Lucky Break Read online

  Squash shifted to all-business mode, a tic in his cheek the only hint of the intensity running underneath the surface. “We’ll see.”

  Romeo gestured down the hall. “I’ve had them bring Teddie into one of the attorney conference rooms. He wants to see you,” he said to me.

  Teddie, a turtle without his shell in an orange jail jumpsuit, sat in one of the metal chairs cozied up to the metal table. Exposed, unprotected, he stared down at his hands. Romeo had been kind enough to forego the handcuffs. Looking up, he gave me a slight tick-up of one corner of his mouth when I walked in. “I knew you’d come.” His smile, if that’s what it was, fled when he caught sight of Squash Trenton behind me.

  “Who’s that?” His voice was flat, lifeless.

  “Your lawyer.”

  Squash held one of the chairs across from Teddie for me, and then eased into the other one. He held out his hand. “Kirk Trenton, folks call me Squash. Mr. Rothstein asked that I offer my services.” He cocked an eyebrow at me.

  “The Big Boss says he’s the best,” I confirmed, as I glanced around the room. No camera. No one-way glass.

  Teddie looked like he would’ve laughed if the circumstances were different. “You really want me to hire a lawyer named Squash?”

  “If he earned it in the courtroom, then not a bad thing.” I tried to adopt a hopeful tone. “How did you earn that nickname?” I asked the lawyer.

  He ignored me.

  I turned back to Teddie. “The Big Boss would know who’s the best.” He’d had his share of legal scrapes, although so long ago Squash probably wasn’t even a gleam in his mother’s eye. But my father kept his finger on the pulse. If anyone would know, he would.

  Teddie’s face shut down in resignation as he looked at Squash. He didn’t want a lawyer, didn’t want to need one … that much was obvious. But nobody promised we’d get what we wanted. “You going to get me out of here?”

  “I’ll give it a shot,” Squash said as he cocked his head and evaluated Teddie with the narrow-eyed savvy of a bettor gauging a racehorse. “First-degree murder isn’t normally a bailable offense in Nevada; but you tell me what happened, and I’ll find someone who can strong-arm the DA.”

  That would be me, but I didn’t say so. The Clark County District Attorney, Daniel Lovato, known as Lovie to his friends and enemies alike, owed me big-time. Like kept-his-ass-out-of-jail big-time. Nice to hold his marker. And I wasn’t completely convinced this was the time to play it. Not yet. And not for Teddie.

  Teddie.

  Curiously, the anger and the hurt had fled only to be replaced by worry so strong it made my heart race and my breath come in shallow gasps. Not exactly what I’d been hoping for. Teddie could be a self-absorbed ass for sure—he’d proven that on multiple occasions. But a killer? That was taking things to a whole other level, one I tried to picture, but something in my heart wouldn’t let me. As if my body was conspiring against my brain, my gut also weighed in, siding with my heart. So heart and gut voted to acquit, but my brain wasn’t so sure. Ever at war with myself. Nothing new there. And no winner.

  Of course, it didn’t matter what my body parts were telling me. Teddie’s fate hinged on what we could prove.

  “I didn’t kill him, for what it’s worth.” Teddie shivered, his confidence leaking from him like a trickle of water through a dam. With time, it would erode the structure from the inside, until the whole thing crumbled. “Even I know that motive, means, and opportunity usually seal the deal, and I got all three,” Teddie finished, staring at his hands as he tapped them softly on the table.

  Squash leaned forward. “You’ve been watching too much television.” He turned to me. “I’ll have to ask you to go. Anything Teddie says with you here can’t be protected under attorney-client privilege.”

  I rose to do as he ordered, my chair scraping back across the floor with the nerve-grating screech of fingernails on a blackboard.

  Teddie reached out and grabbed my wrist, stopping me. “The weapon, Lucky. Whatever it was, it’s unique, old. Maybe you can find out where it came from.”

  As I loomed over him, I wondered how we had come to this. “You didn’t carry it in there?”

  “No.” Emphatic, not a trace of waver in his eyes.

  “No one gave it to you?”

  “Of course not. I gave you a hug. If I’d had that thing, surely you would’ve felt it.”

