With the bubbles warming my insides, I tried to picture the kitchen as it was when I’d walked in. I stepped to the middle. Jean-Charles glanced at me. “Teddie was here, Holt sagging in his arms, my father next to him.” I closed my eyes. Details, Lucky. Remember the details. “Blood.”
“Where?”
I pointed at the floor. “Here. Drops. A trail.” I followed the remembered path deeper into the kitchen, then around the corner to the walk-in. There was a door to the left of it I hadn’t focused on before. “This door, it goes to the service area, right?” Jean-Charles wasn’t going to leave his meat, so I raised my voice a bit.
“Yes. To an elevator we use to bring in supplies. It’s always locked but can be opened from the inside.”
I pressed the bar and pushed the door open, sticking my head out. A small vestibule and an elevator that right now stood open. Another door led from the vestibule, and from the orientation and more than passing familiarity with the architectural plans, I knew it opened into the public corridor leading from the main elevator to the front of the restaurant. I stepped out of the kitchen, letting the door shut behind me, then I turned and tried to open it.
Locked, just as Jean-Charles said it would be.
I pushed out into the public space and came back into the kitchen through the restaurant as I had before. Dane hadn’t said a word as I’d strolled by; he’d seen me in action before.
“Either the gold-button guy came through the swinging service doors from the restaurant itself, or someone let him in through the service entrance and he left through the restaurant,” I said when I’d rejoined Jean-Charles.
He flipped the meat carefully. “You like yours medium rare.” A statement that only needed correcting if he was wrong. He wasn’t. “How do you know he left through the restaurant?”
“I saw him.”
“Are you sure?” Tongs poised above the sizzling beef.
“Pay attention.” I motioned to the grill. “Don’t overcook my steak.”
He raised one eyebrow, then turned to tend the meat. “And yes, I’m sure. Something about him caught my eye. Ol’ Irv used to dress in that dinner jacket and he would always pair it with a bow tie; red was for special occasions.”
“Why do you speak of him this way: Ol’ Irv?”
As one of the more difficult second languages, English and its peculiarities had captured my Frenchman. “He has this very irritating habit of referring to himself in the third person. Instead of using ‘I,’ he would use his name, Ol’ Irv.”
“And this is irritating?”
“And arrogant. Like he considered himself royalty.” With Ol’ Irv directly in my sights, I looked around the kitchen with fresh eyes. If I could find a gold button… But they wouldn’t be that arrogant, that stupid. Oh, yes, they would. They had proven that at my place. So where would they hide it? He’d probably do that before he stabbed Holt Box. And he’d place the gold button where the police wouldn’t look for it.
I scanned away from the probable hiding place in the walk-in and the path Holt had followed after he’d been stabbed, eventually falling into Teddie. A drain under the dishwashing line caught my eye.
They’d used a drain once.
Would I be lucky?
Squatting, I tried to peek into the hole, but it was too dark and in an awkward spot under heavy equipment. My cheek pressed to cold metal, I reached back, probing the drain with my fingers. The grate moved when I pushed it, letting my fingers search deeper. The drainpipe was narrow, a tube from one of the pieces of equipment, presumably the dishwasher, feeding into it. Packing had been pressed around the pipe, creating a ledge. Working from nearest to farthest, then back around again, I felt for something that shouldn’t be there.
I found it on the second pass, pressed into the packing material. Something metal. Not smooth. Using a fingernail, I pried it up, careful not to let it go down the drain. Stuck tight, it popped loose. Adrenaline spiked. I thought I’d lost it. At the last minute, I flipped it into the palm of my hand, then clenched my fist tight around it. And I was stuck—like the monkey and the cookie jar. Using my legs as pistons, I put my shoulder into the machine and pressed, careful to ease it only as far as I needed.
Heavy and bolted to the other machinery, I couldn’t move it quite far enough. Jean-Charles squeezed in next to me, adding his strength to mine. It was just enough, and I wiggled my closed hand out. I held it between us, palm-side up, then slowly opened my fingers.
