Up ahead of us, around the corner out of sight, an engine revved. Gears ground. Shouts. Jerry’s voice. “Stop.”
Tires squealed. A shot. Then another.
I pressed Omer in between two parked cars. “Get down,” I barked, then paused to make sure he would do as I said. Then I ran.
The truck careened around the corner. Going too fast, the top-heavy cargo van listed sideways, caught by centrifugal force. Time slowed. For a moment, it looked like force would win, but at the last moment, when the truck had tipped to an almost impossible angle, the tires grabbed. The truck settled back onto all fours with a lurch and a bounce. The driver overcompensated. Swerving, he glanced off several cars on the far side with an ear-splitting screech of metal on metal. The acrid smell of burned rubber billowed with the smoke from the spinning tires. The impact slowed the truck, steadying it. The driver regained control.
The engine whined as he stepped on it.
The truck heading down the ramp. Me heading up.
We met halfway.
Dead center, I stood my ground.
Several heart-stopping moments. Narrowing my eyes, I stared through the windshield. I never thought he would stop—I just hoped for a glance.
At the last minute, I dove to the left.
I landed on the hood of a Mercedes Roadster, then rolled off. Landing with a thud, I felt my breath rush out of me as I absorbed the blow. Gasping for air, I saw stars as I fought to regain composure.
The sound of the engine still screamed, tires squealed, but the noise faded. Voices, shouts filtered in. Tinged with panic, they called my name. Slowly, the world came back, my sight, which had pinpointed, broadened to full spectrum.
“Over here.” I struggled to stand.
Jerry and the guards, running out of control down the ramp, veered in my direction. They gathered around me. “Are you all right?” Jerry asked. Smoothing the hair out of my face, he took a good look.
“Pissed as hell, but otherwise fine.” I whirled around to look behind me. “Chef Omer?” I put a bracing hand out as my world spun. Adrenaline surged, bringing the world into focus. “Chef Omer?”
No answer. Jerry and I locked eyes, then we both took off. A little slower, I was on his heels.
We met Chef Omer huffing and puffing back up the ramp on the floor below. He mopped his face with a soggy handkerchief.
“Thank God.” I slowed to a walk.
Relief flooded his face. Pausing, he leaned against a car and waited for us. “I tried, but I couldn’t see a face.”
“Me, either.” I shook my head as I stopped in front of him. “I got a clear look, but couldn’t make anything out. Damn.”
Looking angry, but unruffled, Jerry pulled out his push-to-talk and keyed Security. He barked some orders, then waited. I worked to get my heart rate under control and assess the damage. Not too bad—only a smudge on my pants, but they were dark enough to hide it well.
Chef Omer looked a bit ragged. Despite his dabbing with the cloth in his hand, water ran in rivulets down his face, disappearing into the folds of his jowls and neck, then reappearing as a growing stain on his collar.
Jerry muttered an epithet, then said, “Thank you.” He looked at me and shook his head as he put his phone away in its sleeve at his waist. “Cameras didn’t get a good angle on the driver’s face, either. There may be something I can play with, but I’ll have to get up to Security to see. But I did see the plates were covered, so that’s a dead end.”
The three of us worked our way back up the ramp—this time, at a more sedate pace. I was glad to see the color in Chef Omer’s face lightening with each passing minute.
The two guards waited for us at the elevators. Some help they had been. I started to voice my displeasure when the vision in front of me brought me up short.
Three people waited. The two guards and Christian Wexler. The chef held a box—from the strain on his face, it must’ve been heavy.
“This guy was just paying for his stuff, when the other guy jumped into the truck and took off.” The guard who had spoken before explained.
“Who was selling you this stuff?” I asked the chef, who had put the box down.
Chef Omer squatted and started through the contents.
“First, it was Fiona,” Chef Wexler answered. “And now, who the hell cares?”
