Thank God for small favors.
A slow smile curled his thin lips as he watched me enter. "I'm gonna have to call you back, Bruce. A new bit of business just fell into my lap."
I choked back a gag at the thought of being anywhere near his lap.
Buddy snapped his phone shut and tossed it onto the pile of clothes on the chair next to him.
"Tessie King," he said, drawing out the words.
"Buddy Weston," I replied.
"To what do I owe this pleasure? Oh, wait! Lemme guess. You're my massage girl?" He smiled then stood and began to remove the robe.
"No!" I barked, my hands waving frantically in front of me, as much to block the view as the thought of that much oily hair stuck to my fingers. The very last thing on the planet I wanted to see was this man's junk. "Please keep that on. I just need to talk to you."
"And just what makes you think I feel like talking? Maybe I feel like calling security and having you escorted out instead." He graciously pulled the robe back over his shoulder.
"Because I'm pretty sure you want to keep the FBI out of your casino as much as I do." With his robe securely back in place, I crossed my arms over my chest in a stalemate gesture.
He raised a bushy brow. "You've got my attention."
"I had an interesting visit from Agent Ryder earlier today."
"I'll bet," he teased, his eyes doing an up-and-down thing that made me involuntarily shudder.
"Agent Ryder and I have a strictly professional relationship." Now.
"Sure." Weston pretended to agree.
"Anyway, he told me he suspects members of an organized crime family are doing business in Tahoe."
"You mean doing business at the Royal Palace," he corrected. "Otherwise, why would the feds be crawling all over your joint?" He flashed me a big grin.
I bit back the sour words on my tongue, wanting to tell him where to go and exactly how to get there. Instead, I asked, "Does the name Hammerhead mean anything to you?"
"Hammerhead Hank?"
"So you know him." That sinking feeling hit the pit of my stomach again as I realized that a known member of an organized crime family was staying right under my nose.
Weston's face lit up with a slow, icky smile. He took a step toward me, his robe gaping lower. He placed a meaty hand on my shoulder. "I sure do, princess, and I'm happy to share with you. Every now and again, it's nice to get into bed with the competition." He gave me another creepy once-over, this time with a gratuitous bushy brow-waggle at the end.
I wilted from his grip and inched away, forcing a jaw-clenched, toothy smile on my face. "Let's not get carried away, Weston."
"Then what's my motivation here?" He snapped his jaw shut, giving me a wide-eyed look of indifference.
"How about I don't report the teenager you have working at the desk? She's under twenty-one, I'm willing to bet."
"Come on, now, King. I think we could strike up a deal that could be…" He wiggled his hips in a way that he must have thought was sexy but was actually more along the lines of something Chevy Chase would pull off for laughs, and then continued, "…mutually gratifying."
Ick, ick, ick. "Just tell me what you know about the Gambias."
He paused, narrowed his eyes at me then thankfully pulled his robe tight, covering any hairy little bits that might have escaped.
"Fine," he shot back, returning to his perch on the chaise. "I'll tell you what I know about the Gambias. I know that Hammerhead Hank ain't the only member of the family comin' to town."
I sucked in a breath. The thought of one mobster staying at my casino was enough, but the thought of more… "What are they doing here?"
Weston's face broke into that big, creepy grin again. "Well, sweets, they're here because you invited them. Battle Buffet is crawling with wiseguys."
CHAPTER SIX
I clamped my mouth shut to make sure my jaw hadn't dropped to my chest. Battle Buffet full of mobsters? I really hoped Weston was pulling my leg.
After inhaling a slow breath and letting it out even slower, I calmly asked, "Are you sure?"
"Honey," he cooed seductively, causing my gag reflex to kick in. "If there's one thing I know, it's how to keep my casino clean. You think I didn't look into stealing the show away from you? Course I did. Only when I found out who was backing it, I figured I'd let you have that headache. You're a lot friendlier with the FBI than I am, you know what I mean?"
I narrowed my gaze on his. "I'm not buying it, Weston. I know that money is money in your book—dirty or not."
Weston shrugged. "Okay, fine. You got me. I did try to steal it away."
