Luck Be a Lady

by Gemma Halliday

  "I don't know…"

  "We don't have to close the place down. We'll just go check out the man-meat and make an informed decision on whether it's worth wasting our whole night."

  "Well," I tried to piece together a reason to decline, but the truth was, I did need a girl's night with Tate. And the fact that it was at the Deep Blue might give me an excuse to question Weston about his odd appearance here at the bar tonight. "Okay, it's a date." I finished off my drink and stifled a yawn.

  "Girl, you must be wiped out after the day you've had."

  "Yeah, I think I'm going to have to head up to my room."

  Tate stood and extended his arm. "Allow me to escort you to your elevator, m'dame."

  "Why, thank you, kind sir." I stood and slid my arm through his. With the medieval theme of the casino, there had been many nights where Tate had played the knight in shining armor for me. If only he'd been straight. Or I'd been a guy.

  Tate prattled on about the dancers at the Deep Blue Revue. Apparently he knew a few of them and had high hopes of us going backstage. I liked a half-naked man just as much as Tate did, but I wasn't quite sure I wanted to go behind the scenes. Sometimes when you lift the veil, and the mystery is gone, there's just no going back. He kissed me on the forehead and pushed me into the open elevator.

  "Get some rest, girl. You've got darker circles than most raccoons." We air kissed as the doors closed.

  The elevator rocketed me to my suite, and I was never so grateful to see my bed turned down and ready for me to slip into it. But as soon as I walked into the room, I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention. I froze, my eyes quickly scanning the room. Everything looked just as I'd left it. With the exception of the turn-down service and the fresh towels. I fought the urge to call out, "Hello." Clearly I was alone. Clearly I was paranoid. Clearly I'd had too much apple-tini on too little sleep.

  I shook my head, fighting down the feeling that something was off as I unzipped my suitcase. I grabbed a T-shirt and pair of little pink shorts with bunnies on them to sleep in. Then I took the hottest, longest shower I possibly could, staying under the water until my fingers pruned and my skin went a rosy pink. I towel dried my hair as I walked to the windows, staring out at the twinkling lights of the miniature Vegas-like strip below and the hulking white mountains beyond. Thoughts of my dad, both good and not so stellar, warred with each, swirled together with health shakes, FBI agents, and the question of who hated my dad enough to end his life. Unfortunately, the twinkling lights held as few answers for me as the rest of the day had, and I finally shut the curtains, bringing darkness and hopefully sleep with them.

  As I snuggled under the covers finally ready to succumb to sleep, something at the back of my mind suddenly startled me back awake. It hit me what was off in the room.

  I'd left my suitcase unzipped when I'd left with Tate that morning. Someone had gone through my things.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The next morning, Britton called bright and early, inviting me to breakfast at the penthouse. I blame it on the fact that I was pre-coffee that I couldn't think of an excuse not to. So an hour later I found myself staring at a plate of eggs and freshly cut fruit while Britton mixed mimosas.

  "I heard you visited Dickie's place last night," she said, handing me a glass.

  I paused, forkful of cantaloupe melon halfway to my lips. "His place?"

  "The Minstrel's Lounge. Jordan said you sat at Dickie's favorite table."

  I set the cantaloupe down, not sure I could get it past the lump in my throat. "Who's Jordan?" I asked, deflecting the emotion.

  "The maître de. He said you and Tate were pounding back drinks like there was no tomorrow."

  "Goatee Guy told you that?" I asked.

  Britton snorted. "'Goatee Guy.' I like that. His facial hair is, like, total last year, right? Yeah, anyway, no, he told Jake who works the late shift at the baccarat tables, who told Amy the cocktail waitress, who told my friend Gigi who was up here doing my nails this morning." She paused, holding up all ten digits, currently painted hot pink with little white flower designs. "Cute, right?"

  I nodded. "Fab. Almost as fab as the idea that the entire staff now thinks their boss is a drunk. 'Pounding back' the apple-tinis?" I set my mimosa down, concentrating on my eggs instead.

  But Britton waved me off with one hand full of designer nails. "Don't sweat it. Everyone knows you're grieving."

