Lucky Ride (The Lucky O'Toole Vegas Adventure Series Book 8)

by Deborah Coonts

  “Take care of her. You’ll see I’m telling the truth.” Once out of the stall, he moved aside, ignoring me and motioning for Romeo to precede him. “Detective?”

  Romeo stepped back. “No, after you, Doc.”

  Before Romeo moved to follow the doc, I stopped him with a hand on his arm.

  He lifted one side of his mouth—it wasn’t a smile but more of a grimace. “I know, don’t trust anybody. I got this.”

  I leaned in close as I watched the doc move down the aisle. He favored his left leg. “Watch your back. I’ll wait here for you,” I shouted after Romeo.

  CHAPTER SIX

  MR. BECKHAM glared up at me as the silence amplified the fact that I’d put myself in the pen alone with the bull. And I’d given Romeo my gun.

  I decided to dazzle him with my own particular brand of bullshit. “Let me hear your theories on who would want to kill your daughter’s horse.”

  “The kid said I could go.”

  “True.” I pursed my lips as I gave him my best serious look, which, considering my present state, was probably a bit cross-eyed. “But I’d think that, if you didn’t have anything to do with any of this, and if you don’t want your daughter to think you tried to kill her horse, you’d cooperate.”

  He weighed that for a moment. “My daughter is good, really good. To get to the top, the rider has to be decent, but the horse has to be one in a million.”

  “Was your daughter with you tonight?”

  “At the bar?” He didn’t hide his disdain at my stupid question.

  No kids under twenty-one in the bar. As The First Commandment of Vegas Gaming, it was tattooed on my ass, but I wasn’t going to let Beckham see it. If he thought I was just another stupid female too ignorant to know the gaming rules… Some people, all you had to do was give them the rope. Mr. Beckham struck me as the type who would eventually manage to get that rope wrapped around his neck, his feet dangling. A rather macabre analogy, all things considered, but I sorta liked it…all things considered.

  “Where was she?”

  “In the room.” Maybe he was lying, or maybe she’d snuck by him at the bar and he was none the wiser.

  “Who stands to gain if your daughter’s horse is dead?”

  Mr. Beckham gave a huff. “Everyone competing against her. And, being the Rodeo Queen makes her a larger target.”

  “Anyone in particular having a fit of jealousy?”

  Looking up at me, he gave me the side-eye. “You’re not with the cops, are you?”

  “Not officially, but more of an outside consultant. I don’t like people messing with my Vegas magic.”

  “That’s it?” His Neanderthal was slipping.

  “No, this one’s personal.”

  “Aren’t they all?” He stared into the distance for a moment.

  I’d sure like to see what he was visualizing. “Who’s the next best barrel racer?”

  He pretended to be interested in something far down the row of stalls, his eyes holding a glazed look. “I’m not making any accusations, but Doreen Bates has been giving us a run for our money.”

  “Bates? Dora Bates’s daughter?”

  “Yeah, her mother is just crazy enough to do something like this. Lately, she’s been weirder than normal.”

  “Someone said the same thing about you.”

  He gave a derisive little snort. “True.” He motioned to the stall. “With this sort of stuff going on, wouldn’t you be?”

  Even though I didn’t want to, I gave him that point.

  He swung his head like a lion eyeing a meal—I wasn’t sure how to interpret that. “Dora’s from Tahoe. She’s one of those stage moms. Batshit, you know? Does crazy-ass shit. Doesn’t mean she’d poison a horse, though.” Beckham pulled back from his accusation. Something in his tone got my attention.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. She’s crazy, that’s all.”

  “From my experience, it’s usually not the crazy ones. Is that the same Dora Bates that Doc Latham is sweet on?”

  “The crazies, they find each other.” Mr. Beckham picked up a piece of hay and started chewing on it.

  “You have no idea where that has been.”

  He clapped those dark eyes on me. “What?”

  I watched the piece of hay bob as he chewed on the end. “Never mind.”

  I was cementing my stupid female status. Unintentional, but I was okay with it—I wasn’t above playing any angle to help me figure out what was actually going down with all these…people.

  “There’s somebody for everybody.” When unsure what to say, which was often, I resorted to platitudes. The man sitting at my feet threw a sliver of doubt into the truth hidden in that one—although he did have a daughter.

  Beckham gave me a grin. Clearly, my IQ had plummeted enough for us to be friends. Or he was feeling more comfortable in playing me. I wasn’t sure either was a good thing. “What’s so crazy about Dora Bates?”

  “She’s always pushing people around. Trying to pave the way for her kid but making it worse.”

  “Did Dora try to push you around?”

  He eyed me with a flat expression. “How far do you think she would get?”

  I took that as a yes. The lady had balls…or was desperate. “You know Doc’s assistant, Bethany?”

  “She hasn’t been with the rodeo that long—maybe joined around Reno? I can’t remember exactly. We’re new on this part of the circuit, but she hooked in with my daughter. Thick as thieves, those two.” He had a soft spot for his daughter.

  Yes, his humanity was leaking through the cracks in his bluster. But it didn’t mean I wasn’t afraid of him—just that I liked him a bit…a tiny bit.

  “Do you think Bethany had anything to do with what happened to my horse tonight?”

  “The police are questioning her; that’s all I know.”

  “They’re just pawing in the hay like everybody.”

