Lucky Catch

by Deborah Coonts

  “Some guy named Richard Peccorino.”

  I caught myself before I snorted bourbon—been there, done that, hurt like hell. “Dick Peccorino? Sounds like a porn star. With that name, nobody’d have to kill me, I’d do the deed myself.”

  Romeo looked at me wide-eyed, blinking furiously. “Inappropriate.” He tried to sound serious, but I heard the hint of a smile.

  “Don’t look so shocked. You know when under stress I have no filter.” My hand shook as I raised the glass to my lips. The first hit of stout bourbon was the best, burning a fiery path down my throat, then exploding in a welcomed ball of fire in my stomach. Warmth shot through me—I found it relaxing. That should worry me, which it did—I just didn’t have time to dwell on it. Finally, I sighed and lowered the shield. I could trust Romeo, and I was tired of being brave. “I’m scared. I don’t know where Jean-Charles is. He could be in trouble.”

  “There’s another way of looking at that.”

  Romeo soft-served his accusation but, although I’d pondered the possibility, coming from a member of the police, it hit me with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. I raised my voice; I couldn’t help it. “You really think he’s a suspect? Why would he leave Christophe in the Burger Palais, a temporary babysitting arrangement to say the least?” Heads turned in our direction, and Romeo shushed me, which I only half-complied with. Words tumbled over each other, fighting to be formed and heard. “He’d have to be the dumbest killer on record to put two bodies in his kitchens.”

  “Or the smartest.” Romeo blew out through his mouth. “Think about it—if you want to make yourself look innocent, make it look like someone is setting you up, why not do something people would be sure you wouldn’t? It’s brilliant, really. And the foreman saw Peccorino go up the elevator with Chef Bouclet.”

  “What?” This time, all I could manage was a choked whisper.

  Romeo nodded and gave me a little shrug of helplessness.

  “What about anybody else? Did the foreman mention anybody else going up to the restaurant?”

  Romeo shook his head, which gave me steam.

  “What about Teddie? He was there when I got there. Did the foreman mention him?”

  “No, he said he was busy—no one really checks who’s coming and going. It’s a huge project, as you know . . . since you’re the boss.” Romeo took another sip of his hooch. The stuff was having an effect—I could see the red flush rising in his cheeks.

  “Not the boss exactly, more of a nominal figurehead . . . none of the authority, all of the blame.”

  Romeo didn’t buy it. “Why don’t you have people sign in and such?”

  I gave him a disbelieving look. “There’re hundreds of people working there on a daily basis, and probably as many delivering products, consulting, inspecting. If we checked everyone, the logjam would be worse than the TSA line at McCarran on a Sunday.”

  “Still—anybody can come and go.” Romeo insisted on whipping that dead horse.

  “My point exactly.” I tried to quell my rising panic. “Did Teddie give you a good reason why he was in Jean-Charles’s kitchen in the first place? I would’ve asked him, but I don’t trust him to tell me the truth anymore.”

  “Has it dawned on you that Teddie may have told you the truth from the beginning, and the truth just changed?” Romeo kept his eyes lowered, as if conjuring wisdom from a glass of serious joy-juice.

  “I’m not willing to admit that possibility yet.”

  “Why?”

  Defeat forced the air out of my lungs in a long, heavy sigh. “Because then I couldn’t be mad anymore. I want to be mad.”

  “Anger only hurts you.” When Romeo finally looked at me, I could see the concern there. Everyone close to me had been shoveling the same shit my way . . . perhaps it was time I listened.

  Not yet ready to completely concede, I squeezed his arm.

  “He told me he wanted to clear the air with the Frenchman,” Romeo said. “To make sure his intentions were honorable.”

  That poked a hole in the thin veneer over my anger. “Just my knight-in-shining-armor. Am I lucky or what?”

  Romeo glanced at me, then ground to a halt when he ran headlong into my not-so-happy face. “Look, I don’t like this any more than you do. It’s my job to chase all the leads. I ask the questions and write down the answers, until they lead me to the truth.”

