Lucky Break Page 9

  “You arguing for bail in court and supporting a theory of his innocence will go a long way toward helping keep his life and his career intact. Just support bail and try to make it something I can afford, and I’ll be happy.”

  “Okay. But let me ask you this: why are you sticking your neck out for the guy?”

  This time, I waited until his eyes caught mine and held. “Because it’s the right thing to do.”

  Daniel was a smart guy; I could see he got my subtext. “Lucky guy.”

  “That makes two of you.”

  At some point in life, one must face their mother. Apparently, today was my day. Mona lurked just inside the front entrance to the Babylon and pounced the moment I walked through the glass doors.

  “Lucky!” She grabbed my arm, squeezing tightly as if I’d been marooned on an island and just now returned to the fold. Which, come to think of it, I had. Warmth flooded through me as I paused in a memory of this morning: waking up, Jean-Charles …

  “Lucky?” Mona’s whine burst my little moment of joie de vivre. She tugged on my arm, pulling me in the direction of the casino. “I need you to come with me. They just won’t listen.”

  I knew better than to resist or to ask who; both would make this little interlude longer than it needed to be. Instead, I let her loop her arm through mine and shepherd me where she wanted me to go. As she led me through the lobby, over the marble floors inlaid with bright patterns, past the reception area with multicolored cloth tented above it, past the Lucite windows in front of our indoor ski slope replete with snow and the other trappings one would find at any alpine destination, I paused, looking up. The arcing flight of Chihuly blown glass hummingbirds and butterflies always brought a smile. To me, they looked like they were making an escape, winging toward a future that didn’t involve murder and Mona. Perhaps I could sprout wings and join them? I could only wish.

  Mona led me across the footbridges arcing over our version of the Euphrates and its reed groves and various fauna and fowl that seemed to be breeding like crazy. I’d have to talk with our vet about that. Birth control for ducks. The thought made me smile. God, I loved my job.

  We marched up the stairs into Delilah’s bar, an oasis in the middle of the casino. Surrounded by gaming tables, slot machines, and an ever-present crowd of hopeful donors that ebbed and flowed with the time of day, Delilah’s, with its bougainvillea-draped lattice work and merrily trickling waterfall behind the bar was exactly that—an oasis with a secret cave kind of feel. I’d always found peace here. Of course the free-flowing Wild Turkey 101 often helped with that. Today the white baby grand in the corner where Teddie had often played sat alone, abandoned, reminding me of less than pleasant realities far removed from this fantasyland. I turned my back to the piano.

  And came face-to-face with a coven of conspiracy.

  Mona had gathered together a trio of terror. My aunt, Darlin’ Delacroix as she liked to be known though her real name was Matilda, was the first female to own a casino in Vegas. And she was as daunting as that implied and then some. Today, Matilda—I seemed genetically incapable of calling anyone Darlin’ (much to my aunt’s irritation)—wore her ubiquitous black mini skirt, fishnet stockings, five-inch heels, and a jacket with Elvis patchworked on the back in varying colors of leather. Pancake makeup accented the creases and folds of skin ravaged by a lifetime of unfiltered cigarettes. Her fake eyelashes, so thick they looked like fallen eyebrows, weighed her eyelids down so she had to tilt her head back to see. I didn’t even know they still sold blue eye shadow with glitter in it—a future trip to the Doc-in-a-Box waiting to happen. The woman was eighty and still hadn’t quite conquered the nuances of good taste—not that she had ever aspired to that.

  Flash Gordon, my best friend and ace investigative reporter for the Las Vegas Review Journal, would never be sitting quietly in my mother’s presence unless a really great story lurked under the surface. I narrowed my eyes at her. Dressed in a tube of lime green Lycra that displayed her tiny body and huge boobs in alarming fashion, she wore equally high heels as Matilda, a tad bit less make up, large hoop earrings, a cascade of red curls and an innocent smile. She extended her arm across the back of the chair next to her as she looked like a pit-bull eyeing a rabbit.

  I decided to zig when she thought I’d zag—keeping her off balance was the only effective strategy I’d found to keep her from ragging me until I bled information. “I expected about eighty phone calls from you last night. Doesn’t Holt Box’s murder have you salivating or something?”

