Lucky Catch

by Deborah Coonts

  I felt pretty sure she had a real good handle on boys, but I didn’t point that out—the context seemed a bit iffy. Recent history had proved I was the last person to offer advice on men, old or young . . . unless shooting them became an option.

  “Which would you like?” She acted as if I had a choice. Finally, the light dawned. “Lucky, you’re not saying anything. Why don’t you say something?”

  I opened my mouth, but words failed me. Vaguely, I was aware of a vibrating at my hip.

  After a beat or two, Mona nodded in that direction. “Aren’t you going to answer that?”

  “What?”

  “Your phone.”

  My hand shook as I grabbed my phone from its holster, swiped my thumb across the face, tapped the green button, then held the thing to my ear. “Yeah.”

  “Lucky?”

  “Romeo?” I tried to gather my wits, but they drifted away like smoke in a strong breeze.

  “Yeah, what’s the matter? You sound weird.”

  “My family just . . .” I paused, searching for the words, but words were gone—not a good sign.

  “No need to explain,” Romeo filled the dead air. “Your family defies explanation, anyway.”

  “God love you, kid.” Still struggling to find my sea legs, I cradled my forehead, massaging my temples with thumb and forefinger. I stared at the ground, willing my mother to disappear. “You wouldn’t, by chance, be coming here to arrest my mother?”

  The young detective had the audacity to laugh. “What for?”

  “I don’t know . . . intentional infliction of emotional distress?”

  “That’s not a crime, it’s a civil tort.” He didn’t even try to hide his amusement—he’d been finding me pretty darn humorous lately.

  I wasn’t sure I appreciated his attitude. “I’ll take that as a no.” I blew at a lock of hair that tickled my eyes and tried to focus on a point across the lobby to stop my world from spinning. It didn’t work. “Give me time, I’ll think of some other reason. Maybe you could take her into protective custody?” My outlook brightened for a moment.

  “From you?” This time, he laughed out loud. “Your bark is worse than your bite.”

  I crumpled under the weight of defeat. “You never know. One of these days . . .”

  “Keep me posted. You know I’m always here to get you out of hot water. But until then, the help I need is yours.”

  “I figured as much. What can I do for you?”

  “Fiona Richards’s killer left a note . . . and it’s addressed to you.”

  Chapter Six

  With the swipe of a hand, I brushed an arc through the dust on my desk—nothing like living in a construction zone. In the clean space, Romeo smoothed the note lightly until the message was legible. “We’ve already processed it for prints and whatnot.”

  I moved, taking my shadow with me, so the light from the exposed bulb on a wire above me illuminated the single sheet of paper, protected in plastic. Five lines long, the message had been scrawled in a generic blocked print using what looked to be a black Sharpie, medium tip. It read

  Two chef, one chef,

  Sous chef, done chef,

  Smoke and air,

  Cook with care,

  Broil and baste, in your haste Lucky no more.

  I read it three times. “Great, a psycho with a Theodor Geisel complex.” Seated in my chair, with Romeo parked on the corner of my desk, I poked at the edges of the plastic, pushing the note away. I glanced up, catching Romeo looking at me.

  He quickly looked away, hiding his worry, which didn’t give me any warm fuzzies. “Theodor who?”

  His question made me feel old, though I didn’t know why. “Dr. Seuss.”

  Romeo’s eyes widened. “No shit? That’s his name?”

  I shrugged him off. “Please, you know I only lie about serious things.” I eyeballed the note like it was a rattler, coiled to strike. “Is this a threat, or am I being paranoid?”

  “Seems like.”

  “Like what?”

  He rolled his head side to side, waffling. “A threat.”

  “But why?”

  “Why would be nice, but who would be a better place to start.” Romeo dropped into one of the client chairs across from me. Glancing around, he let out his breath in a long sigh. “Are they working on this office at all?”

  “Not that I can tell.” As I leaned back, my desk chair groaned under the strain. With the toe of my left foot, I pulled out the lower drawer, then propped my feet on it. Steepling my fingers, I tried to remain calm. “The reference to smoke and air seems obvious.”