  I jumped all over that. “So you don’t believe Teddie either?”

  “I didn’t say that.” Romeo looked like he wanted to run. Instead, he shook his glass, bringing to my attention that it was empty. “Rein it in, Lucky.”

  I ignored him. “Surely, somebody saw someone other than Mr. Peccorino and Jean-Charles?”

  “I’ve got half the force on it. We’re having a hard time just trying to determine who was at the site legitimately. Once we narrow that down, we’ll go through them one by one. You know how it goes—and it’s going to take time.”

  “I got a feeling time is something we don’t have with two bodies already and not even a whisper as to what’s going on. Much less any leads.” I took another sip of the bourbon, hoping for some clarity.

  Romeo reached for the bottle to refill his glass. I nudged it out of his reach. He didn’t complain. “I still can’t get past the fact that you appear to be in the middle of this somehow.” He seemed genuinely concerned.

  Having no real answer and not wanting to speculate, I ignored him. “Any note with this guy?”

  “Not that I found.”

  “So why a note at the first murder, and not at the second?”

  “We got one smoked food service person and one broiled tech guy and no connection between the two, yet you’re assuming we have one killer.”

  That sobered me right up. “I think that’s a safe assumption.”

  “Based on what?”

  “Fear.” I took a couple of nice, large sips of bourbon as my brain freewheeled. Was a large sip still a sip? Or was it called something else—like the first sign of a drinking problem? “The idea of two killers running loose in my hotel is too horrible to think about. Isn’t one enough?” I shot him a questioning look, but he knew me well enough to know a rhetorical question when he heard one. “Let’s start looking for connections—it’ll make me feel better. Tell me about Mr. Peccorino. You said he was a tech guy?”

  Romeo glanced at the bottle of Wild Turkey, but didn’t reach for it. Instead, he reached for the cashews and popped a couple in his mouth. “Mr. Peccorino . . .” Romeo pulled his note pad out of his inside coat pocket. After dabbing his thumb on his tongue, he used it to flip through the pages until he found the one he wanted. He began reading. “Richard Joseph Peccorino, born in . . .”

  I waved him quiet. “If where he is born is relevant, I’ll pay attention. If not, spare me that sort of thing and cut to the chase.”

  He shot me a scowl. “He was born right here, in Henderson. And at this point, I don’t know what’s important and what’s not. He was here with the techie group that’s just ramping up their little get-together at your hotel.”

  “Techie group? The Babylon? You mean the guys from UC-Berkeley?” It was my job to at least be aware of every group meeting at the Babylon, whether they were my personal responsibility or not. My young assistant, Brandy, had handled the scientists, as I recalled. The topic of their meeting escaped me—I’d probably read it at some point, but hadn’t understood. Not at all unusual—most technology was beyond my meager geek skills.

  Romeo nodded.

  “How did a geek end up basted and broiled in the kitchen of a restaurant in a hotel that isn’t even open yet? And why was he with Jean-Charles?”

  “Both good questions,” Romeo said quietly.

  I couldn’t disagree, so I searched for benign possibilities. “Far from prying eyes?”

  “Maybe. But it’s an awful long way to go, and a fairly dramatic presentation, don’t you think?”

  “A message in the method.” I deflated. Of course, he was right. Thi
s would have to play out to its logical conclusion—and Jean-Charles would be under suspicion until he stopped acting guilty.

  I threw a pleading look at the young detective. “What else can you tell me about Richard Peccorino? Anything you can give me, any possible connection, would sure help.”

  “That’s all I got. At the time of his murder, all of his colleagues were in a meeting, one that he was supposed to attend. None of them are suspects, so, I’ve made an appointment to talk to them all tomorrow—I spoke with one on the phone just a bit ago, and he’s already pretty oiled, along with all his cohorts, so I thought tomorrow would be better.” Romeo flipped his note pad shut and put it away. “Do you have any idea how long it’s going to take just to bring Peccorino down to room temperature?”

  I didn’t know what that had to do with anything, and I didn’t ask—I have a delicate stomach.