  She lowered her eyes for the briefest moment. Pity, I knew it. She was going easy on me because of Teddie. And I appreciated it. “I probably should be hounding you, but I don’t see how that’s going to get either of us what we want. When you have something for me to chase, you’ll tell me.”

  Despite her words, I still felt like the rabbit. “Okay.”

  Mrs. Olefson, a lone beacon of style, class and Midwestern common sense, anchored the group. Today was red-white-and-blue day for her in her St. John’s separates, pearls at her neck and earlobes, sensible Ferragamos gracing her feet, and Milo, her Bichon, curled in her lap. Mrs. Olefson had wandered into the hotel after the death of her husband and had liked it so much she prevailed on us to let her stay. She’d also wanted to marry her dog, so despite her exterior, she did fit in with this little gathering.

  Mona tapped on the empty seat, and then took hers across the table between Darlin’ and Flash.

  I eased into the chair and leaned into Flash. “I’m not going to like this, am I?”

  “It depends.”

  “I knew it. I’m going to hate it.” I leaned over to Mrs. Olefson, who smiled at me as if we were bridge partners or something. Sometimes it took her awhile to catch on to Mona’s schemes. “We have to stick together.”

  “Honey, I don’t know what you mean.” She stroked Milo. The dog opened one eye, saw I had no food, then promptly snapped it shut and started snoring.

  “Remember the phone sex idea?” I prodded her memory. “And the virginity auction?”

  Her face clouded. “Oh, but I don’t think this is anything like that.”

  “What is M planning this time? What ill-advised scheme to bolster her campaign? She has to be planning something.” My mind on adrenaline overload, and filled with thoughts of murder and the death penalty, spun-off into its own dark place. “I know! She’s going to sell the twins? Or the right to name them, perhaps?”

  The three women watched me with expressions running the gamut from Mona’s exaggerated patience to Mrs. Olefson’s confusion, Flash’s amusement, and my aunt’s haughty displeasure.

  “Or are we running on a legalize prostitution platform? Such a popular issue to force into the light of day. What’s the tagline? Vegas, where you can get a piece of ass with class?”

  “Are you quite done?” Mona asked, not even rising to the bait. “Lucky, do be quiet. This isn’t about me at all.”

  I looked at the faces around me. “No?”

  Mrs. Olefson patted my hand. “No, dear. It’s about Miss P.”

  “Miss P?” I so needed a drink. This early on a Sunday morning called for … what? “Champagne,” I said to the waitress hovering nearby. “Five glasses.” I turned back to my little coven of conspirators. “This is about the bachelorette party, right? What are you guys cooking up?”

  Everyone eyed me with blank stares. No one said a word.

  “I hate surprises.” I stared down each one in turn, but nobody broke.

  Just as I was about to go cross-eyed, the waitress arrived with the Champagne, which did sort of perk everyone up. Or maybe just me. I knew Miss P was fine; I’d just spoken with her on the phone. She’d sounded a bit off, but not terribly. I’d chalked it up to last night being what it was.

  “Matilda,” I addressed my aunt. She’d been Matilda before she’d adopted the Darlin’ costume, and she’d always be Matilda to me. She didn’t like it, but she tolerated it. Since I tolerated her, I figured we were e
ven. “Tell me what is going on.”

  My aunt gave me the stink eye. “As Mrs. Olefson said, this is about Miss P.”

  “I know. What are you all planning?”

  “It’s not about her wedding, Lucky,” my mother broke in. “Well, not about this one anyway.”

  “What?” I glanced between the faces. Finally, I arrowed Flash with a look she would have no trouble interpreting.

  “Right,” she said as she sat up, bolted the whole of her flute of Champagne, then set the glass back on the table with studied, irritating care. “You know the wedding?”

  “Miss P’s and the Beautiful Jeremy Whitlock’s?” I leveled my voice, pretending to play nice.

  “Yes.” Flash motioned for more Champagne.

  “For God’s sake!”

  She jumped at my raised voice. “There’s been a hitch.”

