Lucky Bastard

by Deborah Coonts

  That was the problem, I didn’t want to think. And I sure didn’t want to think Dane was….well, a killer. So, since I didn’t have anything sarcastic to add, I said nothing.

  “Your cowboy is in a heap of hurt,” Romeo added unnecessarily. “When I find him, I’m going to have to take him in.”

  “Do me a favor—when you do, keep him locked up. It’ll keep me out of trouble.”

  Romeo grinned. The kid so got me. Stretching his legs in front of him, he massaged his thigh with one hand. “My whole body hurts.”

  “Get a few more years under your belt, then talk to me about it.”

  He gave me a shrug. “You want to compare notes and see where we are?”

  “You first, I’ll fill in with what I know.”

  He appeared to think about it for a moment, then pursed his lips. Nodding, he started in. “Let’s begin with the dead girl on the car, Dane’s wife.” I think he threw in that last part to keep me from going all mushy at some point. He needn’t have worried.

  Romeo pulled out his notes and scanned them before continuing. “The coroner puts her time of death at about two a.m., which we’d pretty much figured based on the security tapes and Dane’s call to you.”

  “Anything out of the ordinary? Besides the shoe in her neck? I assume that’s what killed her?”

  Romeo nodded. “Yeah, whoever swung that thing had good aim—they buried the pointy end in her carotid.”

  “Pointy end—by that you mean the protective thingie was off the heel?”

  Romeo looked at me with that vacuous look most men donned when confronted with the nuances of high heels and high fashion.

  I pulled off one of my heels to show him. Even though the heel was low, it still had the little protective cover on the tip. “See this thing?” I wedged my fingernails under it and worked it a bit until it came loose, leaving a tiny metal spike, sharp as a nail. “Is this how the shoe in her neck looked?”

  “Yeah,” Romeo said as his brows creased in thought. “What does it mean?”

  “I don’t know. You didn’t find one of these, did you?” I opened my hand and showed him the tiny piece I’d pulled from the tip of my shoe’s heel.

  “No, and my team went over that showroom pretty thoroughly—it took us the rest of the night and half the morning. Mr. DeLuca was practically apoplectic. I caught him at a bad time, or so he said. Something about the cleaning crew not doing their job or something.” Romeo pulled a quarter out of his pocket and began working it through the fingers of one hand then back again. A minor magician, he liked to practice while he was thinking.

  “So you found Frank?”

  “He found me, more like.” Romeo looked a bit stricken.

  “Kid, I’ll let you in on a secret, these guys who have been around a while are used to barking, but they rarely bite. And they certainly don’t dine on detectives. If you act like you’re in charge, they’ll give you some room to run before they shoot.”

  “I’m not sure I’m comfortable with that analogy.” Romeo glanced at his notes again, while I waited. “I want to get the times right,” he said as if he needed to explain. “DeLuca said he was at your father’s party until about midnight, then he went to see Shady Slim at the airport.”

  “Which jibes with Miss Becky Sue’s story,” I chimed in—apparently my mute button was still on the fritz.

  “He acted like none of this was that important, but you don’t go visit someone the minute they get into town, at the airport at almost midnight just to gas.”

  “Poker players are nocturnal creatures, so midnight isn’t that late for them.” To be honest, I thought it a bit coincidental, but I kept that to myself. “When do you think you might have the preliminary tox screen on Slim?”

  “DeLuca being less than honest with me pushed it to the top of my list and I pushed it to the top of the lab’s.” He reached into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper that he thrust at me. “Some of the boys in the lab in Reno owe me.”

  With the hint of a grin I didn’t know I had, I took the paper. “I won’t ask why.”

  “Probably better you don’t.” Romeo didn’t look like he was kidding. As I let my eyes traverse the page, he continued, “Nothing abnormal leaps out. Normal meds for a guy with a bad ticker. Alcohol was a bit over legal limits, but he wasn’t driving. Heart stuff. Sildenafil. Nothing else of any substance.”

  “Sildenafil?” I asked.

  “Pecker power stuff. Every guy I know above a certain age pops those things like candy. They must have perpetual hard-ons.”

