Lucky Break

by Deborah Coonts

  Her posture changed. Switching gears faster that a NASCAR driver, she leveled a stony gaze that probably had eviscerated lesser mortals. “Then why is he being held? The police know what they’re doing and they’ve stopped looking.”

  She had a bitch-streak after all. And apparently little experience with Metro. “A misunderstanding.”

  That got a snort, sort of a bark really, that made Romeo jump.

  Mrs. Holt Box fixed an icy stare on me. “You’re fooling yourself.” She stared down at her manicure on her left hand, curling her fingers toward the palm. “He wore dresses for a living? Stooping awful low to bolster a mediocre music career. He clearly has some issues. I’m sure a man like that would be very jealous of Holt.” She flicked her gaze back to me. “I certainly hope he is prepared to pony up a significant settlement. He robbed me of my husband, conjugal rights, all of that. And my children … ”

  I half rose from the soft cushion, showing my rusty game-playing skills and confirming the pissed-off position. Teddie in jail. I couldn’t help myself. “Your husband isn’t even cold—”

  Romeo rescued me, pressing me back down with a strong hand, squeezing my shoulder until I winced, and he was sure he had my attention. “Mrs. Box, we’re very sorry for your loss,” he intoned, even managing to sound like he meant it.

  Maybe he was sorry. Frankly, it sorta looked like whoever had killed Holt Box had released him from domestic prison. Talk about doing a guy a favor … in a backhanded way. I wondered: would being shivved in the stomach and bleeding out be worse than being married to the woman sitting in front of me? A toss-up for sure—the lesser of two horribles.

  “We’d like to ask you some questions,” Romeo explained, as if we all didn’t know why we had gathered. “We need to make sure we have the right man in custody.” He held me in place with a stern look. “Lucky?”

  Teddie was the eight-hundred-pound gorilla in the room. Ignoring him was practically impossible, but I’d try. “My father mentioned that your husband was under contract to the Babylon. Am I right?” My voice was stony; I didn’t even try to make nice.

  Mrs. Box eyed me with disdain, a lioness viewing a mouse—unpalatable, less than satisfying, and no challenge to catch. That was where she was wrong. “Holt was coming out of retirement. He’d decided to return to touring.”

  “And he was launching his comeback at the Babylon?”

  She sighed dramatically. “Vegas wasn’t really Holt’s kind of place, but your father insisted. And Holt being easily led astray …” She shook off an ugly thought, at least that’s what it looked like.

  I’d love to know what that thought was.

  Picking at the nail polish on her left index finger, she continued without making eye contact. “Holt wanted a smaller venue and low ticket prices so all of his fans could afford an evening with him.”

  Something in her tone pegged my bullshit meter. She was lying; I knew it, but how to prove it? My father wasn’t in the best shape to set the record straight. “My father insisted?”

  “He came after Holt, begging him to accept his offer. A very generous offer, I might add. One we were grateful to have. Holt had been out of music for some time and with five kids …” She left the rest to our imaginations. From her tone you’d have thought she was hanging by her manicured fingernails to the very edge of solvency.

  Frankly, I couldn’t imagine how all the residual royalties on his songs that anchored every country-music song list I’d ever seen for license at properties like mine couldn’t have supported them in fine style on their ranch in Podunk, Texas.

  “That’s why we were so shocked when your father wanted out of the deal.”

  My eyebrows shot so high they threatened to take flight on their own. As lies go, that one was a whopper, but again, the proof thing. “You’re telling me my father wanted to back out of the deal?” Oh, man, the woman was good, but she was wading in deep. I wondered what her angle could be.

  Reneging was so not the Big Boss.

  But he’d bailed on Teddie. A frisson of doubt snaked through me.

  And now in ICU, he couldn’t tell me what the hell was going on.

  My world tilted, angling as steep as the sand stage at KA. But this wasn’t a Cirque show, although it was beginning to resemble a bad play. Where was my exit cue?

  “Yes, your father said the numbers just didn’t work. And while Holt would be great publicity for the Babylon, he didn’t think the upside was worth the cost.”

  That was something the Big Boss would’ve analyzed backwards and forwards before inking the deal. “And he told Holt all of this himself?”