"So you did meet with Hank Gambia?"
He nodded. "Only Hammerhead informed me, in no uncertain terms, that they were very comfortable filming at the Royal Palace. Which, as it turns out, was lucky for me."
"Why is that?"
"I'm not the one with whales dropping like flies on my gaming floor, now am I?"
I felt that sinking sensation in my stomach again. "You think that Mr. Taylor was killed by the Gambia family?"
"I think the feds do. If they didn't think one of these families comin' in had a hand in the stiff you found, why bother? They generally don't stop by for social calls or tea time." His head dropped back as he released a belly laugh at his own joke.
But I jumped on his wording. "Wait, what do you mean by 'families'?"
Weston paused, his eyes blinking in mock innocence. "What?"
"You said families, plural. We were just talking about the Gambia family, singular. Right?"
There went that cheesy grin again that I was really starting to hate. "Can't slip much past you, now can I, doll?"
I narrowed my eyes and cracked my neck from side to side. I took a couple of steps toward him. "Look, Weston," I started. "I've got a stiff at my Price is Right slot machine, a crazy French chef shouting curses at my staff, some guy named Hammerhead staying in my casino, my childhood nemesis wearing the Michael Kors that should be mine, and an FBI agent, who owes me a New Year's Eve date, running around my casino making accusations about the Mafia." I paused to take a breath, standing just a few inches from him now. "I don't have time for your little games. The way I see it, there's just one thin piece of cotton standing between your hairy little family jewels and my very sturdy Italian leather boots."
Weston's smile dropped, and I saw his Adam's apple bob up and down.
"So," I said, forcing a smile back on to my face, "you want to tell me what my celebrity cooking show has to do with Mafia families? Plural?"
Weston swallowed hard. "Hey, no need to resort to that kinda talk. We're all friends here, right, doll?"
"I swear if you call me doll one more time…" I lifted my boot.
"Okay, okay! Geez." Weston adjusted his robe tighter around himself again. "Look, I swear to God—" He flipped a furry-knuckled hand heavenward. "—here's what I know. The Gambia family has some money in that celebrity cooking show. Like, a lot. They're having some sort of big meeting with some other 'businessmen' soon, and they're using the Battle Buffet as a cover."
"What do you mean big meeting…" My voice trailed off as my mind tried to catch up. Over a hundred VIP foodies were supposed to be coming in, via the producers' private invitations. I made a mental note to check the names on the guest list. I suddenly had a bad feeling that foodie was a cover for mobbie.
"I don't know what the meeting is about," Weston went on, "but the Gambias aren't the only ones involved. Hammerhead mentioned some other families comin' into town soon. If you get my drift."
I got it all right. And I didn't like it one bit. "Are you saying there's some sort of meeting between different mob families going on in my casino?" Suddenly I felt like I was on a bad episode of The Sopranos.
Weston shrugged. "It ain't going on in my casino."
"And somehow Mr. Taylor's death is tied to all of this?"
Weston started to shrug again, but any comment he may have had was stopped by the door bursting open.
A petite brunette pushed in, her arms full of neatly folded towels that apparently blocked her view of us. "It needs to be perfectly clear before we begin that there is not going to be a happy ending to your massage, Mr. Weston—" She stopped short as she set the towels down and saw me. "Oh. I'm so sorry. I didn't expect you were with…er, do I need to come back?"
"No, Kayla. Ms. King was just leaving."
No other words were needed for my hasty exit as his robe dropped to the floor, exposing more hairy parts than I ever wanted to see or ever expected to forget. I stood outside for a few seconds, trying to decide if I really did need the ladies' room to purge the sight from my mind and stomach. Swallowing hard, I made my way back to Tate, needing the pedicure even more now. Not to mention the brain-bleaching effects of a few appletinis. It wasn't a permanent solution, but it would do for now.
Tate greeted me with a big smile and a half-empty martini glass as he wiggled is toes in his bubbly water. There were two already empty glasses sitting on the table next to him. I snatched my drink from his hand, slamming it back as I kicked off my shoes. I climbed into the big, overstuffed, comfy chair beside him.