  “Scary thought.” I refolded the paper and handed it back to him. “So, natural causes?”

  “Yeah. You mix nitrates and sildenafil you’re asking for a heart attack eventually. The combo can cause a serious drop in blood pressure that can trigger a heart attack—we see it all the time in this town. Old guys hit the city limits hoping to score big.”

  “I’ve heard men think about sex every seven and a half seconds.” I took a deep breath. “Who knew even monogamous sex was such a high-risk activity?” I glanced at Romeo. “Don’t answer that.”

  Romeo reddened just a bit—the kid still lurked under that hardened exterior. “At least he’s one piece of the puzzle we don’t have to find a fit for.”

  “Nice,” I said, only half listening as the wheels spun. “Did DeLuca say where he was when he got the call about Mrs. Dane?”

  Romeo didn’t even break stride. “He swears he was home asleep when he got the call about the…problem…in the dealership.”

  “Alone?” Since there were several former Mrs. DeLucas but no current one, I had to ask.

  “So he says.”

  “And what time was that?”

  “About three thirty,” Romeo said after checking his notes. “That much I can confirm—I called him myself.”

  “Do you think he’s telling the truth?”

  Romeo leveled his gaze at me. “Lucky, you know better than most, it’s not what we think…”

  “It’s what we can prove,” I finished his sentence—the teacher parroting the student. “Did Frank offer a story to cover his whereabouts from the time he left the airport after talking to Shady Slim and three thirty when you got him on the phone?”

  “He said he was home and he didn’t turn the house alarm on until he went to bed which was at two twenty.” Romeo glanced up from his notes. “Yes, I checked. Someone activated Mr. DeLuca’s home alarm at two twenty, so that much of the story jibes.”

  “He could easily have doubled back and met Sylvie at the dealership. If he used the outside door, avoiding the perimeter cameras would have been easy.” I also decided to share the whole code-word thing with the young detective—now seemed as good a time as any.

  When I’d finished, Romeo ran a hand over his eyes, but thankfully didn’t feel the need to comment on the obvious. Not to mention that, had I been him, I would’ve been really steamed at me.

  “Someone I count among my best friends recently told me that trust is the foundation of a good relationship.” Romeo tucked his notebook in his jacket pocket.

  “I know. But, if you want me to use my sources to get information, you’re going to have to let me do it my way.”

  “I know. But don’t keep me in the dark too long.” He glanced at me. I could tell he wasn’t really mad. “Remember we’d like to think all this is about truth, justice and the American Way. You know as well as me, when the lawyers get hold of it, it’ll be about playing a game.”

  “Believe me, I know how the game is played.” I threw my arm around his shoulders and squeezed. “With the old guard, there are unwritten rules.” I let go of him. “You could use more than the occasional burger, Detective. Thin always looked good on you, but now you’re down to skin and bones. You need to take Brandy out to dinner. I hear we have some nice dining establishments in this town.”

  “With her schedule and mine we’re lucky to squeeze in coffee and a roll somewhere.”

&nbs
p; “That’s net negative calories—if your roll is vigorous.”

  “What? Oh.” He ducked his head as his cheeks turned a rosy pink.

  Satisfied, I got back to business. “Now, about Sylvie.” I ran my fingers through my hair and worked my shoulders trying to loosen the muscles.

  “Dane’s wife.”

  I shot him a look. “Yes, Dane’s wife. I got it. But, is there anything else? Like trace under her fingernails? Unusual marks on her body?”

  “The mark around her neck, you already know about.”

  I nodded. “From the missing necklace.” I rooted in my pocket and pulled out the photo Jerry had given me of the necklace. “This is what it looks like. And it was stolen from a guestroom here at the Babylon two weeks ago.” Romeo started to say something, but I cut him off. “Then it ends up with our shoe girl at an illegal poker game in a warehouse across the Fifteen.”

  “I’d sure like to find that girl,” Romeo muttered as he glanced at the photograph, then refolded the paper and stuck it in his notebook.

