Lucky the Hard Way Page 6

  The sound of the engines spooling up shot a jolt of energy through me—or maybe that was the chocolate. My body practically purred. I pressed my nose to the window as I watched our progress toward the active runway and fought the overwhelming desire to stop the plane, make them turn back and let me out.

  We could lose everything. I needed to find a way to muzzle that inner idiot that kept whispering that in my ear.

  I had no choice. I knew that. Time to get over it and get on with it.

  My father, recovering from a near-miss gunshot, wasn’t exactly up to strapping on the six-shooters and riding off to take down the bad guys. Mona? I shuddered at the thought. No, it was up to me. Lucky me.

  “Make a note,” I said to Romeo. “When we get back, I’m changing my name.”

  He looked at me as if I was kidding.

  “I’m serious.” I waggled a finger. “Make a note of that in your damn notebook.”

  Reluctantly, keeping an eye on me, he did as I said. “Your bark is a little bit worse than normal today.”

  “I’m entitled. Trust me.” At the end of the runaway, I leaned back and closed my eyes. The engines whined, then screamed. The plane gathered speed. I felt it lighten on the wheels, then take to the air, and I smiled.

  Maybe life held little magic right now, but flying…that would always be a miracle.

  Somewhere over California, Romeo and I had our first drink. We hadn’t even leveled off at cruising altitude when I twisted a top and poured.

  Romeo took a sip and his eyes widened, but he didn’t choke. “What is this? Smooth but with a hint of lethal.”

  As his whiskey-drinking mentor, I was proud. “You are learning, Grasshopper. Macallan Twenty-Five.”

  “The Big Boss’s private stash?”

  I savored a sip. “He owes me.”

  “More than he can ever repay,” Romeo said, ingratiating himself enormously. “You going to tell me what we’re walking into? From the look on your face, I can tell things have changed.” The kid wasn’t just learning about Scotch.

  And clearly I’d lost my poker face. I lifted my chin, indicating Frank in the back. “Slap some headphones on him. This conversation is for you and me only.”

  Frank didn’t look put out, but he made sure Romeo chose some acceptable music for him to listen to. They bickered about it for a few minutes.

  I rooted in my Birkin handbag, a gift from the Big Boss years ago. Who knew such an expensive bit of silliness could actually be functional? I pulled out a wooden box and a small sketchbook. “Here,” I said, shaking them to get Romeo’s attention.

  He grabbed them then handed them to Frank, who insisted his handcuffs be shifted to his right hand.

  Romeo sagged back into the seat across from me. “Do you have anything in your bag for me, Mary Poppins?”

  “A Taser if you don’t behave.”

  He unbuttoned his jacket to expose his sidearm in a shoulder holster. Then he hiked up his pants leg—a small gun, just as lethal, in an ankle holster. He ran his hand across his face and darted a look toward Frank Cho. “Why is it everybody feels so entitled these days?”

  “A way to feign power when you don’t have any.”

  He seemed to accept that. “Man, that guy and all his wants and needs just piss me off. It boggles my brain to think that is your job every day, twenty-four seven. How do you do it?”

  “Everyone carries a load. Remembering that, and trying to figure out what it might be and lighten it a bit, that’s the key.”

  “Empathy.”

  Like I said, he was learning. “As a cop, how do you handle the everyday ugliness?”

  “It’s my job,” he said, answering his own question and mine.

  I freshened our drinks, then checked with the steward, a tiny Asian woman I didn’t know. She had an odd tattoo on the inside of her forearm. “That’s interesting. A dragon. What does it stand for?”

  She glanced at the tattoo then pulled the sleeve of her sweater, which she had pushed up, down to cover it. “Dragons stand for good luck for those who deserve it.”

  That left me out. “I like it. Very dramatic. What’s for dinner?”

  Her smile didn’t hit her eyes, obsidian orbs in a flawless face. “Chef Bouclet arranged some special things for you. You will not be disappointed.”

  “I’m only disappointed that he is not going to enjoy it with us.” I stepped out of the galley and returned to face Romeo, handing him his new drink as I plopped into my seat. “Any word on who shot Minnie?”

