Lucky Break

by Deborah Coonts

  Not wanting to add to her discomfort, I sailed right on as if a hug from her was an everyday thing. “I’m here to see a man about a rifle. I won’t get in your way.”

  She snorted. “You always promise that, and, like a feral kitten, you never can help getting underfoot.”

  “Part of my charm. Over-promise, under-deliver.”

  She gave me a quizzical look—jokes weren’t part of her warm-and-fuzzy personality, although she liked a bawdy tale better than most, probably due to being raised around mostly men. Her eyes slashed to a hapless forklift on a wayward path. “Next aisle over, Otis!” she shouted. “Dear God in Heaven, are we going to have to send you back to first grade to learn your numbers? Aisle seventy-seven, like I told you.” Like a cowboy herding cattle, she ran her department with a shout and a whip; but she had the lowest turnover of any department head, so I stayed out of her way and let her do her thing. She liked that about me—she’d told me so on numerous occasions.

  Otis, hunkered down in the seat of a forklift, didn’t look our way as he spun the small machine and motored off.

  Moony gave me a wry smile. “You think when you hire these guys you could make readin’ and writin’ part of the requirements?”

  “Not my department. I handle them only after they become problems.”

  “Guess we’re both lucky that way,” she groused.

  “You know Shooter Moran?” I eyed the rows and rows of booths in various stages of dress, some full fancy, others lean and mean, all sporting enough firepower to destabilize a small nation.

  “Who doesn’t know Shooter? That guy’s got a machine-gun mouth and enough bullshit to fertilize half of Clark County.”

  “Only half?”

  She gave me a snort. “He’s holding forth over on Aisle fifty-three. In the back. That way I don’t gotta deal with him—he’s a pest, thinking he’s so cute while hitting you up for something.”

  “I bet you give it to him, don’t you?”

  Her flawless skin, unadorned by makeup, creased slightly as her eyebrows snapped into a frown. “If he crosses my path once more, I’m inclined to pepper his backside with buckshot.”

  “And I’d be your character witness at trial.”

  I found Shooter Moran holding forth to a few interested aficionados who gazed enraptured as he worked the bolt on a Winchester 70, my childhood weapon of choice. Tall, sporting appropriate military muscles, with dirty blond hair worn military short, he had an engaging smile that didn’t hide the wariness in his eyes. Even though our paths had crossed through Dane, Shooter didn’t ooze the warmth of a friend, but he didn’t seem like a foe either. And he’d proven he could be useful, unusual for men with his attitude.

  Like Dane. But Dane was different.

  Shooter had served under Dane in the military, forging an allegiance that bordered on slavish, but that was my opinion and, as such, worth the paper it was printed on. His eyes flicked to mine as I walked up, but he didn’t even hitch in his spiel. I did sort of stand out in the ruggedly male mercenary set.

  Dane sat off to the side, his backside perched on the edge of a long table, his legs crossed in front of him, oozing an easy masculinity that was almost impossible to resist … almost. Men who showed a lack of character then found ways to justify it were as plentiful and as painful as jellyfish in an August sea.

  I parked my butt next to his and adopted his pose.

  He looked unhappy when he saw me. “Where’s your security detail?”

  “I out ran him a long time ago.”

  “Lucky, having guys watch your back is a good thing. Especially considering yours has a target on it.”

  I stared down the aisle at the seeming endless array of tables and guns. “Bringing my own muscle has a chilling effect on my investigation.”

  He sucked in a breath. “It may come down to you or them.”

  “I’ll try to be smarter than that.”

  Dane gave up the fight with a snort and a shake of his head.

  Maybe he was right. Maybe I was being stupid or reckless. But I didn’t care. Some things mattered more.

  Teddie.

  “So, what’s so secret that I’ve got to hear it in person?” I asked.

  “Shooter can give you the lowdown. It has to do with your buddy, Gittings, and a particular weapon with a bayonet.”

  As my cauldron of questions started to boil over, Shooter wound up, dismissed his acolytes, and sauntered over. He hitched up his pants and settled a long look on me like he was preparing for a summation at the end of a long trial. “Hey.”

