck out my chin, something that always worked for my father when heading into battle. “Let’s see what’s behind door number one, or door number seven, more accurately.” Taking a deep breath as I walked, marshaling what little focus not scattered beyond repair, I shrugged into my normal business-as-usual mode, reaching for my father’s badass attitude and hoped I could fake it until I became it.
The Bungalows at the Kasbah would make any major sultan feel right at home, well, forgetting the whole harem thing… although, this being Vegas … Focus, Lucky. Focus. The short hallway decorated with original art by some of the lesser Masters, our footfalls muffled by hand-knotted silk rugs from Turkey, opened into a great room with soaring ceilings and a wall of windows draped in cascades of thick damask on the far side bracketing a soothing view of the private gardens that ringed a small private dipping pool. A couch, several wing-backed chairs and ottomans were clustered in the middle to take advantage of the view. A dining table with seating for twenty nestled at the front of the bungalow to my left, a wet bar beyond. Double swinging doors sheltered a small prep kitchen from view. Multiple bedrooms with bathrooms en suite curved from the left side of the great room, the master suite and media room replete with a one-hundred-ten-inch flat screen, theater seating and a baby grand for those with more refined tastes, curved off to the right. The Babylon’s most prized accommodations—there were only twelve—the bungalows were reserved for the largest whales, most important dignitaries, and celebrities riding the wave of current popularity pandemonium. Everything in here was original, including, from the looks of her, Mrs. Holt Box.
A tiny slip of a thing, Mrs. Box had curled like a puppy in the sun, claiming every square inch of the winged-back chair by the window. Sunlight reflecting from the pool dappled her face. Not a good look. Hair so fine and lightly yellow, spun cotton candy around her head. Doe eyes, a button nose and bow-tie mouth were lost in a long, flat face, one my mother would ascribe to a certain farm animal that men rode into battle, but I was averse to the whole labeling thing. Frankly, I was afraid of being on the sticky end of that whole I-am-rubber-you-are-glue thing. Yes, a traumatic childhood event and the fact that only the transvestite section at the department store carried my size, but we won’t go there.
Dressed in leggings and a red tunic top, her eyes dark, lightly shaded, and ringed in red, her lips a shade of translucent pink, her nails neatly manicured, the tips white, and the rest clear, she exuded a lost fawn attitude. Funny, I don’t know why, but I was expecting more of a Texas don’t-mess-with-me-or-I’ll-bust-your-ass attitude. Her shoulders bowed in, her head hanging, she dabbed at her nose, then her eyes, a forlorn pixie.
Country music was all apple pie and pickup trucks, and love and loss, rowdy bar fights. Mrs. Holt Box
was none of that—well, maybe a passing comparison to apple pie, but I couldn’t see her in a truck with a shotgun or rifle hanging across the back window and a coonhound with its head out the window drooling in the wind. Maybe I wasn’t the judgmental type, but I could ride a stereotype like the Pony Express guys rode their horses, until it collapsed under me.
“Mrs. Box, I’m Lucky O’Toole, Vice President of Customer Service at this hotel.” I extended my hand. She didn’t take it. Instead, she stared out the window looking lost. I fought an urge to call the ASPCA. Ineffectual women got my goat, especially today. Okay, I was being harsh—she had lost her husband. I needed to remember that. I worked to tap into a rapidly thinning vein of the milk of human kindness.
I caught Romeo’s look out of the corner of my eye. I took a step back, crossing my hands in front of me. “Mr. Rothstein, who I believe was in contract negotiations with your husband, is my father. First, let me express my deepest sympathy for your loss, on behalf of my family and this hotel.”
She gave me a cool look. “Curious. I didn’t think a hotel of this magnitude would tolerate nepotism.”
Oh, a pixie with a bite. Promising. “We don’t.” I gave her a carefully constructed, don’t-fuck-with-me-smile. “We take advantage of it.”
She seemed to wilt, sugar in hot water, disappearing as I stirred. I felt like I’d kicked a dog. “I’m sorry, that was rude.” She gave me a quick once-over. “I can’t believe you’re standing here. It was your lover who killed my husband, right?” A tear leaked out and she dabbed at it with a shredded tissue.
I snagged another one from the box on the end table, handing it to her. “I believe you’ve been misinformed.” I stood, awaiting her invitation to sit. When none came, I claimed an end of the couch. “The man they’re holding is a former lover. But I’m not here about the who. I’m interested in the why.”
“But the police seem to think they’ve got their man.”
I leaned back, crossing my legs, and tried to act casual, despite the pounding of my heart jump-started by the mere oblique reference to Teddie and his predicament. “That’s still in doubt.”
Lucky Break Page 13