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

by Deborah Coonts

  “Charges of what?”

  “Fight-fixing and some gambling anomalies—the paper didn’t spell out the exact charges, but it sounded like he was making his own book, although I’m not sure. Does it matter?” She reached for my plate then yanked her hand back with a yowl when I slapped it. Shrugging, she wolfed another bite of burger while waiting for me to answer.

  “I can get someone to search the court files if we need the particulars. Right now I don’t think they matter.”

  Flash paused a minute, thinking. “Where was I...oh yes, anyway, many thought a wet-behind-the-ears assistant DA was trying to make a big splash. You won’t believe who it was.”

  “Daniel Lovato.”

  She looked crestfallen. “Man, how’d you know?”

  “I’m clairvoyant.” I took a sip of water, then grimaced. Tasteless beverages are not my thing. I wondered, could taste-free beverages be an acquired taste? How would that work? The strangest details sidetracked me—should I be worried? “What happened to Mr. Ferenti?”

  “Twenty years in the Big House.”

  I whistled. “Major time for a minor crook. So what does any of this have to do with Ms. Makepeace?”

  “She was his squeeze. Apparently, Mr. Ferenti had some not-so-minor business associates. Lovato got the Feds to promise her immunity and a spot in the witness protection program for her and her kid if she rolled on everyone. Since she and Mr. Ferenti weren’t married, he couldn’t block her testimony against him, so he got the book.”

  “And Daniel used her to clean house of all the other vermin.”

  Flash grabbed a glass of wine from the waiter before he had time to set it on the table and took a slurp. “Yup. It made his career.”

  “And Mary and her kid—Mr. Ferenti’s child—disappeared,” I said, thinking out loud.

  “Now it’s your turn.” Flash leaned back, a satisfied look on her face. “What does this have to do with anything?”

  “The Ferenti kid?” I raised my eyebrows at her and waited.

  Flash thought for a moment—I could almost see the wheels spinning. Then she looked up, her eyes bright. “Numbers Neidermeyer?”

  “We can’t prove it... yet. But from what we have, and what you’ve given, we’re pretty close to connecting some of the dots.” I took a sip of my wine, swirling it around in my mouth before I swallowed. “What happened to Mr. Ferenti?”

  “About five years after he was sent up, he lapsed into a coma and died. Apparently he had developed diabetes—he’d been complaining to the medical staff for months, but they ignored him,”

  Flash said, as she eyed the now cold food on my plate. “Here’s the interesting part—at the funeral, everybody said his kid was inconsolable—totally beside herself.”

  “And Ms. Makepeace?”

  “She never really got back on her feet. Funny thing though, she died about the same time as her husband.”

  “Anything unusual about her death?” I said, as my thoughts whirled.

  “You mean other than one shot to the head and her body found floating in the Hudson?” Flash polished off her burger then licked each finger, savoring the last tastes.

  “Was anyone ever charged?”

  Flash shook her head. “No. Obviously it reeked of a Mob hit, but that’s as far as it went.”

  “And the grandmother? Don’t tell me she was whacked, too?”

  “No, heart attack. Not too long after her daughter’s body was found.”

  First Numbers lost her father, then her mother, then her grandmother—a chain of sorrow started by Daniel Lovato. Even though I couldn’t prove it, I knew in my heart I had my first answer:

  Numbers Neidermeyer had come to town for revenge.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THANKFULLY, the rest of our lunch passed in idle, more benign, conversation. Flash regaled me with her latest romantic conquest, while I sipped my wine and pretended not to be horrified. The woman left broken hearts scattered in her wake—a plethora of men used, abused, and totally ruined.

  “One day you are going to meet a guy who can give as good as he gets.” I shook my head, then drained the last drop of wine. “Paybacks are hell, girlfriend.”

  “My problem is I’m always hooking up with second-stringers—bottom-feeders looking for a meal ticket. I seem to scare away the quality meat.”

  “You do come on a bit strong. My mother used to tell me that, while men like a challenge, they don’t want to be bludgeoned until they’re on the ropes.” I had no idea why I was spouting life-according-to-Mona-isms. After all, she wasn’t the most reliable authority on men who didn’t expect to pay for sex.