  Talk about letdown—all show and no go, a man of few words, I’d forgotten. “Hey. Hear you got something interesting to tell me.”

  “Yeah. You know how awhile back you helped send down the casino dude, the big wig?” He rolled his eyes upward, like Mona, looking for a brain ... and a name.

  “Irv Gittings.”

  “Yeah, that’s the dude. Well, he started liquidating a bunch of stuff on account of his legal bills and all.”

  Or to pay for a hitman, but I kept that little stink bomb to myself. “And?”

  “Well, Captain here,”—he nodded toward Dane who had been Shooter’s captain in the military; once a captain, always a Captain, I guess—“he showed me the photo of the bayonet used to kill Holt Box.” The way he said the singer’s name reminded me of the penitent before the altar.

  My patience on the pegs, I shot a look a Dane.

  “He’s almost there.”

  Shooter looked between us like he had no idea he was the subject of our brief discussion. “We okay here?” he asked.

  “Hanging on every word,” I said with a tight smile.

  “Right. Well, you know I deal in guns, and a lot of people who need to liquidate in a hurry, well they look to me to solve their problems.” Shooter looked a little uncomfortable.

  “Look, what you do and who you do it for is your business. I’m just interested in Irv Gittings and his guns.” I’d tap my foot in frustration, but it’d gone to sleep.

  “Right. Well, I got his whole collection. And that gun, the one his granddaddy used in the Civil War?” He waited for my response.

  “The one with the GG engraved on it.”

  Shooter’s face lit. “Yeah, that’s the one.” He reached around behind him, scanned the guns lined up like birds after a hunt, then plucked one from the middle.

  I leaned forward. “Is that the gun? Irv Gittings’ gun?”

  “Naw. This one’s just like his except his was in better condition. “This here’s a pre-Civil War Sharp’s Carbine. A new model 1859—these were configured for bayonets.”

  He handed it to me. “A Sharp’s, sweet gun.” I worked the bolt, weighed the gun across my palm. “Perfectly weighted. You could knock a guy off a horse at over a thousand yards with one of these.”

  “Real badass.” Shooter nodded, finally warming to me. He should remember I’m fluent in most calibers.

  “So, what about Gittings’ gun?” I handed the weapon back, holding it until Shooter’s eyes met mine. “You had it?”

  “Yeah, but I sold it.” He didn’t look like he was hiding anything, just sort of confused. “A guy came in, asked for it specifically, like he knew I had it. Weird thing was, I was just processing the whole lot into inventory. Hadn’t even gotten to that particular gun.”

  “How’d he know you had it?”

  “He didn’t say; I didn’t ask.” He shrugged. “Sometimes it’s better not to know, you know?”

  Oh, boy, did I know. “If you don’t know, then how is that helping me find the guy who bought the gun? I’m assuming he bought the bayonet, the murder weapon, as well?”

  “Yep, bought the whole rig. I wouldn’t sell it piecemeal anyway.”

  “I assume he had to register the gun?” Hope flared. “You have his personal information? You know how to find him?”

  “No, he didn’t have to register it. Antique gun rules and Gun Show loophole.”

  Anger burned; I
couldn’t control it. The last twenty-four hours had killed my normally low reserve of self-control “Dane.”

  This time Dane didn’t put me off. “Shooter, quit milking it and tell the lady what you told me.”

  Shooter deflated. He’d been enjoying holding all the cards. “The guy paid with a pre-signed check. When you see the signature, you’ll understand why I took the paper.” He reached to the side, popped the drawer on the cash register, and slid out a slim piece of paper.

  I barely resisted ripping it out of his hand as he held it out.

  I scanned for the signature. I wasn’t expecting this. “Seriously?” I asked, looking from one man to the other.

  They both nodded.

  The signature was Irv Gittings’, bold and brassy. The heading said “Irv Gittings Holdings.”

  “Why would he connect himself to a murder?”

  “Unless he didn’t know the gun or bayonet would be used that way.” Dane said, delivering the blow.