  "Hmm." I gave a non-committal grunt, trying to keep my mind focused on eggs lest that lump come back.

  "Anyhoo, how did it go yesterday?" she asked.

  I shrugged. "The lounge was nice. Very Richard King."

  Britton rolled her eyes. "No, silly. I meant the other thing."

  "What 'other thing'?" I asked, narrowing my eyes at her.

  Britton shook her head and did a well-duh face. "The investigation into Dickie's murder."

  "You mean the one the FBI is doing?" I said around a bite of eggs.

  "Riiiight." She winked at me.

  "I'm serious. I'm not investigating."

  "Uh-huh."

  "No, really."

  "Gotcha." More winking.

  My turn to roll my eyes. "Whatever happened to my dad, I'm sure the authorities are looking into it," I told her. And I was. I just wasn't sure exactly who they were looking at.

  "Well, while you weren't investigating," she continued, "I was going through Dickie's den for any clues to who might have had it in for him."

  As much as I was totally leaving this to the authorities, I couldn't help asking, "What did you find?"

  She shook her head, her blonde ponytail swishing behind her. "Nada."

  "Fab." I shoveled some more eggs in.

  "Don't you see?" she asked, blinking rapidly at me. "There should have been something there. I mean, he had zero papers in his desk, zero correspondence, nothing related to the casino."

  "What are you saying?" I asked, the hairs on the back of my neck starting to prick again.

  "I think someone's been in here. Someone cleaned his desk out of anything incriminating."

  I opened my mouth to speak, but Britton was faster.

  "And I don't mean the housekeeping crew."

  I shut my mouth with a click. That had been exactly what I was thinking. Maybe it was possible that Ellie was overly zealous in cleaning out his den after he passed. Maybe the packing crew had got to the desk before Britton did. Maybe my dad hadn't wanted to bring his business home with him.

  Or maybe Britton was right.

  "I think someone was in my room last night," I blurted.

  Britton gasped and pointed one hot pink fingernail at me. "Shut up. Was anything missing?" she asked.

  I shook my head. "Not that I could tell," I said, then relayed the suitcase incident. "Obviously the housekeeping staff had been there, but I know they're under strict policy not to touch personal items. I highly doubt anyone would violate that just to zip up a suitcase."

  Britton's eyes never left mine, but she stood and grabbed the glass carafe from the counter. "More mimosa?"

  I put a hand over my glass. My head was spinning, and it wasn't even noon. "No thanks." I paused as she got up, taking in her outfit for the first time. "But I have to ask. What's with the legwarmers and tights?"

  She beamed and ran a hand over the bright pink spandex leotard. "The 80's are coming back. This was in the shop window last week and Dickie said…" The smile tumbled from her face. "He said they were perfect for me since I'm an old soul and stuff." She cleared her throat and forced a pretend smile. "You should come with me to the Pilates class at the Medieval Torture Chamber this morning."

  I choked past the bite of egg I'd just swallowed. "The what now?"

  "The gym. Everything down there is state of the art. And the hot tub is divine." She released a soft sigh.

  Now she's talking my language.

  "I might have to check it out," I replied casually, trying not to be too committal to anything other than the hot tub. />
  "Anyway, you should totally tell Alfie about your room." She sat down across the table from me again and propped her chin on her hands.

  "Tell him what? That I think someone zipped my suitcase?" I shook my head. "I'll just pay closer attention. I mean, it's possible I just didn't remember zipping it."

  But Britton shook her head. "Uh-uh. No way. It's too much of a coincidence. Someone was in there, Tessie." She paused, pondering that thought. "You know, it had to have been someone with a master key, just like the heist in Carvell's room."

  "Heist? Seriously, you need to lay off the TV dramas, Britton."

  "He checked out, by the way. Carvell," she continued. "Said Mr. Price and all of the drama unsettled him, and he'd feel more comfortable at the Deep Blue."

  "Really?" I dabbed my mouth with the napkin and draped it across my empty plate. The fact that the mysterious Mr. Price had cost us a client didn't sit well with me. And I'm sure it wouldn't have sat well with my dad, either.

