Lucky Ride (The Lucky O'Toole Vegas Adventure Series Book 8) Read online

  The girls recovered before I could get my heart rate under control. I mouthed a question at them, “Who?”

  Becky grabbed my arm. “Best if he doesn’t find you here,” she hissed in my ear as she propelled me toward the other end of the trailer. “The bathroom. Quick.”

  She thrust me inside, then shut the door as silently as she could in her haste, leaving me to decide whether to rifle through their medicine cabinet or use the glass beside the sink as a microphone to amplify what was being said in the other room. Turns out I didn’t need to do either—the walls were as thin as parchment.

  “Why, Toby, what a pleasant surprise.” Becky’s voice—at least I thought it was her—pierced the walls of my enclosure as if they were nonexistent.

  Hidden from view but not from discovery, I didn’t dare breathe for fear Toby would hear me and I’d spoil his little party.

  “Whose Ferrari is that out there?” Toby didn’t sound happy and he wasn’t using his inside voice.

  “What?” That one sounded like Suzie.

  “That’s Mr. Picarrelo’s, you know, the geezer I told you was sweet on Suz? He got into the Sapphire. Must’ve been one of those recalled bottles with the booze content off the charts. We had to send him home in a limo.” Becky could think on her feet. “What are you doing here, Toby?”

  The floor creaked, absorbing his weight, and the spring-loaded door shut. Now the bull was in the henhouse—a tortured metaphor, but panic crossed my wires. “Just checking on you girls. With the excitement and all, I thought maybe you might need some comforting.” The words oozed on a slick of meanness.

  “We’re good, really.” Becky got her backbone up. “You need to leave. We were just getting ready for bed.”

  “You’ve read us all wrong.” Underneath the honey, Becky’s voice held an edge. “We’re just dancers, and that’s workout enough. No extracurricular activity here.”

  “You girls just don’t get it. I take what I want.”

  “Ow! You’re hurting me.”

  “You guys have been chatting up Dora Bates. I want to know why.”

  “Who?” The surprise sounded genuine.

  “Older lady. Looking a bit worn. But she’s a nosy cuss, always looking for an angle.” Toby sounded like he’d had personal experience.

  “Oh, I know who he means, Suz. That old bag with the tacky clothes, overdone make-up, and the shoddy bejazzling.”

  “Oh, yeah, the one you thought was digging for some dirt to shake us down with.”

  “That’s right.”

  “What’d you tell her?” Toby asked, his voice guarded.

  “Honey, she wasn’t asking about you.” Suzie’s Southern charm sounded as tired as I felt. “Why? You got something to hide?”

  Oh, she should’ve stopped.

  Sounds of a scuffle. A slap.

  “Oww!” a female wail of pain.

  Toby’s voice went low and hard, demanding. “Come here.”

  “You’re hurting me.” Becky’s voice rose in pain.

  A sharper slap. Becky pulled in a sharp gasp.

  Suzie said nothing. What was the woman doing? Of course, she was wobbly at best with a bellyful of gin. I could picture her cowering in a corner.

  “You guys like to talk. Shutting up would look better on you.”

  Them was fighting words. I looked around for a weapon.

  “Let me go!” Becky whined, the fight leaving her. Giving up was something women learned early, especially when faced with overwhelming physical odds against them. Most men would never know the terror of physical intimidation.

  The incendiary cocktail of anger and adrenaline flooded through me.

  “Get over there,” Toby said. “And stay.”

  The bed creaked as it took Becky’s weight.

  “What’d you two see tonight? Anything you told the cops?”

  Suzie mewled. Toby had turned his attention to her.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. We didn’t see a thing.” Becky sounded calmer now. “What do you think we saw?”

  Good girl. Buying time. How could there be nothing in the bathroom I could use to disable a misogynistic asshole?

  “A sassy one. Looks like I need to teach you a lesson.”

  One more quick search of the bathroom. Nada. And, right now, thinking on my feet wasn’t my best thing. With my hand on the knob and my shoulder against the door, I took one deep breath, then turned, opened, and hoped surprise would even the odds.

