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

by Deborah Coonts

  I filled my lungs with the smoky air—ah Vegas! Home sweet home.

  Halfway across the casino, I pulled Teddie in front of me. Unable to help myself, I caressed his cheek with the back on one hand. “You look beat. I’ve got to stay for a few hours more—Brandy and I are the roustabouts riding herd on this crowd tonight. Why don’t you go home? Get some sleep.”

  “Sleep? What’s that?” He pressed my hand against his cheek then kissed my fingers. “Are you sure you’ll be okay? You haven’t had much more sleep than me.”

  “I can’t leave, but that’s no reason for both of us to be catatonic. Go on. I’ll come home when I can.”

  “My place or yours?”

  “Yours. My guests can have their privacy.”

  Teddie pulled me to him; he seemed reluctant to leave. “A kiss before I go?”

  I complied. Kissing Teddie was the second best part of my day.

  “Promise me you won’t walk home. Get Paolo to drive you, or steal a car. Anything. Just don’t walk by yourself.”

  “I promise.” Admiring his rear view, I watched until the crowd closed around him like the curtain around a stage after the play was over.

  Without Teddie, the night had lost its spark. I hooked my arm through Brandy’s, “Okay, Tonto, it’s you and me,” I said, trying to put on a happy face.

  Before Brandy could think up a witty reply, a big, burly guy lunged out of the crowd, grabbing her by the arm and spinning her around. “If you gals are giving it away, I want some,” he slurred. He wrapped his thick arms around her.

  I grabbed his arm. “Hey, back off.”

  Like a bull dislodging a fly, he shook me off.

  Quick as a snake, Brandy leaned into him, throwing him off balance. She stuck a foot behind his leg, and pushed. He tumbled back like a felled tree. Instinctively he loosened his grip on her and put a hand out behind him to break his fall.

  Brandy moved in, pressing her advantage. She threw an elbow. With a meaty thunk, it connected with his jaw. Out cold, the guy dropped and splattered like a sack of rotten fruit.

  Slack jawed, I stared at Brandy.

  Her eyes little slits, she stared down at the man lying at her feet. Then, her anger fled and realization dawned. Wide-eyed, she looked at me, then her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh my God! I’m so sorry! I promised I wouldn’t do that. Oh brother, now I’ve really gone and done it.”

  The big man groaned as he stirred on the floor.

  I put a foot in his chest. “Don’t move,” I growled at him. Then to Brandy I said, “Call Security.”

  She had just opened her phone, when two security guys came running. They helped me pull the guy to his feet as he tried to shake the cobwebs out of his head.

  I’m gonna sue you and your hotel,” our drunk managed to bark, but most of his bite was gone.

  “Be my guest.” I poked him in the chest for emphasis. “You assaulted one of my staff. I’ll not stand for that.” I leaned in close to him, my mouth next to his ear. “Touch her again, and I’ll let her break your arm.”

  With a casual wave, I dismissed him and his security escort. The rest of the night in the drunk tank downstairs might educate our tough guy, if Brandy hadn’t already.

  “Are you going to fire me?” Brandy asked, her voice small and pained.

  “Not if you teach me how to do that.”

  “For real?”

  I threw my arm around her shoulder. “Honey, your job description does not include being mauled by drunk patrons. You are free to defend yourself. Do me a favor though . . .”

  “Name it.”

  “Just don’t kill anyone, okay?”

  * * *

  AFTER dealing with several more rowdies, a woman offended when one of our dealers wouldn’t accept her favors in exchange for more chips, a young guy using his iPhone to count cards at the blackjack table, and a newlywed couple who had decided they couldn’t wait until they got upstairs, I sent Brandy home.

  My second wind kicked in as I tidied up my office before calling it a day myself. I’d rolled the phones to Security and checked out, when my door opened. Peering through the door, I caught sight of a rumpled Romeo, sagging under the weight of a long day as well.

  “You keep this up,” I told him, “and you’ll either be dead or anointed the Second Coming of Columbo by the time you’re thirty.” Kicking off my shoes, I put my feet on my desk and leaned back.

