So Damn Lucky (Lucky O'Toole Vegas Adventure Book 3) Page 11

  “Anything interesting?” I asked my young assistant.

  “Detective Romeo called.”

  “Are you sure the call was for me?” I teased. The young detective had been putting a full-court press on Brandy. I didn’t know the current status. Brandy had taken off my head the last time I injected myself into her private life, so I didn’t ask, but I wasn’t above a little gentle probing.

  “Maybe for both of us,” Brandy said, her face blushing a nice pink. “But he asked if you had any leads on the owner of the Chinese Water Torture Cell. What is that?”

  “A new method of retraining recalcitrant employees. Call Romeo back, tell him I’m working on it and ask him if he has a lead on Molly Rain.”

  “Okay,” she said with a smile. “Mr. Mortimer called. He wants a few minutes of your time.”

  I glanced at my watch—ten-fifteen and I still hadn’t had breakfast. “Ask him to join me in Neb’s at eleven, if that’s convenient.”

  Brandy made a note. “That’s all so far, but the day is young.”

  I stashed my purse in the closet, locked my new Glock 19 in my desk drawer, and had just settled behind my desk and a new pile of paper when Miss P burst through the door.

  “We need to talk,” she announced. After closing my office door, she perched on the edge of one of the chairs across from me. Dressed entirely in black, she fidgeted with the single gold chain around her neck.

  “You look positively macabre today. Who died?”

  “My youth,” she wailed.

  “Do you want a large, public funeral, or just family and friends?”

  “I’m serious. In a couple of days I’m going to turn…” She paused, looking over her shoulder at the door. Satisfied it was closed, she leaned across the desk and said in a ragged whisper, “Fifty.”

  “It’s not a death sentence.”

  “It might as well be. Life, as I know it, is over.” She twisted the gold chain until I thought her face would turn blue. “Jeremy is only thirty-five. I have shoes older than that. What’s he going to say when he finds out?”

  “Let me get this straight: We’re talking about the Jeremy who brings you flowers twice a week, who drives you to work and sees you home safely at night.” She started to say something but I silenced her with a raised finger. “The same Jeremy who finds several excuses to stop by each day just to see you—even though he spends every night warming your bed?”

  “But—”

  “I’m not finished. The Jeremy who hasn’t looked at another woman since he first caught sight of you? That Jeremy? Is that who we’re talking about?”

  “But I’m fifty!”

  “I fail to see the catastrophe,” I said, refusing to go to general quarters. If Miss P didn’t look so miserable, I would find the whole thing amusing. Not too long ago, Jeremy had been framed for murder; Miss P sailed right through that with Midwestern aplomb and a stiff upper lip. And now a simple birthday had her on the ragged edge. “He’s seen you naked, right?”

  “Naked, in the stark light of day,” she admitted. “With no makeup and my hair slicked back after washing.”

  “And he didn’t run screaming for the hills?”

  She gave me the barest hint of a smile as she shook her head.

  “Heck, if that didn’t put the fear of God into him, I doubt a silly little thing like a zero birthday is going to rock his world.”

  “Okay. Maybe you have a point, but do you think I could fudge just a bit?” She stopped worrying with the chain. Smoothing a hand down the sleeve of her shirt, she pecked at an invisible imperfection.

  “Eventually someone will let the cat out of the bag. Which do you think will upset him more, your real age, or the fact you didn’t trust him with the truth?”

  “When you put it that way, it sounds awful.” Her eyes held mine.

  “It’s your call,” I equivocated. Far be it from me to tell her what to do, after all, my love life wasn’t exactly going swimmingly.

  “Why does life have to be so hard?” she sighed.

  “If it was easy, everybody would do it.”

  ***

  Mr. Mortimer waited at a two-top near the window overlooking the golf course, when I arrived at Nebuchadnezzar’s, the Babylon’s sumptuous buffet, at 11:10—late, as usual.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, as I took the chair across from him. “My job keeps me dancing like a cowboy with a six-shooter.”

  “Not to worry, my dear. Can I offer you something to drink?” A glass of white wine sat in front of him—nothing like an early start.