  He had a point. He’d held me close to him, tight … I remembered every inch where our bodies connected.

  He let go of my wrist, the flare of fight gone. “I’ve been a fool in so many ways.” He waited until I looked at him. “Although I’ve not been the man you wished I was, I promise you I’m not the man you think I am.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  ROMEO held up the wall in the hallway. He looked up when I stepped out of the room. Hands in his pockets, he used a shoulder to lever himself upright then walked in my direction. “Anything useful?” he asked.

  “Says he didn’t do it.” A chill shivered through me. I readjusted my pashmina, which had slipped from my shoulders to my forearms, wrapping it tighter. “He promised.”

  Romeo was kind enough not to point out Teddie had made promises before … and broken them. “Do you believe him?” Romeo had to ask even though he knew me well enough to know I’d give Teddie every possible benefit of the doubt.

  “Despite everything, I do.” I wondered briefly where my limits were with Teddie. So far I’d bent to the point of breaking. “Did he tell you about the contract the Big Boss pulled then gave the venue to Holt Box?”

  “Yeah. Not looking good for him. You know that, don’t you?” Concern warmed the young detective’s voice.

  With nothing to say, I shrugged.

  Romeo looked pained, like he wished he could run and hide. I knew the feeling. “I want to believe him, too. But that doesn’t change what I have to do. You do remember it’s not what we think—”

  “It’s what we can prove,” I finished for him as I’d done so many times before. Nothing like bonding over dead bodies to solidify a friendship. “So let’s start proving he didn’t do it. Any idea why someone would want to kill Holt Box, besides Teddie?”

  “I’ve got my guys digging.” Romeo rubbed the back of his neck, then rotated his head as if on a swivel, loosening tension. “Nothing so far.”

  “Did Teddie tell you why he went into the kitchen? It’s not like him to go looking for a fight in such a public venue.” That’s the thing that struck me the oddest about the whole situation. Teddie hadn’t been drunk. No one had goaded him, at least not that I knew about. Bracing someone in the middle of a chaotic kitchen wasn’t his style, not that he had a style when it came to murder, but you know what I mean.

  “You know the guy he keeps talking about? The one in the white dinner jacket with the gold buttons?” Romeo paused for my nod.

  “The Irv Gittings look-alike.”

  “What?” Romeo said, clearly not following.

  “Something about him reminded me of Ol’ Irv. I know, weird, but Irv used to dress that way—white dinner jacket, red bow tie. Random thought. Don’t mind me.” My past haunted me from time to time.

  “Teddie said that guy, your Gittings look-alike, came up to him and whispered that somebody wanted to see him in the kitchen.”

  “Who?”

  “You.”

  I reared back as if he’d slapped me, which he sorta had. “You know I didn’t!”

  Romeo held up his hand. “Never a doubt. I’m just telling you what Teddie said.”

  “We need to find the guy in the dinner jacket.” I pointed out the obvious—I didn’t have anything else; grasping at straws made me feel better.

  “No luck so far. I’m hoping Jerry has something on the security tapes.”

  “What about the murder weapon?” I could picture Teddie telling me to check it out. The memory sent a chill through me. “This is real, isn’t it?” I asked Romeo.

  He gave me an awkward hug. “We’ll fi
gure it out; don’t worry.” He stepped away and back into detective mode. “The murder weapon is being processed into evidence.”

  “Can you give me a look?” Raised in the wilds of Pahrump, Nevada in my mother’s whorehouse, I knew a few things about weapons.

  “Sure. Wait here.” He stepped to the door, pulled on the handle and then stepped back, holding it open for someone on the other side.

  My father, accompanied by a uniformed officer, stepped through, buttoning the sleeve of a fresh shirt—apparently he’d summoned a Babylon clerk to bring him a new set of clothes. Romeo spoke softly to the officer, who listened, then turned and followed the detective back through the doorway, both of them disappearing and the door closing behind them. My father looked like himself, his cool and control back in place as he reached for a smile. But subtle lines of stress bracketed his mouth and worry clouded his eyes.

  “Hell of a thing, this.” He gave me a hug, holding me tight. “How’s your mother?”