  “Not a peep, which is odd.”

  “Not really. Given the recent stuff with the Chos, it could’ve been a hit from outside.”

  “That doesn’t make me feel better.” With no concern about mixing colors, Romeo popped a couple of M&Ms into his mouth.

  I wanted to correct his candy-eating etiquette, but I didn’t, showing a great deal more self-restraint than normal. “Homegrown is easier to handle?”

  “At least I know the rules.”

  “Rules that only apply to you. Bad guys don’t give a shit. Which is a nice segue to Macau. Our biggest problem there is we don’t know the framework, don’t know how far we can push it, don’t know the players, don’t have anyone to call if we get into a bind.” I didn’t count Vito Morgenstern in that category. Something about him, something I didn’t know, yet I did, scared me. I could see it in my father’s eyes. There were things I didn’t want to know.

  “And we’re foreigners—don’t underestimate that disadvantage in a place like Macau,” I continued, droning on about the obvious—it helped me put things in order in my head. “It’s like not being part of the Family when the Mob ran Vegas.”

  “A Mission Impossible. Thank you, Mr. Phelps.” Romeo didn’t soften that with a smile. Instead, he looked out the window as he chewed on his lip.

  Somehow I’d turned into a grownup and Romeo was stealing my lines. But I resisted one-upping him and let him think. This so wasn’t our normal dead body in Vegas.

  “Not much to see out there,” he remarked to no one.

  “Nothing but water between here and Hong Kong.”

  When he looked at me again, his eyes were saucers. “That creeps me out.”

  “Of all the things we could be facing, that gives you the willies?”

  He shrugged.

  I reached across and squeezed his arm. “This is way out of our ordinary.” I leaned back and drew down my own drink. “Mission Impossible is a good analogy. For all the obvious reasons, and for this: you do get an opt-out. When we get there, I’d really like it if you’d go home.”

  “You said that already. Give it up. Brandy knows the score.” He was starting to get his back up, turning all huffy.

  I raised a hand, cutting off further argument. “I’m not going to tell you what to do. But think about it. Okay?” I wanted to tell him that I had more responsibility than I could shoulder and he’d add to it, but, as I thought about it, I wasn’t so sure that was the case.

  He didn’t resist. I took that as a positive sign. “I do have one ace up my sleeve. Well, not so much an ace, and maybe not really anything that would help.” I punched a button to raise a flat screen, then picked up the satellite phone and started dialing. The number I knew; the extension I had to double-check on my phone.

  Romeo eyed me with interest as he sipped on his firewater and watched the screen rise from its slotted hiding place. “An in-flight movie? This bird comes with all the bells and whistles.”

  “No movies, even though it has a full library. We need to plan then we need to sleep. Do you remember Agent Stokes?”

  Romeo’s smile disappeared. “The anti-terrorism FBI guy from Central Casting?”

  I gave him a look, and Romeo wisely tabled the wiseass. He threw back his drink. He didn’t even blink—not one cough or tear. I had nothing left to teach him about drinking. I wasn’t sure how to feel about that, but guilty sprang to mind.

  He hooked a thumb toward the back. “I’m going to stash Fr
ank further back. What’s back there anyway?”

  “Bedrooms.” I saw a quip forming. “Stifle it. Just find a place to attach him to something solid, okay?” I didn’t want to think about Frank Cho wandering free in this pressurized tube that hadn’t been de-weaponized. He could take us all out, but he’d go, too. I wasn’t willing to bet my future on his will to live.

  How did I go from a customer relations gal to a felon-keeper? Clearly, I needed to learn to just say no.

  “I’ll send one of the crew to watch him until we’re done.”

  While he figured out where to put Frank, I rounded up one of the pilots—there were three for this trip—and sent him to the back. When Romeo returned, he let me see the hint of nervous running under his b.s. He tugged at his tie, loosening it.

  My look stopped him from shucking his shoes. “No way. We can’t vent those dogs. You unleash those puppies and the pilots will mutiny. Such a bother at forty thousand feet.”