  Oh, yeah, Irv was playing a game, and he’d lie; he’d lie big. I just had to catch him in it. This was just the sort of stunt he’d pull—sin in plain sight. Do something so bold, so stupid, that no one would believe he would actually do something that would so easily implicate him. I pulled the now creased photo from my pocket and snapped it open, then stuck it under Shooter’s nose. “You seen this guy around?”

  He scrutinized the blurry image. “Not lately.”

  With a frown, I pulled the photo back and began refolding it.

  “Not since he bought the gun.”

  I found Romeo and Brandy huddled, holding hands, at a tiny table in the back at Tigris. Tucking a chair between them, I wiggled in and sat. Neither of them seemed surprised nor all that unhappy to see me. When the shit hit the fan, we all were on call twenty-four/seven.

  “The steak is to die for,” Romeo said, then cringed at his choice of words.

  Had it even been twenty-four hours since a man died in Jean-Charles’s kitchen? Seemed like a lifetime.

  “How’s your father?” Brandy asked. Young, beautiful, smart, and so much the master of some obscure martial art her hands had been registered as lethal weapons, my youngest assistant came to me with ambition, drive, and a former terrible taste in men. I was so glad she had listened to me and my whole do-as-I-say-not-as-I-do routine. Romeo—there weren’t any better.

  “No change, and no word, which is a good thing. Given time, he should be fine.”

  Roham, my favorite waiter, rushed over. “Miss Lucky, so wonderful to see you!” He set in front of me a double Wild Turkey 101, one cube of ice. “Will we be eating dinner or just drinking it?” he asked with a smile.

  Sometimes it didn’t pay to be so predictable. “Drinking. No time to eat.” I took a long pull, savoring the whiskey’s warm path down and the explosion of calm that came after. Then, I pulled the check Shooter had given me, after I’d promised one of my own to cover the amount, out of my pocket, pressing it on the table in between Romeo and Brandy.

  They listened as I told them what Shooter had told me.

  “Any idea where Gittings is holed up?” Romeo asked, after he’d taken a bite of steak and a moment to process.

  “No, but I bet we can find out. Any idea who’s holding his ticket?” Daniel had mentioned it, but I’d forgotten.

  “Eddie V’s Quick Stop Bail Shop.” Romeo gave me a look, easy to interpret.

  Oh, yeah—there was a good reason I’d not wanted to remember. “Likes attract.”

  Brandy pecked at her salad. “I know this is a bad time. But I really need you to sprinkle holy water on the holiday party for the whales. It’s pretty important. I’ve never handled one by myself before, and, not to complain or cast aspersions or anything, but Miss P is a bit distracted. And, well …” she wandered to a standstill.

  “I’ve been shirking my duties. Yes, and thank you for stepping in. To be honest, I’m not at the top of my game. You’ve got to step up. Can I count on you?”

  New, young, she swallowed hard and nodded.

  Brave, too.

  “When do you want to go over the setup?”

  Brandy checked her phone. “We have time. Tomorrow afternoon? I can text you.”

  “Perfect.” I agreed, even though I had no idea what the next hour held, much less tomorrow, besides a bail hearing.

  “Agent Stokes.” Brandy gave me a conspiratorial grin that lifted on side of her mouth. “I managed to get rid of him. Not forever, but you can worry about dodging him tomorrow.”

  “He found me in the lobby.” She looked sort of crestfallen. “The shooting wasn’t an act of terror, can’t see why it raised his antennae, but I’m glad it did. I think he might be able to help.”

  “Spooks, they want to know everything,” Romeo added through his mouthful of steak.

  “Did you get any hits on the golden button guy?” Romeo had run his picture through the facial recognition thing, and I wanted to shift gears. I didn’t want Romeo asking me how Homeland Security was helping.

  “The photo was pretty grainy,” Romeo reminded me. “Got a couple of hits, nothing definitive. I have some guys chasing the leads down anyway. You never know, right?”

  “Right.” I grabbed a knife and fork and carved a bit off of his hunk of meat. A bit well-done for my taste, but I couldn’t resist.

  “It’s a long shot.” Romeo wiped his mouth with his napkin, then motioned for the check.

  “But it’s a shot.” I waved Roham off. “The check is mine. And there’s nothing to do right now that I can’t get done. Enjoy yourselves.”

