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

by Deborah Coonts

  “I didn’t forget to tell you—this is news to me as well.” I snapped, shooting her a dirty look. “Did he call?”

  “Just now.” Despite Jeremy’s presence, Miss P couldn’t quite disguise the awe in her voice. “His plane should just be lifting off from Ontario.” She looked at me over the top of her readers. “He asked for the usual treatment. Do you care to explain what that means?”

  “It means I am going to have a long night while you and Jeremy drag yourselves off for some shut-eye.” I raised my hand, stopping her before she spoke. “No argument. You both are running on fumes, and I’m afraid I’m the only one who can handle Mr. Marsh.”

  * * *

  AFTER Jeremy and Miss P had gathered themselves and their things and had done as I asked, I shut my office door behind them and again took my place in the chair behind my desk. Pushing the mounting paperwork aside, I put my elbows on the smooth black walnut surface and my face in my hands. Shutting the world out, I set aside thoughts of Jordan Marsh and let my brain play word association.

  I mothballed Jimmy G’s line on Scully Winter. It was way too early in the game to flush a player like Scully—I couldn’t run the risk of scaring him away before I knew what I needed him for. Right now I needed answers.

  Okay, concentrate, O’Toole.

  Mary Swearingen Makepeace. Vegas. The fight game. Gambling. The district attorney. Sealed FBI files. I lifted my head from my hands as the light dawned. The Witness Protection Program. Of course!

  Energy pulsed through me. However, I was fresh out of contacts at the FBI. We’d have to do an end-run—not ideal, but definitely doable. And I knew just the person for the job.

  Flash Gordon, ace investigative reporter for the local paper, answered after the second ring with her customary cordiality. “What-cha got?”

  We’d met at UNLV our freshman year. Soul mates on sight, we had shared all the usual stupid freshman hijinks—and then some. She had kept me out of the newspapers, and I had kept her out of jail. An old Vegas adage defined real friends as those you knew well enough to blackmail. Flash and I were real friends.

  “As usual, I don’t know what I got,” I said, adopting Flash’s businesslike tone. “I need your help to figure it out.”

  She recognized my voice. “Hey, Lucky.”

  “How hard would it be for you to search editions of the Review-Journal back twenty-five years?” I asked.

  “It wouldn’t be easy. They’re all on microfiche. Nothing’s digital past the last couple of years.”

  “Then I’ll rephrase the question: How hard would you work to help me break open the Numbers Neidermeyer case?”

  She whistled low. “I’d work myself blind.”

  I heard my outer office door open, then a tentative knock at my door—Romeo. Cupping my hand over the receiver, I shouted, “Just a minute.”

  “Who’s that?” Flash asked.

  “Romeo. I need him to work another angle. But you, I need you to try to find out all you can about somebody by the name of Mary Swearingen Makepeace. Search partial names, anything you can think of.”

  Scuffling noises came over the phone as I assumed Flash switched her phone to the other ear, then held it there with her shoulder. I could picture her rooting between her double denvers for the stub of a pencil she always stuck there, then flipping open a notepad and taking notes in her own special shorthand. Keep her notes on a PDA or a computer where anyone could read them? Not Flash Gordon. Not in a million years.

  “Can you narrow my search any?” she asked, her voice still all business.

  “Focus on reports of criminal trials no older than twenty-five years.”

  If memory served, that was about the time Daniel started as an assistant DA. However, I wasn’t going to tell Flash that. Even though a person was innocent until proven guilty, the press didn’t always see it that way. And once an accusation, or even the hint of a misdeed, leaked into the public consciousness, it remained permanently embedded like a fossil in stone. When I stood before St. Peter at the Pearly Gates, I did not want to answer for jumping the gun and ruining a perfectly adequate district attorney.

  “You got it,” she clipped, then the line went dead.

  I smiled as I cradled the phone. If Mary Swearingen Makepeace had a story, Flash would stick to it. Like a tick on a dog, she’d suck it dry.