“Ah-ha!” Chef Omer held a tin aloft. “My caviar.” He set it down and rooted some more, pulling out tins as he ticked them off. “My saffron. My piment d’Espelette.” He hoisted the small container skyward. “Thank God, I do not want to anger the Basques, they get pretty nasty.” He pounced again, giggling in delight. “And the black garlic.” When he looked at me, his face held a kid’s delight at Christmas. “This explains a lot of things.” He rose and turned on Wexler, wagging a meaty finger in the younger man’s face. “You should be ashamed, stealing these things.”
Wexler paled. “I didn’t steal them, I swear. I just bought them.”
“And turned a blind eye.”
Wexler vacillated. “Yeah, yeah, you’re right. At first I thought it was all black market stuff, but Fiona was behind it, so I figured it was just part of her business model, know what I’m saying? Since everyone else was buying the good stuff, I had to, too. How else could I compete?”
“That argument didn’t get Barry Bonds very far with Roger Goodell.”
“Yeah, well, when Desiree showed up today—I sorta figured it was all legit.”
“Desiree? Bouclet?”
“How many Desirees do you know?” Chef Wexler gave me a condescending look, which I though pretty bold, or foolhardy. “She was the one driving the truck.”
* * *
Desiree Bouclet. What the hell was she up to? I felt somewhat homicidal—my natural reaction when someone tried to kill me. And I felt a bit sad—how I’d wanted to believe the Bouclets were aboveboard. I should’ve known better, though. No one is what they seem—Jean-Charles had told me that himself, the last time we talked.
Anger propelled me through the casino. The open door to Teddie’s theatre stopped me in my tracks. Open only a crack, it was enough to attract my attention. No one should be in there—the set for the Last Chef Standing competition had been set, Brandy told me so herself. The theatre should’ve been locked up tight.
Without easing the door open much farther, I squeezed through.
Kliegs on the tracks overhead bathed the stage in bright light, accentuating the darkness of the seating area. In the small arc from the edge of the stage back to the maze of prep tables, cooktops, and ovens, two men stood side-by-side facing an unnoticed audience of one—me.
Of course, Teddie would have a key.
Jordan had joined him.
The two of them were a study in contrasts: Jordan dark and steamy, Teddie blond and All-American. Both buff, with pelvises thrust forward, one hand on a hip, shoulders back, pouty faces—a gay sashay.
“Okay,” Teddie explained. “There are six main drag queen moves.”
As quietly as I could, I settled into the nearest seat, and leaned back. As shows go, this one had great potential—if I could score a beverage with a small umbrella, life would be perfect.
“The first one is pick-the-grapes.” With palm facing downward, hand cupped, Teddie lifted one arm in front of him, then at the top of the stroke, he turned his hand over as if plucking a grape from a tall vine. “You have to exaggerate it. Like this.” He gave a hip tilt, more bend and movement to his arm, a snap at the top. Jordan mimicked him. The man was a natural—not that I was surprised, or anything.
Where was a video camera when I needed one? This would go viral on YouTube.
The two of them worked through the rest of the moves. There was pull-back-the-drapes and pass-the-plate, which were variations of the arm extended, swiping dramatically across the body. Next came a finger-wagging get-off-my-lawn, as if scolding a child. Then churn-the-butter: the men clasped their hands in front of them and moved every part they could in a circular motion
. That one had potential in a slightly different venue, I thought. This was followed closely by the pièce de résistance and my personal favorite, toss-the-condom. With thumb and forefinger on one hand pressed together, the other hand placed back on the hip, they made a flicking motion over one shoulder as if flinging away something distasteful.
I clamped a hand over my mouth to keep the laughter bottled up inside. The men moved through the series several times until Jordan could follow along without a hitch.
“Okay, now we put it to music.” Teddie glanced into the crow’s nest above my head and gave a curt nod. “The Diana Ross, please,” he called. Then he glanced at Jordan and gave him a huge smile. “You ready?”
Jordan gave a little laugh. “Here goes nothing.”
When the first strains of music hit through the speakers, I about choked. “‘I’m Coming Out’? Seriously?” I said, unable to stifle myself any longer.