  “The coroner can’t even touch him yet. He said putting a scalpel to him would be like sticking an overheated sausage.”

  “I could’ve done without that visual, thank you.” I threw back the rest of my bourbon, hoping it held the bile down where it belonged.

  Romeo motored on as if he hadn’t heard a word. “Hell, it was hard enough putting a name to him. I’m just getting into the meat of it.” He cringed.

  I tried not to smile, I really did.

  Romeo rubbed his eyes and refused to smile. “God, the more I’m around you . . .”

  “Your goose is cooked.” I nudged his shoulder with mine.

  “You are seriously sick—if you see any guys in white jackets, you better head the other way.” This time, he couldn’t hide his grin.

  “Everybody in Vegas is running from something. Why should I be any different?”

  Romeo turned so I could see his look of wonder. “What? Cynicism from you, the head acolyte in the Order of the Perpetually Cheerful?”

  “Cynicism? No. Reality. Whether it is cold winter weather or a last name that ends in a vowel, everyone here has left something behind.”

  “Maybe so.” Romeo sipped his drink more slowly now. His eyes held a glassy look—Wild Turkey was pretty high-octane for Romeo’s four-stroke engine. “I’d sure like to know what Ms. Richards and Mr. Peccorino left behind.”

  I deferred my emotion to his reason. “Maybe that would shed some light on how they got caught in a killer’s crosshairs.”

  “I’ll do the background stuff, work the databases, if you’ll help me figure out some of this, connect the dots. These casino folks only want to talk to one of their own. They open up to you.”

  “It must be my special charm.”

  “No doubt.”

  “I did find out an interesting tidbit from Chef Gregor.” I told Romeo about the truffle.

  “So Fiona took a look, here in the kitchen, saw the truffle was not as advertised, then took it to Gregor?”

  “That’s what Gregor said.”

  “Can you check the video feeds to confirm?”

  “On my way over here, I called Jerry. It only took him a few minutes, since I had the location and the time. Gregor’s story checks out.”

  “And Fiona. Why’d she run to Gregor?”

  I took a stab at an answer although I was flying blind. “She knew he’d have a cow, and the missing truffle put the Bouclets on the hotseat. She wanted Desiree’s husband and her business. People have killed for less.”

  “Good point. Let’s try to prove that, although with her dead, we may never know why she did what she did. Where’d she go after meeting Gregor?”

  “Out the back to a rendezvous with her killer.”

  “Well, we tie up the time of death pretty tight then. I’m checking alibis. That’s the best I can do right now.” Romeo backed off his stool. “Keep poking around, okay? But stay out of any kitchens. They can be bad for your health.”

  Chapter Eight

  After I sent Romeo home with a full-blown hug right there in front of everybody, which made me feel better but embarrassed him, I cleared our tab, then wandered back to the kitchen, which was firing on all cylinders to feed the crowd out front. I didn’t know what I was looking for. Comfort? Answers? A thread to follow? Some hint of the deadly game being played.

  Seeing Rinaldo at the grill hurt my heart. Every member of the staff moved with shared syncopation—calculated efficiency, their tasks ingrained, their movements by rote. I watched for a moment, trying to learn the steps to a dance I didn’t know, set to music I couldn’t hear. Finally, I gave up, judged the flow, then picked my time to ease into the fray, making my way toward the back and Jean-Charles’s office.

  Expecting it to be deserted, I paused in surprise to see Desiree and Christophe sitting on the floor. Desiree faced me, her attention on her nephew.

  The boy, on all fours, his rear pointing skyward in my direction, hunched over a drawing. Sensing my presence, she raised her eyes to mine. Christophe must’ve felt his aunt’s attention shift. “Papa?” He whirled around.

  The hope in his eyes fled when he saw me. His smile turned down and his lips quivered. Pushing himself to his feet, he rushed to me and clung to my legs.

  Reaching down, I grabbed him under his arms and lifted him into mine. He settled nicely on my hips, his hand fisting in my hair. “Oh, Lucky, where is Papa?”