  I rose to go greet Romeo.

  The young detective jumped as I threw open the door. He’d been standing, legs spread, arms behind his back, at my wall of windows, staring down at the throng in the lobby. “I like your view.”

  “Really?” I joined him at the window. “It makes me feel like an ant in a kid’s ant farm.” I slapped a hand to my head. “Shoot, what time is it?”

  “Seven thirty. Why?”

  I grabbed him by his coat sleeve and led him toward the door. “Come with me. I’ve got to start killing two birds with one stone or I’m going to be covered in bird sh... guano.”

  “What?” He let me pull him along.

  When I was sure he was following, I let go of his sleeve. “I’ve got to check on the entomologists. Their program kicks off at eight.”

  “Entomologists?”

  I waved away his question as we trotted down the stairs. “Do you have the ME s report on the shark-tank lady yet?”

  “Just the basics.” He had to shout to be heard as we pushed into the crowd in the lobby. “Toxicology will take another day or two.”

  “What did he list as cause of death?”

  “Shark attack.”

  “I bet that’s a first for Clark County.” I worked my way toward the casino. Another hour or two and the people would be packed in so tight the fire department would have a cow. “Is the ME willing to go to the mat with that?”

  “No.” Romeo had to trot to keep up with me as I headed through the casino toward the convention area. “He tested the oxygen profusion of the... corpse. It was low, but there was so much degradation and contamination, he couldn’t certify the results. And since the lungs had been eaten . . .”

  “Got it,” I said, wanting to cut short that line of conversation. “So you really have no way to determine time of death?”

  “Not conclusively.”

  Geoffrey David-Williston stood in a group huddled in front of a large display filled with what was left of our bee population. Gesturing energetically, he addressed the small crowd.

  I couldn’t hear exactly what he was talking about but it likely had to do with too few bees—his current passion. As I rubbed the lingering red welts on my neck, I thought fewer bees would be a good thing. Romeo and I waited on the fringe as Dr. Williston wound down.

  When he had finished, I pushed my way to the front. “Geoffrey.”

  “Lucky! I thought you’d forgotten us!” He actually seemed happy to see me, which was amazing. The last time we’d spoken I had held the undisguised opinion that a speedy demise would be too good for him. I felt certain he held me in equally low esteem.

  “What do you think of our display?” He waved his arm at the curved wall of Lucite separating us from a rather large bee population. “Even though we lost most of our bees, it still looks pretty good, don’t you think?”

  “Impressive.” For once I wasn’t blowing smoke—the exhibit’s concave surface created the illusion we had stepped inside an active hive.

  “A bit dramatic, but we’re trying to get people alarmed over the declining honeybee population, or Colony Collapse Disorder. The numbers are dwindling at an increasing rate. Most people think this is due to the Africanized bees migrating north out of Mexico, but that’s only part of the cause. We can’t identify the other part.”

  I nodded as I felt my eyes glazing over.

  “I know you think this is just an interesting little problem for PhDs, but it has very real ramifications. The California almond crop alone requires 1.3 million individuals for annual pollination. Without them—no almonds.”

  The lack of bees impacted our food supply? Now he had m
y attention.

  A man walked through the crowd ringing a bell signaling ten minutes until the start of the presentation; people began drifting toward the banquet room. Geoffrey glanced at them over his shoulder. “I would love to tell you more, but I better find my seat. I’m introducing the speaker tonight, an expert in the growing field of alternative uses for bee venom.”

  “You wouldn’t want to miss that.” I flashed him a benign smile. “I won’t keep you, but tell me, are the arrangements for your conference satisfactory? Is there anything I can do? Anything you need?”

  “No, everything is fabulous, as usual.” He turned to go, then stopped and turned back around, placing a hand on my arm. “I’m really sorry about the whole... fiasco last night. I was upset, and I behaved badly.”

  “Understandable. Apology accepted.”

  With that, he disappeared, leaving Romeo and me alone in the emptying vestibule.