  “Stand in line.” Then I remembered the photo Jerry had given me. “Oh, this might help.” I handed him a second bit of crumpled paper.

  Hope flared in his eyes.

  “We already ran it through our database. The girl doesn’t work here—not legitimately anyway.” I told him Jerry’s suspicions regarding the theft ring. “But...” I paused to make sure I had his attention. “I’ll tell you one thing. Those shoes were on Sylvie Dane’s feet when she left the poker game.”

  Romeo’s eyebrows shot up. As tired as he was, interest still fired in his eyes. “Seriously?”

  “The security feed proves it.” I held up a finger, silencing him. “And…if my source is right, those shoes were purchased by Frank DeLuca.”

  “Wow. Remind me not to try to shorten your chain again.” He looked at the photo for a moment, then held it as if divining answers through osmosis really was an option. “I’ll run it. Maybe we’ll get lucky.” Romeo gave me a resigned look then glanced at his notes. “To answer your previous question, there was no trace under Sylvie’s fingernails.”

  I straightened. “Really? You sure? No skin or anything?”

  “Nope. It’ll be a couple of days for the full tox reports, but I don’t expect anything weird, although with this cyanide thing, that doesn’t seem quite so straight-forward anymore.”

  “You’ve told me it’s pretty easy to get your hands on the stuff, but getting it into Marvin, wonder how they did that?” I pushed myself to my feet and struggled for a tentative balance. Then I reached a hand out to help the young detective.

  “Could have been a thousand different ways.” Romeo took my hand. “Nothing seemed to jump out when we searched his car. He had a bag with stuff from his locker—a stained shirt, still wet—we’re testing the substance now—some toiletries, what you’d expect.”

  “I didn’t give him long to clear out. The guy had it coming, trust me.”

  “I’m guessing there’s a long list of people with a motive then?”

  “A bunch of people hated him, but murder? That takes a special kind of hate, don’t you think?”

  “Not as special as you might think.” Still holding my hand, Romeo looked up at me expectantly.

  I pulled him to his feet. “If you’re trying to make me feel better, it isn’t working.”

  “Do you think the girl killed Sylvie Dane?” Romeo ran his fingers through his hair in a halfhearted, self-conscious attempt to unruffled his exterior.

  “I have no idea.” I resisted straightening my own hair—to even attempt it would be a wasted, futile effort. “If she didn’t, she might have seen who did.”

  “If she was there and if the killer saw her…two big ifs…but—” I didn’t need to finish the sentence.

  “We better find her first.” Romeo was exhausted but he wasn’t stupid. After studying the picture of the young woman again, he carefully folded it and put it in the same pocket as his notebook then he seemed to deflate. “This job is beating me up.” Romeo brushed his jacket down and made a feeble attempt to straighten his tie, then gave up. “I’m heading home, if only to shower and change.”

  I felt like giving him another hug, but resisted. A hug no longer seemed appropriate—I was no longer the teacher. Romeo was my equal now. Of course, I’m not sure he would be overly pleased with my assessment, so I didn’t mention it. “You know, kid, there is an air about you.”

  “If it would keep people off my back, I’d make it a habit.”

  “Man, you’re like a verbal backboard—everything I hit your way comes blazing back. Better be careful, I’m rubbing off on you.”

  “And, as we know, that can be deadly.”

  ***

  “I’m assuming the police have the murders under control?” Miss P asked when I staggered through the office door.

  I thought that a bit optimistic, especially considering it was Metro we were talking about, but I didn’t say so. Instead, I shrugged noncommittally. “I see the grapevine is operating at its normal blinding pace.”

  “No matter how bad things get, we can always count on the rumor mill.”

  “Gossip, the glue that holds us together.” I shifted from one foot to the other in front of her desk—tired yet amped on adrenaline.

  Miss P consulted her notebook. “Mr. Watalsky came by this afternoon looking for you. He said to find him if it’s early. I told him you were tied up at the airport.” She glanced up at me with the hint of a smile then continued. “Jeremy will meet you for breakfast. He said he had some leads to check out. Eight o-clock at Jamm’s, does that work?