  Romeo settled back in his chair. “Don’t you want to find Gittings?”

  “He could be anywhere. I’ll check with his bondsman, but I bet Irv has jumped bail. He’s got a plan. I’m thinking the only way we’ll find him is to force him to show his hand.”

  “How are we going to do that?”

  “Figure out exactly who he wants and offer that to him.”

  Romeo and Brandy looked at me, their expressions holding the same look of dread. Romeo found his voice first. “That sounds an awful lot like you plan to be bait.”

  “Only if it’s me he wants.”

  I needed answers. For some reason, I felt Kimberly Cho was the key to unraveling all of this. And, if I understood anything about her culture, when the shit hit the fan, a good Chinese girl ran home.

  Jean-Charles caught me heading in his direction. “You look like you need a hug.” He didn’t wait for an answer as I fell into his arms. I felt like crying, but couldn’t. My throat choked shut, the tears hidden. I worked hard to keep myself from falling apart.

  Taking a deep, ragged breath, I stepped away. Too easy to be weak when propped up by his strength. “I need so much more than that.”

  “Do we have time to check on the twins? Your mother will be worried. Children, there is nothing more precious, and more terrifying.”

  “Tell me about it.” I so got the terrifying part. Tiny little humans, so breakable, so foreign, like aliens. I swiped at my eyes and motioned for Dane’s man to come closer. “We’re going up to a private suite on the top floor. It’s secure. Will you be comfortable with waiting here?” I answered a few questions that seemed to alleviate his concerns. We left him sitting on a bench watching the people parade.

  As we rode the private express elevator to the Big Boss’ and Mona’s apartment, Jean-Charles held my hand, our reflections staring back at us in the polished metal of the doors. I loved the way his hand sought mine as if by its own will, or to satisfy its owner’s unspoken need. We looked good together, Jean-Charles and I, and, despite everything, happy. Happy was good. Silence enveloped us, cocooning us from the outside world for a divine few seconds. Closing my eyes, I drew a deep breath, pulling this moment deep inside. Fortification against an indifferent world.

  The elevator eased to a stop; I braced myself. New territory for me, dealing with babies, and siblings.

  Jean-Charles gave me a grin and squeezed my hand. “They don’t
bite.”

  “They don’t have teeth.”

  Wails greeted us as the doors slid open. Jean-Charles stepped out; I resisted.

  “Come. Babies are easy. Wait until they are two.” He pulled me after him as he followed the trail of cries to the kitchen.

  A large room with white walls offset by a warm, burnished hardwood floor, open cabinets displaying a dizzying array of plates and stemware, a farmhouse sink, three ovens, two dishwashers, and a center island that housed a commercial Viking gas cooktop and grill. A counter with orange leather stools arced around the island. Orange was Mona’s favorite color. She’d replaced the tired granite countertops with quartz, translucent white marbled lightly with pale orange. Under lit, they were a nice touch. Mona, the happy homemaker. That label didn’t jibe with the Mona I knew—one of her newer incarnations. But, she had been nesting. Hormones could do crazy things. Trust me. A pregnant Mona had been a weapon of mass destruction—an overwrought version of her already dangerous normal. I assumed, with the birth only a month ago, the hormonal stew still sloshed through her veins.

  Two nurses, each cradling a swaddled baby, lightly bobbed and danced around the kitchen making soothing, crooning sounds. One of the nurses, a tall, black man, shot a wicked grin our way when we walked in. “Ah, just in time.” He stopped bobbing and weaving, motioning to me. “Here,” he extended his little blanket-wrapped bundle with oversized lungs, from the sound of her. “Take her. This one’s Thing One.”

  I couldn’t very well refuse. I folded my arms and accepted the package, trying to hold her as he had. Nothing about this felt familiar, but it all felt right—the barely-there weight, the little red face, and large blue eyes that stared up at me. She stopped crying, preferring instead to comfort herself by turning and attaching to my knuckle as I brushed her cheek, like a little suckerfish. “Thing One?” I asked, enraptured by the tiny form in my arms and the odd suckling sensations.