  “What are you suggesting?”

  Despite the challenge in Flash’s voice, I waded into battle. “Tone down that effusive personality and dim the lightbulb. Sorta ease them into it—like putting a lobster in a pot of cold water, then turning up the heat. By the time they realize something’s wrong, they’re cooked.”

  “Subterfuge, I like it.” She gave me an evil grin and waggled her eyebrows at me.

  “Mother always told me I was smart enough to play dumb. While that is overstating, you do need to learn the benefits of the soft-sell.”

  “Is that how you got Teddie? He’s totally a keeper.”

  “Unfortunately, I’m not very good at playing games—that’s why I spent decades alone.” I eyed my plate, the food now cold, and thought about snaking another egg roll—I didn’t want a repeat performance of yesterday’s swoon. But I couldn’t work myself up to fried food that had gone soft, oozing grease. “With Teddie, I went the straightforward route: I hit him with a club, then dragged him back to my lair, and chained him to my bed.”

  “Bold.”

  “And a lie,” I admitted with a sigh. “It was actually Teddie who used the straightforward method. First, he was my best friend, then he kissed me in Delilah’s Bar and proceeded to show me he loved me. I couldn’t resist.”

  “Jeez, who would want to?” Flash bounced to her feet, gave her mouth a swipe with her napkin, then threw it back on the table. “Are you finished? I gotta run—Tortilla Padilla is putting on a show for the press. Fighters aren’t my normal gig, but he’s such a tasty morsel, I can’t resist a chance to catch him without his shirt.”

  “I’m headed there myself.” We walked to the front counter, where I added a tip to the bill and paid it. “And, for the record,” I said. “He’s married with fifteen children.”

  Flash stared at me, momentarily speechless. “Fifteen?”

  I nodded, and shrugged.

  “Heck of a price to pay—guess he must be prime meat.” Flash reasoned.

  “Maybe so, but it doesn’t sound like he spends much time on the hoof, so to speak.”

  Flash shot me an appreciative grin as she hooked her arm through mine. “So he’s taken. That doesn’t mean we can’t drool.”

  The girl had a point.

  * * *

  THE Babylon’s Grand Arena, Las Vegas’s largest venue with seating for over thirty thousand fans, had hosted performers of every persuasion, from aging rockers to flamenco guitarists, from circus performers to Cirque du Soleil traveling shows, from exhibition basketball to bull riders. Patrons entered on the highest level, then filtered down to seats sloping to a sunken floor. Suspended from the ceiling high overhead, a latticework of scaffolding and walkways dangled like a net over the crowd. Depending on the show, lights, speakers, backdrops, stage sets, and the occasional warbler riding a crescent moon could be permanently affixed or raised and lowered using a series of cables and high-torque motors. Fights didn’t require much staging—only lights, so the walkways above were empty.

  A huge screen had been erected at the far end of the arena so the patrons who had paid several hundred dollars apiece to sit in the nosebleed section could actually see the fight. Standing at one of the entrances, I realized the screen wasn’t superfluous, it was essential—the ring, erected on a raised platform in the middle of the floor, looked tiny from up here. And t
he boxers bouncing around in it looked more like toy figures ready for a game of sandbox war than grown men doing battle.

  Standing in what would be the VIP section on Saturday night, a throng encircled the ring. Flash bounded down the stairs, taking two at a time—a feat in her stilettos—and pushed her way to ringside. As I took a more prudent journey to the floor, Flash squeezed in next to Paxton Dane. Apparently she greeted him, because I saw him turn and grin in response. Flash and Dane? Now that would be a pair. Was the world ready?

  Ever the showman, Tortilla Padilla seemed to expand in front of a crowd, becoming larger-than-life. With each ooohh or aaahh from his admiring onlookers, he taunted his sparring partner, egging him on. The man would throw a punch, Tortilla would dodge then counter, punishing the hapless fellow. At the nauseating whump of his well-landed punch, Tortilla would raise his arms, urging the crowd to show its appreciation.

