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

by Deborah Coonts

  Brandy’s face clouded.

  I held up my hand. “No rebuke intended. And promise me you won’t ask me how I learned that lesson.” At her responding grin, I pushed through the outer door, leaving Teddie’s rose on Miss P’s desk.

  * * *

  AN intoxicating drug, the faint whiff of fight weekend craziness met me halfway down the stairs to the lobby. As I leaned on the crossbar to open the door at the bottom, I braced myself, but even I wasn’t prepared as I pushed through into the throng. Riding on an undercurrent of excitement, a cacophony of raised voices hit me like a prizefighter’s jab. Lit by the high-octane combination of liquid fuel and adrenaline, people mixed and mingled, shouting at friends, giving others an appreciative wolf-whistle, as they shrugged out of the strictures of their everyday lives.

  Others waited near the front entrance, like a school of hungry piranhas, cameras at the ready, hoping to catch a glimpse of one of the current icons of pop culture, but they waited in vain. Eager to avoid the paparazzi, most recognizable faces arrived through the VIP entrance. Hidden and well guarded on the other side of the casino, that entrance led directly to the Kasbah suites and apartments—our celebrity enclave, and the current residence of Tortilla Padilla—my second stop this morning.

  But first, a swing through Security—Jerry was waiting.

  With the practiced moves of an NFL halfback, and thankful I had left the stilettos at home, I dodged our drink-wielding guests and made my way to the main bank of elevators. As I waited for the next car, I checked myself in the reflective surface of the metal doors—nary a drop of sloshed drink on my dark blue Dana Buchman trousers and cashmere sweater.

  My hair was reasonably in place—I still fought with it every morning as I struggled to master my new style. Makeup highlighted my reluctant cheekbones, full lips, and blue eyes while hiding my facial flaws—too bad I couldn’t find anything short of lipo to mask the flaws running rampant over my thighs.

  All in all, my reflection was not the me I used to find so comfortable, and frankly, being well turned out was more trouble than it was worth. Personally, I liked it better when my hair was wild and my makeup nonexistent—it made me look more menacing. I’m not proud of it, but love had made me a pathetic slave to vanity. I hoped this was the low point. Balancing precariously on this slippery slope, I lived in fear that one day I would follow in my mother’s footsteps—right through the revolving doors of a plastic surgery center.

  A dim, formerly smoke-filled cave, Security was the command center, if not the beating heart, of the hotel. Like large mosaic tiles, video screens decorated every inch of the far wall, floor to ceiling. Security personnel were seated at intervals along a low counter in front of the monitors, where they scanned the feeds from the cameras scattered throughout the public areas of the hotel. Along an adjacent wall, also covered by monitors, gaming specialists watched the games currently in progress on the casino floor, looking for anomalies.

  Jerry, a tall, trim black man (he never cared for the whole African American thing—I was white, he was black—distinctive, yet no different) was the captain of this starship. He stood with feet spread, his back to me, hands behind him, staring at the monitors as he gave each one his undivided attention for a few seconds. With his practiced eye, a few seconds was all he needed to subconsciously identify a problem in the making, if there was one.

  The two of us had worked side by side for the Big Boss for as long as I could remember. Security and Customer Relations were halves of the same whole and the years had given Jerry and me an easy camaraderie and confidence—we guarded each other’s backs, no questions asked.

  Today Jerry wore a pair of casual slacks and a camel jacket in place of his usual suit and tie. Baby-soft Ferragamo loafers, a polo shirt, and a flash of gold at his wrist completed his ensemble. Comfortable, yet stylish, he was dressed for what we both knew would be a long weekend.

  Sensing my presence, he turned. Nodding at me, he dispensed with the pleasantries. “We cobbled together some interesting footage from the tapes you asked me to review.”

  “You must’ve had your staff working overtime.” Stepping in beside him, I pretended to be fascinated by the ever-changing show on the monitors. Watching others go about their business was too close to voyeurism for my comfort level.

  “It didn’t take as long as you might think. We used Jeremy’s face-recognition software.” Jerry rubbed a hand over his shiny pate—the hair was gone, but the habit remained. “That’s pretty slick stuff.”