  Her gaze shifted out the window as if there was something incredible to see. There wasn’t. “I don’t really know. All I know is Holt had this sweet deal at a very large venue in Macau—the Chinese are all over country music, you know. So American. Then next thing I knew, we were launching the comeback in a tiny theater at a Vegas strip hotel, of all places. I never wanted to come back here.” Too late, she seemed to realize perhaps we weren’t the most receptive audience for her denigration. She didn’t apologize or even have the class to look chagrined.

  Macau. A connection?

  Kimberly Cho worked in our Macau property.

  A Chinese diplomat was in town on the sly to “protect” his country’s gaming interests.

  We had some Chinese assassin on the loose.

  As connections went, that one was lining up pretty tidy.

  And everybody thought Teddie killed Holt Box? The punchline to a joke. I pulled the folded picture of our shooter, and suspected killer even if I was the only one suspecting him at this point, out of my pocket. “When were you here before?”

  “What?” Her gaze stayed glued to the paper in my hand. What was she hiding?

  “You said you never wanted to come back. When were you here before?”

  “A long time ago. Holt and I barely married. Before he was somebody.” She smiled a sad smile. Perhaps remembering better times.

  “I think I may have met you then?”

  Mrs. Box looked like I‘d slapped her. “I doubt it.”

  As I watched her fidget, her face pale, her eyes haunted, the memories started coming back. “Irv Gittings.”

  She reared back. “Who?” She choked, then cleared her throat.

  “Irv Gittings. He gave Holt his first Vegas stage, didn’t he?”

  She licked her lips and nodded. “Yes, the Rumba Room and the Moonlight downtown.”

  “It’s coming back to me. The Rumba Room was a very good venue back then. How did Holt get the gig?”

  Crossing her arms, she pushed back into the deep folds of the chair. “I don’t know.”

  She glanced away at something in the garden over my left shoulder. Lying. “I think you do.” She didn’t argue; instead she kept looking out the window.

  I unfolded the paper with as much dramatic flair as I could, then thrust it under her nose. The tension in the room was palpable. “Does this man look familiar?”

  White dinner jacket, gold buttons, red bow tie, he hardly looked like a killer.

  Mrs. Box’s eyes widened. Her hand fluttered to her throat. “That’s Sam.”

  Well, she got his name right. “Sam?” Romeo asked.

  I knew who Sam was; I didn’t have to ask.

  “Yes, he’s Holt’s assistant. The one who came back with him from Macau.” She finally deigned to look at us. Okay, she ignored me, focusing on Romeo. “He’s fabulous. Takes care of everything.”

  “Sam. Takes care of everything,” I hissed at Romeo after we’d said our goodbyes and had been assured that Mrs. Box would have Sam contact us the moment he returned, which was, of course, if not a lie, a virtual impossibility. Sam might be bold, but he wasn’t stupid. “I just bet he does. And she was lying through her teeth. That woman is horrible.”

  “She’s like one of those frogs,” Romeo said, sounding a like a boy watching his first National Geographic show on Africa—riveted and a bit horrified.<
br />
  He’d taken a hard left turn, and I’d hit the wall. “Frogs?”

  “Yeah, you know, the really cute-looking ones? Tiny, all pretty colors that make you want to just reach out and hold them? Then you find out they’re like the most poisonous thing in the world.”

  What had started out as a bad analogy turned out to be spot-on. “Remember that when dealing with women. Brandy excepted, of course. I wonder where Mrs. Box fits in all this mess?”

  “I know what you’re thinking.” Romeo shut me down with his best skeptical look. “She might be horrible, but that doesn’t make her a killer.”

  “It’s not too hard to imagine her and Sam, or whatever his real name is, conspiring to get rid of Holt. Or Ol’ Irv Gittings. Boy, I’d love to see the two of them tangle.”

  “That’s all great except for one thing: killing her cash cow seems pretty short-sighted. So, if she killed him somehow and I’m not saying I even consider that a viable theory—why?”

  “Why?” I asked weakly. I hated people pointing out large holes in my theories. “Is Why in this game?”

  Romeo laughed a bit. “Why plays left field.”

