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

by Deborah Coonts

  “For tomorrow I die?”

  “Poor proverb, sorry.” I shrugged. “But hey, it’s better than ‘best laid plans,’ don’t you think?”

  She just stared at me, her eyes blinking furiously. Then a grin split her face—it was breathtaking.

  “That’s better.” I gave her a gentle hug. “Remember, the choice is yours.”

  “But your mother . . .”

  I made a rude sound. “My mother is using you for publicity. I’d say she’s gotten her money’s worth already.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  FEELING a bit guilty, I swung by my office to rescue my phone before I headed out for a tête-à-tête with Daniel Lovato. I could run, but it wasn’t fair for me to hide, leaving my staff holding the bag.

  Both my assistants were sitting behind their respective desks when I walked in. The clock read nine forty-five, yet Miss Alexander appeared hard at work. She’d come in early—good for her.

  They both glanced up at my arrival, but it was Miss Patterson who started in. “The district attorney can give you from ten fifteen to ten thirty. Today he’s at the civil division. That makes your eleven o’clock with Delphinia doable.” She looked up from her notes and gave me a scowl. “Teddie has left ten messages. And your mother—” The phone rang, interrupting her. She motioned for Brandy to let it ring, then waited through the second ring. “That’s probably her now. She’s positively apoplectic. She’s certain your helicopter went down somewhere in the desert. Last time she called she wanted to alert the Civil Air Patrol and Search and Rescue.”

  “Glad to see things were pretty much same ol’ same ol’ while I was gone.”

  That got a smirk from Brandy. Miss Patterson looked daggers at her, and Brandy fell back to work.

  “I’ll take the call in my office.” As I disappeared into my inner sanctum, I said, “And I’ll take my phone when you’re done with it.” Kicking the door shut behind me, J reached across the desk, grabbed the receiver, and hit the lit button. “Customer Relations, Lucky O’Toole speaking.”

  “Lucky! Thank God!” Mona, as expected.

  All my frustration focused into one white-hot needle between my shoulder blades. “Mother, I’ve had enough of your act today. Do you want to know how my morning started? Well, it started with a hangover and went downhill from there. My virtue, or lack thereof, was dissected in the morning papers, right under a picture of Teddie in a lip-lock with a sweet young thing in California. Someone tried to run me over on the way to work, then you summoned me to save your ass.” I took a deep breath.

  “Lucky, I—”

  “Oh no, I’m just getting started.” I was sure my voice could be heard in Pahrump without the benefit of the phone line, but I didn’t care—yelling felt good, really good. “Do you know anything about the young lady you’re going to put on the block tomorrow? Don’t answer—the question was rhetorical. Seeing only a goose to lay a golden egg, you jumped right in, didn’t you? Did you know she has a boyfriend?”

  “Boyfriend?”

  “They agreed to remain chaste until they both were ready.”

  “An archaic bit of romantic drivel.”

  Like spurs to the flank of a wild-eyed racehorse, mother’s snotty remark shot me into orbit. The anger settled me down. My vision cleared, my voice lowered—I only shout when I am frustrated. When I am really mad, I tend to mix metaphors, my eyes get all slitty, and my words sharpen to a razor’s edge. Mother couldn’t see my eyes, but she could darn well hear the deadly tone to my voice. “Really? I find it refreshing. And I know you don’t mean that—you of all people.”

  “Lucky, sweetheart, you have every right to be angry.”

  “Angry? I’m beyond anger. I’m disgusted—with you and with myself for not stopping you the other night. Now, that sweet young girl’s first sexual experience will not be the gentle stroke of a lover, but a cold deflowering at the hands of the highest bidder.”

  “It was her choice . . .”

  “Choice? My God, Mother! She’s twenty-one. Making good choices at her age is a hit-or-miss thing. That’s why the youngsters let us old people live—they count on us for good advice.”

  “Legally, she’s an adult.”

  “Mother, if you value your life, steer clear of me for a while.” With that I slammed down the receiver. God, that felt good! I took a deep breath then threw back my shoulders. I was back. Bring it on, world!