  “So I hear.” I waited a moment. Jerry was lost in the movies playing in front of us. “You want to show me?”

  “Oh, right.” He shook his head as he turned away from the wall of screens. “Something’s going on. I don’t know what, but something doesn’t feel right. Maybe it’s just fight weekend—I don’t know.”

  I followed him to a tiny cubicle in the back of the room. Two chairs had been placed in front of a computer screen for us. Jerry took the one in front of the video controls and punched a few buttons.

  The screen came to life as I settled myself in the seat next to him.

  Numbers Neidermeyer appeared on the screen. She looked as I remembered her—tailored suit, long hair, screw-you expression. Even though I knew she was dead, looking at her still set my blood simmering. Isn’t it funny how love and hate both make you hot and bothered?

  “Okay, I spliced all the footage together with the time imprints in the corner so you can keep track of the chronology,” Jerry said, as he started the tape. “This is about two twenty yesterday morning. We got her coming into the hotel, apparently alone.”

  I watched as she marched across the lobby. Was that her normal gait or was she loaded for bear?

  “There’s Jeremy,” I said, pointing as he appeared.

  We both watched as the argument I had witnessed played out on the tape. Numbers disappeared into the casino, then after talking to me, Jeremy followed. My heart skipped a beat. “Don’t tell me Jeremy followed her.” I shifted my eyes to look at Jerry.

  He shook his head. “No. Here’s where it gets interesting. Your Ms. Neidermeyer was pretty clever. She knew where the cameras were, so we lost her for a bit, but we have some tricks of our own.” He worked a few dials and buttons and again Numbers appeared on the screen. This time she stood in front of the bank of main elevators between the casino and the lobby. She had doubled back.

  “I guess she knew we didn’t have the manpower or the time to check all the tapes,” Jerry said, grinning. “But she didn’t know about Jeremy’s face-recognition software, which cut our search time by a factor of ten.”

  Silence stretched between us as, on the screen, Numbers rode the elevator, then got off on the twelfth floor.

  I raised my eyebrows at Jerry.

  “I told you this is where it gets interesting.”

  Riveted, I turned my attention back to the screen. Numbers entered Room 12410—the Lovatos’ room. Then, according to the time imprint on the tape, ten minutes later Daniel Lovato entered the room, swathed in his sheet and using the key I had given him. Twenty minutes later, a fully clothed Daniel, a hand shading his face, left. Numbers followed three minutes later and marched in the opposite direction. As she waited for the elevator to appear, she rooted in her bag. She pulled something from her purse. As the elevator doors opened and she entered, she sprayed first one side of her neck then the other; the thing must’ve been a perfume atomizer. Then she sprayed her wrists and rubbed them together. She held them to her nose as the elevator doors closed.

  “Who’s this?” Jerry asked, as he pointed at the third player to leave the room.

  Small, blond, her muscles filling out a painted-on sheath of a dress—I knew her without seeing her face, but when she glanced over her shoulder toward the camera, that confirmed it. Glinda Lovato, in all her glory. “That is the Mrs. District Attorney.”

  Jerry leaned back in his chair, a self-satisfied look on his face. Reaching into his pants pocket, he extracted a silv
er cigarette case. Flipping it open, he extended it toward me. “Want one?”

  “You know that’s not one of my vices.”

  “Lucky you. I’ve tried everything to quit. Nothing took.” He extracted a thin, unfiltered Gauloises, struck a match and held it to the tip, inhaled deeply, then shook out the flame.

  “Did the Big Boss give you special dispensation to ignore the no smoking policy?”

  “I had to threaten to go to work for the competition,” Jerry said smugly. “But he finally caved. I’m confined to my cubicle here, but that’s enough.” Jerry took another hit, then blew a perfect circle with the smoke. He nodded toward the screen. “Interesting menage à trois, wouldn’t you say?”

  Was it French Bon Mot Day and I missed it? “So they left separately. Numbers and Mrs. Lovato leaving in the same direction, Daniel in the other.”

  Jerry watched me as he enjoyed his cancer stick. He knew I was thinking out loud.