  And as much as I thought Britton was over dramatizing the incident in my room, the idea that Mr. Price might still be in my casino running around with a master key left me feeling just a tad too vulnerable for my liking. Maybe I would visit Alfie after all.

  "Oh, shoot!" Britton said, looking down at her cell. "Pilates is starting in ten. I gotta get going." She paused, turning a bright-eyed stare on me that reminded me of a puppy waiting for someone to throw the ball. "Want to join me?"

  "Um, yeah, not today. I, uh, I've got some things to take care of," I mumbled.

  Her eyes fell, but she quickly covered it with a bright, forced smile. "Sure. Call me later?"

  "I will," I promised, rising and hitting the penthouse door before she could drag me to the Torture Chamber.

  I got in the elevator and contemplated the different floor buttons. Security was on the second floor. I mentally played out the conversation I'd have with Alfie about my room break-in. None of the possibilities had me coming out sounding anything other than paranoid. What I needed was something solid. Some real evidence that Mr. Price had been… or still was… at the casino. I thought back to the info Mr. Carvell had given security. He mentioned that he'd met Price at the poker tables. It wouldn't hurt to at least go ask around, see if any of the dealers had seen Mr. Price.

  I hit the button for the main floor, riding down to the lobby. The casino floor was fairly busy for midmorning. I weaved my way through the noisy slot machines and found the modestly populated poker tables. I started at one that was empty, asking the dealer wearing a name tag that read Sal if he'd seen Carvell chatting with anyone. Luckily, Carvell was a familiar enough fixture that Sal knew exactly who I was talking about. Unluckily, he didn't remember him speaking with anyone in particular on the night in question. I thanked him, moving on to another dealer near the back of the room. But before I got there, a commotion at one of the busier tables grabbed my attention.

  A tall, lanky dealer leaned across one of the high-stakes tables, hands fumbling between two players who were shouting heated words at one another. If I had to guess, they were seconds from exchanging their words for blows.

  I darted over, and the dealer's face brightened. "Ms. King, Security is tied up with a large cash delivery. Can you find someone to help?"

  "What's the problem, gentlemen?" I shoved myself between the two bulky older men, one in a ball cap and dark glasses, and the other in a nice pin-striped suit. They continued grabbing around me, pushing on each other. I allowed them to jostle me about for a few seconds, trying to remain calm and speak soothingly, until a fist hurtled past my face. Fearing the losing end of a sucker punch, I shoved my fingers in my mouth and whistled loudly, fairly pleased with the resounding trill.

  Suit Man backed up a few steps and said, "That son-of-a-bitch stole my chips!"

  Ball Cap Guy smoothed his bunched Yankee's T-shirt with a pair of sweaty hands, leaving streaks on it. "I did nothing of the sort," he whined, his voice high and tense.

  I honed in on the details of each man, just like my father had taught me, taking them each in from head to toe. To spot a liar, you needed to watch for tells, just like in poker.

  Suit Guy looked me straight in the eyes, his gaze cool and calm, while Ball Cap Guy was sweating profusely, shifting his weight from foot to foot, with his arms crossed defiantly over his chest.

  "May I see the contents of your pockets?" I politely requested of Suit Man.

  "What?" He rolled his eyes and snorted as he shoved his hands into his armpits. "This isn't the frickin' Hokey Pokey, Sweetheart. I just want the five hundred dollars in chips this asshole stole from my stack."

  I gave him my sweetest smile. "Sir, we have a lot of surveillance." I waved my hand toward the surplus of hanging black balls. "We have a dedicated camera trained on each of these tables. All it will take is a quick trip up to the security office to straighten this out. Or, we can bypass the formality, and you can show me what you have in your jacket pockets, please."

  I watched as Alfie walked up behind Suit Man, pausing when he saw me.

  But Suit Man didn't see him, instead focusing on me as he poked a finger to my chest. "I don't gotta show you a damn thing, bitch."

  That did it. Alfie was at the man's side in one long stride, yanking the man's shirt collar. "That's no way to talk to a lady. She said 'please,' but if you want to do this the hard way, you can deal with me."

  Suit Man slowly turned to meet Alfie's glare, his face turning a shade of pale. "I…I was just playing with her."

