“It’s not you I’m worried about. What about the girl?”
“I’ll keep her quiet. But I better get a move on.” He pushed his chair back, then came up short against the wall. He angled a look at me as if the jolt had closed a few synapses and a question formed. “How come you came to get me and you didn’t go with her? You could’ve just called.”
“I trust Romeo; he wouldn’t cross the line with the kid.” I’d overplayed my hand a bit with the young detective, but he’d kept pace—he knew what I wanted. “I wanted to scare her a little, soften her up.”
“You think she’s telling a whopper,” Squash pressed.
“What I think doesn’t matter and who the kid belongs to doesn’t make a bit of difference in a murder investigation. Can we leave it there for now? If Mona gets caught in the crossfire, I’ll run damage control, but that’s the best I can do. At some point, truth comes calling.”
Squash nodded, then gave a low chuckle as if laughing at a private joke, although he didn’t sound amused.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“The girl is the key. I need you to get her out.”
“After she’s sweated for a while.” The hint of a grin lifted one corner of his mouth and sparked in his eyes. “You do know this is a murder investigation?”
“My father always said, if he found his ass in a crack, you’d be his first dime.” I felt the skin between my eyebrows wrinkle into a frown—normally I ignored that sort of thing, but lately Mona had made it her mission to see that I didn’t need Botox before my thirtieth birthday. With thirty firmly in my rearview, she’d clearly lost count of the years, but I didn’t correct her. And I left the frown in place. “How is it you became all tight with my father?”
Squash glanced at the clock. “Would you look at the time? I better put a hustle on.” He slurped the last of his huge espresso and I could see the wheels turning. “You still got that in with Lovato?”
Daniel Lovato was the District Attorney. I’d done him several huge favors, one that kept him out of jail—wouldn’t have been pretty being incarcerated with all those angry men he’d helped put there. “I can give it a shot.” My leverage and Squash’s magic had worked for Teddie. Could we be as lucky the second time around?
“Has she been charged?” Squash peered into my mug. “Drink up.”
“No, at least not when Detective Romeo took her. He said she was being detained for questioning.” I grabbed Squash’s arm, spilling his coffee that he cradled in his hands. “She’s just a kid.”
“Sixteen?” He wiped the coffee off his forearm.
“How’d you know?”
“You told me.” He seemed sure.
I was sure I hadn’t. Well, as sure as I could be with my brains muddled and scrambled with emotion.
“Well, in Nevada, kids who commit crimes like murder are treated as adults for the purpose of adjudication. That means custody, bail hearings, all that sort of thing.”
My hope fled, riding a long sigh. Why couldn’t I catch a break, just once? Okay, I was whining. Tired beyond belief and not seeing any significant rack time in my future, I was a bit pissy. So, bite me. And since I was coming clean and all, breaks often broke my way. I hoped for a bit of that magic this time, too. “So, how should we attack this?”
“I’ll go get the kid, scare her a bit, then see what I can do. That usually amounts to throwing my weight around and then being reduced to using my considerable charm.” He shot me a smile. “Buck up, O’Toole. You’re looking positively down-in-the-mouth, which is not at all like you. We got this.”
I wasn’t so sure, but lest I tempt the Fates, I kept that tidbit to myself. “And me?”
“I would say, go get some sleep. You look like hell. In fact, you look like someone who just chased down two killers, rescued the world as we know it from the forces of evil, is jet-lagged beyond compare, and is trying to get a fancy hotel opened while trying to celebrate or, more precisely because it’s you, ignore your birthday.”
“You’ve been reading the gossip column again.”
“One of the few sources of truth these days.”
“A sorry state.” As I eased out of the tight space, my ego momentarily faltered. “I look that bad, huh?”
“If you can’t count on your friends.” He didn’t even wince when I punched him in the arm. He was smart enough to let go of his coffee before I landed the blow, though.
“I need to go talk with my mother.”