  Shorter than me by a head, he still gave good hugs. I didn’t linger in his embrace. Fatigue and fear eroded my control. His hug would do the rest if I let it. I needed my strength for a bit longer … for me … for Teddie.

  I eased away, putting a bit of distance between us. “Holding up. I dropped her by the hotel on my way here. She took some convincing, but I told her she couldn’t do anything and would only make things worse. And then there were the babies; she couldn’t just run off. I’m sure she’s apoplectic by now, though.”

  “You haven’t heard from her?” My father seemed amazed, and with good reason. It was a wonder she hadn’t called out the National Guard or something.

  Frankly, I was surprised Mona hadn’t at least gotten the governor out of bed and down here to fix things. “I turned off my phone.”

  My father grimaced, anticipating my future. “Long-term pain for short-term gain.”

  “The worst she can do is kill me.”

  My father graced me with a smile. “Oh, child, that’s far from the worst she can do.”

  He was learning. We shared a moment of familial bonding.

  “What did Teddie tell you happened?” I asked him, since I’d been ushered out of the first-hand telling. Something I understood, but I’d love to watch Teddie’s face, look into his eyes while he recounted his evening. Of course, my incredible powers of deduction and intuition had let me down before.

  Grabbing my elbow lightly, my father steered me toward the entrance. “Not here.”

  Those words, acid on the steel of my resolve. My knees grew a little wobbly.

  Teddie couldn’t have done it—could he?

  I eased my elbow free. “I’m waiting for Romeo. He’s going to give me a look at the murder weapon. Paolo’s outside, if you’d like to wait.” Romeo was terrified of my father. Things would go better if he weren’t peering over my shoulder making Romeo feel the need to posture, as threatened men are wont to do.

  As if my father could read my mind, he nodded and went to the entrance to claim his things. I hoped Paolo had remembered to stock the single malt. If he hadn’t, he’d be looking for a new job tomorrow… until the Big Boss found his smile and rehired him.

  Romeo didn’t leave me cooling my heels for long. “Here it is.”

  Already logged in to preserve the chain of evidence for trial, the knife was secured in a thick plastic bag. Lighter than it looked, made of metal with a patina dark and old. The blade long and thinner than most knives, the business end had been sharpened to a single edge terminating in a long point. The other end had a small wooden handle.

  My eyes met Romeo’s. “What is this, any idea? Unusual for a normal blade.”

  “Old, too, from the looks of it.”

  I spread the plastic so I could see the metal more clearly. I leaned close. Scratches in the patina on the edges. I pulled my iPhone out of my evening bag. “Mind if I take some photos?”

  “Go for it.”

  I photographed and then recorded the dimensions as best I could. “You know what this looks like? A bayonet.”

  Romeo pursed his lips. “From an old rifle? How would you know that?”

  I looked at the blade. 1859. The year was right. I had a sinking feeling. I flipped the blade over. G.G. I knew it. Gresham Gittings, the patriarch of the Gittings line—his statue atop a horse graced the grounds of some capitol building in the South; I hadn’t bothered to remember which one.

  “I have a good idea where this came from.” My tone indicated I wasn’t happy about it, which I wasn’t.

  Romeo’s head jerked up, his pupils dilated. “What?”

  Irv Gittings was the eight-hundred-pound gorilla in the room and I was the only one who saw him. “I knew a guy once who had a rifle he was very proud of. A family heirloom, rich with tradition and tales of derring-do to hear him tell it.”

  “You always have a guy you once knew.” Romeo thought that funny; then he sobered.

  “Be thankful you didn’t have to live through my bad choices.” I gave him a look intended to shut him up. “Remember Irv Gittings?”

  His eyes bugged. “Shit, really? Isn’t he in jail?” A girl shoved out of a tour helicopter and landing in the middle of the Pirate Show in front of TI had brought Romeo and me together. And together we had put Irv Gittings in jail for it.

  Which is where I thought he still resided. “As far as I know. But it wouldn’t hurt to check.” In my gut I knew the answer, but I wasn’t ready to accept it or believe it just yet. As if the metal had suddenly grown hot in my hands, I tossed the bayonet back to Romeo. “When you get the crime scene stuff from the coroner, can you forward the photos and measurements to me?”