  I dodged around Suzie, who indeed cowered out of the way. Toby loomed over Becky, who was sprawled on the bed. Sensing movement behind him, he whirled. He’d gotten his buckle undone, and that would be as far as he would get.

  Reaching across my body, I grabbed a full bottle by the neck. Like Federer lining up a backhand, I coiled, then swung as hard as I could. The bottle broke across his forehead. As the light in his eyes went out, his surprise remained.

  Slowly, he fell backward. Becky rolled out of the way as he landed on his back on the bed. His eyes rolled back in his head, leaving the whites showing, which creeped me out. The glass opened a gash in his forehead. Blood leaped to line the edges, then pooled at the end, leaking out of the corner into his short-cropped hair. That was almost as much fun as breaking his nose with an elbow. “Shut his eyes, would you?”

  Becky wrinkled her nose at the idea of touching him. I didn’t blame her, so we let him lie.

  “Shit. That was awesome.” Suzie had found her voice.

  “If you girls are going to parade around in your skivvies and stay out here in a trailer all by yourself, I suggest you at least take a self-defense course. Or better yet, get a gun and be ready to use it.”

  They nodded. Funny how a close call could enhance receptivity. “So, what did Dora Bates want with you two?”

  “She was just looking for dirt,” Becky said, indignation creeping into her voice. “Everybody thinks just cuz we’re dancing, we do other stuff.”

  “Stuff you’d pay to hide?”

  “I’ve got one more year at UNLV, then I’m going to teach English to high-school kids,” Suzie said, proving once again the book and its cover fallacy. “Being a hooker wouldn’t enhance my job prospects. I’m smarter than that.”

  “Indeed.” I struggled to keep a straight face considering her attire. “Me and Becky don’t have anything to hide. The lady left.”

  “I bet she dug up a bunch of stuff in her job,” Becky offered.

  “The front office?”

  “Yeah, she handled all the money for the rodeo. If someone was short or had a score, she knew it. And payroll, she wrote the checks.” She glanced over my shoulder to the mirror behind me and fluffed her hair. After a quick press of her lips together and a swipe under her eyes with a forefinger, she seemed satisfied that she’d come through the tussle in fine form. “A lot one could do with that kind of information.” A hint of respect crept into her tone…or larceny.

  “Indeed.” I couldn’t tell whether she was smart or just clever, not that it mattered. Either one, unchecked by scruples, would set her up for a slippery downhill slide. “That kind of path won’t lead where you want to go.”

  She flicked a glance at me—guilty that her thoughts were so transparent? Or guilty for another reason? Did she give the goods on anybody to Dora Bates?

  Lights flashed across the wall behind me as someone pulled up in front. “More visitors?” I grabbed another bottle.

  “Not that one, okay?” Suzie asked.

  A fifteen-year-old single malt. I got it, so I grabbed another, this one a run-of-the-mill gin.

  “Lucky? You guys okay in there?” Forrest called through the closed door.

  At the familiar voice, I relaxed. “Come on in. We’re fine but we could use your help with a mess.”

  The thin metal stairs held and he slid sideways through the narrow door. He took everything in with a glance. “How can I help?”

  I knew he’d do anything I asked, even bury the body. I tossed him m
y phone. “Get Romeo here. He’s number one on the favorites list. And then sit on this guy. Don’t let him move.”

  “Gotcha.”

  I smiled when Forrest took me literally. Fumbling around, opening doors, I finally found the closet. Two jackets hung in the back—a bit short, but they would do. “Here.” I handed one to each of the girls. “Cover yourselves. You ought to be able to wear what you want without getting unwanted attention, but I think you probably should stop short of underwear in public. It just sends the wrong message.” I wasn’t sure where that line was drawn, and, frankly, having to draw the line offended me—men ought to honor a woman’s wish to express herself and remain un-groped, but what should be rarely was what was.

  Sirens sounded close by. As I thought, Romeo hadn’t gone far.

  “So, girls, tell me quickly what you saw. Do you have any idea who killed Mr. Turnbull?”

  “Mr. Turnbull?” They seemed surprised. “You mean that wasn’t Darrin?”