  I burst out of my office door. “Okay, let’s kick some ass and solve some of these problems. First, give me my phone. Second, I need a ride.”

  “Ferrari? Or will mine do?” Miss Patterson handed me my phone and extended her car keys.

  I grabbed both. “Yours is perfect. Brandy, in the Bazaar there is a clothing store for tiny people like you. Find it and buy an outfit for our guest in Bungalow Two. She’s about your size and age. Charge it to our office. Then, when we have the final tally on the costs being incurred for that same guest, apply the employee discount and send the whole tab to my mother—including the helicopter round-trip.”

  Miss Patterson raised her eyebrows, then grinned like a fool.

  “What?” I asked.

  “She’s had this coming for a long time.”

  “See that?” I said to Brandy. “That’s loyalty. You can earn your way to Heaven with that attitude.”

  Her eyes alight, Brandy reached under her desk, pulled out three perfect long-stem roses, one white, one yellow, and one red—each with little notes attached—and extended them to me. “From the same admirer,” she said. “With the same message.”

  Grabbing them, I buried my nose in their heady aroma. Were these an act of passion or an act of contrition? Either way, they put a smile on my heart. “Could you put them in some water?” I handed the flowers back to Brandy, who nodded then set off to find a vase.

  When she returned, I was hunched over her desk scribbling a note. I thrust it at her. “Hope you can read my chicken scratch. See if you can track that name down.”

  She nodded, her brows crinkled in thought, as she glanced at the name I’d written.

  “Someone tried to run you over this morning?” Miss Patterson asked in a poorly disguised attempt to catch me off guard. “I couldn’t help but overhear.”

  “It was a warning, nothing more. Don’t worry about me.”

  “Actually, I was worried about my car.”

  * * *

  MISS Patterson’s ungainly little car squatted in its normal parking space, the one assigned to me on the executive level of the garage. I folded myself into the machine and piloted it out of the cavernous building and off toward the local government center, where the civil division of the district attorney’s office had its new home.

  With one hand, I flipped my phone open then pressed Teddie’s number on the speed-dial with my thumb.

  He answered on the first ring. “I am so sorry. Are you really mad?”

  “Should I be?” Since I had no idea how to find the right balance between doormat and shrew, I kept my voice light, but noncommittal.

  “Miss P told me about the picture in the paper. It was nothing. Really. We’d just finished a song on stage. You know the one that goes like this . . .” He hummed a few bars.

  “One of my favorites.”

  “Reza joined me for the chorus. The next thing I knew she kissed me. I don’t know, I guess she was carried away by the music or something.”

  Or something. I doubted there were too many women immune to Ted Kowalski in full entertainer mode. If he decided to go on the road, I had no idea how to reconcile myself to that. But that was a problem for another day.

  “It didn’t mean anything. But after the phone conversation, I can see where you might have gotten the wrong impression.” Chagrin tinged his voice, but I couldn’t detect a hint of guilt.

  The thought had crossed my mind that the picture in the paper could just as easily have been of Jordan Marsh kissing me at the airport. That kiss hadn’t meant anything either, but the papers would have had a
field day regardless. The old proverb about throwing stones and glass houses leapt to mind. “So the roses were a peace offering?”

  “Hell no. They were because I love you.”

  He said it so easily, with such graceful ease. Why couldn’t I? “They’re beautiful by the way. Thank you. So, things are going well in California?”

  “They offered me a recording contract.”

  I let out a war whoop. “That’s wonderful!”

  “We’re still working out the details. I’ll tell you all about it when I see you. You wouldn’t happen to know where Rudy Gillespi is, would you? I could use his expertise in finalizing the contract.”

  I went all still. Had someone let the cat out of the bag? “I don’t keep tabs on Rudy. Why would you think I would know where he is?”

  “With you guys being friends and all, I just thought you might know if he’s in town.”

  I knew better than that—he was in my guestroom in bed with Jordan Marsh, but I didn’t tell Teddie that, either. “I’m pretty sure he’s in Vegas. Want me to make an appointment for you?”