  Romeo staggered in then lay on the couch, his hands behind his head. “I’ll be cold in the ground before anyone in the department thinks of giving me a raise.”

  “Is this a social call or are you just looking for a place to catch forty winks, because I’m on my way home. It’s almost one and tomorrow starts early.”

  “I got something you might want to see.” He extracted a crumpled sheet of paper from his inside jacket pocket and held it out to me. “You owe me big time, even though I don’t think it’s what you were looking for.”

  Another bit of disappointing news—just what I needed. “I’m too tired to move, can you just give it to me?”

  “I sat on a friend of mine who works in the state lab up in Reno.”

  “And?”

  “Bee venom. Too much to have gotten from bee stings, but not enough to kill a normal person. So, you were right, but that’s not what killed her. Sorry.”

  His words jolted me like a cattle prod. I leapt to my feet, then planted a big one on the kid s forehead. “Sorry? You’ve made my day!”

  “I’m not following.” Romeo pushed himself to a seated position. He still looked ready to keel over.

  “Maybe it wasn’t enough to kill a normal person, but our Ms. Neidermeyer was far from normal. She was highly allergic.” I stepped into my shoes. “A little bee venom without an almost immediate dose of epinephrine would kill her. Only a few people knew that.”

  Renewed, Romeo scanned the toxicology report again. “There’s enough here to kill her several times over then.”

  “Once was sufficient.”

  “Where would somebody get something like that? And how would they get it into her system without her knowing it?” Romeo rubbed his eyes. “And of course, there’s the pesky little question as to who would do such a thing.”

  “One at a time, my friend. One at a time.” I grabbed Romeo’s hand and pulled him to his feet. “I know who can help us with your first two questions, but we have to hurry.”

  On my last pass through the hotel I’d seen Geoffrey David-Williston holding forth in Delilah’s. I only hoped he was still there.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  TODAY was my lucky day.

  Geoffrey motioned to us when we reached the top of the steps into Delilah’s Bar. “Lucky! And friend! Come join us.” He gestured to his colleagues to make room for us. After much skooching of chairs, he pulled two more around the tiny circular table. “A libation?”

  “No, thanks,” I said and introduced Romeo to the group. “I’ve had enough already today to preserve my liver for generations of medical students.” I took my place at the table, then pulled the detective into the chair beside mine.

  “That never stopped us,” said one of Geoffrey’s colleagues, who I thought had been asleep. The lady raised her glass, drained it, then fell back, her eyes once again closed.

  Entomologists—no one had ever accused them of being wild and crazy party animals.

  “Geoffrey, I need your help. I need to know about honeybees.”

  He gave me a half-amused, half-sardonic smile. “Really? What do you want to know? It’s a fairly broad subject, and I don’t want to run the risk of boring you... again.”

  If he read me that easily the other evening, then my poker face was in need of a tune-up. “Specifically, I want to know about bee venom: Where would one acquire it, for what purpose, and how is it administered?”

  He waved a slender hand as he sipped from a dainty flute—champagne, and I had no doubt, expensive. “That’s easy. First, why bee venom? As you may know, it contains a
mild neurotoxin. Before attending the lecture the other night on alternative uses, I thought this was the important factor. I was wrong.”

  Geoffrey didn’t really know how to have a conversation—he gave lectures. I settled back in my chair to wait for him to get to the point. Past experience had taught me prodding him only made him mad.

  “Bee venom actually is used as an anti-inflammatory agent in a therapy called apitherapy. It’s very cutting-edge, and no scientifically valid trials have been performed. However, the volume of anecdotal support is garnering interest from the medical community.” He glanced around the group to see who was listening—apparently only Romeo and I, so he fixed us with his gaze. “The venom of bees contains melittin, which some scientists claim is much more powerful than cortisone.”

  “What’s it used for?”

  “To ease the symptoms of diseases ranging from diabetes to lupus.” He motioned to the waitress to refill his glass.

  “Would it have any effect on multiple sclerosis?”