  Leaning back against the railing in front of the first raised section, I crossed my arms, and closed my eyes. With two nights of iffy sleep and the morning I had had, I was running on fumes, too tired to even eat, which for me was a sign of impending death. Maybe I could catch a couple of winks this afternoon.

  Lost in thought, I wasn’t aware that Jerry had sidled in next to me until he spoke.

  “You look like crap.”

  I didn’t move, but opened one eye. “I keep wondering why I keep you as a friend. It must be because you’re so good at brightening my day. What are you doing here?”

  “I’m running security checks for the fight,” he said. “And you?”

  “In theory, I’m here to solve any problems that might arise during this punch-fest for the press.”

  “So you’re not a fight fan?”

  “Fighters are a bunch of overblown egos sacrificing their brains, what little they have, for the almighty dollar.” That came out a bit harsher than I intended, so I elaborated. “I find the whole thing barbaric.” I’m not sure that softened my response any.

  Jerry gave me a sardonic grin. “I’ll take that as a no.”

  Something flashed across the few synapses of mine that were actually firing. “Do you have a minute?”

  “Sure, what’s up?” Jerry looked interested.

  “Let’s find a couple of seats, then I’ll tell you.”

  We trooped halfway up the stairs, then out into one of the empty sections where I chose two spots. Once settled, I said, “Remember the tape from the other night—the one of the twelfth floor.”

  “Yeah, I was the one who actually spliced that one together, so I remember it well.”

  “When Daniel left the room, he shielded his face. Do you remember which side?”

  Jerry closed his eyes, and sat stock still, as if rewinding, then reviewing the tape in his head. “The left. Why?”

  “One of those two women hit him.”

  Jerry looked at me as if I’d grown a second head. “No way.”

  “He didn’t have a problem with his eye when I saw him in the laundry room. Then, a short while later, he shields his face as he leaves. And this morning he has a well-advanced shiner.” I looked square at Jerry. “Daniel wasn’t hiding his identity—we already knew that—he was hiding his eye. I’m sure of it.”

  “Somebody could have punched him later, after he left.”

  “If that was the case, why would he shield it from the cameras?”

  Jerry thought for a moment. “I have no idea. Let’s assume you’re right, for argument’s sake only. Why would either of them hit him?”

  I could think of a couple of reasons, none of which I felt compelled to share right now.

  “Beats me,” I said, proud of myself. “And even if neither of them hit him, and he got his shiner later that night... well, that looks a bit suspicious, don’t you think? He could’ve gotten it in a struggle.”

  “Or he could have walked into the bathroom door.” Jerry put his feet up on the back of the seat in front of him and relaxed back. “There’s just one tiny problem with your scenario.”

  “Proof. I know.” The air escaped from my balloon of enthusiasm, leaving me flat. I felt defeated. There was a reason I wasn’t a detective—I sucked at it.

  All of a sudden I got this prickly feeling at the nape of my neck. I looked behind me. Seeing no one, I scanned the crowd below.

  Not a face turned our way. Everyone seemed engrossed in Tortilla Padilla’s antics. Then I saw her, hiding in the shadows of a doorway—a hint of orange.

  Glinda Lovato. Staring straight at me.

  She stepped out into the light. A defiant tilt to her chin, she held my eye. Then she disappeared.

  * * *

  THERE were so many ways the tortured little trio of the Lovatos and Numbers Neidermeyer could’ve gone down. Did Glinda kill Numbers in a fit of jealousy? Doubtful since Daniel had slept with half the female population of Vegas and they were still walking and talking. Did Numbers want to kill Daniel, and he did it to her first? How did the gambling debt rumor play into all of this? And the private book? And, come to think of it, why did the murderer dispose of the body in the shark tank, a very public venue where Numbers, or what was left of her, was sure to be found? Didn’t a murderer usually try to conceal his crime? And, how the heck was I going to prove any of this?

  Why was I trying? Oh yeah... Jeremy.