Squash shook his head as he drained his mug. “No, not yet. Your mother and father will wait. As you said yourself, where this girl came from, who her people are, none of that matters right now. We need to get her legal troubles under control or she’ll disappear inside the system. And when it spits her out the other side, if it spits her out, you won’t recognize her.”
I shut my mind to that possibility. “Okay, that’s fair. What do you want from me?”
“I want you to do that thing that you seem to have a knack for. Get to the crime scene. Snoop around. Talk to people. Win them over, turn over a few stones—you know, work your magic. I’ve never seen anyone better. Get me something to cast a shadow of a doubt as to her culpability—that’ll help me at least get her home detention with an ankle bracelet. And find out who the hell the dead guy is.”
He was slathering so much butter they couldn’t have caught me in a greased pig contest at the fair, but I wasn’t above reveling in my feel-good moment. “May I remind you, she doesn’t have a home?”
“Aren’t you the one always taking in the strays? I’m sure you’ll think of something.”
CHAPTER FOUR
THROUGH the years, a faction of the population had been trying to revitalize Vegas. Not so much as a tourist mecca, that was easy. Take out the family theme, throw the naughty back in, and bingo, forty-five million visitors a year.
But those of us who called Vegas home wanted a “real” city, fully realized with cultural activities besides the concerts on the Strip and the occasional pared-down Broadway touring company. For decades, Vegas was nothing more than a playland for adults, all lights and painted facades, but no substance.
So we’d built the Smith Center for Performing Arts, a world-renowned venue attracting the very best performers. The Jazz Cabaret alone was worth the price of admission. An intimate room, bar tables, food and libations, and singers so close you felt like they were singing to you. When Clint Holmes, one of Vegas’s treasured crooners, performed, I always had a table.
And now with professional sports finally admitting reality and sullying themselves in the betting capital of the universe, Vegas was coming up in the world—maybe even being taken seriously and recognized as more than a playground. Okay, still a bit of a reach.
Vegas, the perpetual joke everyone wanted in on.
But, when it came to venues for monster truck shows and the tour of the former gold medal ice-skating champions…and the rodeo…we still looked to the Thomas and Mack—the basketball arena at UNLV. Of course, we now have the newly minted T-Mobile Arena, but the Thomas and Mack and the rodeo were synonymous.
I liked it that way. Change happened overnight in Vegas. So, when something stayed the same, it evoked a sense of nostalgia and belonging. At least in silly, sentimental types like me.
The fact that I could find my way there, blindfolded in the dark and stupid tired didn’t hurt.
At this time of night, the parking lots were dotted with stray cars and trucks, most likely abandoned by owners who had overindulged, but essentially empty.
The security guard patrolling in his golf cart slumped in boredom as he silently scooted around with nothing to do. He motored in to check me out. As he came closer and a hint of light illuminated him, I smiled.
“Forrest!” He was the guard at my apartment building—the one I used to live in before Teddie, who lived above me, took a powder, then Irv Gittings reduced the place to cinders.
The big man perked up when he saw me unfold myself
from the Ferrari.
“Hey, Ms. O’Toole. I thought that might be you. Nobody else got the balls to show up here at this time of morning in that kind of ride.”
I had no idea how to respond.
Sensing his blunder, Forrest rushed on. “Man, we sure miss you at the Presidio.”
I didn’t lie and offer him some platitude about missing the Presidio as well. Another life. Another happiness. One that was vaporized along with all the talismans of the me I used to be.
Forced reinvention. I felt like a refugee from my life. But that pity party was done. “So great to see you!” That wasn’t a lie. “How’s law school going for your son?”
“He’s working his ass off.” Forrest shook his head—I could barely see him in the dim light from the open car door. “Does me proud, he does. Wouldn’t have had the opportunity if it weren’t for you.”
I waved that away. “And a lot of other folks.” We’d taken up a collection at the Presidio. “Gotta educate the youngsters. Who’s going to take care of us in our old age?”