  Geoffrey nodded, his aroused interest showed in his eyes. “Yes, but it’s a bit murkier there. Although there have been some pretty strong testimonials supporting apitherapy for MS, clinical trials, admittedly very small trials, have been unable to support that finding.”

  “But people with the disease have reported easing of their symptoms?” I asked, leaning forward. Pieces of the puzzle were falling into place.

  “Some even dramatically improved.”

  Romeo sat like a statue next to me. “Where would someone get it?” I pressed, the questions coming faster now. “Would they need a prescription?”

  “Anyone can buy it over the Internet. All you need is a credit card.”

  Several of Geoffrey’s colleagues had nodded off now, and the man himself looked well on his way.

  “One more question, how would one apply or ingest the venom?”

  Geoffrey set his empty glass on the table. “Multiple ways, but if it were me, I’d just order the stuff in a topical solution and put it on my skin.”

  Leaning back in my chair, I tried to grab the thoughts racing through my head. “So, just apply it to the skin?”

  “Sure, doctors use transdermal delivery methods for a huge number of drugs—hormone therapy is a great example.”

  “Would the bee venom hurt when applied?”

  “It could, but mixing it with lidocaine or a similar topical analgesic would solve that problem.”

  “Are there any dangers?”

  “The obvious one—the possibility of allergic reaction increases with the increase in dosage.”

  “And what if the patient is already highly allergic.”

  “It would be deadly.”

  * * *

  HOT on the trail of missing connections, I dragged Romeo down to the valet and into the waiting Ferrari.

  “You want to tell me where we’re going at this hour?” Romeo strapped himself in. “And what we’re looking for?”

  Adrenaline coursed through me as I whipped the car from the curb, turned north on the Strip, and gunned it. “We’re looking for the last piece of the puzzle.”

  Romeo listened while I told him about Numbers and her allergy, Jimmy G and his MS, and his miraculous recent improvement.

  “So you think Mrs. Lovato knew about Numbers s allergy, bought the venom for her father as a cover, then figured a way to put some on the woman’s skin and wait for the inevitable?”

  “That’s a good scenario,” I said, as I whipped the car up the ramp and onto the 15, then took the 95 toward Reno. We hit one hundred and thirty by the time we reached the Summerlin Parkway exit. Romeo didn’t appear to be bothered by the speed, so I kept my foot to the pedal.

  “How’d she know about the bee allergy?”

  “Her husband knew, and I have a feeling her father knew as well—he’s been around a long time. Either of them could have told her. For that matter, Numbers could have told her herself—it’s not like it’s inherently a big deal.”

  “Say you’re right,” Romeo said, as he glanced at the speedometer and grinned. “Why would Mrs. Lovato want to kill Numbers Neidermeyer?”

  “A number of reasons.” I smiled despite the topic of conversation—a pun is a thing of beauty. “A love affair gone bad. Or she discovered that not only was our fair Ms. Neidermeyer using her to bring down our illustrious district attorney, but, on top of it, she was also sleeping with him.” I was on a roll.

  “All good motives.” Romeo stuck his arms up into the slipstream, just as Dane had done. It must be a Y-chromosome thing—at these speeds my two X chromosomes cautioned me against bodily harm.

  “So how’d she do it?” Romeo asked, a smile tickling his lips—boys and their toys.

  “This is pure conjecture, but in the security video of the two women leaving the hotel the night Numbers bit the big one, she is seen spraying an atomizer—presumably of perfume—on her neck and on her wrists, then rubbing her wrists together.” I slowed at the exit for Town Center, not because I wanted to, but because I’m a firm believer in the hard-and-fast rules of physics, and even Ferraris can’t make a ninety-degree turn at over a hundred miles an hour. “But, if I remember correctly,” I continued, “the atomizer wasn’t among the items found in her purse at the scene—at least it wasn’t on the list you showed me at breakfast.”

  “Correct. The killer must’ve taken it,” Romeo added unnecessarily.

  “Romeo, if you find that atomizer, you’ve got your smoking gun.”