  All these questions pinged around my brain as I wandered from the Arena back to the main hotel. All speculation and conjecture—no proof. My head hurt. I might have totally despaired and given up if it wasn’t for someone trying to run me down this morning. I may not have any idea where this path would lead, but I sure was making someone nervous. Unwittingly, that someone’s attempts to put me off the chase had fortified my resolve.

  Lost in thought, I didn’t see the hurtling body until it had crashed into my knees, bringing us both down.

  Stunned, I rolled to a seated position and tried to reorient myself. A young girl untangled herself from my legs and jumped to her feet, ready to bolt.

  “Whoa, there.” I grabbed the tiny human torpedo by the hand, bringing her up short. “Not so fast.”

  As delicate as a hummingbird, her hand was cold and clammy.

  Her dark eyes wild with fear, she looked like a cornered animal as she struggled to pull away from me.

  Thin as a rail and not more than five years old, she had long dark hair, one side corralled with a pretty red bow. Her olive skin was flawless except for a fresh scar, still purple, running from her nose through her upper lip. Dressed in a smocked white dress, the front of which was embroidered over tiny pleats, thin white socks fastidiously turned down, and a pair of bright red Mary Janes that reminded me of the pair that took Dorothy home to Kansas, my tiny captive didn’t seem like she was on the run—she must have family close by.

  Surrounded by knees and thighs and still sitting on the ground, I felt as if I had fallen into a canyon of humanity. Looking up, I scanned the crowd streaming around us for a face that held the panic-stricken look of a parent who had lost a child. Nothing. No raised voices calling, either.

  “What’s your name?” I asked. Still gripping her hand, I pushed myself to my feet.

  She looked up at me with those big eyes, now blinking in surprise, but said nothing.

  Her stare gave me insight into how Gulliver felt in Lilliput, or how the giant felt talking to Jack after he’d climbed the beanstalk. “Your mother or father? Where are they?”

  Big alligator tears leaked out of the girl’s eyes. She swiped at them with the back of her free hand.

  Yes, I have a knack with kids.

  Clearly that was the wrong question. I narrowed my eyes at her. Or the wrong language.

  ‘‘¿Como se llama?” What is your name?

  Her eyes brightened, losing that wild animal look. “Maria Jose.” Her voice soft and low, I had to bend down to catch her words.

  “Encantada, Maria José. ¿Cual es tu apellido?” What is your last name?

  She gave me a blank look. Terrific. S
he didn’t know her last name. “Me llamo . . .” My name... Now I was stumped. What was my name in Spanish? I knew the word for luck. But there was no really good translation for lucky—not for use as a name anyway. I settled for the appellation I abhorred. “Me llamo Señorita O’Toole.”

  A flicker of interest flashed across her features, but she still looked stricken. “No puedo hablar con estranjeras.” I’m not supposed to talk to strangers.

  “No yo, tampoco.” Me neither.

  That got a shy smile.

  I proceeded to tell her that I wasn’t a stranger—well, not much of one anyway—and I worked for the hotel, sort of like a policeman. She watched in amazement as I pulled out my phone, keyed Security, and asked if anyone had reported a missing child. No one had. Making a calculated guess, I bet the youngster had sneaked out of a room and gone exploring. I left her description with Security and told them she would be with me at the gelato stand.

  “¿Gelado?” Maria José asked, brightening considerably.

  “Si” As I lead her into the Bazaar, I told her I would help her find her family, but she was going to have to help me.

  My untrained ear and her slight speech impediment made clear understanding of her rapid colloquial Spanish a bit of a stretch, but I listened intently as she told me her story. There was a plane ride with her mother and multiple siblings, and a very big car. Then a house with many rooms, a garden with birds in it, and her very own swimming pool.

  The Kasbah. Now we were narrowing things down.

  Suddenly the light dawned. “¿Y tu padre, donde esta?” And your father, where is he?

  Another torrent of Spanish and my suspicions were confirmed. Young Maria Josè belonged to Tortilla Padilla.

  Again I called Security and asked them to alert the Padilla family that I had found their wayward daughter and would be bringing her back in a bit. Mystery solved and crisis averted, I let Maria José linger over her strawberry gelato cone.