  “Can you go back to the part where Numbers left?”

  “Sure.” With the cigarette dangling from his lips, Jerry leaned forward and worked his magic with the controls.

  “There.” I pointed at the image. “Numbers left with a purse. She didn’t have it when she went in.”

  “Anytime you want to work in security, you’ve got a job.” Jerry grinned at me, which dislodged the ash from the end of his cigarette. He brushed it away.

  “She had been in that room before.”

  “She and the Mrs. arrived together yesterday afternoon. The check-in tapes show the Mrs. at Registration by herself, doing the paperwork and giving them her credit card, but we were able to capture Numbers in the background. They both went up to the room.”

  Terrific. The three of them came and went like the Keystone cops.

  What was the connection between the district attorney, his wife, and pond scum like Numbers Neidermeyer? Who had tossed Numbers Neidermeyer to the sharks? Were the two related? Had Jeremy really just wandered into the whole thing? Too many questions, too few answers—actually, no answers at all. The whole thing made my head hurt. “So, what does all this mean?” I sagged back in my chair.

  “That’s for you to find out.”

  “Just my luck. I came here for answers, and all I get is more questions.” I levered myself up as Jerry stuck another cigarette between his lips and lit it with the stub of the first. “I don’t have to tell you those things will be the death of you,” I scolded.

  He cocked his head toward the screen and the last image of Numbers Neidermeyer. “There are worse ways to go.”

  * * *

  IF Vegas was a temple to wealth, the Kasbah was its sanctuary. Built with the über-wealthy in mind, it oozed opulence, service, and comfort. A security guard at the tall hammered-bronze doors nodded at me as if I were entering the gates of Oz.

  In stark contrast to the darkness of the casino, the Kasbah was well lit. Single, self-contained apartments surrounded an open courtyard with burbling waterfalls, a pond, and flowering vegetation. The sanctuary was so inviting that a pair of ducks returned every year to hatch their eggs and raise their young.

  Tortilla Padilla had set up camp in Bungalow 7. The doors to each bungalow mimicked the door at the entrance to the Kasbah, only in a slightly smaller scale. As I stood before them, I felt like Indiana Jones on a harrowing hunt for some antiquity. My heart beat a staccato rhythm as I pondered what tests of courage and guile my quest would require. I’d checked on Tortilla Padilla before, but I’d never come face-to-face with the man himself. I imagined him to be a hulking blockade on my path to enlightenment.

  Not only had I never met Mr. Padilla, I knew little about him—fights and fighters weren’t my things. I never could understand the lure of watching two guys bludgeoning each other, blood flying, faces being turned to pulp, brains incurring irreversible damage... the whole thing turned my stomach. But, unfortunately, I wasn’t paid to pass judgment or to cater to my own sensibilities, so there I was, ready to do battle with the former reigning middleweight champion of the world... or the universe... or whatever.

  At my knock, the doors eased opened on well-oiled hinges.

  “Ms. O’Toole?” It was Tiny Tortilla Padilla in the flesh. His thousand-watt smile, the very same one that graced all the posters around town, gave him away.

  While he wasn’t huge, he certainly wasn’t tiny. Mr. Padilla fit the fighter mold—at least my version of it. Of average height, he sported a strong jaw, dancing dark eyes, a mop of tousled black hair, and a chiseled physique, which his chosen attire—workout pants and nothing else—showed to perfection. I tried not to stare, but one thing was certain—if I were his wife, fifteen children would be on the low side.

  He stepped aside and motioned me into his bungalow.

  I shook my head and stayed where I was. “I’m sorry to bother you. This won’t take a minute.”

  “Suit yourself.” With perfect balance he leaned against the knife-edge of the door, crossed one leg over the other, and his arms across his chest.

  If I’d tried that I would’ve fallen on my ass. God, he was distracting—I focused on his face. “Have you been reading about the woman who was found in the shark tank at Mandalay Bay?”

  “Who hasn’t?” Lifting one corner of his mouth into a wry smile, he shook his head. “Man, only in Vegas.”

  I felt like telling him that even by Vegas standards the demise of Numbers Neidermeyer was pretty spectacular, but I don’t think he would’ve believed me. “Had you seen her around?”

