Lucky Score Page 18

  “Nobody’ll mess with you, love.” He patted her knee.

  A hint of humor passed between us. In Vegas, everybody messed with everyone else, especially in a hotel. If Jeremy preferred to ignore that obvious nugget, I’d leave him safe in his delusion.

  Pretending made life less scary. Great love came with great risk. Yin and yang dogged my every move.

  I knew it, but that didn’t mean I had to like it.

  “This tail will be different than most.”

  “How so?” I’d managed to wrest Jeremy’s attention away from his bride.

  “He has serious training in how to spot a tail. One misstep and he’ll…” Frankly, I didn’t know what Detective Reynolds would do. I loathed him as a human, so I ascribed all sorts of moral corruption and criminal leaning to him, but I had no proof one way or the other. “Well, you be careful.”

  “Who’s the bloke?”

  “Romeo’s former partner, Detective Reynolds.”

  Jeremy’s smile grew wider. “You want me to follow a cop?” He sounded like he’d salivate if it wouldn’t be undignified.

  “It’s Metro, so I wouldn’t ascribe a high level of competence to the detective. From what I’ve seen, the department has done its best, surprisingly enough, to limit the damage Reynolds can do.”

  “Typical. Give him enough rope, then wait for him to drop the noose over his own neck and then step through the trap door.”

  “Hopefully, Reynolds has done just that.”

  “You have any more than that?”

  “No. I don’t want to influence your perspective. Just give me the facts, and I’ll figure out the importance.”

  “Can I roll Dane into this? It takes more than one to run an effective tail, especially on a pro.”

  “Sure.” Paxton Dane, a long tall drink of Texas moonshine with a rattlesnake’s bite. We’d had a troubled history, one I still hadn’t put to bed. Never one to be cowed by an unfortunate analogy, I forged ahead. “But, first, can you have someone check at the airport and tell me what time the Ponders’ plane landed the night of the murder? It’s a Citation, I think. Don’t have the tail number.” Even though Romeo said he checked, I needed confirmation of what he found.

  “Not public info. I may have to wait for my contact to come on duty. I’m not sure.”

  “Dane’s been to the McCarran tower with me before. I’m sure he remembers my contact there. If not, have him call me.” Lost in thought, I reached for the phone as it rang, without checking the caller ID. “O’Toole.”

  “Lucky?” Mona. My mother.

  Her tone immediately killed any forward momentum. I slammed my feet to the floor and leaned forward. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s Bethany. She’s gone. Wouldn’t listen when I told her to wait for you or call Romeo. Said something crazy about not trusting him.”

  “Not trust Romeo? Why the hell not?”

  “She’s seventeen. Who knows what she’s thinking or why?”

  Good point, but the fact that Romeo was making friends and fans far and wide didn’t help my joie de vivre. “Have you tried her cell?”

  “She left it here. Said I could track her.”

  Okay, what started out as a bit of Mona drama now turned serious. “Any idea where she was headed?”

  “She’s looking for a gun.”

  “Of course she is. I guess chasing boys like any normal seventeen-year-old would be too much to ask.”

  “You’re not helping.”

  “Bear with me here. I won’t be any good to you if my head explodes.”

  Her sigh barreled through the line. I could picture the foot-stomp that usually accompanied it. “A rifle, I bet?” It dawned on me the better question was not what happened to the rifle, but how it got into War Vegas in the first place. Curiously, Romeo hadn’t voiced his concern.

  “Why did the kid have to go off chasing a killer?”

  “It runs in the family.”

  “It wasn’t a question.”

  “Lucky, even I know questions begin with why.”

  Rhetorical would not be a concept she would understand, or at least admit to understanding. “So this is my fault?” I didn’t even take a breath. “I’m sure you’re right, Mother.” I’d pushed the lid off, but I had no intention of leaping into the dark void, even though my mother seemed curiously divorced from the pitfalls of running after folks who don’t want to be caught and who are armed with weapons. Perhaps Mona never truly understood the maternal thing.

  Was that sort of personality disorder hereditary?