A very large black man, and one of the truest men I knew, Forrest extricated himself from the golf cart he was wearing, and I gave him a hug. A former NFL lineman, he was one of the few men I knew who made me feel dainty, and I loved him for it. “You always do that, brush off the compliments,” he said when he set me back on my feet.
“They’re embarrassing. Now quit messing with me and go pick on somebody your own size.” I saw the wisecrack forming—he loved to razz me about being the only woman he could see eye-to-eye with. I wasn’t sure how to take that, so I usually took it with a smile. “Don’t say it.”
He backed down. It was a rare man who could tell when a woman didn’t want to play without her kicking him in the shin or elsewhere.
“What are you doing here?” I asked. “I know what we pay you and I doubt you need to moonlight.”
He hung his head a tad. “I love the rodeo. And the job has some perks—I get free passes, can go behind the scenes.”
I poked him in the ribs. “You just like the pretty women.”
“I actually like the horses. And, since you’re ribbing me, I don’t need no women. They’re nothing but trouble. Present company excluded, of course.”
That last part was a vestige of his Southern gentility. I happened to know he thought I was the High Priestess of the Nothing But Trouble Tribe. I mean, how many women get their place blown up, then their car for good measure? And my car was a peach, a rare antique Porsche that had few equals in the world. “Please, you wound me. Present company is the leader of the pack.”
He rewarded me with a grin, then he sobered. “I bet you’re here about the murder,” he whispered, sounding as if speaking of murder would conjure the murderer.
If only it was that simple.
“You know me, I never could resist a good felony.” Whether referring to committing one or solving one, I didn’t elaborate. Making a big, bad, mountain of a man squirm was one of life’s pleasures.
“I heard a kid did it.”
“Hell, Forrest, you know how unreliable scuttlebutt is,” I lied.
“Maybe, but like those sayings of yours, there’s a kernel of truth in there somewhere.”
“Fine, but one kernel is not indicative of the whole cob, and that’s what we’re after.” God, now I sounded like Perry Mason if he’d been from Arkansas.
“You and Mr. Teddie coming home anytime soon? His place is almost done and they’ve been hammering away on yours. How’s it coming?”
I thought about lying, but, in a weak moment I’d bartered with the Fates and promised to give it up for New Year’s. “I’m not privy to Teddie’s plans.” Hard for me to admit—once upon a time I knew when he drew each breath. “As to my place, I don’t really know. Just can’t bring myself to go back.”
“I understand,” he said with the all-knowing tone of a sage. “PTSD.”
“No, TPO.”
He cocked an eyebrow in question.
“Terminally Pissed Off. Besides, I’m not quite ready to rub my own nose in what I’ve lost.” That included Teddie, but I didn’t say that. I hadn’t lost Teddie as much as he’d just wandered off, and I couldn’t forgive him for that. He’d wandered back wanting to pick up the threads. I couldn’t forgive him for that either.
“Reinvention can be healthy.”
I skewered Forrest with a look. “Forced reinvention, not so much.”
“Lucky, all reinvention is forced.”
Why did everyone sound so much wiser than me lately? Life was bitch-slapping me upside the head, shattering my self-delusion. Hadn’t life been better when its hurt had been hidden? That sounded really appealing right now, but I doubted it was true, even if it was life forcing my hand. Maybe that irritated me even more. I wasn’t much of a believer in predestination—the Powers That Be gave me a brain and intended I use it to chart my course. That’s my plan, anyway.
Regardless of whether I was the cart or the horse, I wasn’t going to grouse about it. A grown-up life had a lot more shoulds associated with it than any of us liked. I nodded toward the door taped off with the yellow crime scene stuff. “Inside?”
“Yeah. Just duck under the tape. Since it’s you, nobody will care.”
I thought about Detective Reynolds. He would care. Oh, he would care very much. The thought delighted me. Nothing more fun than jerking with a dick, not literally, of course. Well, not here. And not Detective Reynolds. A shiver of revulsion snaked through me. I shook my head, trying to rattle my thoughts into some semblance of propriety. It didn’t work.