  “Fiona Richards.” Romeo nodded as his gaze drifted from mine. He stared over my shoulder, but his eyes had the unfocused glaze of a man lost in his thoughts. “Somebody trussed her up like a turkey at Thanksgiving, then wrapped her head in plastic wrap, cut a slit for her mouth, then lit the reservoir on the smoking thing and stuck the nozzle through the slit.” His focus returned, and his eyes caught mine.

  “Sick son-of-a-bitch.” Closing my eyes, I let my thoughts wander. My corner of Vegas was a magical place, most of the time. I hated it when someone felt the need to burst my little bubble of delusion and happiness. No matter Fiona Richards’s sins, I felt sure she didn’t deserve to be tortured and slowly suffocated. “But she wasn’t a chef.”

  “I’m working on that. She was in the food service business—it is possible she started out in a kitchen somewhere and then made her move.” Romeo jotted a note on a sticky pad on my desk, then peeled off the page, folded it, and stuck it in his pocket. “The coroner said Fiona didn’t die easily.”

  “That much is evident.”

  “You should take this threat seriously.”

  “You know me better than that. Pinheads with Post-it notes don’t slow me down. I can’t let them—if they do, they win.”

  “You logic is as solid as Swiss cheese.”

  “I’m trying to think, and you’re not helping.” I opened one eye and shot Romeo a frown. When he didn’t seem fazed, I leaned my head back and turned my thoughts loose, letting them freewheel—the strategy had worked before. Cook with care? Baste and broil? Something niggled at the edges of my consciousness, like a balloon lifted on the breeze floating just out of reach.

  As I drifted, I was vaguely aware of the noises in the outer office: the door opening then closing softly, the rustling of papers, a drawer sliding open.

  Newton, our adopted macaw, shouted, “Bitch, bitch. Filthy whore. Food now.” A filthy bird with a filthy mouth—when he had landed on my balcony at the Presidio, I had been powerless to resist. Every day since, I’d rued that moment of weakness.

  “Filthy whore” was Miss P.’s special term of endearment. She poked her head through the doorway, confirming my suspicion. “You guys want anything?”

  “A new identity and a life somewhere far away.” I assumed my former position and hoped that the next time I opened my eyes, all around me would be just a figment of my imagination.

  “What? And give up all of this?”

  Romeo slapped his thighs—at least that’s what it sounded like. I didn’t bother looking to see. “You got some 101 on the top shelf in the kitchen, right?” he asked. “I’m feeling the need.”

  “I’ll get it for you.” Miss P. sounded like she meant it.

  “No.” Romeo stopped her. “Not your job. Thanks, though.”

  I sneaked one eye open. Miss P. caught me and shot me a grin, then hooked her arm through Romeo’s, and the two of them disappeared through the doorway, chattering as they moved out of earshot. Once again, my thoughts turned inward. Broil. Baste. Cook with care.

  Suddenly, like leaves caught in an eddy, my thoughts coalesced.

  Oh, my God! I bolted upright, my feet slamming to the floor. I tried his cell phone—hitting redial several times. He didn’t answer. In a fluid motion, I pushed myself out of the chair and launched myself through the makeshift doorway into the hallway, and ran.

  Jean-Charles ha
d said he was having trouble with the oven.

  * * *

  What if Jean-Charles was the next course on the murderer’s menu?

  The wind buffeted me through the open top of the Ferrari. My hair whipped, stinging my face. Ignoring it all, I stomped on the accelerator and cranked the wheel over, just missing one of the gate supports as I raced onto the construction site at Cielo. The trip here had been a blur—I hoped I hadn’t killed anyone. With two feet on the brake pedal and one hand fisted around the handbrake, I locked the wheels and slid to a stop, spewing a cloud of sand.

  Jean-Charles, the next victim—the thought weakened my knees and made the bile rise in my stomach.

  Oh, God, let him be all right. I threw open the car door, levered myself out, and ran.

  Cielo, our new property, was a hard-hat area. A few men moved to greet me as I raced through the gate in the chain-link fence, grabbed a hard hat, and bolted into the building. I shouted at them. “Jean-Charles? Have you seen Chef Bouclet?”

  Blank stares answered me.

