Lucky Stiff (Lucky O'Toole Vegas Adventure Book 2)

by Deborah Coonts

“Damn right! You should’ve asked.”

  “Asked you what?” The ungrateful SOB! “You want me to get your permission to send my copy of your music to a friend in the business? And what would you have said?”

  “No.”

  At least he was honest.

  “Well then, at least it’s a good thing one of us is swinging a set of cojones.” Okay, that was a low blow, but, hey, I’m human. Trapped by the darkness, I sat there in a huff. Men! If God had wanted women to put up with the beasts, why hadn’t he provided an owner’s manual?

  “You had no right.”

  “Look, Kowalski, you know well enough that helping people is what I do—I see a problem, I fix it. I admit, it’s a horrible character flaw, but I can’t help myself. And, like it or not, I am front and center in your life—you asked for it, you got it. Deal with it.”

  Teddie reached up and pulled me back into his embrace. I resisted for a fraction of a second to let him know I was steamed but hadn’t quite reached blinding fury... yet.

  “And what problem did you fix?” His voice still held the traces of his anger.

  “I was the only one who got to hear your incredible songs.”

  He was silent for a moment, then he gave a resigned laugh. “You know just how to take the fight out of me.”

  Once again, I relaxed against him. Our first dust-up, and it looked like we’d make it through relatively unscathed.

  “I guess I have a lot to learn about life by committee,” I said, which was my way of apologizing.

  “Lucky, we’re just a committee of two.”

  “Double the number I’m used to working with.”

  “Point taken. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate what you did.” He hesitated. “I’m just not sure I’m ready.”

  Now he was in my wheelhouse—I knew all about the courage it took to face the reality of your dreams. “It’s one of the great ironies of life—just when you get comfortable, the cosmic powers pull the rug out from under you.” Remembering my beer, I reached for it and took a long swallow.

  “I think vow pulled this rug out from under me.” Teddie didn’t sound mad anymore. He sounded half-amused.

  I took that as a good sign.

  “I don’t have to go to L.A. The music can wait.” He sounded as if he wanted me to agree with him.

  “Yes, you do,” I said. “And no, it can’t.” I sought strength from the warmth of Teddie next to me as I stared into the night sky, wishing I could divine the future from the alignment of the planets and stars. What did life have in store for us?

  “You really think I’m ready?” Teddie tightened his arms around me.

  “You don’t have to take my word for it. Isn’t that what Dig-Me O’Dell is trying to tell you? “ I snuggled in close. Closing my eyes, I tried to capture the moment—the feel of his arms around me, the hint of his Old Spice, the warmth of his body next to mine. I had a feeling it might be awhile before we had another moment like this. Maybe the memory of this one would bridge the gap... . Who was I kidding?

  Teddie was quiet for a moment. “Maybe I’m ready, but I’m a bit . . .”

  “Scared? You wouldn’t be human if you weren’t. Dreams are damned scary things.” I put my empty bottle down, then reached across Teddie, holding him tight. “Just remember, regret is ever so much more terrifying than fear.” I should know.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  TEDDIE was gone.

  Tangible and real, his absence throbbed like a deep wound.

  Before I opened my eyes to the new day, and hoping I was wrong, I moved my hand under the covers to his side of the bed. The sheets were cold.

  We’d decided to sleep at my place, which was all of one floor below Teddie’s. I guess he’d thought it would be easier for me to wake up alone in my own bed. He was wrong.

  The clock had rolled over to 2 a.m. just before I’d drifted to sleep with Teddie wrapped around me. Later, we’d made love. Slow and delicious, make-up sex was almost worth the irritation leading up to it. Almost.

  I’d spent most of my life sleeping by myself, getting up by myself, eating alone—I even had a list of the finest restaurants in Vegas catering to a table of one. I could certainly function on my own. Yet, if I was so all-fired self-sufficient, why did Teddie s absence leave a hole in my heart?

  Like a punch I never saw coming, the truth hammered home—I could never go back. Worse, along with my heart, I had sacrificed control. Love changed everything, and now my love was in California. He’d come back. Wouldn’t he? But what if his dreams were bigger than me? Bigger than us?