  “You hang out with the most interesting people.” Romeo dead-panned.

  I couldn’t tell if the kid was needling me or not—I sorta hoped he was. “Got anything else on the other matter?” I didn’t want to spell it out—our conversation wouldn’t be hidden by the noise of the crowd as before. And, as my mother used to say, in Vegas, even the walls had ears.

  “One thing I think you should know.” He glanced around as if looking to see if anyone was taking an interest in us. Satisfied, he lowered his voice and stepped near. “I’m getting pressure to put the squeeze on your buddy.”

  “Jeremy?” I whispered. “Who from?”

  “Higher up than I can see.” His brows crinkled. “If I didn’t know better, I’d almost say it was coming from outside the department.”

  He may not know better, but I did. I knew who, outside Metro, had not only the interest but also that kind of stroke. A trip to visit our district attorney was numero uno on my morning to-do list. Until then, I’d play clueless. “Really? If you get wind of where the pressure is coming from, will you let me know?”

  He nodded but didn’t make any promises, which made me feel less like a creep withholding suspicions from my cohort in crime.

  “Anything for me?” he asked.

  “I’ve got some lines out but haven’t reeled in a fish. Soon, though.”

  “I’d be worried about landing a shark or two, if I were you.” His eyes skittered from mine as he developed a fascination with his shoes. “I got something else to ask you. Off the record, okay?”

  “I’ve forgotten it already.”

  “Huh?”

  “Off the record,” I said. “Give it to me.”

  “Is your new assistant, Brandy, hooking up with anyone?”

  Hooking up, what did that mean? Dating? Screwing? I had only the vaguest idea. “Carrying a torch for the beautiful Miss Alexander, are we?”

  Red crept up his cheeks. He still refused to meet my eyes.

  “You have impeccable taste.”

  “She’s prime for sure.”

  Prime? This certainly wasn’t one of my fluent dialects. “I don’t know about her personal life, but why don’t you ask her out? What’s the worst that could happen?”

  “She could laugh.”

  I threw my arm around my young friend’s shoulder as we walked back the way we had come. “Romeo, love makes fools out of us all. Get used to it.”

  I said good-bye to the detective at the garage elevators. A glance at my watch told me tempus really did fugit when you were having fun—Jordan Marsh would be arriving at the Executive Terminal in a half hour or less and I’d better be there to meet him. That didn’t give me long to figure out what I was going to do with him when he got here.

  I dove into the lobby crowd, which was clearly gaining momentum. Arriving guests waited in queues, most of which were at least five deep, in front of individual registration bays. One line, though, was considerably longer than the others, and patience appeared to be running thin as Tommy Bahama-clad new arrivals craned around each other, shooting exasperated looks toward the front desk.

  Sergio Fabiano, our front desk manager, a smile plastered on his face, stood at attention next to the exasperated young lady helping an older gentleman at the head of the line.

  “May I help?” I asked, as I stepped in next to the man causing the holdup.

  “Only if you speak Spanish,” Sergio replied. “Mr. Garza is from Madrid and speaks fluent Castilian Spanish, but very little English. Unfortunately, his Italian isn’t very good either, or I would have had no problem.” Sergio gave me a weak smile. “Ms. Rodriguez is busy with another guest from Mexico right now, so I have no one who can speak with Mr. Garza. He is trying to register the thirty people in his party into the twenty rooms he has booked. You know the regulations—we need to put names with room numbers. He doesn’t understand.”

  “Easy enough.” I turned to Mr. Garza and greeted him in his native language.

  A grin split his face as he wrapped me in a big hug, his relief almost palpable, as he began his tale.

  “Esperate un momentito, por favor,” I said, interrupting his staccato torrent of Spanish. “Sergio, can you open the desk on the end? Take the next five parties in this line with you.” I glanced at the name tag on the reservation agent. “Miss Shakova and I will take care of Mr. Garza and his party.”

