Anyone.
I backed into the corner next to the door to block as much of the wind and sizeable hailstones as I could. I'm not sure how long I sat there, but it didn't take long before every part of me was either completely numb or tingling and on its way there. The high, frigid winds still found a way to whip around me. Sleet pelted my face as I slid down the coarse brick wall, tucking my feet under me to warm them. I had a momentary spark of remorse at the thought of scuffing my shoes, but this was an emergency worthy of it if there ever was one. I could no longer feel my nose, and my eyelids were sticking together with each blink. I screamed one last time, willing myself not to cry. Tears would so not be a good thing. My mind wandered, contemplating how long it would take for hypothermia to set in.
I stared at the door, a small barrier between living and dying. There really was going to be a dead body.
Mine.
CHAPTER TWO
As the cold filtered clear through to my bones, I flashed back on all of the twists and turns that'd brought me to the casino, to this particularly frigid, messed up moment. Would I have taken on such a huge task to fill my father's shoes if I hadn't been such a brat growing up? Would I have defied my mom if she hadn't been so adamant about me staying away? Was I still just a brat going against every person telling me what I couldn't do? Even taking out the trash?
I began to shake, trembling uncontrollably. I looked toward the kitchen door and willed it to open. I gathered up every ounce of strength I had and screamed one more time.
And it opened.
A tall, grim man with dark hair and a scar running down his cheek filled the doorway. Alfie, my Director of Operations. I struggled to stand, but my shivering body wouldn't oblige. He wedged the door open with a box and came to stand in front of me, hands firmly on his hips, much like I'd just done to the staff. His face was puckered into a scowl of epic proportions, again like mine undoubtedly had been.
I looked heavenward and thought, okay, I get it.
In a quivering voice, I pleaded with Alfie, "Mind if…we save the…scolding for someplace…a bit warmer?"
He scooped me into his arms, easily carrying me back into the kitchen. The door slammed shut, swirling a cloud of mist around us as the warm and cold air collided. The staff now stood around, wide-eyed fear sprawled on their faces.
The shift manager scurried toward us with a tablecloth. As he draped it around me, he pleaded, "We didn't know." His arm shot out toward the dining room. "Prepping for supper crowd."
"I…know," I sputtered between uncontrolled quakes. "No one…is…in trouble. Trash…can wait."
"You think?" Alfie spat, his nose nearly touching mine. He then turned his anger on the poor manager. "Did you see anyone about five-foot-ten to six feet tall, lanky, wearing a white hooded sweatshirt in this area?"
I turned a confused glance between Alfie and the terrified manager. The manager probably only understood half of what he heard, his face flushing pink. Finally, he shook his head so hard I thought he was going to fall over.
"Anyone else?" Alfie yelled, his voice booming over the equipment noise. I thought they'd all looked scared of me when I first got there. Now, I knew what terror really looked like. One waitress even started crying. All heads shook vigorously. "If you see anyone even remotely fitting that description, call the security office immediately."
All shaking heads simultaneously turned to hearty nods.
His ominous glare swung back to me as he carried me toward the elevator. "I've got a doctor meeting us in my office to look you over. I put the call in to him on my way down to save your ass."
I opened my mouth to tell him I was fine, but my teeth were chattering too hard to form words.
"What the hell were you doing? Do you understand how cold it is out there?"
I nodded emphatically. Oh, I knew. But, with his nose practically touching mine again, I was pretty sure the question was rhetorical.
His dark, angry glare bore into me as he pushed the up button. "I swore on your father's grave that I'd take care of you. On his grave," he reiterated, annunciating each word as a curt bark, the scent of stale cigars practically forced into my lungs. "Whether you want me to or not, I'm your shadow. As long as you are here, I will move heaven and earth to keep you safe." His voice wavered toward the end, and if I didn't know the man better, I'd think he was choking up.
The elevator dinged and opened to the cavernous service carriage, diverting his attention. As we entered, this brought to a close the nearest thing to a touching moment I'd ever witnessed with Alfie. He was the strong silent type, the annoying dictator. He didn't do warm and fluffy.