  Today must have been casual day for the magician. He wore a pressed white shirt, a black suit, a waistcoat complete with pocket watch and chain, and a purple bow tie. His white hair neatly combed into a perfect halo, his complexion ruddy, his eyes worried, he looked like a man on a mission—or a banker from the nineteenth century.

  “I don’t need anything to drink, thank you. Have you had a chance to finalize the arrangements for your dinner?” The annual meeting of the Magic Ring was scheduled for tomorrow evening in our Golden Fleece Room. The group numbered less than twenty, but they wanted strict privacy.

  “I made a few changes, nothing major.” When he took a sip of wine, his hand shook. “I need a favor.”

  “Name it.”

  “I want to examine Houdini’s upside-down again.”

  “His upside-down?”

  “That’s what he called the Chinese Water Torture Cell, the USD for short.”

  I went still as I eyed him. “Why do you want to see it?”

  “The replica has been hidden for years. I’d like to get a closer look.” He twirled the wine glass between his fingers, pretending to be fascinated.

  “I see.” And I did; he wasn’t a very good liar, which struck me as odd given that he’s spent his life perfecting the art of fooling people. “Is that the only reason?”

  His eyes flicked to mine, then back to his glass. He seemed to be caught between an angel on one shoulder and the devil on the other. Finally, he deflated. With a sigh, he said, “I’m afraid one of our own might have acted on the rumors about Dimitri being the Masked Houdini.”

  “You mean, taken revenge?”

  “Yes.” Again, his eyes flicked to mine, then skittered away again. “Magicians are a secretive and jealous lot.”

  “Do you know the secrets of the Water Torture Cell?”

  “No.”

  “Then how will looking at the thing help?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, honesty flashing across his face.

  I eyed him, looking for any hint of prevarication. Not finding any, I caved. “It couldn’t hurt to let you have a look. I assume you’re coming to me because the police still have the scene cordoned off?”

  “You and that young detective seemed to have a rapport the other night.”

  “I’ll call Detective Romeo, if you do something for me.”

  “And that would be?”

  “As you said, the magic community is small and very jealous. Rumors abound. And you and your friends sit atop the food chain. If I get you a look at the USD, as you call it, you have to tell me who owns the darn thing.”

  ***

  Mr. Mortimer agreed he would try to discover the owner. We settled on tomorrow afternoon for our next meeting. He left, and I went in search of sustenance. A bountiful feast, Nebuchadnezzar’s offered a plethora of the world’s cuisines,—some of which I could identify. I wasn’t sure I wanted clarification as to the others—they looked venomous and deadly—suspiciously like something one would worry about stepping on in a tidal pool. Lacking gastronomic courage, I stuck to the safe stuff—a salad and some fruit to make me feel virtuous, ribs and mashed potatoes to make me feel like I’d actually eaten. I resisted the chocolate cake just to prove I could.

  The waiter brought the Diet Coke I ordered, and I dug in, even though I wasn’t really hungry. Halfway through the salad and fruit, I lost steam. Flash found me playing with a mound of cold mashed potatoes and s
taring out the window at the golfers below.

  “What’re you trying to do, build the Devil’s Tower in hope the aliens will return?”

  I looked at the pile of starch on my plate—it did sort of resemble a rock formation. “Out of all the weeks of the year, this is the one the aliens should pick—all their followers are here.”

  Today Flash’s tee shirt advertised a Rolling Stones concert from the mid-1980s, but the rest of her attire was unchanged. She had piled her hair on top of her head, leaving a few tendrils trailing provocatively around her face.

  With the look of a bear eyeing a salmon, she stared at my plate.

  I pushed my food toward her. “You can have it. I’ve had enough.”

  Without a word she dropped her ample backside into the chair across from me, grabbed my fork, and tucked in. “You smell like you’ve been in a shoot-out,” she said through a mouthful of meat.

  “Really?” Holding my sleeve to my nose, I took a whiff. She was right.

  “You haven’t shot anybody and not told me, have you?”