  “Only once,” he said. “She cornered me in the casino one night—it may have been the night she died, I don’t remember. It didn’t seem important at the time.”

  “What did she want to know?”

  “How was I feeling, what did I think my odds were... the usual.” The fighter eyed me. “Why do you ask?”

  “She set the odds for most of the fights in town,” I explained, trying not to be unnerved by his glare. “Obviously, she’d stepped on somebody’s toes. I just wondered if you’d gotten wind of anything unusual going down or if Ms. Neidermeyer had approached you at all.” My eyes drifted from his. I never was very comfortable dancing around the real issue. As my mother said, both barrels blazing was more my kind of approach.

  “You want to know if she was trying to buy me off or something?” His voice was hard. His eyes no longer danced. “Get me to throw the fight?”

  “I didn’t mean to suggest that.” Well, maybe I did, but I was smart enough to deny it when the man I was busy insulting was considered by most to be the best all-around fighter in the world. “Why would you throw the fight? You’ve been promised a king’s ransom, win or lose.” My eyes locked onto his. “I just want to know anything you might know regarding Ms. Neidermeyer.”

  “Why do you care?” He still glared at me, not giving me an inch.

  “Ms. Neidermeyer cast a wide net. She caught a good friend of mine—a P.I. who was sniffing in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  As if he could see into my soul, Mr. Padilla stared at me with those inscrutable black eyes for a moment. Then he shouted over his shoulder, “Crash!”

  We both waited. Nothing.

  He shouted again. “Yo, Crash!”

  “Yeah, yeah. I can hear, you know. Whatcha shoutin’ for anyways?” A huge black man wearing an apron and drying a dinner plate with a dishrag filled the doorway. One cauliflower ear, a nose mushed slightly to one side, an eye that didn’t quite track, Crash had the look of a heavyweight who had fought past his prime. His hands shook a bit as he worked the rag around the dish.

  Tortilla Padilla tilted his head toward the newcomer. “This is Crash Crawford, my trainer.” Then he shifted his gaze to the big man. “Tell Ms. O’Toole here what you told me about the lady who got eaten by the sharks.”

  The big man gave me the once-over, then shrugged. “Not much to tell. She came sniffin’ around the ring the other day asking all the normal questions about my man’s preparations. You know, stuff like had
he lost a step, and all that?”

  I nodded, even though I only had the barest inkling as to what the ‘normal’ questions might be.

  “But, you know, the weird thing was, she reminded me of somebody. I couldn’t quite place her. But then, last night, I was eatin’ pizza and it came to me, all of a sudden like.”

  He stopped. For some reason I got the distinct impression he was milking the limelight. So I gave him my best look of exaggerated patience.

  “Crash, quit jerking the lady’s chain.” Tortilla shot me a wink. “Don’t mind him. He has a flair for the dramatic.”

  Not the least bit chagrined, Crash waited a moment longer then continued, “Ms. O’Toole, right?”

  I nodded.

  “Thought so. My brain isn’t what it used to be.”

  “Madre de Dios, Crash.” Tortilla Padilla rolled his eyes, but his grin was a mile wide. Unlike me, Mr. Padilla was apparently enjoying the show.

  The big man shot a sideways glance at his boss. “Ms. O’Toole, I’ve been around the fight business a lotta years. I seen a bunch of things, know what I mean?”

  “Only too well.”

  “There was this snot-nosed kid hanging around the ring when I was managing a fighter back in Atlantic City, maybe fifteen years ago. Maybe more. She was a slip of a girl, not over fourteen, with hair the color of a pale strawberry. She said she was writin’ for her school paper. I don’t know whether that was true or not, but she sure had a nose for the business.”

  “And you think that kid was Numbers Neidermeyer? There’re a lot of people with strawberry blond hair.” Hope flared in my chest—the timing would be about right. . .

  “Yeah. It wasn’t only the hair, though. It was her attitude. The way she asked questions like she was challenging you. And the questions she did ask—they were said in a way to make you believe she didn’t know as much as she did.” He looked at me with a questioning glance.