Oh, warm and fluffy. What I wouldn't give for a warm, fluffy blanket right about now.
My fingers and toes had begun buzzing back to life, needles of fire poking into them, sending shockwaves up my arms and legs with each shiver. The doors opened on the security floor. He supported me as we walked around the corner, but we were quickly greeted by two guards. I'd months ago dubbed them Larry and Moe, with Alfie being Curly when I was in a mood.
They nodded and moved out of the way, each casually muttering, "Evening, Ms. King," as though Alfie frequently carted me through the door wrapped in a tablecloth.
The security area was buzzing as usual. People scrambling from office to office, big screens lit up with footage from random areas of the casino. Maverick, the security guy who'd helped me out before, smiled and waved as we passed his office. But, no one looked overly surprised as I was carried to the back and splayed across the leather sofa. One of our whales—our high rolling clientele—Dr. Morgan, appeared from the hall, glaring down at me. His perfectly pressed Armani suit and precisely knotted Kenneth Cole paisley tie screamed money. His wife's money, but I was in no place to quibble. He extended his hand, and I reached out to shake it, trembling as I fought to control the violent shivers.
His glare turned into a haughty sneer. "This isn't a social visit. I need to check your pulse."
I fought to keep from returning his hateful look. Honest, I tried.
"Mm-hmm," he muttered as he scribbled on a tiny notepad then reached into his bag and pulled out a thermometer and an alcohol wipe. After cleaning it, he hastily shoved it into my mouth. No warning, no please, nothing.
Santa was so bringing him coal this year.
I wiggled my toes in my shoes, feeling beginning to return. I looked over my shoulder at Alfie, holding vigil in the doorway as though I might try to run away. Pulling the tablecloth tighter against me, I slumped down into the fabric. The pungent smell of bleach put to rest any thoughts of it being dirty.
Dr. Morgan yanked the thermometer from my mouth in much the same unceremonious fashion as he'd inserted it, twisting it in the light for a reading. "Mm-hmm." He scribbled again. He flipped the tablecloth from my legs and man-handled my feet. I did get an arced brow of approval when he saw my designer shoes, but it didn't last long. Tossing one to the floor, and yanking on my toes, he muttered, "Can you feel this?"
Extremely ticklish, I squirmed under his touch, giggling, "Yes."
With a derisive snort, he let go. Moving to my fingers, a much safer area, he pinched each throbbing tip. "This?"
I nodded. "Sort of."
He walked away, speaking to Alfie. "It seems she is suffering from mild to moderate neuropathy and hypothermia due to her extended exposure to the elements."
I scooted into a sitting position, my feet throbbing more as I slid them off the couch. Waving at the men, I said, "I'm over here."
Dr. Morgan swung his annoyed gaze toward me, huffing out a long sigh. "Are you having trouble hearing me? That could be a different problem."
"No, I can hear fine. It's just that you're talking about me."
He rolled his eyes but quickly slid his professional facade into place. Dropping to his knees in front of me and slapping his palms on his thighs, he proceeded to repeat exactly what he'd just told Alfie, only emphasizing every syllable as though he were speaking with a two year
old. Too bad his professionalism didn't include audio. "Now," he continued in child speak. "I will be by the penthouse in the morning to check on you. Please be sure to take a warm bath—not hot—when you get to your room. Dress warmly and make sure to stay inside." His brows disappeared into his silver bangs as he stared intently at me. I guess for acknowledgement.
You know, when someone tells me to take a bath—which, I wish would happen way more often, I'd normally send them spinning sideways in my wake on the way to the Jacuzzi tub, but this guy was just an ass. I couldn't give him the satisfaction. And, there was also the little detail of what Alfie had said in the kitchen. Instead of acknowledging him, I stood, attempted my best accidental bump/shove as I passed him, and stopped in front of Alfie.
"May I look at the tapes of the kitchen door?"
His gaze narrowed and jaw set. "Don't you have a bath to take?"