  “Thanks, but I can do it. So, how’s your life? It must be a real humdinger if you left your phone at the office. Anything I can do?”

  That simple question broke the dam, releasing a torrent. I started with the emptiness I felt at him being gone and finished with Mona’s little foray into the legal slave trade. Of course I edited my story somewhat—Jordan Marsh and Rudy Gillespi ended up on the cutting room floor. Their story was not mine to tell.

  Teddie listened through it all without interrupting. When I had finished, he waited, then, his voice quiet and still with a hint of menace in it, he asked, “Somebody tried to run you over?”

  “It was just a warning. If the guy had wanted to kill me, he would have.”

  “That makes me feel better.” Teddies voice sounded harsh and protective at the same time. “Was this the first warning?”

  “Yesterday I found a note in crayon on my windshield.”

  “So, he’s escalating. I’m coming home.”

  “To do what? Put me under armed guard? It’s fight weekend and I’m already drowning. There’s nothing you can do.” As I pulled up to the kiosk at the government center parking garage, I lowered my window. Barely able to reach the button, I managed to punch it and claim my ticket. “Finish your work in California, then come home. When do you think that might be, anyway?”

  “Maybe Friday, late, but for sure Saturday, if you’re positive you’ll be okay. We have a couple of studio sessions the next two days; then I need to meet with my new agent. Your Ms. One-Note Wylie agreed to represent me.”

  “Two days? I guess I can survive.”

  “You damned well better. I’d be lost without you.” Teddie sounded like he meant it, making my heart soar. “I know it’s futile to ask you to back off this Neidermeyer thing, but couldn’t you keep Jeremy or Romeo close by at least until I get there? It would make me feel better.”

  “I’ll try.” I fudged. The last thing I needed was to be put on a leash. “But I promise, I won’t be stupid.” Having someone care about me wasn’t the burden I’d always envisioned. This being-in-love was heady stuff.

  “I guess that will have to do. So you’re not mad?”

  “No.” After circling the garage several times, I found a parking place and swung into it with five minutes to spare. “I needed some time to find my footing.”

  “We’re cool, then?”

  “Totally.” I grabbed my Birkin and levered myself out of the car. “But promise me one thing. If you ever want someone else, if you fall out of love with me, let me be the first to know about it.”

  “If you promise me the same.”

  “Scout’s honor.”

  * * *

  GOVERNMENT buildings the world over have the same feel, as if there’s one uninspired architect responsible for them all. Daniel Lovato’s office was no different. Decorated in what could only be described as upscale institutional (the furniture was made from wood rather than metal, and carpet rather than linoleum graced the floors), with a large rendition of the seal of the state of Nevada looming ominously over the waiting area, the place felt foreboding and tragic. Nothing good happened here. Oh, the citizens of the Silver State were protected and life as we knew it was preserved, but this was not a happy place.

  I didn’t envy Daniel his job—I don’t know how lawyers stay sane, dealing with all the ugliness life has to offer day-in and day-out. Of course, that assumed a great deal about their mental health to start with . . .

  Daniel rose when I entered his office, leaned across his desk, and extended his hand. “Lucky.”

  Attired differently than the last time I’d seen him, today he wore a tailored blue suit, his hair was slicked straight back, and a bright purple and green shiner surrounded his left eye, which was still swollen half-shut.

  I took his hand then seated myself in the chair he indicated. “I hope you won.”

  “What?” He stepped around his desk and took the chair next to mine, shifting slightly so he faced me.

  “You look as if you’ve been moonlighting as Tortilla Padilla’s sparring partner.”

  “Oh, a mishap in the dark. It’s nothing.” Anger flashed across his face then disappeared.

  There was a story there, I thought. I wondered what it was.

  “What can I do for you?” One elbow on the arm of his chair, his hands clasped, Daniel leaned slightly toward me.

  “You can tell me why you’re pushing so hard on Jeremy Whitlock.”

  “He had opportunity and means.”

  “So did you and your wife.”