  For a moment, he thought I was kidding, but I wasn’t. There weren’t enough of those odor things on the planet to make living in this confined space with the noxious fumes from Romeo’s feet even remotely tolerable. “Besides, on long flights your feet swell. Easier to keep your shoes on than try to wedge puffy feet in them on the other end. Been to Macau before?” I asked. A quick shake of his head as he left his feet encased in his shoes, saving the rest of us from being gassed. “Been outside the U.S. before?” Another shake.

  Terrific. Looking at his earnest face, I felt like a Boy Scout leader. “I could’ve used your help at home riding shotgun on Brandy.”

  He gave me his best shut-it-down look. “I’ve earned the right to sit at the big-kids’ table.”

  “Indeed. But, for the record, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be.” I worked with the phone and the electronics panel in front of me. The connection sizzled to life and an image popped up on the screen—a bit fuzzy, but there. Considering my considerable lack of technical skills, I was impressed.

  Romeo, not so much.

  Special Agent Joe Stokes appeared on the screen. Blond, military-style crew cut, square jaw, kind eyes, Stokes was the FBI’s point man in Vegas and the agent from Central Casting, according to Romeo. Personally I thought he looked like he should have his own action figure, or at least an invitation from Barbie to ride in her pink Cadillac and maybe, if he was really good, to live in her dream home.

  “Lucky. Nice to see you again.” Deep timbered and authoritative, his voice held a serious tone.

  “Stokes. What can you tell us?” Okay, a bit harsh, but pleasantries were overrated, especially when talking on satellite hookup.

  The kindness fled from his eyes. What can I say? I often have that effect on men.

  “An agent of ours, working undercover in Macau, will make contact. It’s pretty dicey right now, and best not to trust much sensitive information to these unsecure connections. Cho is surrounded by a bunch of guys we’ve fingered as Triad. Can’t prove it…yet, but your man Cho is in deep.”

  Of course he was in deep—he was a junket dealer, not the most upstanding citizens, if reputation could be trusted. Triad did the junket dealer’s dirty work, collecting debts, breaking kneecaps, cutting off fingers…the usual. “Under Chinese law, gambling debts aren’t legally enforceable.”

  “Hence the need for another kind of enforcement,” Romeo said, finishing my thought.

  “Sam Cho was smuggled into Vegas by his father, ostensibly to execute the hit on your father.” Stokes shifted his gaze to Romeo. “That’s how we became involved, Detective. And that’s the limit of our authority here.”

  Meaning he wouldn’t ride to our rescue. Feds with no balls—completely worthless.

  “And Holt Box?” In all of this I couldn’t forget the country western singer who had been killed and Teddie blamed for it—a classic case of wrong man, wrong place, wrong time that set in motion a series of events that still had me chasing the guilty, the innocent, and my own tail.

  “We’re still working with the authorities in Vegas to exonerate your friend, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  That was exactly what I was asking, and we all knew it. I still had Teddie to think about. In all of this craziness, I had to remember that I couldn’t let him take the fall for a murder Sam Cho committed.

  “The plans for Frank Cho, to trade him for Teddie, that’s still the plan, right?”

  The agent nodded, but his eyes gave him away. He had another plan for Frank Cho.

  And he wasn’t going to tell me.

  God, we couldn’t even trust the good guys.

  “What are you going to do?” he asked me.

  Poker face, Lucky. “Well, since I’m here, I’ll just check on operations. We’re building a new support center across the border. Wouldn’t hurt to take a look.”

  “Good then.” Stokes seemed to buy it. “We’ll be waiting in Macau.”

  “And your agent will find me?”

  “Affirmative. The jetfoil will be waiting—the captain knows where to take you. We’ve chosen a place that has a bit more privacy than the Ferry Terminal. There will be a car waiting. You can hand him over then.”

  “And you can take Detective Romeo and myself to the hotel.” It wasn’t a question. “You screw this up, Stokes, I’ll have your head on a spit.” I pressed the disconnect button and his image disappeared, flashing to a black screen. Ever the puppet master, Stokes pulled the strings, leaving me to do as he said. Playing well with others was not my strong suit, and I chafed under the hair shirt of my forced compliance.