Just as my phone buzzed to life.
My head dropped back against the plush headrest as I wavered for a few seconds on whether or not to answer, the steaming, bubbling water in my basin practically begging me to hit the mute button.
Instead, I dutifully pulled the phone from my pocket and saw Britton's face gracing the screen. I swiped it on.
"Hello," I reluctantly answered
"Tess!" There was panic in Britton's voice. "There's an emergency in LeAnna's room. We…" Her words trailed off as she cleared her throat. "I need you."
I froze, my mind immediately going to thoughts of Hammerheaded mobsters. "I'll be right there," I promised, jumping up from my seat.
The nail tech returned with two more drinks as I was slipping on my boots. Well, at least I could have one for the road?
I smiled at her, flashed a remorseful glance back at Tate, and then gulped one of the drinks. "Please put this on my tab. I gotta go."
* * *
My head was spinning partly from the alcohol and partly from my chat with Weston as I made my way back through the shark-infested lobby of the Deep Blue and across the road to the Royal Palace. I found myself scanning faces in an almost paranoid way as I weaved my way through the crowded lobby. I didn't know who I could trust, who I couldn't, and if I even believed Weston's wild story of mob meetings. I mean, wasn't that the kind of stuff that just happened in movies?
I was so engrossed in my thoughts that I almost didn't even see Rafe and his blondie du jour until I practically ran into them. Literally.
"Whoa, Tessie," I heard Rafe's voice call. I looked up just in time to avoid colliding with Tiffany Weston, decked out in a slinky silver minidress that almost had her man-made boobs contained.
"Oh, uh, sorry," I mumbled distractedly, my cheeks going warm. As if one Weston encounter a day wasn't enough. I took in Tiffany's short hemline, high heels, and dark smoky eyeliner. She was teetering on that very fine line between red-carpet-worthy and hooker.
"You okay?" Rafe asked, putting a steadying hand on my arm. I hated how warm and safe that hand felt. Especially when Tiffany took a possessive step closer to her man, sliding her hand into the back pocket of his jeans. I looked away, loath to see her cop a tushy squeeze.
"Yeah. Appletinis," I said, hoping they took my clumsiness for being tipsy and not having mobsters on my mind.
"Maybe you should go a little light on the cocktails, huh?" Tiffany chimed in. Her voice was high and perky in a way that made me think of Sesame Street characters. And her note of judginess was not lost on me.
"Thanks for the tip," I told her, trying to put on as genuine a smile as I could muster for her.
"You sure you're okay?" Rafe asked. "It looks like your mouth is twitching,"
Okay, so I couldn't muster much. "Yep. Fine."
"We were just going to grab a bit to eat. You want to join us?" he offered.
I took satisfaction in seeing a moment of horror on Tiffany's face (at least the parts her plastic surgeon hadn't gotten to yet) at the idea of sharing her date, before I shook my head. "No. Thanks. Duty calls," I said, pointing to my phone as I quickly slipped into the elevators.
Three minutes later, the elevator dinged, opening to one of our floors filled with high-dollar suites. I squeezed through the sardine can of people, barely making it out before the door closed. Britton paced the marble-tiled foyer just outside the elevator doors. She wore a bright-blue, sequined Kate Spade dress and matching stiletto heels. Which, considering that she was outside LeAnna's suite, I supposed was appropriate.
As soon as she spotted me, she threw herself into my arms, releasing an exasperated sigh directly into my ear. "Thanks for coming, Tess."
"What's going on?" I asked, glancing down the hall toward LeAnna's suite.
"The cops are crawling all over the place! They just burst in and started tearing the place apart, and they wouldn't tell me anything. Not much clout comes from being the widow of the previous owner." She nervously switched between smacking her gum and twisting her hair around her finger.
I threaded the digits of her free hand through mine. "I'll see what I can find out." I pulled her along behind me, her heels muffled against the plush carpeting.