  I smelled a rat. “Those two are the biggest lovebirds on the planet. If something happens to them, I’m giving up on love. What is going on?”

  “Not a what, dear.” Mona adopted her patronizing tone, which of course made everything so much better. “A who.”

  “A who?”

  “Yes, a who. Cody Ellis, to be more precise.”

  “What is a Cody Ellis?”

  “Who, Lucky,” Mona instructed, as if talking to a child. “He’s a who.”

  “Second cousin to Cindy-Lou Who, I suppose?” I asked Flash. Panic tended to bring out my snark. Nobody else seemed to appreciate that, even though I thought it was one of my best qualities.

  Flash relaxed with a grin. “Wasn’t she the one who made the Grinch’s heart grow three sizes?”

  “Lucky!” Mona whined. Fidgety and anxious, she clearly had a bombshell she couldn’t wait to drop.

  “Go for it, Mother. After last night’s shelling, one more tossed on the rubble won’t even make a dent. But, give me a moment.” I took a sip of bubbly, savoring being in the dark for a moment longer, gathering fortitude. “Okay, I’m ready. Who is Cody Ellis?”

  Mrs. Olefson patted my thigh. “Cody Ellis, Doctor Cody Ellis is Miss P’s husband, dear.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “SHE’S married to a doctor?” Praying this was one of Mona’s jokes, I looked at each one of the women gathered around me, pausing for a few seconds on each. They each looked stricken.

  No joke.

  “I think we ought to gather up the good doctor and get rid of him,” Mona said, folding her cocktail napkin with studied care, so she didn’t have to meet my scowl. “But nobody will listen to me.”

  “That’s because you are suggesting commission of a felony,” I explained, which added to the whole surreal thing I was feeling. “No, two felonies—kidnapping, murder and maybe bigamy.”

  “Picky,” Mona muttered.

  All eyes turned to me, looking for answers. Unfortunately, answers were in short supply, but boy did I have questions. Questions that tumbled through my brain like those little numbered Bingo balls, the whole who-what-when-where-how-and-why thing. All good things to ask, but knowing Miss P and how close to the vest she held her personal life, I doubted any of the women around me had answers.

  Trying to marshal logical thought, but knowing it would be an impossibility, I instead contemplated alternate careers in faraway locales as I stared over Flash’s shoulder into the casino.

  A figure standing against the far wall, immobile, stared at me.

  I bolted to my feet, knocking over my flute, breaking it.

  The man at the party. The white dinner jacket. He still wore it. And that empty, evil smile.

  “Lucky, what is it?” Mona asked with a hint of worry.

  Flash swiveled to look behind her.

  The man pushed himself from the wall, nodded at me, then turned and melded into the patrons drifting from one table to another.

  As I turned, I shouted to Flash over my shoulder. “Find Irv Gittings. Be careful. Jeremy’s gone after him, so maybe find him first.”

  Questions flashed in her eyes, but I couldn’t wait. I bolted through Delilah’s, startling a few men nursing drinks at the bar, down the stairs, and onto the floor of the casino. Thankfully, I was tall and the crowd thin. I caught a glimpse of the man as he ducked through the entrance leading to the private area of the hotel. Dodging and darting as nimbly as I could, I still dislodged a cocktail server’s tray. Glasses clattered and tumbled, but she managed to keep them on the tray.

  “Sorry.”

  She gave me a tired smile.

  I ducked into the passageway and, lowering my head, I ran. The hallway ended, dumping me out into a huge atrium area known as the Kasbah. A loose grouping of bungalows, each with its own swimming pool and all nestled under glass that allowed sunlight to nourish the tall palms and the lush flowering undergrowth, the Kasbah was reserved only for our most important guests.

  The security guard behind the desk rose as I appeared, looking like he didn’t know whether to stand his ground or run. I didn’t blame him. I skidded to a stop. Out of breath, I managed to gasp out the words, “Man. Running. Where’d he go?” Hands on my knees, I sucked in huge gulps of air, hoping I didn’t stroke out while my heart beat against my chest.

  “Not, sure, Ms. O’Toole. He waved the key then headed around to the right.”

  “Have you seen him before? Any idea who he is and where he’s staying?”

