Lucky Catch

by Deborah Coonts

  Romeo angled his unmarked car across two handicapped spots. Normally, I would’ve said something, but today, even though he didn’t have the sticker, he could probably qualify, so I let him be.

  As we stepped out of the car, I motioned him to follow me. “The food trucks will be around on the other side.” With the detective on my heels, I strode quickly through the building, past the many stalls, dodging patrons with their reusable bags. California sensibilities leaking into the Consumption Capital of the World? I smiled at the incongruity. The aroma of roasting chestnuts almost brought me up short, but I kept moving.

  Bursting through the swinging doors on the far side of the building, I allowed myself a nanosecond of satisfaction. One Fish, Two Fish was the third food truck lined up along the curb, its awing unfurled and its window open for business. A line of people waited while Brett, in his best smile, took orders. Someone I couldn’t see plated the orders and stuffed them through the small delivery window to the side. I assumed no one cooked—I didn’t know much about sushi, but I felt fairly certain there wasn’t much cooking involved.

  Romeo shouldered his way to the front of the line, then flashed his badge. “May I have a minute of your time?” His tone left no room for refusal.

  Brett looked surprised, but not alarmed.

  “This won’t take long,” Romeo assured him with a grim smile.

  The sushi man wiped his hands on a white towel hanging from the apron string at his waist. “Sure. Meet me at the back of the truck.”

  The crowd muttered a bit, but no one abandoned the line. Their doggedness made me want to try the sushi, but I’d lost my taste for it recently. While both men made their way to the meeting point, I stayed at the order window, inching closer. A head popped into view, stepping in to fill Brett’s spot.

  Desiree’s eyes widened when she saw me. “His help didn’t show up. Brett was alone when I arrived with his delivery. I stepped in to help, if you must know.”

  “I didn’t ask.”

  She gave me a flat stare. “Yes, you did.”

  “Who was his help?”

  She shrugged and shook her head, her curls bouncing.

  The first in line, a broad-shouldered man with a scowl, stepped up and barked his order, which Desiree jotted down with a perfunctory smile. She eased back inside and out of view, but given the size of the truck, I felt sure she could still hear me.

  “Are you always so hands-on with all your customers?”

  The sushi buyer shot me a dirty look. “Leave the woman to work, would you?”

  “Women are experts at multitasking. You’ll get your food, and I’ll have my answers.” I stared him down—my patience had evaporated after the last lap of life, which had me running in circles.

  He narrowed his eyes, but left me alone.

  Desiree reappeared, pushing a Styrofoam container at him. “That’ll be twenty dollars. Sauces are over there.” She motioned with her chin toward a table set up off to the side.

  He handed her the bill, grabbed his loot, and retreated.

  “Brett is a friend.” Desiree smiled at the next patron as she noted the order, yet talked to me. “He worked for Jean for quite some time.” She popped out of sight, then returned quickly, exchanging the container of food for a crisp twenty.

  “Does he have any reason to hate your brother?”

  She frowned at me. “Of course not.”

  I lowered my voice, but I needn’t have worried. The next in line was still absorbed in the menu. “What about Chitza DeStefano?”

  Desiree looked at me coldly, clearly tired of the game. “Who?”

  I shrugged off her tone, keeping my voice conversational. “Do you have any fugu on the menu?”

  The question stopped her dead. Her eyes widened, and the cool dropped from her tone. “Why?”

  “Just curious.” I smiled. “Do you?”

  Desiree paled. “Not on the menu, no.” She turned to the next customer, a well-heeled lady on her cell phone. “Excuse us just a minute, please. I’ll only be a moment.” The lady seemed unperturbed as she stepped to the side to continue her conversation and stay out of ours. Desiree motioned me closer and lowered her voice. “Why did you mention fugu, specifically? I had an order come in only yesterday.”

  Now that, I wasn’t expecting—I don’t know why. Unlike Romeo, to whom everyone was a suspect, I’d granted the Bouclets innocent-until-proven-guilty status. Hopelessly American, I know. “An order for whom?”