  "And your pocket contents?" Alfie raised a hairy brow, their noses almost touching.

  "I, uh, have extra chips in there for later."

  "Let me guess," I scoffed. "Five hundred dollars' worth?"

  Alfie slipped his hand in the guy's coat and counted the chips. "What a coincidence, eh?" Amusement glinted in his eyes but didn't quite make it to the rest of his stony expression. "I think we need to have a chat in my office."

  As Suit Man was dragged toward the elevators, Ball Cap Guy zealously shook my hand. "Thank you so much, ma'am. That guy was fu…um, crazy."

  With my ego fully inflated, I could almost feel my Wonder Woman cape fluttering behind me as I watched Ball Cap Guy return to the poker table.

  "Impressive."

  I spun around to find Agent Ryder directly behind me. The amusement on his face matched Alfie's—somehow looking like it was at my expense even though I was the one who'd unmasked the cheater.

  "Um, thanks?" My face flushed warm.

  "How'd you guess it was the guy in the suit that was lying?"

  I shrugged. "Easy. He was too calm. When someone's telling the truth, they have no reason to hide their emotions. Ball Cap was nervous as heck, which is the normal reaction to being falsely accused. Suit Guy was wearing a poker face."

  "Sounds like you've spent a lot of time at these tables yourself," he observed.

  I shook my head. "Not in a long time," I mumbled, shoving those old memories down. I quickly changed the subject before thoughts of my dad could come flooding in again. "I didn't know you were still at the casino."

  "Just interviewing some of your dad's…well, your employees." He arched a brow at me.

  My employees. I took a deep breath and stated, "Right. Temporarily. I'll be gone in a few days."

  Nodding, he muttered, "Of course."

  "But, while I'm here and in charge, tell me why the FBI is investigating this instead of the local police," I asked, crossing my arms across my chest and doing my best to project some air of authority.

  He stared directly into my eyes for several seconds, never flinching or blinking, before saying, "I'm part of the Nevada Organized Crime Task Force."

  "'Organized' crime?" I repeated.

  But he ignored the question mark at the end my statement, instead continuing with his carefully worded response. "We've been looking into your father and his business for some time now. Seems he's been doing some creative bookkeeping and has more than one interesting business connection
."

  "Define 'interesting' and 'creative'?" I asked, narrowing my eyes at his choice of adjectives.

  "Mafia."

  "That's crazy!" I sputtered on impulse, swiping my hand through the air. "My dad isn't…wasn't like that. A little rough around the edges, maybe, but not…" I trailed off, fully digesting what I was saying. I knew the father who doted on me two weeks out of the summer. I knew the stories my mother told me about a man who paid more attention to his precious casino than his own daughter. I knew the dad who called sporadically, sometimes at one o'clock in the morning just to chat. I knew the hero Tate painted him to be. I'd even been granted a peek into his softer side via Britton. But, what I didn't know was the kind of a businessman he was.

  And Agent Ryder must have guessed that as his own eyes narrowed now, studying my face.

  "Are you okay?" he asked, something akin to concern peeking through his professional façade.

  I bobbed my head, avoiding his gaze as I shoved down the emotion building behind my eyes at the realization that maybe I didn't know my father all that well after all.

  "Tell me about a normal day for your dad. Was he a hands-on kind of guy or more of a delegator?" Ryder pulled a small notepad from his pants pocket and flipped it open.

  I shook my head. "Look, clearly I don't know the first thing about my dad, unless you want to know how he took his martini. Dirty, in case that's enough for you to convict him." I tried to keep the sarcasm at bay. I just didn't try very hard.

  "Huh," he muttered, stubbled jaw slack for a second like he had more to say, but then he snapped his mouth shut.

  "Maybe you should ask Britton," I said. "I'm sure she could tell you everything, down to his morning bathroom ritual," I snapped.

  "I did. She said I could talk to her lawyer."

  "Huh," I mocked.

  He raised an eyebrow, letting me know the jab was not lost on him.

  "Why are you asking about his daily habits?" I asked. "I'm pretty sure that's irrelevant now that he's gone."

  "It's very relevant in a murder investigation."