  My mother always told me that if I had a worry I couldn’t do anything about, I should mentally lock it away and throw away the key. Closing my eyes, I tried her trick.

  It didn’t work.

  A giant chasm of uncertainty, the day yawned in front of me.

  I swung my feet to the floor then went in search of coffee. My apartment, a vast expanse of hardwood floors and whitewashed walls, wasn’t nearly as grand as Teddie’s place, but it was home. Huge floor-to-ceiling windows invited the bright desert sun inside. Pastels of the many moods of the Mojave hung on the walls. Clusters of furniture in bright colors broke the huge main room into definable areas, each with its own function—talking, eating, making love...

  I clamped a lid on those memories—the whole visual thing was too much at this hour, especially without Teddie. God, I so needed to get my libido under control. If this is what I was like after a few hours of not even the remotest chance of meaningful sex, I’d be a blithering idiot by the time Teddie came home. Or I’d be really popular with the male half of the population. Or in jail.

  I punched the button on the coffee machine, then grimaced as the grinder whirred like a jet engine at full power. On the theory fresh-ground coffee beans made better coffee than the stuff in hermetically sealed cans, I’d suffered the assault of the grinder each morning for months now. To be honest, I couldn’t discern any difference in the coffee. One of these days the morning decibel overload would clash with a preceding night of liquid overindulgence and I’d fling the offending machine over the balcony. Coffee really wasn’t my thing anyway—it was merely the most expedient caffeine delivery vehicle.

  After cutting the dark brew with equal parts whole milk, I took my first sip. Like an addict savoring a hit, I sighed at the sheer physical delight of the caffeine jump-start. Good thing the drug was still legal or I’d be in serious need of a twelve-step program.

  Scratching sounds from the corner reminded me I wasn’t alone—I still had a roommate.

  I might not have Teddie, but I had Newton.

  As I pulled the cover from the large cage, Newton greeted me. “Asshole! Asshole! Asshole!” The macaw’s head bobbed up and down as he scurried from one side of his perch to the other.

  “Glad to see you, too.” I pushed a piece of browned apple from the plate by his cage through the bars.

  “Screw you!” Newton hurled at me, then grabbed the fruit.

  “You’re welcome.” I changed the big bird’s water while he worked on his treat. Newton and his foul mouth had found me a couple of years ago. Listening to his repertoire, I’d been appalled at the home he must’ve come from. Unable to send him back, I kept him despite the fact that pet ownership was inconsistent with my lifestyle.

  Running back and forth from work to home to feed him and cover him for the night had lasted three days. Defeated, I hired a service to come twice a day—a good solution, so far.

  Watching him, I drained my mug of coffee then refilled it, and headed off to the shower. Time to start the day. Romeo would be waiting.

  * * *

  THE bright yellow sign announced the Omelet House had been in business in the same location since 1979—a feat deserving of historical landmark status in Vegas, the town of constant renewal. The parking lot was almost full, but I managed to find two spaces to angle the Porsche across. For a moment I thought better of taking more than my share—I might avoid a door ding but get a fist to
the hood for my efforts. In this neighborhood that was a possibility, but, after careful deliberation, I decided to take my chances.

  I paused at the newspaper box. A minute of rooting in my Birkin and I’d found enough change to spring for this mornings Review-Journal. Numbers Neidermeyer had made the front page again. I scanned the article quickly—nothing really important other than the byline. “Flash” Gordon. A friend and ally. Today was looking up.

  Behind solid-wood double doors surrounded by leaded glass, the Omelet House lurked in the back end of a strip center that had seen better days. I grabbed the handle of the right door and yanked—most of the time the left side was locked. With its dark wood paneling, dim lights, and floors stained with the passage of time, the interior did little to inspire confidence. Autographed pictures of celebrities competed for wall space with framed certificates from the annual “Best of Vegas” competition run by the Review-Journal. The Omelet House was a perennial winner in the Best Breakfast category. Kitschy knickknacks adorned the walls. Frank Sinatra crooned in the background.