  “Eight o-clock? In the morning? He can’t be serious? Does the man ever sleep?” Morning is not my best time, but Jeremy knew that. “Luring me with fresh-baked cinnamon bread, is he? Swine.”

  Miss P knew a “yes” when she heard one. “Fine, I’ll let him know that your price is one pot-o-bread. Mr. Watalsky said, if he doesn’t see you tonight, you could catch him tomorrow in the Poker Room any time after noon.”

  “What’s he doing tonight? Did he say?”

  “He said he had plans.”

  I had a good idea where he was headed—the illegal poker game. Cole had told Romeo where it was last night, but, being smart and prizing their skins, the promoters moved the game every night. The young detective had prevailed upon Cole to try to get a line on tonight’s game. Maybe he’d come through, maybe not. Regardless, it wasn’t my game to play.

  “Now.” Miss P pushed herself to her feet so we were essentially eye to eye and her tone turned a tad frosty. A closed-down expression replaced her open one as she put her hands on her hips in an exaggerated show of displeasure. “About Teddie.”

  I threw up one hand. “Not to worry, I won’t add to the body count…yet. He might become a future homicide—if he’s foolhardy enough to show his tight little ass around here. But, since he’s half a world away, I shouldn’t think his demise is imminent.”

  Miss P scowled at me. “Lucky…”

  “Don’t.” I looked for a chair to fall into then thought better of it—I always think better on my feet, or at least I can turn and run faster from a standing position. Either way, I’m money ahead. “You know better than anyone, after all the years of sucking up I’ve put in, I’ve developed an immunity to attitude.”

  She weakened. “But he says he’s sorry, doesn’t that mean anything?” Like the crust on cooling lava, her frosty demeanor cracked, revealing the warmth of a caring friend. “He loves you.”

  “He left. Interesting way of showing it.”

  “He made a mistake.”

  “He made several.” I sighed. This was the last thing I wanted to talk about. “The funny thing about words, you can take them back, but they can never be unheard.”

  “He hurt you. He’s human—it’s not a capital crime.”

  “We’ve established that.”

  Miss P threw up her hands. “Will you ever forgive him?”

  Now that was the
sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, wasn’t it? And lately I hadn’t had much luck with answers. I stepped to the window overlooking the lobby below. Couples wandered hand in hand—the shows had let out only a short while ago. Clusters of stylish young males and females eyed each other and jockeyed for attention. At this time of night, the clubs were just revving their engines, advancing to full throttle.

  And I was completely out of gas.

  Teddie. The memories assaulted me, tearing at me, ripping my heart open like bloodhound with a rabbit. Wasn’t time the great healer? The sands of time were sifting through the hourglass, yet my emotions were still as raw as the day he walked out. How did you ever put a patch over that? Scar tissue was thick and tough—not the stuff to wrap a heart in, not if I hoped to love again. “Forgiveness,” I sighed, the concept totally foreign. Grudges weren’t my thing, but once someone pushed me too far, I’d never found a way back.

  “Is next to godliness,” Miss P added. A platitude for every occasion.

  I gave her my best dirty look. “I can’t tell you how much better that makes me feel. And it’s cleanliness, not forgiveness.”

  “What?”

  “Cleanliness is next to godliness.”

  “Whatever. You know what I mean.”

  A few moments of silence, pity written all over her face, and I caved. I opened my arms, pleading. “It would never be the same.”

  Miss P stepped into the hug. “Honey, nothing ever is.”

  Chapter Ten

  Even though the night had long since barreled into a new day, I still had work to do. The funeral directors would be setting up for their conference expo and I owed them a thank-you.

  Moonbird Ridgeway, Moony to most of us, stood, back to the door, hands on hips, staring at a job only half done when I eased myself inside the cavernous exhibit hall. After a couple of decades working together, you’d think I would be used to Moony by now, but she always made me grin. Competent and to the point, she was as unexpected as a cool breeze in July. Raised on a cattle farm outside Carson City, she was as tough as boot leather and as callused as a cowboy after a summer spent pulling fences. Like a sheepdog working the herd, she ran her department with a bark and a nip, 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.