  “Darrin?” I wracked my brain. I’d heard his name, but with too many names, too much adrenaline, I couldn’t place it.

  “One of the clowns. He and Toby hated each other.”

  “Why did you think the dead guy was Darrin?”

  “He was wearing Darrin’s clown getup, and he went after the bull.” Becky sounded sure.

  “Okay, so who went after the man you thought was Darrin? The man who died?”

  Both girls looked at Toby, still out cold on the bed—or dead from suffocation under Forrest’s bulk. “He did,” they said in unison.

  The sun streamed through the open windows—I’d forgotten to pull the heavy velvet curtains closed. I’d also neglected to disrobe. Perhaps propriety had compelled me to kick off my shoes but I couldn’t be sure—my feet, hanging off the bed, were numb.

  Arms outstretched, I’d fallen backward on the bed, and there I had remained. One thing about memory foam is it sort of formed around you, making it an uphill climb to crawl out of the hole formed by several hours in the same spot. Lacking the conviction to fight inertia, I rolled my head to the side to angle a look at the clock.

  Not several hours. Ten. Ten catatonic hours.

  Noon had come and gone.

  My head throbbed—major sleep coma.

  My body ached with immobility—a body at rest, and all of that. Curiously, overnight, my muscles had calcified. Tentatively, I tried moving my arms and legs. After much grumbling, everything worked, creaking and groaning in protest—well, everything except my brain, which was spinning but not gaining any traction. I assumed the World As We Knew It had not ceased to exist while I’d been offline; otherwise, someone would’ve found me. On the third sweep across the bed, I located my phone. Squinting, I raised it so I could see it.

  In a last-ditch effort toward self-preservation, the one thing I’d managed to do last night was silence my phone.

  Twenty-seven text messages. After enlarging the text—why were some messages in readable type and others miniscule?—I scrolled through them, squinting to focus and closing my left eye against the pain.

  One was from Jean-Charles saying he’d checked me in with the front desk, so he knew where I was and there was no need to call him unless I felt like it. If there was a rebuke in there, I chose to ignore it. Men and their delicate egos took way more energy than I had today. Besides, I sucked at that game—he’d get used to it…or not. Not that I didn’t care. I did—tremendously. I just couldn’t muster the energy to sound General Quarters over a phone call. Romeo’s rebuke about pushing people away sounded, a distant alarm I chose to deny. I didn’t push them away, my life did.

  I kept scrolling.

  Seventeen messages from my mother because she was lonely—none worth saving, but I wondered what she really wanted. With Mona, habitual obfuscation made communication a minefield of intentional misunderstanding.

  Mona. I’d have to deal with her pretty soon. I was sitting on a keg of dynamite. She’d either light the fuse or not. If I was a betting woman…I shook that thought away. Last night it had been too late or too early, not sure which exactly, but a bad time to corner my mother. And I’d needed the sleep. But ten hours! When had I ever slept ten solid hours?

  But it allowed me to live to fight another day.

  I continued scrolling down through the messages. As of an hour ago, the kid was still at the hospital. Doc Latham was awake and responsive. They’d controlled the swelling. He was stable. Dane was riding shotgun. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. Was he doing it because he cared, or was he trying to get leverage with me? Would I ever trust him again? Impossible questions.

  But the doc was stable. Another thing off my worry list.

  One from Romeo. Ten minutes ago. I hit his number, pressed the phone to my ear, and closed my eyes. Without light, the headache lessened, starved of its fuel—or that’s what it felt like.

  “Where are you?” No niceties, but no hard edge to his voice either. Guess this business-as-usual was our new reality. I missed the old us. I knew change was the only constant, but, dang, right now I hated the validity of platitudes.

  “Never Never Land.” I closed my eyes and wished on the second star to the right, but I’d already gone straight on until morning.

  “Cielo?”

  I heard the accusation and immediately flipped to the defensive. “Yeah.” I didn’t offer any excuses about how late my night had been and Jean-Charles having been home with Christophe and not wanting to awaken anybody. Romeo didn’t sound in the buying mood.

  “You going to sleep all day?”