  “Christian Wexler.”

  “Did you deliver it?”

  “Of course. His paperwork was in order. The fish was superior quality and at the peak of freshness. I had tracked the shipment myself.” Her brows crinkled. “There was one odd thing, though.”

  “Only one?”

  She ignored the sarcasm. “Oui, the shipment was short several ounces. I have a call into the supplier, but have yet to hear back. I didn’t know whether it left the facility that way, or was once again one of the shipments tampered with somewhere along the way.”

  “My money is on the latter.”

  She gave me a concerned look. “I do not know. But I will. I kept the chip, and it is one of Jean’s.”

  * * *

  Romeo and I reconvened inside the market away from listening ears. “What’d you find out from Brett Baker?” I asked the detective as he scanned his notes.

  He blew out a long breath. “Not much. He had all the right answers. An alibi, which I will check out. Apparently, he has a girlfriend.”

  “Had he noticed any of his containers missing?” I didn’t need to hear his answer, I already knew.

  “He said he has thousands of the things. He wouldn’t know if a couple went missing.” The detective confirmed my guess.

  “Men,” I scoffed, but I doubted I’d do any better of a job. Details weren’t my best thing. “Too bad there wasn’t some sort of break-in or something.”

  Romeo looked at me as if I’d lost my mind, which presupposed I had one in the first place.

  “If his alibi checks out, then someone took those cartons.” Romeo and his everyone-was-guilty attitude. “But since he didn’t notice them missing, he didn’t report the theft, and any evidence we may have found has been lost.”

  I scoffed again. “Metro wouldn’t have worked that scene, anyway. Small potatoes for your lofty egos.”

  He didn’t argue. “More budgetary constraints than ego constraints, but you have a valid point.”

  I thought that a gross understatement, but Romeo was already well aware of my disdain for those running Metro. “With Fiona…out of business…did you ask him who supplies him now? How he comes by such high-quality foodstuffs?”

  “Desiree Bouclet services his account personally . . . now.” Romeo kept his voice flat.

  “If he’s in so tight with the Bouclets, why didn’t he just go through Desiree in the first place?” I started to tell him about the fugu shipment and the chip Desiree had given to me—she had it in her pocket, intending to give it to Romeo, but had gotten absorbed in helping Brett Baker—when shouts filled the air.

  “Stop them, oh, my God, stop them, please!”

  Romeo turned to me, his brows crinkled. “That sounds like—”

  “Mona.” I took off at a run toward the voice. Rounding the corner to turn down the middle aisle, I skidded to a halt and pressed myself against the stall to one side.

  A gaggle of angry turkeys, darting from side to side, feathers flying, swarmed in my direction. Behind them, arms akimbo, her hair a mess, came Mona, just as I feared. “Oh, Lucky! Thank God! Stop them!”

  For some reason, I did as she asked. Stepping into the fray, I shouted to the people huddling behind me: “Close the doors.” I pointed to Romeo: “Come on, you know what to do.”

  After a fraction of a second of hesitation, he rallied, shouting orders at the other bystanders. Within a few moments, we’d cornered the turkeys, then herded them back into their pen. I have no idea how.

  Sure that e
verything was back to normal, I advanced on Mona. Whatever spark of humanity her cries had appealed to had been effectively extinguished . . . especially when the last large tom bit me in the butt. “May I ask what the hell you are doing?”

  The emergency past, Mona gathered her composure, tucking a few stray tendrils back into place as she found her smile. For the first time, I noticed the cameramen . . . from every major station in town. “Great.” I offered a few other choice epithets under my breath as I grabbed my mother’s arm and propelled her out of the spotlight. Grasping her elbow, holding her tight to my side, I pasted on a fake smile as I leaned down, my mouth close to her ear. “Explain. And it had better be good. You just managed to make fools out of both of us on the nightly news.”

  “They just got away, that’s all.” Mona managed not to whine, which meant she would live at least a few more heartbeats.

  “What are the turkeys doing here?” I wanted to ask her how she had gotten them here, but the details would be superfluous.