  He caught it and looked at it with renewed enthusiasm—enthusiasm I didn’t share. I’d put Irv where he belonged once.

  Romeo seemed to be thinking the same thing. When his eyes met mine, they were dark and angry, his smile a memory. “You got it.”

  “And when the techs finish with the crime scene?” I didn’t need to elaborate. We’d worked together long enough for a bit of verbal shorthand.

  “The full report, you got it.” He turned to go, then paused. “And what are you going to do?”

  “With Irv in jail, his hotel gone, and his apartment and hotel foreclosed on, I’m going to try to figure out what happened to his gun collection, who bought it, where it went.”

  “And how this,” Romeo held up the bayonet, “could’ve ended up buried in Holt Box’s stomach.”

  “Precisely. And I want you to figure out who other than Teddie might’ve wanted Holt Box dead.”

  “The wife might be able to help with that.”

  “A good place to start. But in the meantime, let’s shake some trees and see what falls out. Maybe his manager, his P.R. person.”

  “His wife has been his manager for years. His P.R. firm is in L.A. A gal by the name of Kimberly Cho handles his account.”

  I grabbed his arm. “She was the one at the party.”

  “What one at the party?” Romeo clearly wasn’t following.

  “She came up to me in the lobby before my interview. She wanted to talk to me. She was scared.”

  “What did she want to talk about?”

  “I don’t exactly. She warned me to be careful.”

  “About what?”

  “A man. ” I remembered her expression, her warning.

  “Which man?”

  “I don’t know. She said he was someone she’d known from before.” I tried to remember her exact words. “She told me to be careful. That’s all.” I felt a horrible sinking feeling, that disappointment in myself. “I didn’t have the time to talk right then. She was going to catch me after the interview, but she never showed.”

  “How do you know her?”

  “She handles PR for a lot of folks, big names. She’s doing some work for us in Macau.”

  Romeo pulled out his pad and flipped through the pages, shaking his head. “She wasn’t at the party.” His eyes met mine. “Or she left before t
alking with anyone at Metro. How do you know her?”

  “The Big Boss has a large operation in Macau that is scheduled to come on line next year. The thing has been a morass of cultural clashes and palm greasing. Kimberly knows her way around Macau, knows the right people to get things done. She’s been incredibly helpful.”

  Romeo slowly folded his notebook closed, stuffing it back in his pocket. Lost in thought, it took him three tries. “Do you have any idea where she might have gone?”

  I thought for a moment. “Yes, I think I might.”

  Paolo waited nervously by the car. He seemed unscathed as he opened the back door and ushered me inside, so he must’ve remembered the single malt. My father lounged, head back, legs extended in front of him, a crystal double old-fashion glass cradled in both hands on his lap. “What do you think?” he asked, knowing I had no more answers than he did, perhaps fewer.

  “I’m trying not to.” I pointed at the glass in his hands. “Pour me one of those.”

  He handed me his, then leaned forward to pour another.

  “Tell me what Teddie said,” I asked, as I popped off my shoes—even the flats killed my feet.

  My father raised the privacy window and made sure the intercom was off, as Paolo settled behind the wheel. His Old Spice cologne filled the small space.

  Teddie wore Old Spice.

  Fuck.

  I sucked down half the Scotch. It burned its way down, then exploded white-hot in my belly, but it couldn’t dissipate the chill of dread permeating deep to my bones.

  My father didn’t speak right away. I didn’t know whether that was good or bad, but I knew not to press. Paolo eased the big car out of the parking lot, leaving the darkness behind as he aimed the machine toward the bright lights of the Strip.

  “I’ve been going over and over the whole sequence of events, and I just can’t make sense of it,” my father began, his voice husky, roughed up by the grit of emotion and the medicinal sting of the Scotch.

  Moving down in the seat, pressed by the weight of worry, I lay my head back and closed my eyes, letting his story unfold over me.

  “Teddie found me pretty quick. He’d been into the booze; I could smell it on him. But he appeared himself, under control, modulated, so I figured the liquor was just enough to put a mouth on him and give him a bit too much courage. I didn’t think he’d do anything stupid.”