A gold button with an embossed crest.
“Better toss on another steak,” I said, probably grinning like a fool. “Romeo likes his medium.”
Romeo had polished off two steaks in between crowing about the button and giving me grief about not preserving fingerprints. I doubted there would’ve been any useful fingerprints—Irv was arrogant, not stupid—but I the detective fuss. All of us on emotional overload, some of the steam had to vent or rivets were going to pop. Fussing, especially at me, was Romeo’s way of offloading.
For me, I thought perhaps some animal sex with a delish Frenchman would be just the thing to bring my stress load back into line, or as close as it ever was.
Sex is interesting—it’s also pretty silly when you think about it, but at the moment I was fixated on the interesting aspects.
We’d shooed Romeo away and had done a cursory cleanup. On the way home, we’d swung through the Babylon, and I’d grabbed a few clothes from the office. I also had some I’d left at Jean-Charles’s house. Together they were the sum total of my worldly possessions. I couldn’t quite get my mind around that and didn’t want to try, not now, maybe not ever. But some retail therapy was definitely in order. But that, too, could wait. Although, this being Vegas, the dark of night was the perfect time to satisfy all your needs and desires. I opted for the carnal over the tangible.
During the drive home, we both had been quiet. Apparently we’d been thinking along the same lines. The house was dark, quiet, when we let ourselves in through the garage. I stepped on something soft that squeaked, making us both giggle.
Jean-Charles put a finger to his lips, stifling a laugh. “Shhh. Christophe, he is sleeping. Chantal, too.” Chantal was his niece who lived with him while in culinary school, following in her exalted uncle’s footsteps.
“Where is Desiree?”
“Here or the Babylon, I am not sure.” He grabbed my hand and pulled me through the house. Tiptoeing like thieves, we advanced on his bedroom. Once secure behind locked doors, he gathered me into his arms. My nerves raw, my heart sore, my body thrummed at his touch, a touch that awakened all the senses, sharpening, feeding. His mouth captured mine, feasting. His tongue darted, sending bolts of desire arcing through me.
Tonight, life stripped to its most elemental, I met his demands, reveled in them, then feasted of my own. I took what I wanted. Life had taken from me. Anger fed my desire, fueled my passion, and I claimed him for my own.
I think he liked it. Okay, I know he liked it; all the signs were there.
Lying spent on the bed, the covers ripped and strewn on the floor, our bodies slick with sweat, satiated for now, I had no idea what time it was. Darkness settled soft and warm around us, my head on Jean-Charles’ shoulder as he wrapped me into him. I think I slept, or maybe just drifted, but I awakened, warm where our skin touched, but cold where it didn’t.
He felt me shiver. “You are cold. Let me get the duvet.”
He untied the knot of our bodies, untangling our limbs and moving away. I didn’t watch him; I didn’t need to. With my eyes closed, I retraced every peak and valley of his body as I remembered it, my fingers, my lips recording every square inch. When he returned, pulling the feather comforter over us, I checked my accuracy.
He remained still under my touch, his quickened heart rate when I pressed my lips to his chest, the sharp intake of breath when my hand roamed lower, the only evidence of the effort it took. Finally, he broke. With a growl, he flipped me over and made me his own.
Light tinged
the sky when I awoke the second time, comfortable, warm, complete. And life had refilled all the empty places inside.
His arms around me, he brushed a kiss on my forehead. “We must sleep a bit more. You are my life, my heart. And that scares me.”
As I drifted, I thought love shouldn’t instill fear. Love should be savored for however long you have it. To have known its gift even briefly was beyond what most are given. I didn’t say the words.
I wished later that I had.
A pounding on the door jarred me awake. Jean-Charles bolted out of bed.
A small voice. “Papa. I am sick.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
THIS time a different hospital, but it was hard to distinguish it. Perhaps a bit newer than UMC, the waiting room had more comfy furniture, and a Keurig coffeemaker and a snack station. But it held the same air of despair, of frailty. Unable to sit for long, I held up the wall and watched Jean-Charles pace.