  “Everything with me is out of left field.” That made me smile, breaking through the worry, the sadness, the outright terror of an imagination in overdrive. “But the shortstop is more my speed.”

  “I don’t give a darn?” Romeo said, his voice pitching higher at the end in question. “No, that’s your problem, Lucky. You not only give a darn, you care too much.”

  “It’s a gift.”

  At the edge of the casino, I stopped. Hooking a thumb to my right, I said, “I’m going this way.”

  Romeo brushed down his jacket and straightened his tie. “I’m going to have dinner with my lady.” He puffed a bit. “I’m taking her to Tigris.”

  Tigris was the Babylon’s top chow hall, strictly five stars. “Wow. Special. Good for you. Every lady loves a little fuss to be made over her. Brandy could use a break, I’m sure.” I didn’t even want to think about the chaos in my office, including Mr. Homeland Security. “After that, go home, get some sleep.”

  “If you do the same.”

  “Sure.” I was lying though my teeth, and we both knew it.

  Until Teddie was sprung, Sam off the streets, my father out of danger, and Irv Gittings shot at dawn, shut-eye was not on the menu. I could try, and probably would, but it would be of little use. I knew myself pretty well even though I fooled myself more often than was good for my mental health and longevity.

  But all that for later.

  Right now I needed to see a man about a gun.

  CHAPTER TEN

  BY design, to get to the exhibit hall in the convention center at the Babylon one had to make the long trek through the casino, around through the lobby, then saunter past all the shops in the Bazaar, our ode to conspicuous consumption.

  I picked up Agent Stokes of Homeland Security in the lobby. “You saved me a trip,” I said as I shook his hand. “I was just going to stop by the office to grab you. Today is nuts. Would you mind if we talked on the way?” Before he had time to object, I grabbed his arm and pulled him gently along with me.

  Tall, broad shoulders, blond hair cut short, and looking all business-like in a subtle blue jacket with Homeland Security in bold lettering on the breast, he shook his head and fell into step. “I’d like to talk to you about one of your guests.” With my height, his mouth was ear level, which was a good thing, as he’d lowered his voice. “Not really something for public consumption.”

  I gestured to the crowd around us. “Look around. The public couldn’t give a darn about us and what we’re talking about. I know you Feds think everyone snaps to attention at the mere presence of Homeland Security, but to most of us Homeland Security is a rude agent with cold hands and an attitude at the airport.” I darted a look at him. “Is the public at risk?”

  “That’s TSA.” He didn’t look worried. “Don’t think so.”

  “Same difference.” When he slowed down, captured by the smell of charcoaled beef wafting from the Burger Palais, I urged him on. “Glad you’re on top of it.”

  “Are you particularly glad to see me, or do you treat everyone this way?”

  I didn’t think I was being that bad. “Sorry, I needed to offload some snark—being unctuous takes its toll. You drew the short straw.”

  He glanced around and apparently saw my point about nobody paying any attention, then he leaned into me slightly, his mouth closer to my ear. He smelled like gunpowder. “You’ve got a diplomat flying under the radar.”

  “Mr. Cho.” I looked at him with renewed respect. “Have you shot anyone today?”

  He gave me a wide-eyed look, then processed my question. “It’s the jacket. Wore it at the range. I like the smell.”

  “Me too.” Then I thought about yesterday. “Most days.”

  He faltered a bit at that remark but quickly regained his equilibrium. “Heard you had a shooting yesterday.”

  Agent Stokes hadn’t made the family connection—no real reason for him to have. “Yes.” I swallowed hard.

  “I was with your Security man just now. We went over the tapes.”

  “Jerry?”

  “Coughs a lot?”

  “Yeah.” I moved Jerry up my mental worry list.

  “Have you ID’d the shooter?”

  “Our LA office has been onto him for some time. He’s a punk with some ties to criminally influenced gangs in Macau, and curiously, here in Vegas. We don’t know his real name, goes by—”

  “Sam, I know.” We stopped at the entrance to the convention center. We’d left the crowd behind. Only a few stragglers, mainly couples, wandered down this far. The gun show didn’t open until later. “Do you have any idea what’s going on here, why Sam, or whatever his name is, shot Mr. Rothstein?”