  Daniel raised his eyebrows, but he didn’t look surprised.

  “What’s Jeremy’s motive?” I asked.

  “That’s why we’re pushing.” Daniel leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms in front of him. “What motive would Glinda or myself have?”

  “I’ve heard whispers of a gambling debt.”

  “That’s absurd!” Daniel launched himself out of the chair and began pacing. “You and I have known each other for a long time. Does that ring true to you?”

  “No, but frankly, none of this makes any sense.”

  “Somebody hated Ms. Neidermeyer enough to kill her—pretty simple.” His back to me, Daniel stared out the window behind his desk.

  “Yeah, but it’s the who and the why that are a bit confusing.”

  Before Daniel could reply, Glinda Lovato, sheathed in bright orange, flew into the room, unannounced and apparently unrepentant. ‘‘Daniel, you have to pick up Gabi from school this afternoon.”

  The district attorney whirled around at the sound of his wife’s voice. He took refuge behind his desk as Glinda advanced on him.

  Her purse over her arm, she tugged at the fingers of a peach glove. Once uncovered, she waggled her hand under his nose. “I’m in desperate need of a manicure and the only time open was three o’clock.”

  Daniel’s eyebrows lowered, forming a dark line. “Glinda, I’m busy.” He motioned toward me.

  “Oh.” Glinda gave me a haughty look. “What are you doing here? Trying to keep one of your friends out of jail?”

  “Occupational hazard.”

  She gave me a quizzical look—no one had ever accused Glinda Lovato of holding aces high—three syllables was about her max. “Okay. Well, gotta scoot. Oh, and Daniel, remember I’ll be late. Don’t forget the kid. And try to cook something edible this time, would you?”

  Daniel eased himself into his chair as his wife breezed out. While his face was devoid of expression, his eyes—well the one non-swollen eye anyway—held hatred.

  “I don’t know what they’re going to put on my headstone, but it won’t be that I married well.” For a moment a window to his soul opened, then, when he realized what he’d said, it slammed shut. “O’Toole, what exactly did you come here for today?”

  “Like you said, we’ve known each other a long time. And in all that time, I’ve never known y
ou to go out on a limb. But that’s what you’re doing with Jeremy Whitlock. You don’t have anything on him that would get you over the beyond-a-reasonable-doubt hurdle. If you go forward with what you’ve got, his lawyer will shred your case in court—assuming you get that far.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “No, it’s the truth. You’re not stupid, Daniel. I shouldn’t have to spell it out for you. All your pushing does nothing but arouse suspicion.”

  “Whose?”

  “Mine, for starters.” I rose to go. “And I won’t stop digging until I find the buried treasure.”

  * * *

  MY thoughts bouncing and tumbling like a barrel plunging over Niagara Falls, I returned to the Babylon on autopilot—unaware of my surroundings. I don’t know how long I sat, engine idling, in my original parking space, before my focus returned.

  I hated when I did that.

  Not really remembering anything about the drive, I always worried I had run over somebody and not even noticed. I would never admit to it, but, on the off chance something horrible had happened, I made a circuit around the car just to make sure there weren’t any dents or blood—or someone clinging for their life to a fender.

  Luck was with me—the car was clean and I had three minutes to get to the Temple of Love.

  I saw Rudy pacing nervously in front of the wedding chapel as I passed Samson’s Salon—the Babylon’s purveyor of beauty. It was housed in its own ziggurat, complete with huge wooden doors to ward off an invading horde, a waterfall in the reception area, and a multitude of flowering plants cascading from its stepped exterior—all of which I’m sure the women found mildly interesting. But it was the herd of Samson look-alikes, beefy, buff, and beautiful—and waiting to do their bidding—that the women found most appealing. Resisting the urge to take a peek inside, I kept motoring toward Rudy, who hadn’t noticed me, yet.

  An absolute Greek God, the man always took my breath away. Jet-black curls, tan, flashing robin’s-egg eyes, a soft smile, and a body like Michelangelo’s David—at least the parts I was privy to matched up pretty well—he caused heads to turn everywhere he went.