  She took a deep breath and puffed out her chest. “You told me the turkeys were my problem, and I quite agree. I’ve been using you so that I could avoid my messes for far too long.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “What have you done with my mother? You look like her, you even sound like her, but those words, she would never say them . . . not ever.”

  “Perhaps you underestimate me.” She held me with a steady, serious gaze—I saw maturity, a resolve I’d never seen before.

  I let go of her arm and took a step back. “Perhaps.” For some reason, I felt like I had just waded into a pool of quicksand.

  Relief sparkled in her shy smile.

  “Mother, you shouldn’t be chasing poultry in your condition. You look ready to pop. Tell me, do you really want to have those twins at the Farmers Market?”

  “It’d make a great story.” She shot me a jaunty grin. “As they say, any press is good press.”

  “The jury’s still out on that one.” I glanced at the cameramen. Still rolling. “But we’ll know soon enough. I can’t wait to see how they handle this on the evening news. But if I’m to do damage control, perhaps you could give me the rest of the story—short and sweet.”

  “Well . . .” Mona drew out the intro, sounding proud of herself. “I put out the word that anyone who wanted an all-natural, fresh turkey for Thanksgiving dinner tomorrow could come get one. I hired some butchers to do the deed.” At the look on my face, she fluttered a hand, stalling my words. “Don’t worry, it’s all done out of sight. No one would’ve known the turkeys were here, had a young boy not gotten away from his mother and decided to set them free.”

  “Boys, they mess up everything.” I couldn’t resist swinging at that hanging curve ball.

  Mona raised an eyebrow and tried to look serious. “But they do add some much needed spice. Anyway, if folks can’t pay for a dressed bird, they can have one for free. But I encourage those who can give something, to do so. All the proceeds will go to provide the Thanksgiving meal for the homeless tomorrow.” She waited, eyes large and round, almost begging for approval.

  I couldn’t disappoint—not when she was showing so much . . . growth. “Nice thinking. Have at it.”

  Crossing my arms, I watched Mona, her public persona dropping neatly over her real one as she strode in front of the cameras in full damage-control mode.

  Romeo stepped in next to me. “Your mother, she does know how to make an impression.”

  “Unfortunately, the only way she knows how is to stir things up. I wouldn’t be surprised if she let those turkeys go herself.”

  “Any evidence of that?” Romeo sounded like he could almost believe it.

  I watched as she cleverly ushered everyone back toward her stand, where young women in scanty attire waited to relieve them of some money.

  “Circumstantial, and a lifetime of anecdotal, but nothing more.” I graced the detective with a confused frown. “She always comes out smelling like a rose. I’d sure like to know her secret.”

  “You.” Romeo raised his eyebrows. “You are her secret weapon.”

  I thought about that for a moment. “Then I need a me.”

  “But you’ve got you.” Romeo shook his head slowly, but his brightening look indicated his pain might be easing. “I have the oddest conversations with you sometimes. Right now, there’s not much I can do about Mona. I can’t think of any laws she’s broken.” Romeo kept the smile off his face, but not out of his voice.

  “Such a steward of the public trust you are, leaving her to feast on unsuspecting bystanders.”

  Romeo squinted down the aisle at Mona’s booth, then swallowed hard. “Are those girls . . . ?”

  “Working girls? Looks that way.” I recognized a couple of them from Mona’s Place, the Best Whorehouse in Nevada, to hear Mother tell it. “But today, hopefully, they are more interested in toms than johns, and there isn’t a pastry in sight.”

  “Pastry?” Romeo clearly had not made it onto the party bus.

  “I heard rumors of a bake sale.”

  “Offending Brownies the world over.”

  “Well.” I elbowed him. “You may go sample their wares, but I need to talk to a chef about dinner.”

  * * *

  Chef Omer was exactly where I’d hoped to find him—in the kitchen at Tigris, going through paperwork, preparing for the day. Tigris didn’t open until five o’clock, although the bar opened earlier. Even still, the kitchen staff was busy unloading produce, fish, poultry, and other ingredients for tonight’s selected repast. Like most of the top chefs, Chef Omer created a menu each day based on the availability of only the freshest, most succulent foodstuffs.