“He was burning up.” The worried father hurled the words, weapons against the unthinkable. Worry creased his face as he raked a hand through his hair and glanced at me, not pausing in his pacing. A caged tiger, feral, angry, needing only a hint of an opening to lash out, ripping flesh, fighting for his life. “The doctors, they are worried.”
“They’ll get his fever down.”
He whirled on me. “How do you know this?”
“Because it’s what doctors do.” I crossed my arms, a small shield in an unwinnable battle. No matter what I said, Jean-Charles would not find comfort. I’d had enough years dealing with all kinds of trauma; I knew the signs. “And I have to believe.”
“You are a—.” His face reddened as he searched for the idiom.
“Pollyanna, yes.”
“Yes, this.” He stalked across the room.
I understood his anger, his fear. A control freak finally faced with the reality that we have no control over the most important aspect of our lives. Those we love, those whose loss can cut us open, leaving our entrails to rot, they can be taken from us in the flash of a gun, a moment’s indecision, a poor choice, the indiscriminate callousness of life. I’d been there, railed against the Fates, fought for control, and failed, just as he would.
The doors to my left whooshed open, admitting a worried Desiree, with Chantal behind her. Jean-Charles had dispatched the girl to go fetch her mother, surrounding himself with the comfort of family. We clustered in a worried knot as Jean-Charles told them what we knew. “He has a very high fever. They don’t know what caused it. The important thing right now is to bring it down so there is no damage. They have put him in ice.” Jean-Charles flinched at the memory, the tiny body red with heat, his hair slicked with sweat, as the doctors placed him in the tub and began packing ice around him.
I reached to comfort him. He shrugged away. Worry rooted us to the spot; fear kept us apart. Indecision ate at us. Finally, the doors from the back opened, expelling the doctor. A young man with a worried expression and kind dark eyes pulled down his mask. “Chef Bouclet, your son, his fever is coming down slightly, but not as fast as I’d like. He’s not out of the woods, but he is improving.”
“May I see him?” He fought to control himself, but desperation prodded him.
The doctor waffled for a moment. I thought Jean-Charles would grab him and shake him until he agreed. Thankfully, he agreed before Jean-Charles ran to the end of his rope. “Okay. But just for a moment. He is hallucinating a bit. This is not unusual with fevers this high. Your voice should calm him.”
The doctor shot me a worried look as he eased Jean-Charles toward the door. I knew that look.
“Fuck,” I whispered, wanting to shout it, but afraid of arousing Death’s attention.
“Yes, this,” Desiree added, sounding just like her brother. “He cannot lose the boy.”
“None of us can lose Christophe,” I said, anger leaking through. It’d been one hell of a day. One I would never forget. And one I would have revenge for.
“Oui, but for my brother, his heart will die and he will be lost. We almost lost him once before. If it hadn’t been for Christophe …”
She let me fill in the rest. Jean-Charles was a man who lived a life of passion. And with passion came fear.
We sat, the three of us, silent soldiers paralyzed by our inability to have any effect on the outcome, our weapons useless. Perhaps only ten minutes or less had passed, but it seemed like a lifetime before Jean-Charles reappeared, disgorged by the same door that had swallowed him, but this time alone. He seemed less, his energy sucked away, his face haggard, his eyes pained. He slumped down in the chair next to me. “He is so small. But so brave.” A tear leaked out of his eye ,and he pinched the corners near the bridge of his nose, working for composure. “The fever, it is very bad. They are thinking meningitis.” He looked to his sister. “They will know shortly, but it is bad, very bad. The bacteria can go through his system. He could die.” Jean-Charles picked up a coffee cup sitting on the table and hurled it across the room, spraying cold coffee in an arc. “If he doesn’t die, he could have deafness or brain damage; they don’t know.”
“He could also be okay.” The moment I said the words I knew I’d made a mistake. Like moving when the bear is standing over you.