  Betty, the hostess, was as much an institution as the restaurant itself. A short woman with dark red hair, Betty wore an ever-present smile and so many gold bangles she was in serious danger of not being able to lift her arms. Each morning she corralled the patrons with a kind word and an iron hand—a good thing since the line often extended into the parking lot.

  With a hint of her native Italy, she greeted me like an old friend. “How ya doin’, Ms. O’Toole? Good to see ya.”

  “Good.” I would’ve asked her how she was doing, but then I would have wanted to linger and chat and I didn’t have the time. Romeo was waiting. “I’m meeting someone.”

  “Cute young fella?” She gave me a wink.

  I nodded.

  “Your secret’s safe with me.” She grabbed a menu and turned on her heel. “He’s waiting in your regular spot. It’s not in Shirley’s section today, but I’ll let her know you’re here.”

  I followed Betty up a small ramp to an elevated section of booths—my favorite was the last one on the right—don’t ask me why. For some unfathomable reason, all of the booths had one side overstuffed like a built-in booster seat. I had a sneaky suspicion the carpenter who had built them must have been short, but I never could prove it—not that I’d tried.

  Betty had put me on the high side... once. Now Romeo occupied that position. If he was uncomfortable, I couldn’t tell from looking at him. Young and still wet behind the ears, Romeo had yet to adopt the jaded expression of a cop who’d seen it all, which made sense because he hadn’t. In fact, he hadn’t even seen a small fraction of the dirty side of the street.

  His unruly sandy-blond hair, blue eyes, quick grin, and gee-whiz attitude reminded me more of a kid hoping for a Triple-A contract with the 51s than a future Columbo. Yet he was my best contact in Metro and, conveniently, he’d done the investigation up to this point on Shark-Bait Neidermeyer. A while ago I’d helped him score some points with the brass and now it was payback time. I needed to know what he knew.

  “Sorry I’m late.” I slid into the booth as Betty poured me a mug of coffee and freshened Romeo’s. “I don’t know if you’ve already made your decision, but their green chili is a religious experience.”

  The kid grabbed his menu. “Really? I didn’t see that.”

  “They call it ‘chili verde.’” I pushed my menu aside as I tried to open a creamer into my coffee. The white liquid squirted across the table. “Damn. These things always get me.”

  Romeo gave me the look a parent would give a helpless child. “Let me.” He opened one and got all the white stuff into the mug with nary a squirt.

  “Thanks. My skill set clearly excludes opening creamers.” I took a sip of steaming coffee. I’d probably had enough already—the top of my head felt like it was going to explode—but lead this horse to caffeine, and you won’t have a problem making her drink. “Order the number one,” I instructed Romeo. “With scrambled eggs, pumpkin bread, crisp potatoes, and a small side of chili verde. You won’t be disappointed.”

  My favorite waitress appeared as if summoned. A thin woman with dancing dark eyes and a ready smile, Shirley knew all the regulars. “Hey Lucky! You keepin’ them in line at that hotel of yours?”

  “They seem to be getting the better of me these days,” I said, being more truthful than Shirley thought.

  “And that cutie, Teddie, where is he today?” she asked, giving Romeo the eye. Teddie made fans wherever he went.

  “He’s in California. This is Detective Romeo.”

  Shirley looked relieved. Had she really thought I could handle Teddie and the kid? Or would want to? Clearly I was projecting the wrong image.

  “I’ll tell Teddie hello for you,” I said.

  “You do that.” Shirley pulled her pencil from the mass of curls on top of her head. “I know you want your usual,” she said to me, then looked at Romeo. “And young man, what’ll it be?”

  Romeo thought for a moment. “I’ll have what she’s having.”

  That settled, Shirley disappeared, then Romeo dove right in. “I know you didn’t invite me to breakfast because you miss me. You want the skinny on the shark-tank lady.” Under Romeo’s Clark Kent exterior lurked a guy who could cut to the chase.

  From the moment I’d met Romeo, I knew he had potential.

  “She was no lady,” I said with a scowl. “But yes, you’re right.”