  Slapping the hard hat on my head, I ran for the stairs. Time waiting for the construction elevator would be wasted. The stairs would be much faster. Of course, Jean-Charles’s restaurant was on the top floor.

  * * *

  Thirty floors, two stairs at a time, had me on the verge of apoplexy as I burst through the fire door at the top. Breathing hard, with sweat trickling down my sides wilting my shirt, I was cold, despite the exertion. Propelled by fear and running on pure adrenaline, I slammed through the entrance to Jean-Charles’s restaurant—we still hadn’t agreed on a name. He wanted J. C. Prime. I told him that sounded a bit like Jesus Christ had opened a bistro—Jean-Charles didn’t understand why that would be a problem.

  As I ran, the smell registered first. Roasting meat. Pork? It smelled good enough to eat. Maybe he was working. Oh, please let him be preparing some incredible feast. I could picture him in his chef whites, his brows creased in concentration, whistling “La Vie En Rose.”

  Raking the hard hat from my head with an angry swipe of my forearm, I targeted the kitchens behind the double swinging doors in the back. Past the walls of windows, across the tasteful distressed-wood floors, under the million-dollar chandelier that would be the focal point . . . in addition to the Van Gogh hanging in the entrance, and the food, of course.

  But without Chef Bouclet, without its beating heart, the restaurant would just be a hollow shell with fancy window dressing.

  “Jean-Charles?” I shouted. “Jean-Charles!” I felt tears well in the corners of my eyes, then one broke and trickled down my cheek. I didn’t bother wiping it away.

  Hitting the doors with my shoulder, I barreled through, then stopped in my tracks. The kitchen was a mess: pots and pans and broken plates littered the floor. Smoke pushed its way through the gap where the oven door met the frame and billowed toward the ceiling. The contents of a pot steamed on the stove, water boiling over in an ominous hiss.

  A man stood in the center, his back to me.

  He turned slowly, as if not alarmed by my sudden presence.

  I squinted my eyes, trying to focus understanding. “Teddie?”

  “You shouldn’t be here.” His voice sounded dead, his eyes looked haunted.

  “I shouldn’t be here? What about you?” Doubled over with my hands on my knees, I sucked in as much air as I could. This was the last place I expected to find Teddie. He’d been showing up unexpectedly lately, so I don’t know why I was so surprised. Actually, I wasn’t surprised as much as I was angry. Finally, I stopped seeing stars as oxygen flooded my brain and adrenaline spurted into my bloodstream. Clarity hit me like an ax to the head. “Oh, my God! What happened here? Where is Jean-Charles? What is that in the oven?” Terror squeezed my heart. I couldn’t breathe.

  As I made a staggering step toward the oven, Teddie reached out and grabbed my arm. “Don’t.” He didn’t look quite himself. In his Harvard sweatshirt, the one with the neck cut out that I used to wear, and his faded, threadbare jeans that were just tight enough, he looked good enough to be a featured dish on the menu.

  I jerked my arm out of his grasp. Fear kept me rooted to the same spot. “Why not? Jean-Charles must’ve been preparing something.”

  Teddie said nothing.

  If he didn’t start staying out of my way and my life, I’d roast him on a spit myself.

  “For some reason, I keep tripping over you today.” I tried to make sense of him being here, but I was having trouble. “It’s like I’ve really pissed off some minor deity, and she is now having fun at my expense.”

  “Your lucky day?” He soft-served the comment with a weak smile, even though he knew I hated that sort of word play.

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “Don’t push your luck. What are you doing here? And where is Jean-Charles?”

  He ran a hand through his hair, making the spikes stand up. He seemed sort of shell-shocked as he slowly shook his head and looked around the kitchen. “I don’t know.”

  “Where is he?” I advanced on him, stopping a stride short.

  His eyes flicked to the oven, then back to me. “I told you, I don’t know.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  “A bit before you. Five minutes? Ten? I don’t really know.”

  “Is there anything you do know?”

  He looked at me for a beat before answering. “I know there is a man in the oven.”

  “What?” My heart stopped. Silence. Then it started beating again. “A man?” I croaked, my throat constricted by emotion. I whirled toward the oven. The smell . . . oh, God.

  Teddie grabbed my arm, stopping me. “Lucky, don’t.” He looked green.