LeAnna's suite doors were wide open. Several uniformed officers sporting blue latex-gloved hands milled about inside, collecting fibers, digging through drawers, invading every last inch of her personal space. LeAnna sat straight-backed on her leather sofa, dressed in a skintight zebra-print minidress, hands folded in her lap, uncharacteristically quiet. Her gaze was fixed on the sliding doors directly across from her. I actually felt kind of bad for her. She was handling the situation much better than I'd expected.
An officer came from the bedroom, toting her makeup carrier sealed inside a clear plastic evidence bag.
LeAnna gave a high-pitched squeal that was nearly deafening. "You honestly can't expect me to do without my makeup!" she shrieked, scrambling across the living area, grabbing the officer by the collar, and yanking his face down toward hers. "I'm drawing the line."
Another officer unclenched her fingers, freeing his coworker, and shoved her back toward the sofa. He pushed a finger to her shoulder and warned, "I was trying to be nice earlier, Mrs. Taylor. But, if you do anything, say anything, even stand up from that sofa, let alone manhandle another of my guys, I will cuff you and drag you down to the station for obstruction and assault."
Big fat tears slid down her face as she scanned the room, honing in on Britton and me at the door. "Did you see that? He shoved me. That's totally police brutality!"
Britton rushed to her friend's side, tugging LeAnna down on the sofa next to her, clutching her hand. "Tessie's here to help."
I pursed my lips together to keep from blurting something insensitive out loud and forced myself into professional mode. I looked around the room, found someone who looked like a plainclothes detective, and made my way to his side.
"Are you in charge?" I inquired.
He turned slowly, his bushy brows scrunching into a single blob in the middle of his forehead. "And you are?"
My hand shot out. "Tessie King."
"Oh," he muttered, recognition dawning in his eyes as he aggressively shook my hand. "I'm the detective in charge of this scene, yes. It's a pleasure to meet you, Ms. King."
I pulled my hand from his sweaty palm, wiping it discretely on my skirt as I pretended to straighten it. "I'd like to see your search warrant, if you don't mind, Detective."
He pulled the paper from his jacket and handed it to me. "I'm sure you'll see that everything is in order."
I opened the document and scanned it. Not that I had a lot of practice at reading search warrants, but I could see that it was signed, listed LeAnna's name and suite number, and apparently allowed them to access anything in the suite. It was pretty much cart
e blanche to anything they wanted to paw through. "Can you tell me why this was issued?"
He narrowed his eyes at me. "I'm not sure I'm at liberty to discuss that, Ms. King."
I put my hands on my hips. I'd had just enough stonewalling from ego-inflated men in my life today. "Well, how about I discuss it with your boss, Detective Johnson?" I said, remembering the name I'd heard for the detective in charge of the case when he'd been reviewing footage in Alfie's office earlier. "I'm sure he'd love to know what a bang-up job you're doing searching such a secure scene." I pointedly nodded toward the wide-open doors to the suite that Britton and I had walked right through without questions.
"Uh…th-that won't be necessary," he stammered. "I'm happy to cooperate fully with you and your security staff," he amended while motioning to one of the uniformed officers to shut the doors on the outside hallway.
"Delighted to hear it." I shot him a big, toothy grin. "So, what prompted this search warrant to be issued?"
The detective cleared his throat, trying to preserve some semblance of authority. "A partial print was found on the cuticle scissors removed from Mr. Taylor's carotid artery. It matched Leona Helmsley over there." He flipped a hand toward LeAnna.
I stifled a laugh. This was so not the place. "No one else's prints on the scissors?"
"Nope." He glanced down at me. "That's why we're here."
I nodded then wound my way around officers, who were busy taking pictures of tiny little evidence placards splayed across the floor, to Britton and LeAnna.
Britton's face brightened. "Did you set them straight? Can you make them leave?"
LeAnna leaned forward. "I must insist that they leave. If they need anything further, I'll have them speak with my attorney. Get rid of them. Now!" She waggled a perfectly manicured finger toward the door, but her narrowed gaze remained locked with mine.
"They have a signed search warrant, so I'm sorry." I probably could have said it in a less cheery way. At least I kept the cheeky grin from my face. "There's nothing I, or your attorney," I added, "can do about it."
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