Jean-Charles whirled on me, a cornered animal, his eyes wide and wild. “What do you know of loss? You are a silly woman always thinking the best will happen. It won’t. Bad things happen every day, horrible painful things that rip your heart out, leaving you bleeding out with no way to stop your life, your joy, from leaking away.”
“I’m sure you’re right.”
He gave me a haughty look. “You are too afraid to risk your own heart, to have children.” He didn’t add “you pathetic thing.” He didn’t have to.
Some of it rang true. All of it hurt.
“I cannot marry you.” He flipped his hand at me, a rude, dismissive gesture. “You need to go.”
He rose and fled down a hallway I hadn’t noticed. I didn’t follow him.
Desiree put a hand on my arm and gave me a wan smile. “He doesn’t know what he is saying. He speaks from fear. It is better to push you away now than hold you in his heart only to lose you later. I have told you, he fears loss more than life.”
“Then loss is what he’s asking for.”
A spark of life hit her eyes. “You understand. He will regret his words, and he will do all he can to make them up to you.”
“Words, the most vicious weapons we have in our arsenal. They can cut deeply, inflict almost lethal wounds, but the wounds heal.” I gave her a long look. “The words, however, once spoken, can never be unheard. Verbal splinters that work themselves in deep.”
“Only if you let them,” Chantal said, injecting herself in the conversation for the first time.
“True.” I gave her mother a thin smile. “She is wise.”
“An old soul.”
Feeling the need to move, to run, yet not wanting to leave, I had a moment of paralysis before gathering my purse and buttoning my sweater. A chill had burrowed in deep.
There comes a moment in life where everything is stripped away. Now was my moment. I felt as exposed, as stripped bare as if I were walking naked down Las Vegas Boulevard on New Year’s Eve for all the world to see.
I thought about staying, but my presence didn’t lend comfort. I couldn’t cure Christophe. I would keep close watch from afar—well, maybe not too far afar. I gave the two women long hugs and told them to take care of Jean-Charles. My heart cracked more than a little. I wanted to be the one he turned to, the one who comforted him.
But that wasn’t what he wanted. I understood, but that didn’t lessen the hurt.
Logic pounded once again by emotion.
Waiting for my cab, I grabbed my phone, searching for the number.
Cody Ellis answered on the first ring. “Cody, I need another miracle.”
When the cab eased to a stop and I let myself in the back, I was relieved to see the driver wasn’t River Watalsky
. I didn’t want to take a friend on this ride. “High Desert State Prison, please.”
The driver turned around, a young woman with a shy smile and hard eyes. “Indian Springs?”
“Yes.” I settled back for the ride.
“That’ll cost you.”
“In so many ways.” I leaned my head back as she put the car in gear. “You can wait for me, right? I won’t take long.”
“Meter and a half to sit in the jail yard.” She watched in the rearview, gauging my reaction.
“I’ll pay the meter; the rest is at my discretion. Don’t push me, not today.”
She caved at my pushback. The fare would be the best she’d had in months; we both knew it.
I must’ve dozed for part of the ride north—we were there before I was ready. Even though less than thirty miles from the Strip, Indian Springs was a world apart. A small town squatting amid sand, rocks, scrubby angry brush fighting for life, and mountains that looked like they’d been picked clean by a life-consuming cloud of locusts. The Mojave, a desert as bleak and as beautiful as any, and the last place any sane man would envision a place like Las Vegas.
Vegas, an insane vision of a delusional mobster. It fit. But it was home.
Nevada had always welcomed the outliers.
The Tonopah Test Range was out here, the site of atomic testing back in the days before anyone understood the effect of exposure to radiation. Yucca Mountain, the abandoned national repository for nuclear waste, was out this way too. So it fit that the largest correctional facility in Nevada, a one-hundred-and sixty-acre site of low buildings hunkering in a remote corner of the desert behind electrified fence, rounded out the neighborhood. Guards with automatic weapons watched from towers that dotted the fence line. Their eyes on us as I presented my ID at the checkpoint raised the hair on the back of my neck. Even my cabbie with the attitude seemed subdued. The guard directed us to the Visiting Center.
Lucky Break Page 24