  I shook away the excuse to run. “Did Bethany say anything about War Vegas?”

  “What’s that?” My mother: an endless stream of disappointments, curiosities, and viable justifications for homicide.

  “Where Bethany works?”

  Mona didn’t miss a beat, proving once again that being a narcissist, or at least mildly psycho, had its upside. “Oh, no, not there.” She breathed into a pause.

  I waited. The other shoe could kill me, but at least I was alive while waiting for it to drop. Finally, my lack of patience won. “You going to give me a hint?”

  “Somewhere downtown, that’s all I know. You’ll find her before anything bad happens?”

  “Of course.” I didn’t promise something bad wouldn’t happen to her after I found her. Frankly, this family had more than its share of hardheaded women.

  Downtown.

  If she was meeting someone in particular, all bets were off—she could be anywhere, in any one of countless thousands of hotel rooms. She was young and exuberant, but surely, she wouldn’t be that stupid?

  Wishful thinking aside, all bets were off. Science had proven the judgment centers of the brain weren’t fully functional until age twenty-five, which was optimistic in most cases by my way of thinking. But if she was that damn dumb, she’d self-select herself right out of the gene pool eventually and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it.

  Have I mentioned how much I hate being out of control?

  I abandoned the totally stupid course of action and focused on two of the lesser insanities—okay, three. I dismissed meeting someone in plain sight. Even in Vegas, carrying a rifle around attracted attention, whether the gun was real or only designed to look lethal. So back to the two possibilities: a gun store or a pawnshop.

  Pawnshop. A bit of coincidence hard to ignore.

  Miss P waited, her pen once again poised over the pad. I hung up the phone as I thought through the plan. “Check all the gun stores downtown; there aren’t more than one or two. See if they’re open now and, if so, for how long.”

  “Be right back.” She launched from her perch on the edge of the chair and disappeared into the front office.

  “Bethany gone wandering?” Jeremy gave me a little smirk.

  “Not you, too? This is so not my fault.”

  “She follows you around with dogged affection and adulation.”

  “Your point is noted.” I let my fear trickle into the silence while Jeremy made notes on the list of names I’d given him. A couple of times he asked for clarification—a distraction I was grateful for.

  Miss P returned before I had time to work myself into too much of a lather. “Gun shops all closed.” She glanced at Jeremy.

  An easy to read glance that told me, in the interest of her family harmony, we should keep our upcoming escapades under wraps. For all his forward thinking, Jeremy could be stifling when it came to protecting his wife—one of those ties that bind, then choke the life out of you. My perspective, of course. Miss P seemed to be able to handle what I knew I could not.

  Jeremy levered himself out of the chair. “I’m off then.” He gave us both the eye. “You’re not going to do anything stupid, are you?”

  Miss P and I both shook our heads, but like kids caught in a lie, we studiously avoided looking at each other.

  He rolled his eyes. “Don’t even bother.” His smile vanished when he speared me with a look. “Bring her back in one
piece.”

  “I promise.”

  Miss P grabbed a lingering kiss, then we both watched him go and waited until the outer door shut. Miss P made sure he’d actually gone through it and wasn’t lingering out of sight but within earshot. “We’re good to go.” She sounded like a kid on Halloween ready to make a killing in the trick-or-treating business.

  With more experience, I didn’t share her enthusiasm. I needed a vacation. Even with all its potential pitfalls and emotional landmines, Paris sounded curiously appealing.

  “Okay, put in the food and beverage order for Bungalow 7, grab your secret decoder ring and ray gun, and we’re off.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Y OU DO have the list, right?” I asked Miss P, who sat next to me lost in a Starsky and Hutch fantasy that included an attitude and an itch for blood. This whole “field operative” idea of hers was getting out of control. She’d morphed into a loose cannon in designer duds.

  We were gliding along in the Ferrari, halfway to downtown, and I’d just thought of the list. Somehow, it had slipped through the steel trap. Of course, a wayward teenager wandering the dark streets alone looking for a gun had me a bit distracted.