“Has Romeo been through here?” I pinched the bridge of my nose and squeezed my eyes shut for a moment, hoping all of this would go away.
“Not that I’ve seen.”
I blinked back tears of exhaustion when I refocused on Forrest. “In that case, if some weenie with a badge comes out here with a serious case of red ass, tell him you didn’t see me, okay? That you were on the other side of the building.”
“Why?”
“So I don’t have to carry the weight of your losing your moonlighting gig. Since it’s all about me, of course.”
“If it’s not, it should be. And no worries, I can handle that pansy-assed detective. Already had a run-in with him. I got your back, Miss Lucky.”
“You always have, and for that, there is a special place in Heaven for you, at least if I have to say anything about it, which might be tough as it will be a long-distance call from where I’m going to spend eternity.” A run-on thought if there ever was one. I was losing my grip.
Forrest looked like he wasn’t counting on any stroke I might have with the Almighty, which was a good thing. I hated to raise false hopes.
“Lucky, I figure those of us with you in this life will be together in the next and we’ll all just keep on like we always have.”
I clung to that bit of optimism as I trudged up the stairs, ducked under the tape, and pushed through the double glass doors.
The first doorway put me mid-level, between the lower tier and the upper tier of seats. The food stalls and retail kiosks were closed and covered, but the hint of hotdogs and beer drifted in the stale air.
From the inside, the arena was almost indistinguishable from the other venues salted along the Strip. A good size, holding twenty thousand or so depending on the setup for the show, with bright lights and a ring of programmable LEDs to flash come-ons at the captive crowd. Most of the lights were dark now, the LEDs black. Only a few spots circled the huddle of people on the floor of the arena in light. Above the lights laced a latticework of crow’s nests and catwalks. Two cages, pulled high, were empty now. This was Vegas—we had dancing girls at every venue in town.
Dirt had been brought in for the rodeo. The changes the crew could make to the arena were fantastic sleights of hand—from a wooden basketball court, to cement floor for concerts, to ice for skating, to dirt for the rodeo. Scanning, I worked to picture what might have happened. If the murder had happened in
the arena… The place was huge, with multiple entrances…and dark shadows that could hide a witness.
Techs crouched around the body shrouded in a yellow tarp. One carefully disengaged the rope. Coiling it in one hand, she then secured it in a plastic bag. No doubt, if that was the girl’s rope, her trace would be all over the thing. Not having a law degree or a functioning neuron, I wasn’t sure which way that would cut.
Other than a small circle around the crime scene, the dirt had been raked. I didn’t have to wonder whose bright idea that was. I hoped he’d been smart enough to canvas the whole arena before doing that, but I doubted it. The whole thing should’ve been taped off, but what did I know?
I took the steps down toward the arena slowly as I memorized details as best I could. Without a lot of information, I concentrated on everything, which was a bit much for my limited gray matter. At the bottom step that deposited me in front of the railing, I stared at the arena floor. Footprints led from some steps about midway down the south side of the arena toward the body but stopped at the last raked bit.
A young man swept the steps off to my right. He leaned on his broom as I approached. He looked as tired as I felt. Maybe exhaustion was contagious. If so, I hoped the CDC was working on it.
“When do you guys rake the dirt?”
“Once the place has cleared out. The cops stopped us until about half an hour ago. Rico just finished, in fact.”
“What time did the show end tonight?”
“It finished early on account of the dead guy.”
“He was killed during the rodeo? In front of twenty thousand people?”
“If he was killed, it was by a ghost. One of the bulls got into the arena. The clown jumped in.” He pointed to the body. “That was as far as that guy got, then he dropped.”
“And the rope?”
“I thought that part was weird. It was around his neck and trailing behind him.”
“Nobody trussed him up like a calf in the team roping?”
Lucky Ride (The Lucky O'Toole Vegas Adventure Series Book 8) Page 6