  With a crisp nod and the assured gestures of a conductor leading a symphony, Sergio clapped his hands for attention, then motioned to the guests behind us, as he moved to the end of the registration desk, taking half of the line behind us with him.

  The look on Miss Shakova’s face told me she was clearly in over her head. “Where’re you from?” I asked.

  “Georgia,” she replied, in a thick Slavic accent.

  Ah, she wasn’t referring to one of the original Thirteen Colonies. We had so many different nationalities represented on our staff, even I was amazed communication didn’t completely grind to a halt more often—or minor wars didn’t break out.

  “Long way from home?”

  Her shy smile hinted she was starting to relax.

  “Here’s what we’re going to do. First, please write all of Mr. Garzas room numbers in a column down one side of a sheet of paper, indicating the type of accommodation next to each. I will ask him to write the names of the guests beside the number of the room they will be staying in. If we get that information, can you take it from there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Then, while Mr. Garza is filling in the names, why don’t you call the Bell Desk? Ask them to send anyone who speaks Spanish, even a valet will do. If they put you off—and they might, everyone is maxed-out right now—tell them I’m the one who is asking.”

  “Yes, Ms. O’Toole. Thank you.”

  Ten minutes later, we had the registration gridlock eliminated and the line of guests flowing once again, I’d been anointed an honorary member of the Emilio Garza family, and now had only five minutes to lock up the office and beat feet to the airport. Since the airport was right down the street—piece of cake. But if the idiots who were talking about moving it twenty miles down the Interstate got their way, I’d be screwed.

  Halfway across the lobby, I caught my parents walking arm in arm toward me. Still an unusual sight, I couldn’t resist stopping to watch them. A few tourists stopped to take their picture, but, as minor royalty in a world where one’s Q score was king, they didn’t attract a lot of attention.

  My mother, dressed to the nines in an Escada suit and her South Sea pearls, had forsaken her ubiquitous heels for a pair of flats. Still a few inches taller than my father, she tilted her head to the side to catch something he was saying. A smile on her face, she glowed.

  With her on his arm, the Big Boss’s chest puffed with pride. Bathed in the light of love, they both looked like kids. Their faces lit when they saw me.

  Even at my advanced age, parental affection still warmed my heart. “Where are you two off to?”

  “First dinner, then we’re going to a show!” My mother beamed.

 
; “A date?”

  “Just a couple of old romantics,” said the Big Boss, looking quite thrilled with the whole thing.

  “He’s being modest.” Mother squeezed her man’s arm. “Do you know what this guy did? He booked us a table by the window at Prime, so we can watch the fountains while we eat that seafood tower thing they have.”

  “Really? The Bellagio?” I raised an eyebrow at my father. “Giving the competition some business?”

  “Industrial espionage.” He winked at me. “We needed to keep track of what they’re up to.”

  “Going undercover, are we?”

  “No, we re not going undercover,” my mother said, adopting the same tone of exaggerated patience she used when I was a child.

  That attitude used to punch my buttons. Now it just made me smile.

  “He’s taking me to see Mystère!’ Mother’s excitement oozed from every pore. “This old softie even stood in line for the tickets. Just like a normal person!”

  Normal wasn’t a classification either of my parents was in danger of earning, but I wasn’t about to disillusion my mother, not when she was having so much fun. Who wanted to be normal anyway? “Why Mystère? I thought O was the show to see.”

  “Honey, you should see all the male acrobats.” Mother’s voice drooled in anticipation. “Those muscles! Do you know they’re naked from the waist up and only wear tights down below?”

  “So you like the men. No real surprise there.” I nodded toward my father. “What, if anything, does your escort like?”

  Mother leaned into me, her voice lowered to a whisper. “The whole thing makes me horny.”

  I gave her a look, then glanced at my father. “I walked into that one, didn’t I?”

  He shrugged, then gave me a wicked grin, one I don’t ever recall seeing on his face before. “One thing about your mother, she keeps life interesting.”