  “Broiled and basted,” I whispered as I stared at the steam escaping from the oven and rising toward the ceiling. The smell . . . it hadn’t been pork. . . . “Broil and baste . . .” I felt my knees buckle as the world faded.

  Teddie caught me as I fell.

  * * *

  The smell of ammonia. Strong. Stinging my sinuses. I gagged and choked, then gulped air. My eyes fluttered open. I stared up into Teddie’s, dark and deep with concern. I slapped away his hand waving the ammonia capsule under my nose. “Christ. That stuff could bring back the dead.” With the back of my hand, I swiped at my eyes as the fog in my head cleared.

  Crumpled on the ground, I was half cradled in Teddie’s lap. As the ammonia odor dissipated, the smell of cooking meat replaced it, jump-starting my memory. “Jean-Charles?” I whispered, fearful of the answer, but driven by a need to know.

  Teddie looked up, his eyes traversing the kitchen. “I don’t know. Not yet.”

  With a hand on his shoulder, I pushed myself out of his lap until I was seated on the kitchen floor. Before I could ask anything else, the door swung open as Romeo burst through, then skidded to a stop. His eyes raked around the room, then swiveled back to the oven. He closed the distance in two strides. “Did you turn it off?” He threw the question over his shoulder as he reached for the handkerchief in his pocket, then shook it out. He covered his hand with the thin cloth, then grabbed the handle to the oven door.

  “Don’t . . . ,” Teddie and I said in unison, but Romeo didn’t listen.

  He threw back the latch, pulled the oven door open, then staggered back, letting it bounce once or twice on its hinges before slamming it shut. “Whoa.” He threw his forearm up, covering his face. “Was this thing on broil?”

  “Yeah.” Teddie sounded tired. “I turned it off, but the guy . . . well, he was already overdone.” He must’ve seen the stricken look on my face because he followed that comment quickly with, “Sorry. I’m not myself.”

  I shot him a pained look—I didn’t even try to hide my fear. What if it was Jean-Charles in the oven? And Christophe? My heart broke for the little boy. Losing two parents would be so . . . I hadn’t the right word . . . if there even was one. My hand shook as I swiped at a lock of hair that fell into my eyes. And his sister? I cradled my head in my arms for a moment.
And what about me?

  A wave of heat washed over us when Romeo eased opened the oven door, allowing it to rest on its hinges. His eyes traversed the kitchen, then settled on Teddie and me once again—they were old eyes, lacking his original youthful idealism, and I felt a pang of guilt, I didn’t really know why.

  “Looks like there was a bit of a fight in here,” he said, understated as always.

  I looked at the mess of pots and pans and broken plates. Jean-Charles putting up the fight of his life?

  Romeo locked his eyes on Teddie, who had pushed himself to his feet and now seemed overly interested in brushing down his jeans, ridding them of invisible dust. “Anything you can add here?” Romeo asked.

  “This is how I found it.” Teddie stuffed his hands in his pockets and hunched his shoulders around his ears. “ Nobody was here . . . well, except for the guy in the oven.”

  Romeo stared at him for a moment, a visual litmus test.

  A numbness washed over me—a self-protective disbelief cooling the burning residue of panic. I hugged myself. “What if that’s Jean-Charles?”

  Romeo’s eyes snapped to mine. “Call him. See if he answers.”

  “I tried earlier.” I struggled for air. “He didn’t.”

  With a sense of impending doom, I pulled my phone from its hip holster and flicked my thumb across the screen—I had to repeat it three times before I got it right. I tapped my chef’s number in the list of favorites. “He shouldn’t be too hard to find.” When you were responsible for a twenty-four-hour restaurant, your tether was tight. I knew—I was responsible for a twenty-four-hour hotel. My call rang once, then rolled to voice mail. I tried again. Same result. I looked at Romeo. I opened my mouth, but words wouldn’t come. I shook my head.

  “He doesn’t answer?” Teddie asked, his voice flat, devoid of emotion.

  Why was he here? The question kept echoing in my head.

  I found my voice. “No.” I dialed the Burger Palais. The hostess picked up on the first ring. “Chef Bouclet, please. This is Lucky O’Toole.”