  “I don’t know anything you don’t know.” Romeo kept his expression bland.

  “Then why did you grill Jeremy Whitlock?”

  Romeo’s eyes grew a fraction wider. He had a thing or two to learn about bluffing. “The district attorney seemed to think your Mr. Whitlock knew more than he was letting on.”

  “I see.” I said, although I didn’t. Why was Lovie Lovato pushing so hard? “And did he?”

  “Not that I could tell.” Romeo’s expression collapsed. He played with his fork and knife, knocking them together until I slapped a hand on them to silence the clanging. “It’s the darndest thing. I think everybody in this town wanted that woman dead.”

  “That’s a fair assessment, but only one somebody actually followed through.” I held my mug out for freshening when a lady with the coffee pot passed by.

  “Did you?”

  “Did I what?” I asked, stalling for time.

  “Want her dead?”

  “Kid, I was probably on the list but way down toward the bottom. Anybody who had anything to do with Numbers Neidermeyer eventually found themselves praying for her to have an accident.”

  “So, where were you last night between four thirty and seven this morning?”

  I narrowed my eyes at my young detective. “Don’t mess with me, Romeo.”

  The kid’s eyes skittered away from mine.

  “So, exactly how did Ms. Neidermeyer become fish bait?” I asked casually.

  “Somebody rigged a remote device to disable the cameras. The side door to Shark Reef was jimmied, but it’s an internal door and not alarmed. They turned on all the lights, tossed her into the tank from the catwalk above, left her purse, and bolted. The sharks did their thing.” The kid looked a little green around the gills as he finished. “The shark-keeper found what was left of her when he arrived at about seven.”

  “Turned on all the lights?”

  “That’s the signal to the sharks that it’s feeding time. They get all excited and will eat anything tossed in front of them.”

  “Did the sharks kill her, or was she dead before she hit the tank?”

  Romeo gave me a rueful smile. “The ME couldn’t really tell. Nor could he pinpoint a time of death. He doesn’t have much to go on—only a few pieces. I have some pictures here.” The kid reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out a few glossies, which he spread on the table between us.

  I scanned the photos, then was instantly sorry. ‘Small pieces’ was right. “May I keep these?”

  “I probably shouldn’t let
you have them, but we re a team, right?”

  “Team? Sure. Besides, you owe me.” I picked up the photos and gave each one the once-over before I stowed them in my pocket.

  Now I felt a little queasy—just in time for breakfast. Shirley silently set our plates in front of us. Romeo and I could only stare at the food.

  I pushed at mine with my fork. “Anything of interest in her purse?”

  Romeo rummaged in his pocket. Not finding what he wanted in that pocket, he started on another. This time he pulled out a crumpled bit of paper. He smoothed it on the table and pushed it to me. “Here’s a list of the contents.”

  I raised an eyebrow at him.

  “I knew you’d want it,” he said, looking sheepish. “And, besides, I haven’t won an argument with you, yet. This just saves time.”

  As I said, he had real potential. I scanned the list. Nothing jumped out at me. She had the usual—wallet with money and credit cards, two ticket stubs to last Friday’s fights at the French Quarter, hairbrush, makeup kit with lipstick, eye shadow, mascara, a mirror, a box of Trojans, keys. “Can I keep this?”

  He nodded. “See anything interesting?” The kid had finally found his appetite and was forking in the eggs and green chili.

  “No, but you never know how things are going to play out. Something might become interesting later.” I took a bite of the pumpkin bread. “How’s your breakfast?”

  “Awesome.”

  Another happy customer. I picked at the potatoes—they were my favorite part—but I had lost my appetite. “I know you said you couldn’t pinpoint the time of death, but do you have an approximate?”

  “She was last seen at your hotel at about four thirty in the morning—one of your cameras caught her crossing the casino by herself. And, no, she wasn’t being followed—at least not overtly.” This was bad, the kid knew what I was going to ask almost before I did.

  “I assume you’ve looked at the tapes your boys seized. Did she talk to anybody?”

  “Only your Jeremy Whitlock and that Tamale guy.”

  “Tamale?”