Teddie laughed as he shielded his eyes with one hand and searched the room, finding me at the top. He didn’t seem surprised. He gave me a grin. Both men waved. And the two of them didn’t miss a beat, bobbing their heads to the music, then stepping into their routine.
Watching two incredibly handsome, virile, masculine men mince and prance their way through the song helped me find my smile. Life had been a bit of a drag lately—I smiled at the pun, of course. I’m easily amused. To be honest, lately, I’d taken to whining a bit too much—I was boring myself. It dawned on me that I was sooo over me. Time to move on, kick butt if I had to.
And live.
When the song wound down, Teddie and Jordan glanced at each other, then burst out laughing as I clapped wildly. They took rather dramatic bows.
“You guys are almost as good as Bing Crosby and Danny Kaye and their ‘Sisters’ act in White Christmas.”
Teddie gave me an interesting look—I wasn’t sure how to read it. We had reprised that scene a hundred times as we giggled our way through a bucket of popcorn and a bottle of meaty Petit Syrah each Christmas Eve for the past couple of years, at least.
Good memories.
Teddie. I wanted my best friend back. Could we once again find our center? Was it really possible to go back like he said?
All I knew was: if he wanted to regain my trust, he’d have to earn it.
“Let’s do it again.” Teddie gave a signal to cue the music again.
Jordan proved to be a quick study, and soon the men had the beginnings of a worthy act. I moved closer, landing in the center of the fourth row—as the only fan in the audience, I couldn’t think of a reason why I shouldn’t try out the primo seats. As an executive at the hotel, I never found my ass in this kind of class during a real show—the seats went to our most important guests.
When the song ended, they both looked satisfied with the progress they’d made—and like they were having fun. “Jordan, Teddie hasn’t talked you into joining his show, has he?”
Jordan gave me a tilt of his head and a slight shrug. “I might do a guest appearance, I don’t really know. We’ll see.” Since coming out a few months ago, confirming the whispers about his sexual orientation, Jordan seemed so much calmer, his true personality shining through. If the admission had any impact on his film career, I couldn’t see it. Rumors had abounded for years, so the revelation had been met with pretty much a collective yawn. That said as much about Jordan as it did about how we as humans had grown in understanding and acceptance. Somehow, that gave me hope.
Teddie picked up where Jordan left off. “I think I have him convinced that a limited run would be a great way to start.” Teddie looked happy, at home.
“Perhaps you should run it by his lawyer first?” Rudy’s voice boomed from the rectangle of light that opened at the top of the stairs.
“Leave it to a lawyer to throw water on the creative fires,” Jordan joked as he squatted and eased himself down from the stage. As he passed me, he gave me a wink, then grabbed me by both shoulders and gave me a lingering kiss on the cheek. Jordan lived with passion—I loved that about him. He hooked his arm through Rudy’s, and I watched them climb the stairs, then disappear through the door, leaving Teddie and me alone.
Teddie gazed down on me with a look I remembered well, and the time and distance fell away.
I raised an eyebrow at him, and tried, mostly unsuccessfully, to hide my smile. “We’ve just been set up.”
His grin blossomed. “Looks that way.” He glanced at his cluttered stage. “Where’s a baby grand when a guy needs one?” Taking a seat on the edge of the stage, letting his legs dangle, he patted the spot beside him. “Join me?”
He didn’t have to ask twice. Settled beside him, I leaned forward, anchoring myself by grabbing the edge of the stage, a hand on either side of my thighs. Our shoulders touched as I swung my legs. I didn’t mind. Soon, our legs swung in the same rhythm.
If Teddie noticed, he didn’t let on. “Any closer to catching the killer?”
I thought it funny he considered that a safe topic to open the conversation. “I feel like the answers are there, just out of reach. Too many pieces to see the whole puzzle just yet, though.”
“You’ll figure it out, I have faith. Just be careful, okay?”
“You know me.” I shrugged and thought about the many layers to that simple comment.
“That’s what scares me.” Teddie stilled his legs, and mine followed suit, as if tethered. “Want to talk about it?”
“What?”
“Anything.”