  “You’d be the person I’d use my one call on.” I took a sip of my Diet Coke—What should I tell her, What should I keep to myself? “Eau de Gunpowder is a new scent I’m trying. Just a dab behind my ears to add to my aura of mystery and danger—what do you think?”

  “I think if Letterman ever needs another smart ass on his writing staff, you’re a shoo-in.”

  “At least we know I have one marketable skill.” I marveled at my friend’s appetite as she dug into another rib, then forked in a heaping bite of potatoes. She must have a tapeworm. “So to what do I owe the honor of your presence?”

  “I’ve got a bit of background on Danilov, but I’ve run into a brick wall. Maybe you can help.”

  “What kind of brick wall?”

  “Area 51.”

  “Interesting. You’d better start at the beginning.” I settled myself back with my Diet Coke, my mouth shut, my ears open.

  Flash closed her eyes for a moment—I knew she was reviewing her mental note cards. “I don’t have much. Born in Ohio, psychic abilities so high they couldn’t be measured, involved in multiple projects through the years, earned a PhD from Stanford.” Flash paused as she took another mouthful of spuds then chased it down with a slurp of my Diet Coke, ignoring my frown. Drinking from the same glass was one of my pet peeves—right up there with sharing toothbrushes. “He made his money on the entertainment circuit—bending spoons, telekinesis, hypnosis. After a while, his novelty wore off and he went underground.”

  “Area 51?”

  Flash ignored me—she was a stickler for telling a linear tale. “He kept warning the military how easy it would be to hypnotize a whole bunch of folks without them even knowing it, then turn them loose in the country. And on a prearranged signal, they would do whatever they’d been told to do.”

  “The Air Force finally listened to him?” I asked, trying to get her to jump ahead.

  Flash scowled but kept going. “Five years ago, they put him in charge of some secret program at Area 51.”

  “What kind of program?”

  “You just hit the brick wall.”

  “How did you discover the Area 51 connection?”

  “A former employee. He didn’t know what Danilov was involved in, but he remembered seeing him on base.”

  “Could your source’s story be corroborated?”

  “I found some photos online taken by UFO cover-up conspiracy theorists. They showed employees waiting in line for Janet flights. Danilov was in several and the time frame matches up. That’s the best I can do.”

  Made up of six 737s painted white, with a single red strip down the side and no markings other than tail numbers in small black letters, the Janet Flights operated out of a high-security terminal on the northwest corner of McCarran, shuttling government employees to Area 51 and the Tonopah Test Range.

  “I know someone who might be able to help us,” I said. “Give me a day or two.”

  Flash nodded as she polished off the last rib. She knew better than to ask me who. “I’m going to shake down Mr. Danilov/Daniels regarding the break-in at his home. I’ll ask him about the Area 51 thing, but knowing those spooks, I expect he’ll put up a fight.”

  She had that pit-bull look in her eyes.

  The man didn’t stand a chance.

  ***

  Halfway back to the office, my phone vibrated in my pocket. My heartbeat quickened as I retrieved it and looked at the caller ID—the office.

  Deflated, I answered. “Whatcha got?”

  “There’s a problem in the Temple of Love,” Miss P said.

  “Can you give me any particulars?” In the lobby, I changed directions, heading into the Bazaar.

  “Have you met Mrs. Olefson?” Miss P asked.

  “Of the Saginaw Olefsons and currently staying in the Sodom and Gomorrah Suite?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “I checked her in a couple of days ago. She’s in the Temple of Love?”

  “Yes,” Miss P said. Her voice sounded funny. “She wants to get married.”

  “Really?” I didn’t try to hide my surprise. Mrs. Olefson was ninety if she was a day. “Good for her.”

  “Not really. She wants to marry her Shih-Tzu.”

  “She wants to marry her dog?” I stopped in my tracks. A man following too closely behind me dodged to avoid knocking me down, then shot me a glare as if to say walking and talking ought to be illegal—or I shouldn’t be allowed out without a keeper. “I guess that’s better than marrying a potbellied pig,” I reasoned aloud. “Women do that all the time.”