I attempted to keep my calm. But, when Doctor Frankenstein chimed in by barking, "Do as I said," well, I kind of lost any sense of the word.
I spun toward him, biting back some really fun, hate-filled cuss words. I really wanted to tell him he needed to pack his bags and leave, punctuated with an intermittent F-bomb, but he'd just fight the cold long enough to make it across the road and spend his wife's money at the Deep Blue, our rival casino. Instead, I took a deep breath and calmly replied, "This is my casino, Doc. I'll take a damn bath after I settle the teensy matter of who tried to kill me."
Shock rounded his eyes.
Alfie snorted, calling my attention back to him. "That wasn't supposed to be public knowledge." He glared over my head, his words thundering, "Is that clear?"
The doctor cleared his throat and still only managed to croak out, "Crystal."
Alfie returned his attention to me. "We're not going to have this conversation again, are we? You got lucky helping out with your father's…" He looked down at his hands, nostrils flaring as he regained composure. "Untimely demise."
I swallowed back the lump in my throat. Not budging even an inch, I popped my hands onto my hips. "We can, if you'd like. I'm not leaving here until I see the tapes. When will the police be here?"
He crossed his arms over his massive chest in a stalemate gesture. He released a derisive snort. "In this weather? The police have enough problems on their hands. No dead body, no cop. They said someone would be by when the storm subsided, unless we find more to go on."
The doctor walked up behind me, clearing his throat again. "If you'll excuse me, I need to get back to my wife." His phone chimed again. He pulled it from his pocket, checking the screen, and muttered sarcastically, "Yes, dear."
As Alfie backed out of the doorway to allow his exit, he whistled loudly and yelled across the hall, "Maverick!"
Obviously startled—not that anyone would blame him—he sprang to his feet, standing at attention next to his desk. "Yes, sir."
Alfie pointed to me. "Please cue up the kitchen door footage for Ms. King."
Maverick darted past Alfie, sliding to a stop at my side. He waved a hand toward the rickety metal desk and old chair, outdated by several decades. "Shall we?"
As I sat at the familiar desk, memories of fishing through miles of footage the last time I was there made me look over my shoulder at Alfie.
Obviously recalling the same scenario, he fought the smile curling one corner of his mouth. "You won't need the facial recognition software this time. We don't know who we're looking for, but you'll see for yourself soon enough." He dismissed me with a flip of his hand and a frustrated shake of the head as he disappeared back down the hall.
Maverick logged into the computer and pulled up the footage from the kitchen. "You're all set, Ms. King. Please let me know if I can service you in any way." He sputtered at his bad choice of words, turning bright red. "If I can be of any service to you."
I patted his hand, offering a lopsided smile. "I knew what you meant. Thanks for your help."
He turned a few shades darker and scurried back to his desk.
I watched the footage over and over again. Just as Alfie had described, a tall, lanky man walked to the door, hoodie hiding his face. He yanked it down a little more, looking from side to side before pulling the door closed and turning the lock. He then turned and ran down the service hall. After that, it's as if he disappeared. None of the other footage picked up the white hooded sweatshirt anywhere. He'd probably taken it off and put it in a locker or ditched it in a kitchen laundry cart.
I dropped my chin into my hands and released a defeated sigh, feeling like I'd just smacked into a brick wall. Thoughts of the cold wall outside the kitchen caused massive shivers to wrack my body. I really wanted that damn bath. Badly.
"Come on, Tessie," I muttered to myself. "What aren't you seeing here? You've been an art curator for years. Attention to detail is your thing. Think."
I played the video again, this time looking deeper, into the details.
Who else was in the background? There were a few other employees, but no one was looking toward the door. They were all caught up in their tasks at hand. No one even acknowledged the door. No dice.
Was the would-be killer acting strangely? Other than the hood yank and the side to side look, not really. Tap out.
Did the sweatshirt have any stains or imperfections? It seemed to be bright white, with no distinguishable markings. I played the few seconds he was at the door over and over. Then it hit me. The sweatshirt was brand new. I paused the feed and zoomed in on his chest as he swiveled to look toward the camera. A tiny glimmer caught my eye. Jackpot!