  At least the man had the decency to act ashamed at his lackluster performance. Security guard, my ass. I made a note of his name and vowed to bring him up to Jerry, knowing I’d probably give the kid another chance. But, seriously, keeping those who didn’t belong on the outside was the guy’s only job. How hard could it be?

  “You should get everyone’s name and bungalow number, then cross-check them with registration, you know that, right?”

  The guy developed a curious interest in his feet, which he shuffled a bit, rocking from side-to-side. “We have a lot of Asians staying here right now. Sometimes I find it difficult to distinguish them.” He looked up at me, clearly stricken. “And they go everywhere in packs.”

  Finally, I straightened and could take a normal breath. “Do better, okay? I know our guests can be demanding, but it’s our job to keep them safe. But I also understand the difficulties. I cut my teeth behind a desk like yours and not too long ago.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Flash skidded in beside me, not even huffing.

  I twirled my finger at the security guy. “We’re just going to take a spin around.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  I walked slowly and, yes, peeked in windows where I could. Although I felt like it, I couldn’t just go banging on doors. The guy could be anywhere. He could’ve jumped in one of the limos waiting at the back entrance, idling, ready to whisk a bungalow resident anywhere at a moment’s notice.

  “What can I do to help?” Flash asked. She sounded serious.

  “I need info. Can you dig up anything on Irv Gittings that might have a tie to any of the players so far? Holt, his wife, Kim Cho, and anybody else you can think of. I need some connections.”

  “Sure.” She put a hand on my arm. “How well do you know Kimberly Cho?” Her voice dropped to a hush. She glanced around, as if looking over her shoulder.

  “Well enough to know anybody who has influence in Macau has interesting friends.”

  “Who make their own rules,” she said, in case I was slow on the uptake.

  I patted her hand. “Thanks. I’ll watch my back. But, I won’t run from a fight.”

  “I know. Just be careful.” I seemed to be getting that same advice a lot.

  She’d been the third person in the last twenty-four hours to give me the same veiled warning. I shook it off as I watched her step to the curb and whistle for a cab, usurping the bellman’s job and negating the need for a tip. I grabbed my phone, then hit Jerry’s speed-dial.

  “You looking for trouble or already find it?” His cough sounded worse than last night.

  “You coming down with somethi
ng?”

  “You mean besides emphysema or something?” His voice held an edge.

  “That was a joke, right?”

  “Sure.” He drug air into his lungs between hacks. “What can I do you for?”

  I paused. Should I, or shouldn’t I? “A one-way ticket to Paris, first-class and a suite at the Ritz for as long as my recovery takes.”

  That dulled the edge. “You know what I meant.”

  “Is there a twelve-step program for innuendo addiction?”

  “Anything for a cheap laugh, right?” Jerry chuckled.

  “Hey, made you smile. I heard it.” I plucked a few dead flowers off a gardenia bush. Even wilted and brown, they still smelled divine. I’d strolled halfway around the Kasbah and not seen a soul. That would change. The whales were nocturnal, preferring the darkness to gamble by. I never could figure that out—the casino had no windows and no clocks, as if time was irrelevant and sleep an unnecessary impediment. “Listen, a guy just blew through security at the Kasbah. He flashed a key, but I’d like to know where he went.”

  “Gimme a sec.”

  He was back almost that fast. “He peeled around the perimeter then jumped into a Lambo. He looked like your guy from the party.”

  Not what I wanted to hear. “Yep. The one and the same.” I’d love some nose-to-nose time with that guy to convince him to come clean. I couldn’t prove he’d killed Holt Box, but I would. “Man, everything that happens in Vegas is memorialized in digital form. How’d he have a key, then?”

  “Another mystery for you to solve.”

  The guy was gone, but I bet not forgotten. Somebody would remember him. “Anything to distinguish the Lambo?”

  “You’re kidding, right? It was a Lamborghini. I’m thinking that’s distinguishing enough.” Jerry covered the microphone on his phone, but I could hear the hacking coughs he tried to hide.

  A tickle of worry touched the back of my neck. “You sure you’re okay? Maybe you should go home.” I reversed my course, doubling back to talk to the valets.