  “Yes, but the two-legged variety, not the four-legged,” Miss P shot back. “Mrs. Olefson won’t take no for an answer. Delphinia’s at a loss.”

  “Tell her I’m on my way.”

  ***

  Built of huge blocks of sandstone, the Temple of Love, the Babylon’s wedding chapel, anchored one end of the Bazaar. Twenty-foot double wooden doors with brass fittings guarded the entrance. A large wooden beam stood at the ready to be dropped into place to secure the doors against an invading horde. The beam was just a prop—the doors never closed. Love was a twenty-four-hour business in Las Vegas.

  Smaller than expected, the interior of the Temple was sparsely decorated with urns of reeds to soften the corners, a mat woven of papyrus on the floor to dampen any noise, and brass torches on the walls to provide ambiance and subtle lighting—an empty theatre in which a bride could stage her wedding fantasies.

  Stopping just inside the doorway, I paused to let my eyes adjust. “Anybody home?”

  Delphinia, the Babylon’s head wedding planner, rushed to greet me. Everything about Delphina screamed “average”… until you looked into her eyes. A deep violet, they were windows to an old soul. “Lucky, thank you. I didn’t know what else to do,” she whispered, wringing her hands. “I tried to explain to her that under the laws of Nevada…”

  “I know. You did your best,” I said, squeezing her arm in reassurance. “Let me take a shot.”

  At the back of the temple, Mrs. Olefson sat in an overstuffed chair that swallowed her tiny frame. Dressed in a slim St. John suit, a string of pearls, sensible Ferragamos, with perfectly coiffed white hair and a tasteful gold watch, she reeked of old money and upper crust. With a cup of tea perched on her lap and a tiny ball of fur curled at her feet, she stared into space.

  “Mrs. Olefson?”

  The little dog yelped in surprise, startling its owner—her teacup rattled in its saucer. She turned worried eyes my direction.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” I squatted down, extending a hand toward the dog. “Will he bite?”

  “Good heavens, no.” Mrs. Olefson gave me a wan smile. Her accent was hard to place—Midwest for sure…maybe with a hint of foreign.

  “I’m Lucky O’Toole,” I said. “I work here at the Babylon.” I scratched the pooch behind one ear; he rolled over and presented his tummy. “I checked you in
the other day.”

  “I remember,” Miss Olefson said. “Milo likes you. You should be pleased—he has impeccable taste.”

  “He’s just rewarding me for making an exception to our no-pets policy.” I stood and relieved her of her empty cup. “Why don’t we take a stroll and you can tell me what’s going on and what we can do for you?”

  She gave me her hand, and I helped her out of the soft cushions. Once on her feet, she brushed down her narrow skirt, and hooked her black patent leather purse over a forearm. Heading for the doorway, she looked steady on her feet, but I held her arm just in case—she didn’t seem to mind. Nipping at our heels, Milo trailed behind.

  Ambling in silence, we joined the flow of shoppers.

  “My husband and I had no children,” Mrs. Olefson began. “He left me very well off. All our extended family…” She shot me a sad look. “All the worthwhile ones, anyway, have been taken care of.”

  The crowd growing thicker, I knew it was a matter of time before someone stepped on poor Milo, or tripped over him, so I scooped him up and tucked him under one arm.

  “Now that they have their money,” Miss Olefson continued in a tired voice, “no one wants to come see an old woman anymore. Milo is all I have left.”

  “And you’re worried about his future if something happens to you?”

  “I can’t even imagine the feeding frenzy after my death. Milo will be left out in the cold and my money will go to the government. Then what’s left of it will end up in the hands of people who don’t give a whit about me.” She looked so sad… and lonely. “I heard you could leave all your money to your spouse and not pay any estate tax, so I thought I’d just marry Milo and solve that problem for good..”

  “I’m afraid that might be a little difficult and, besides, you still would have to find someone to care for him and mange his money.”

  Her face crinkled into a frown. “I hadn’t thought of that. Sometimes I forget Milo isn’t a person.” She reached for the dog as a child would reach for a comforting blanket or toy. Cradling him in her arms, a look of peace settled on her face.