  “If it’ll make you like you used to be, then yes.”

  A moment of hesitation. “I’m sorry. This job…”

  “Is like every other job…but with more blood. Balance, Grasshopper.”

  “Like you?” he scoffed.

  “I’m getting better. I can’t save anyone if I don’t save myself.”

  “Hence, ten hours of sleep.”

  “Precisely. The rightness of the world doesn’t begin or end with me…or with you. Anyway, you called? Can you bring me up to date?”

  “Took the girls’ statements. You already know they had some interesting things to say about Dora Bates?”

  “I heard. Have you talked with her?”

  “No, she didn’t show up for work today.”

  I didn’t like the sound of that. “The daughter have any idea where she might be?”

  “Doreen? Still can’t find her. You might want to ask her little buds if they know where she’s holed up.”

  “Will do.”

  The sound of pages flipping rustled through the line. “You also know they fingered Toby as Turnbull’s killer.”

  Keeping my eyes closed, I rubbed my temples. “No, what they did was say he got all badass with Turnbull. They argued. But they couldn’t say for sure he actually injected him with barbiturates.”

  “True. But the fact they argued makes Toby look—”

  “Like a person worth talking to,” I said, grabbing him before he leaped off the assumption ledge. “Have you questioned him?”

  “No. You clocked him pretty good, and I couldn’t say for certain, but Forrest sitting on him might have bruised several ribs. The hospital kept him overnight for observation. He’s just been released and my guys are bringing him in now. I’m assuming you want in on it?”

  “For sure. I’ll need a shower, so leave him cooling his heels, okay?”

  “I’m not far ahead of you. Had to sleep as well. So yeah, we’ll cool him off until you get here.”

  “And Beckham? Please tell me you have him.” A big man with a bad case of red-ass usually made a splash, so he wouldn’t be hard to find.

  “Ummm, no. He didn’t show up at any of the expected places.”

  Not a good sign. “I would suggest you look in the unexpected places.”

  “Actually, funny you should mention that. Got a call from one of your security at the Babylon. He was seen skulking around the Kasbah late last night.”
<
br />   “The Kasbah? Really?” The Kasbah was our secret, hidden hideaway for the high rollers and the seriously famous.

  “What was he doing? How’d he get in?”

  “Skulking, like I said. How he got there is your purview.” Romeo pulled in a breath. “I’m thinking of getting out of this business.”

  “What? Just when it’s getting interesting? Don’t be ridiculous. So, you didn’t get him.” A statement, not a question. All the time I’d spent schooling the young detective had given me a Rosetta Stone for a few of his subtext dialects. “And his daughter?”

  “She was where she was supposed to be. We left her there, tried not to alarm her. She couldn’t tell us where he was. I kept a black-and-white on her.” That meant a couple of Metro officers, which didn’t exactly fill me with confidence. The ones I’d met were like Detective Reynolds, their arrogance exceeding their competence by many magnitudes.

  Was the daughter, Poppy, stonewalling us? Battered-daughter syndrome? Was I letting my bias against blowhard men trump logic? “Where is she now?”

  “Still in her room. No barrel-racing today.”

  I propped myself up on one elbow and was surprised the world came into focus. “We need to track down Dora Bates.”

  “We’re looking.”

  “Aside from being a fairly adept extortionist, if public opinion holds any truth, she was Doc Latham’s alibi. They were having dinner during all the fuss.”

  “Oh, yeah, one of my guys canvased the food vendors. One kid at the hot dog stand claims to remember them—well, her mainly. Said she was a real piece of work, and not in a nice way.”

  “I get it. So they were there like the doc said.”

  “Yeah, but the kid had them there a lot earlier, like more midafternoon or earlier. He said the lunch crowd had thinned and dinner hadn’t hit. You know anything I don’t?”

  “It’s just her name keeps cropping up. And Bethany has a particular bit of hate for Ms. Bates.” I filled him in on the girl’s whereabouts. “Maybe she just has a hate thing for all mothers or maybe there’s something there. I want to check it out.”

  “I’ll figure out where this Dora Bates is staying, see if I can find her.”