  Fascinated, I watched as the screen disappeared into its slot. “So helpful,” I groused, to no one in particular. “And so like the Feds and their need-to-know bullshit.” If they wanted my help…and they would…Stokes would have to learn to play nice. I may not know the down and dirty in Macau, but it couldn’t be too different than Vegas—and that kind of game I could play. But this time I’d be walking the high wire without a net.

  “Did you get the impression Stokes has a different plan for Frank Cho?” Romeo asked.

  “Loud and clear.” With hours of twiddling my thumbs in front of me, I leaned back and tried to relax. The Scotch was helping, its warmth spreading through my body.

  “You don’t like him,” Romeo said.

  Not really a question, I answered anyway. “He’s playing us. He wants to make all the rules, give orders, and that’s not going to work. I know how this is going to go down—Macau now is just like Vegas when my father was coming up through the ranks. There were cops like Stokes back then who pushed and shoved their way around, looking for Communists and wiseguys under every rock. And leaving the honest men like my father to find ways to protect their own, establish their rank in the pecking order. The trick then, as it will be in Macau, was to cultivate the right friends.”

  Romeo sat up a little straighter. “I can handle the Mob.”

  For once I was thankful I was too tired to smile. “Nobody can handle the Mob. Who wants to? And the Triad is worse.”

  A chink appeared in Romeo’s armor of confidence.

  I sipped at my Scotch, wishing for wisdom. “Kid, the trick is to stay out of their way, go around them. Maybe divert their attention away from us to someone else.”

  “You sound like you’re hatching one of your plans.” Romeo didn’t look happy. “Silly me, I thought we were going to hand over Frank Cho to the authorities, get Irv Gittings and Teddie, then beat feet back home.”

  “It’s not that simple.”

  “With you it never is. I know that, but I keep hoping one day you’ll surprise me.” He slumped back, his glass of Scotch cupped in both hands in his lap. “We’re not dealing with the police, are we?”

  “No, the police have no interest in Frank Cho. But his father does. Which I find interesting.”

  “So we’re dealing with him.”

  “Best to keep your enemies closest.”

  “I’m not sure I buy that, at least, not in this situation.” />
  “Yeah, me either.” I contemplated a lie—it was sitting right there ready to trot out, to keep Romeo in the dark. But I couldn’t. Not anymore. “Miss Minnie gave me a name. Sinjin.”

  “Sinjin who?” Romeo cast a dim view of Minnie; he had yet to learn the value of high people in low places, although I’d opened his eyes a bit.

  “That’s all I got.”

  “So helpful,” Romeo groused, sounding just like someone I knew far too well.

  “The Big Boss gave me a name, too.” Romeo perked up but my scowl shut him down. “Not anyone we ever want to call on—a port of last resort, if you will.”

  “So we aren’t flying completely blind.” Romeo connected the dots.

  “In this case, our friends might be more dangerous than our enemies. Everybody will expect something in return; remember that. And we may not want or be able to pay it.”

  “Got it.” Romeo pretended to be engrossed in checking his weaponry.

  “Ramboing up?”

  “Any better suggestions?

  That shut me up…for a moment. “If it makes you feel any better, no one knows we’re coming except for the FBI.”

  “Really?” Romeo sounded like that was a bad plan.

  “We need to get our bearings. We’ll play it from there.”

  And I didn’t tell him the Babylon hung in the balance.

  And I didn’t mention Vito Morgenstern.

  Come to think of it, I was keeping the kid in the dark. The thought that that wasn’t a good idea did fire across my synapses.

  “What else don’t I know?” Romeo pulled his notebook out of an inside pocket.

  “You know as much as I do.” The lie rolled off my tongue so easily, which should’ve bothered me. Sometimes the less one knows, the better. Okay, I was justifying, but sharing family dirty laundry wasn’t on my to-do list at the moment.

  His eyes widened. “That’s all you got?”

  “I have a whole network of people who work for me, the eyes and ears of the hotel. Now would you relax? I got this. And the FBI has our backs.” That last little tidbit was a total lie, and we both knew it. Agent Stokes would cover his own ass before he pulled ours out of the fire.