  “You mean that bit of fiction Tweedle-Dum and Tweedle-Dee slapped on us?” Totally into character, she’d even roughed up her tone a bit.

  I wanted to laugh but she’d probably shoot me. Good thing she wasn’t packing or this could get dicey with her fixation on this whole role-playing thing. Why did we all seem to want to be somebody else, even when we had life knocked? She mimicked my moves, my tone; hell, she was even starting to use my vernacular, which she’d always found a bit base for her liking.

  If I’d wanted a mini-me, I would’ve bought one.

  What I wanted was a drink, in the worst way. To be honest, I wasn’t sure I could face reality without my vision obscured by the gossamer cloth of slight inebriation. And right now, I was as sober as a judge on Monday. “Yes, the insurance claim.”

  “I have it.”

  “Thank you.” How many balls had I dropped recently? I tried to avoid the answer and the obvious conclusion. “Do you think anyone else is in the killer’s sights here?”

  “If there’s someone who knows his or her identity, maybe. But for now, I’d bet the killer thinks they solved their problems and got away with it. So, they’re laying low.”

  “Until we rattle their cage.”

  “Would you stop being me?”

  “It’s a bucket-list item. A real fantasy.”

  Determined to live down to her expectations for herself, she smoothed her pants and adjusted her pearls as if heading to high tea. “You need a new fantasy.” Guess I wasn’t the only one.

  Two blocks from Stanley’s pawnshop, I wheeled to the curb and killed the engine. The car alone would announce our arrival, or, at the very least attract the wrong kind of attention. I hoped to be a bit more if not stealthy, then circumspect.

  I keyed Vivienne—along with looking for Fox, she was watching Bungalow 7. “Any movement?”

  “A couple of girls went in. Nobody has left.”

  I almost hung up—girls were a penny a dozen in Vegas, blending into the expectations enough to go unnoticed. “Can you take a still of the women and text it to me?”

  “Already did. On its way.”

  Everybody exhibited the competence I felt slipping away. “Awesome. Thank you.” I sat for a moment waiting for the ding. One glance. Yep, our panty pushers. “The plot thickens.”

  Miss P rewarded me with a smile as I showed her the photo. “The girls in the elevator?”

  As I said, everyone was passing me down the stretch. “A connection, but I haven’t a clue what it means,” I grumbled.

  “If I’m Watson, that’s my line.”

  “This is not fiction; this is real. You’re not Watson; I’m not Sherlock.” As I said it, I remembered Sherlock had some sort of an addiction problem that kept cropping up at inopportune moments. The parallel wasn’t a comfortable one. “Let’s go.” I opened my door and levered myself out, then looked at her across the roof of the car. “We’re not trying to catch a killer. Remember that. We’re just looking for information. If things get wonky, run. You got that?”

  “Sure.” The word adults used in place of “whatever.”

  I felt so much better. “I mean it.”

  Miss P joined me at the front of the car. “What’s our plan?” She handed me a copy of the insurance claim. Thankfully, although fully valued, it was short.

  “You take the first seven items, I’ll take the rest. Memorize them and let’s see if any are at the shop. I’ll take the lead.”

  The night had turned cold—not a surprise in the high desert in January. The sun could warm the days, but when it dropped behind the Spring Mountains to the west, the temperatures plummeted. And the ground, with only limited hours of weak sun, didn’t hold any heat. I pulled my sweater tighter around me—one day I’d opt for a cute bomber jacket or something. With his impeccable taste, Teddie had been in charge of my wardrobe. The wardrobe that had vanished in the fire. Now, I was a new me with no Teddie to make sure at least my fashion choices wouldn’t make the year’s worst dressed list.

  Yeah, every facet of my life was circling the drain, and I felt powerless to stop it.

  The neon sign over the shop was larger than the storefront—appearance over substance. Appropriate for a pawnshop. And Vegas. Growing up around games of all types, I should like them. I didn’t. But I was good at them.

  Some sort of cosmic joke, for sure. I thought we found our passions by doing what we were good at and then getting addicted to the adulation. Silly me.