  The aroma of fresh coffee filled the kitchen. Even though I knew his taste ran to thick Turkish coffee whose merits eluded me, I poured myself a thimbleful of the viscous fluid into a mug Desperate for the caffeine hit, any delivery vehicle would do. I did cut it with a serious amount of half-and-half, but I resisted the sugar on principle—drawing lines gave me the illusion of control.

  After savoring a java jolt, I straddled a stool across from the chef, then tapped my fingers on the stainless steel countertop before I drew his attention. When he looked at me, his scowl was already in place, and, from the looks of it, well entrenched.

  He brightened a bit when he recognized me, but a bit of anger still puckered the skin between his eyebrows. “Lucky. Twice in less than a week..”

  “Did I catch you at a bad time? You look preoccupied.”

  He shook his head, and his readers slipped down on his nose. He fixed his glare over them. “It’s nothing, really. The paperwork on my shipments is off—something doesn’t add up. Not to mention, the quality is slipping. Trying to provide the best culinary experience in this . . . wasteland . . . is a challenge.”

  “I think I can explain some of that. But maybe you ought to try the food market in the garage. I’ve been told they have primo stuff.”

  That stopped Chef Omer cold. “What?” His tone turned icy.

  “The food market in the garage. I’m taking it you don’t know about it?”

  “Show me,” he said with a growl. “And you’d better call Security.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Jerry and two well-armed guards met us at the garage elevators. As head of Security, Jerry’s job was the mirror half of mine, but today, he looked way better than I felt. That struck me as unfair.

  Tall and lean, dark skinned, clean-shaven (both cheeks and head), Jerry wore his ubiquitous suit pants, minus the jacket, and a starched button-down—today’s was pink. It took a self-assured man to wear pink in Vegas where sexual orientations blended until boundaries were often erased. No socks with the loafers and the normal hunk of Rolex gold on his left wrist completed the picture of perfection.

  All business, he flashed me a grim smile. “I checked the video feeds. Apparently, the guy has set up on the seventh floor today. He’s quite clever.” Jerry punched the up button. “He uses his panel truck to shield his
activity from the cameras. We never would’ve noticed him if you hadn’t told us what to look for.”

  As the elevator dinged and the doors opened, the men motioned me in first, then followed.

  I took my spot in the middle of the car, turning to face the doors. “How’d you find him, then?”

  “Too hard to explain right now, but we look for patterns.”

  With the guards positioning themselves behind, Chef Omer and Jerry bracketed me. Chef stared upward, an angry flush climbing his cheeks as his lips moved in silent conversation. Jerry and I stared at each other’s reflection in the smooth metal of the elevator doors as we rode up. “Speaking of video, did you have time to check with your contacts at the news stations?”

  “After you called me, I hit every one. Even though they were all running footage at the Big Dig, none of them had any angle that showed the cockpit of the crane, before or after the accident. They were focused on the show. Just like they told Romeo.”

  “I thought maybe one of them might have been running some B-roll. It was a long shot.”

  The elevator dinged our arrival. Tapping my thigh, coiled like a racehorse poised to leap out of the starting gate, I waited for the elevator doors to open.

  As I moved to slip through the opening, a meaty hand from behind stopped me. “Let us handle this, Ms. O’Toole. It’s our job.”

  “Our job,” Jerry scoffed. “Hell, it’s our asses. I don’t want to be the one who lets you get perforated—the Big Boss would give me a pair of cement boots and toss me into Lake Mead.” Jerry, with the guards on his heels, bolted though the widening opening and ran.

  “Not to worry,” I shouted after him. “After ten years of serious drought, the lake is probably only waist-deep.”

  Red-faced, Omer glanced at me. Bowing slightly, he motioned for me to precede him. I gladly obliged. In light of his bulk and already elevated blood pressure, I followed the security trio, but set a more sedate pace.