I gazed out at the empty rows in the darkened theatre. Tomorrow was Thanksgiving. Mona had some big shindig planned, but I was still in the dark as to exactly what—and how exactly she planned to feed the homeless without all the turkeys. Oddly, I didn’t care. Not about not feeding the homeless, but about how and what my mother had up her sleeve. Funny, as I looked back on it, despite some false steps along the way, she usually accomplished her goals . . . and rarely got arrested.
I mentally worked through some topics to broach with Teddie, safe and not so safe. Before I got the chance to open even one can of worms, the door at the top of the stairs burst open.
A thin man rushed through, silhouetted by the light behind, his features shaded in the darkness. “There you are! I’ve been looking all over!” The voice of Adone Giovanni sounded brittle enough to break with a high note. “You must come quickly, this terrible thing has happened.”
I launched myself off the stage, my heart rate spiking with a huge shot of adrenaline. “Not another body?”
“They have arrested Desiree.”
* * *
Along with the hospital, the Clark County Detention Center was one of my least favorite places. Lately, though, I’d been getting to know both of them well. Especially since, due to an odd quirk of corruption and influence peddling, the Strip, and thus the Babylon, were not in the City of Las Vegas, but rather in unincorporated Clark County. As government buildings went, the detention center had at least a modicum of style, stuccoed and painted in colors of the desert. Of course, it was relatively new and had yet to acquire the patina of despair most jails wore. During the ride from the Babylon, Adone had chattered endlessly, saying nothing other than, “I do not think it is what you think.”
Exasperated, I had fired back, “Why don’t you tell me what it is, then I will tell you if it is what I think it is.”
Looking like a schoolboy who had spoken out of turn, he had spent the rest of the ride with his arms crossed in sullen silence. Now, he dogged my heels through the metal detectors and incriminating stares of bored officers.
Stopping in the middle of the atrium, I put a hand in the center of his chest. Amazingly, this got his attention. “Sit over there.” I motioned to some uncomfortable-looking plastic chairs strewn haphazardly around wobbly tables. “Wait.”
I didn’t give him a chance to argue as I turned on my heels and approached the desk. The officer sitting behind a clear, bulletproof wall buzzed me through the locked doors to the side of the desk.
/> Romeo met me on the other side. Turning, he fell into step—we both knew where we were going. “She’s not talking.”
“So why am I here?”
“To make her talk.” He actually sounded serious.
I did not answer in the same tone. “Well, in that case, you should’ve told me to bring the thumbscrews and my sadistic side.”
“I thought you’d know to do that by now.” Romeo didn’t even smile. As I suspected, he was growing into my snark.
Side-by-side, we strode briskly down the hallway, through a couple of sets of security doors, then stopped in front of a door with a mirrored glass window marked interrogation room two. Through the window, I could see Desiree sitting at the metal table, hands crossed primly, looking very composed. “I want to be the good cop this time. Okay? You always get to play nice and expect me to be the heavy, breaking kneecaps and all.”
Romeo rolled his eyes as he turned the knob and opened the door.
Desiree turned worried, angry eyes to me as I sat opposite her. The room was small, the space tight for three adults. “I am not who you are looking for.”
A rather odd opening, but I went with it. “Who should we be looking for?”
“They say I am driving a truck? That I tried to kill you.” In an aggressive move, she stood abruptly, propelling her chair backward.
Romeo moved to intervene, but I put out a hand, stopping him.
Desiree whirled and paced, her agitation propelling her from one side of the small room to the other.
Worn out, I stayed where I was. “So you were not in the garage at the Babylon. You were not selling stolen foodstuffs out of a truck?”
She stopped. Placing both hands on the table between us, she leaned into me.
“Why would I do these things? Selling things I stole from myself? It makes no sense. My products are good. If I wish more money, I raise the prices. Few complain.”
I held her gaze. I could smell her cologne. Chanel No. 5, I thought . . . but of course, what else would it be? “Chef Wexler? Did he complain?”
A flicker of surprise. “He tried to play me against Fiona.” Desiree looked insulted at the thought. “He was not successful.”
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