  When I pulled open the door, a bell pealed somewhere in the back. The place smelled like desperation. To be honest, the pawn thing had always bothered me. Taking advantage of those on the ropes didn’t strike me as a Golden Rule construct. But then, lately, everyone seemed to be abandoning such archaic virtues in droves. I tried not to think about it.

  Despite our recent run, tonight luck had swung our way. Nobody else was shopping for a deal tonight, at least, not here. We had the playing field to ourselves.

  Behind the farthest counter, a man stepped through a door hidden behind a gun case of rifles lined up like soldiers at attention. None of them had orange circling the barrel, which made me frown. But the man who stepped into the light turned that frown upside down, in a masochistic sort of way.

  “Well, if it isn’t Frenchie Nixon.”

  Frenchie sported a painful thinness and an air of quiet terror, like the guys selling their own plasma to get by. His hair was still stringy and unwashed. The tats looked the same, too, at least as much as I could make out peeking from under his sleeves which were a couple inches too short. Gone was the open, approachable manner I remembered. Now, he wore a facsimile of his sister, Gracie’s, closed, wary look. Gracie owned a pawnshop out on the Boulder Highway where Frenchie cut his teeth in the business working his way up to becoming one of the least skilled ten-finger guys around town. He’d done some time after I’d caught him pilfering from one of the Big Boss’s downtown properties, but none of that stuff had ended up in Gracie’s shop. No, he’d kept it all in several storage units. Televisions, radios, towels, you name it, but he kept it all. Said he stole it just to see if he could.

  At the sound of my voice, he backed against the wall. If he’d been a dog, he would’ve rolled over on his back. I have that effect on folks I’ve fired. “Have you seen a young woman around here tonight? Seventeen, long hair, alone?”

  Behind the roll-over-and-play-nice game, Frenchie’s wheels were turning, weighing the odds, analyzing the angles, determining which one might yield the best outcome. That was the only way to get the truth out of him—make it impossible for him not to play. Long ago, we’d established who was the Alpha, so he didn’t take long to make up his mind. “Looked like she needed a few good meals?”

  “Yeah.” I kept my interest hidden. If he knew Bethany was important, that would ch
ange our bargaining positions a bit, and I didn’t feel like breaking any bones tonight, not really, and certainly not Frenchie’s. He’d be way too easy. “What’d she want?”

  He angled his head. A hint of shrewdness peeked through the give-up. “What’s she to you?”

  “A pain in the ass. Promised a friend I’d ask, that’s all.” I traced a finger down the edge on the glass case, pretending to be interested.

  He licked his lips. “She was looking for a rifle.”

  “Damn kids. What is it these days? Everyone thinks a bullet is a good way to solve a minor skirmish.”

  “Overkill,” he deadpanned.

  I resisted a smile, but beside me Miss P giggled. I elbowed her in the ribs.

  “Did you have what she was looking for?”

  “She combed through them all but didn’t find even one that appealed to her cultivated tastes. Now, I’m going to have to wipe them down. Don’t want no fingerprints.”

  “Always a good plan.” Anticipating Miss P’s retaliatory elbow, I braced for it. “She left?”

  “I told her to scram. She had jailbait written all over her.” He rubbed his cheek. “Got a slap for my efforts.”

  A slap. That sounded personal. My anger uncoiled, a snake sensing prey. “Guess you didn’t have what she was looking for.” Way to go, Bethany. Not smart, but feisty.

  And that would get her in trouble.

  His bloodshot stare settled on me for a moment. Something feral and angry lived there. Big dreams, no power or ability to achieve them—that would make anyone angry.

  What do they tell you to do when you meet a bear in the forest? Make yourself big? I pulled my shoulders back and stretched to my full height—a height Frenchie Nixon had only dreamed of. I had him by several inches, thirty pounds, and a whole lot of pissed-off.

  He didn’t back down.

  Was he pretending, or was I?

  I made an exaggerated glance around the shop. “A step down for you. Your sister finally wise up and boot your ass out the door?”

  “No, you’re the only one who canned my ass.” Simple words. The emotion they rode on, not so much.