CHAPTER THREE
After a whirlwind trip to the penthouse for a change of clothes (where I noticed Britton was conspicuously absent), a quick brush through my hair, and to grab my phone that would have saved me a whole lot of grief earlier. I stepped off the elevator on the main floor and made a beeline toward the gift shop.
Only when I got there, it was dark, and the doors were barred. "Damn it," I muttered. While the gift shop was normally open twenty-four hours, just like the gaming floor, being Christmas Eve, they'd clearly shut down.
I fished my phone out of my pocket and swiped it on, dialing Britton's cell. When she answered, I told her, "Grab my gift shop keys, and meet me at the front desk. I need your help."
"Why? What's going on?"
"I'll tell you everything when you get here," I promised, then quickly hung up.
While waiting on Britton in the hotel lobby, I admired the tasteful decorations. Unlike the penthouse. I groaned aloud at the thought. Focusing on the huge wreaths with white twinkling lights on the front windows, I immersed myself in the old Christmas carols playing overhead. Yes, they were interrupted by the clanging slot machines and whooping winners, but both were music to my ears. I stared at the enormous, three-storied Christmas tree in between the windows. We'd had a similar one in the casino in that same place every year for as far back as I could remember. Sure, the decorations changed with the new trends, but the tree itself brought back so many memories of holiday seasons gone by. I don't know how many times Tate and I got in trouble for trying to climb it.
Before I could get too sentimental, the elevator dinged, and Britton pranced out in a skin-tight red velvet dress accented with a sparkly white belt and matching six-inch spike heels, the collar and cuffs trimmed in puffy white faux fur. Mrs. Claus must've been on Extreme Makeover.
She tossed her blonde curls over her shoulder and huffed, "It's not like I had a chance to change out of my party dress. It sounded urgent."
Evidently, I'd done a poor job of containing my shock. Go figure. I looked away from the sparkle to regain my composure, but before I was able to utter a word, Tate came trotting out from behind the front desk in a matching red suit, faux fur, and sparkle accents included.
"Girls, I'm so glad I didn't miss you. Thanks for the text, Britton. What's going on?" He clapped his hands giddily.
I waved a hand back and forth between Mr. and Mrs. Claus. "Okay, how long have you two been planning
this party? You already had the outfits here?"
Tate shook his head. "No, silly. We just raided the show costumes. Aren't they fab? Wait until you see what we picked out for you." More hand clapping but not from me. "Anyway, what's the sitch?"
I contemplated making something up, not wanting to get anyone else involved if I didn't have to. But, two more sets of eyes couldn't hurt, and there really was no way of ditching Tate once he'd gotten the scent. "This goes no further than the three of us, okay?"
They both bobbed their heads, but Tate's gaze wandered.
I grabbed his chin and made him look into my eyes. "Pinky swear?" I extended my hand, pinky crooked and at the ready.
He linked his with mine, his face softening. "Of course."
I filled them in on the details of my evening, even about the video footage I'd just scoured.
"Shut. Up," Tate gushed, grabbing my arms. I pressed a finger to his lips, and he continued in a hushed tone. "Someone actually tried to kill you?" His voice deepened into his straight-man tone, which very much clashed with his outfit and extended pinkies. "The bastard is going down. What's our lead?"
"Well," I muttered, leaning in, "I finally started focusing on the details and realized the sweatshirt he was wearing came from our gift shop. I saw the sparkly diamond we dotted the i of casino within our name. It's one of the Royal Palace's sweatshirts that we gave out to all of the staff with their holiday bonuses."
Tate nodded. "A stylish and thoughtful gesture, Tessie."
My chin hitched a notch higher with pride. "We also tracked who got what type and size of sweatshirt. If memory serves me, we didn't give out that many of the hooded style. I need you guys to help me dig through the receipts. Then I can call Alfie, so he and I can visit each of the employees who got the hooded version."
Cozy Christmas Shorts Page 2