  The lights still burned in the cafe when I wheeled to a stop out front. The door was locked when I tried it. Cupping my hands around my face, I pressed my nose to the window and peered inside.

  Antonio, Jimmy G’s right-hand man, spied us. Twisting the keys hanging from the lock, he opened the door and motioned us inside. “What are you doing here, Ms. O’Toole?”

  “I need to see Jimmy.”

  “He ain’t here.”

  “What do you mean he isn’t here?” Two steps through the doorway, I stopped and whirled around. “He’s always here. I’ve known him twenty years and in all that time, if his place was open, he was here.”

  Romeo, who was behind me, nimbly ducked to the side

  Antonio gave an indifferent shrug, but I could see the worry in his eyes. “Yeah, I know. I never knowed him not to run his place, you know?”

  “Did he call?”

  “I talked to him myself. He didn’t sound right, you know? Worried like.”

  “What did he say?” A cold ball of dread settled in my stomach.

  “He said he had somethin’ important to take care of.”

  The ball of dread exploded into icy fingers of fear. “Did he say what?”

  “He said it was personal.”

  * * *

  JIMMY G had disappeared.

  I’d called every number I had for him, to no avail. His house was dark, his car gone. And I had to find him before he did anything stupid.

  After dropping Romeo back at the hotel, then debating with myself long and hard as I drove the few short blocks home, I called in reinforcements.

  Even at this ungodly hour, the Beautiful Jeremy Whitlock answered on the second ring, sounding wide awake. “Whitlock Investigations.”

  “Jimmy G has gone AWOL. I’m worried.”

  “Hang on.” Jeremy whispered something I couldn’t quite make out—presumably an explanation to Miss P. “Tell me what you got.”

  I heard the beep as he unlocked his car. Did the guy sleep fully clothed? Or was he just getting home when I caught him? I didn’t want to know—I felt guilty enough already. I filled him in on what I knew so far, including the bee angle, then I gave him Mr. G’s address, and the Lovatos’ and Numbers’s for good measure.

  “Do you think he’s on his own?” Jeremy’s Bluetooth captured the call—now he sounded like he was talking out of a barrel.

  “Either that or the killer has figured out he’s a pretty good link in the chain of evidence—if all my theories pan out.”<
br />
  “Damn!”

  “Do you need my help?” I asked, praying he said no. Dead on my feet, I doubted I’d be anything other than an impediment.

  “I can work faster on my own—besides, if I bend the laws a little bit, I don’t want you around.”

  I seconded that. “Find him, Jeremy. Find him fast, before anything happens.”

  * * *

  TED DIE had left a light on forme. All week I’d been dreaming of slipping into bed and wrapping my man around me. Shucking clothes, I made a beeline for the master bedroom. A soft light glowed on the nightstand. I doused it, then lifted one corner of the duvet, and eased in next to him, my front to his back.

  ‘‘Mmmmm,” he said, his voice husky with sleep. “I’ve been waiting for you to get home.”

  Wrapping an arm over him, I pulled him against me, luxuriating in the feel of naked man against my skin. Was there anything better? “I thought you were asleep.”

  “Not fully. Not without you,” he said, as he gathered my hand to him, tucking it to his chest.

  I kissed the back of his neck just because I felt like it.

  “Are you tired?” he asked, as he rolled over and wrapped me in his arms.

  “Tired?” I put my head on his chest, taking comfort in its rhythmic rise and fall. “No. Catatonic? Yes.”

  “It’s been a heck of a few days.”

  I tried to muster a chuckle at his gross understatement, but I was too exhausted. “Just hold me,” I whispered.

  “For the rest of your life,” he whispered against my hair, then he kissed my forehead.

  I relinquished myself to sleep.

  * * *

  SUNLIGHT streamed through the windows, and the smell of coffee wafted in on a breeze when I returned to the land of the living. Since I didn’t have to be at work until eleven—Miss P had volunteered for the early shift—I hadn’t set the alarm. I’d forgotten how nice it was to leisurely awaken rather than be jangled out of a deep sleep.