  I stroked his hair—I could still smell the baby soap from last night’s bath and giggles. Life—it could turn on a dime. “I wish I knew, baby. We’ll find him.”

  Desiree stood and brushed down her slacks. Of course, being French, she still looked impeccable—except for the worried crinkle between her eyes, and her shoulders, which bowed, her posture sagging like a clothesline holding too much laundry.

  “You’re staying at Jean-Charles’s?” I confirmed.

  She nodded once. “I have arrived so suddenly, I have not been there yet, so I don’t know where his house is. I’ve spoken with my daughter, Chantal. She said she can direct me, but of this, I am not so confident.”

  “I’ll take you there. Do you have a suitcase?”

  “In Jean’s car.” She shrugged and tried to smile.

  “Too bad you don’t have a tracking device in the thing.” With the boy clutching my neck, I gave a nod toward the front of the restaurant. “Let’s go. You two must be beat.”

  A look of confusion flashed in the Frenchwoman’s eyes—she suffered from the same idiom affliction as her brother—but I didn’t feel the need to explain. “We’ll take one of the limos.”

  * * *

  The Babylon’s valets were unctuous, if they were anything. I should know, I’m their boss, and as such, I tended to get a bit more bowing and scraping than the average Joe, which didn’t make me happy. As many times as I’d told them it should be the other way around, they still dropped everything to meet my needs. Tonight was no exception. The head valet caught sight of me before we’d had a chance to walk out the front doors and made a beeline in my direction.

  I turned to Desiree, who clutched her nephew’s hand. The boy had just a light polo shirt on. And his aunt’s cotton one wouldn’t provide much warmth in the cool wind, either. “It’s chilly outside. Neither of you are dressed warmly enough for the cold desert nights this time of year. Let me go see about a limo.” I glanced at the tangle of cars out front. “It may take a few moments to maneuver through the traffic. When it is out front, I’ll come get you.”

  When I stepped through the door, the head valet gave a signal like a conductor cuing the symphony. In the darkness, a pair of headlights blinked on. The car couldn’t move, though, it would have to wait for the running valets to clear a path.

  “I’m going back inside to wait with my friends.”

  The head valet nodded, his eyes watching the limo. “Yes, ma’am. It shouldn’t be but a few minutes. A busy time right now.”

  I didn’t feel the need to engage in further obvious observations. As I turned, my eyes searched through the glass doors for Desiree and Christophe. They waited where I’d left them, but someone else had jo
ined them. A trim figure in chef whites, with short dark hair, knelt down in front of the boy. Chitza DeStefano reached out and touched his cheek. The boy ducked his head but didn’t cower back—he didn’t seem afraid. Of course, Christophe Bouclet was a resilient spirit; at least, what I’d seen of him so far indicated as much. The chef said something to the boy, then pushed to her feet. With a nod to his aunt, Chitza eased into the crowd and disappeared from sight.

  Pushing through the door, I smiled when Christophe caught sight of me and a grin split his face. He pulled away from his aunt and launched himself into my arms. As I cradled him against me, it occurred to me that he gave me comfort and strength when I intended the opposite. “Did you know that lady talking to you?”

  “No.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She told me I look like my mother.” He pulled his head back and eased his hold around my neck so he could look at me. “Did you know my mother?”

  “I would have liked to.”

  He gave me a sweet smile as he laid his head on my shoulder. “Me, too.”

  My heart cracked a little. “Do you want to ride in a big car?”

  Christophe nodded against my cheek.

  “I’ll take you home.”

  “To papa?”

  “I don’t know. But your aunt will be there until your father comes home.”

  “And you.” Even though his voice was small and tired, the statement was clear—he wasn’t asking.

  I didn’t think sleep was in my near future, but I also didn’t think it appropriate to say so. Nevertheless, the thought made me tired.

  Out of the darkness, one of the Babylon’s limos eased into to view, then settled at the curb in front of me. With a tilt of my head, I motioned Desiree to follow me outside. The valet bowed and, with a glistening white smile, brandished the door. “Please, Ms. O’Toole, allow me.”