  “I was hoping you did.”

  Great, another misguided believer. “Not yet.” In case I’d missed a detail or hadn’t made the right loop to be included or there was something Agent Stokes might feel inclined to help with, I filled him in on what I knew and what I suspected.

  It took him several moments to process. “Irv Gittings. If we could find him.”

  “Tell me about it. But whether he’s jerking my chain or not, I still have to prove who killed Holt Box. Strong suspicion is your buddy Sam, but nobody saw him do it. Heck, I can’t even place him in the kitchen for sure. I saw him the night of the party. He looked to be leaving the kitchen at about the right time, but I never saw him in there for sure. And a defense attorney would rip my testimony to shreds, given my past relationship with the accused.”

  “You think that crank call on your phone was from Irv?” He looked like he was warring with himself.

  “My best guess is it was too coincidental to be anyone other than one of the actors in this play. But we don’t know. Romeo is running the number, but I’m sure it’s a burner phone.”

  “You got the number, though?”

  I pulled out my phone and scrolled to it. “Right here.”

  Agent Stokes took my phone and made a note of the number.

  “What good is that to you?”

  He looked around like he was expecting a bolt out of the blue to fricassee him where he stood. This time he really did whisper. “You ever heard of Sting-Ray?” I shook my head. “You didn’t hear it from me either, but I can find this phone. It might take me a bit, but I can do it.”

  “I’m pretty sure I don’t want to know the things you can dig up. But if you can find him.” I stopped; a thought pinged. “Can you also record what is said and texted and all of that, anything the phone is used for?”

  Agent Stokes shifted from one foot to the other. “Yeah. I’m not telling you anything the major media hasn’t sniffed out, but it’s very controversial. The technology is very hush-hush, so no one can reverse-engineer it. The courts are all over the thing, dismissing evidence because we can’t say exactly how we got it. So, if I find the guy, I can’t guara
ntee any records can be used against him.”

  “Well, you find him, and I’ll make sure the case is airtight.”

  “Just don’t tell anybody we’ve got that machine here. Okay?”

  “The cops?”

  “They don’t know. In the War on Terror, Vegas is in the bull’s-eye.”

  Now, there’s a happy thought. “You got it. Is there anything else?”

  “No.” He glanced over my shoulder and lust hit his eyes. “The gun show. I’d forgotten. I know it’s not open but do you think I could take a look?”

  “Knock yourself out.”

  Moonbird Ridgeway, Moony, to most of us, barked orders to forklift operators who worked for us and the installation guys, who didn’t, as I followed Agent Stokes into the cavernous hall, then watched him stroll away—a kid overwhelmed by all the choices for his one piece of candy.

  Overalls and a white T-shirt hid Moony’s tiny frame, lending her a no-nonsense air, which she cultivated with an ever-present frown. Her steel-toed work boots had probably been broken in before I was born. Part Paiute, her large eyes and dark skin evoked American Indian, but silver now streaked her jet-black hair. Still, she wore it in a thick plaited tail down her back. Her face, a wide-open expanse, had never seen even a touch of makeup that I was aware of. Perhaps that’s why her skin still held the luminous glow of youth. But, no matter how distant a memory her youth was, wrinkles had yet to defy the force of her vigor. With careful scrutiny, I couldn’t find even the hint of a laugh line.

  Often while they were building-out an exhibition, I’d sneak in to watch the amazing dance of men, tools, raw materials, and machines that transformed an empty hollow space into another world. The takedown part didn’t hold the same magic. Watching them dismantle things was like being in on the illusion and none of it was real.

  “The only folks allowed in here are those here to work,” Moony barked as she gave me the once-over. “I’m thinking from those fancy duds that ain’t you.” Competent and to the point, Moony was as refreshing and as unexpected as a gully washer in July. Born in the saddle on a cattle farm outside Carson City, she was as mean as a prodded rattler, tough and apt to strike … like now. She gave me a glare, then wrapped me in a hug, surprising us both. Shock on her face and pink coloring her cheeks, she jumped back as if contact with me could kill her, like I carried ten thousand volts or something.