  “Which hotel are you and your daughter staying at?”

  “We scored a couple of rooms at one of those suite hotels around the corner. Don’t remember the name. Some forced Vegas kitsch.” He shifted, putting weight on one meaty hand to lever himself up.

  Apparently, he didn’t know she was sweeping out the arena with the cleaning crew, subbing for Bethany. But if Bethany was the vet’s assistant, what was she doing on the cleaning crew?

  “Any idea why someone wanted to hurt your kid’s horse?”

  “I can speculate, same as you.”

  I took that as a “Yes, but I’m not telling you.”

  “Where’d you learn to hit like that?” Beckham worked his jaw, then fingered the growing knot.

  He probably could tell I felt like doing it again.

  “First female to knock me on my ass.” He gave me a sloppy grin that came off as a leer. “Not the first to try, though.”

  “Spent my formative years in a whorehouse.” Watching him unfold himself to his full height made me appreciate Jack as he watched his beanstalk grow.

  “A whorehouse?” He gave me a look I was used to—lewd with a hint of interest.

  “My mother owned the place. She has her issues, but putting her daughter to work for her wasn’t one of them.”

  “Oh.” The interest faded, but the lewd remained.

  “Be careful I can read guys like you in a glance.” Too tired to pull my punches, I didn’t feel the need to elaborate. “Before you go, the cops are going to want to talk to you.”

  He glanced toward the circle of light in the arena. “Cops? Didn’t I just talk to the cops? You and Captain America?”

  “Not officially. The guy in the arena there,” I pointed to Reynolds but was unable to call him Detective, “he’s going to want to take your statement.”

  “I’ve said all I have to say.”

  “Your choice, but I’ve found things go better with the police if you play nice.”

  Not that I followed my own advice or anything, but he didn’t need to know that. “How long had
you been here when you found me talking to the tractor kid?”

  “Just getting here. I parked my truck on that side—easier to get into the barn that way.”

  “You didn’t see anything or anyone?”

  His gaze drifted from mine as he smoldered. “No.”

  “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

  His eyes locked on mine. “I’d like to know the answer to that myself.”

  “Maybe so. But I think you know more than you’re telling me.”

  I watched him head off in the direction of his truck. He was stonewalling me, for sure. But why? Who was he protecting?

  Concerned about the horse, I cooled my heels. He seemed to be breathing easier. His eyes weren’t as wild, his nostrils not as flared. The scared was leaving him. Back on his feet, he was still struggling. What kind of vet left a horse in extremis? Okay, I was overstating, but still... Maybe the vet’s behavior wasn’t convicting but rather the reflection of a long day and a late night.

  The pony stuck his muzzle through the partially opened stall door. Ever a sucker, I ran my hand down the horse’s neck over and over, trying to give peace and find some. His head resting in the crook of my arm, he absorbed the love. If anything could bring him back, love could.

  Something was nagging at me—I resisted smiling at the unintended pun. What can I say? I’m a pun magnet. No, scratch that, I’m a bad pun magnet, to the extent that’s not redundant. And clichés, don’t get me started. They’re just so…expressive.

  As Romeo had said when excusing my bad habit, a hint of truth that resonated with most of us.

  Romeo. He should be back anytime.

  Why would the doc leave a horse who was obviously still struggling a bit? Why would Mr. Beckham not argue with him about it?

  Romeo.

  What the hell was going on?

  And the girl? What part did she play? Or both girls, for that matter?

  So many questions. Way too many moving parts. Dora Bates. Darrin Cole. Toby Sinclair.

  Romeo.

  Maybe it was almost losing him in Macau, but I kept coming back to him.

  Something wasn’t right. My gut knew it. I’d learned to listen when my gut shouted, as it was now.

  I turned and ran. At the intersection with the main aisle, I paused a half step. Reynolds was still subjecting the group in the arena to his ineptitude, but it looked like the coroner and his team were wrapping things up.

  Nothing there.

  Racing down the center aisle, I glanced down each row of stalls but saw no one. His truck. That’s what Doc Latham had said. I burst through the open doorway at the end of the aisle and skidded to a stop.

  A sea of trucks and trailers greeted me.

  Terrific. I thought about shouting, then stifled myself.

  He could be in trouble.

  I’d just have to find Romeo the hard way. Crouching I crab-walked up and down the rows, keeping my head low and only popping up to get my bearings. The night was still, so I kept an ear cocked.

  Nothing…and no one.

  Despite the cold night air—the high desert cooled quickly without the sun—sweat trickled down my sides. I never realized how large the parking area was. My thighs screamed, and my body begged to be unfolded and stand upright. I alternated between feeling foolish and feeling something was wrong.

  I worked through the trailers then I remembered what Mr. Beckham had said about parking on the side of the building near the tractor stall. The vet would know the convenience of that entrance as well.

  God, I needed a brain transplant. Think!

  Shuffling, struggling, forcing my legs to move, I worked myself around that way, using trucks, trailers, and commercial signage that had been taken down for the night as shelter.

  About halfway there, I heard it. An engine gunning. Then one pop. Then another.

  Gunfire.

  I abandoned my cover and ran.

  A weak light over the entrance helped push back the night. One truck, black, huge, like a pickup had mated with an eighteen-wheeler, angled into the entrance. California plates, coated in road grime. Dust hung in the air, diffusing the weak light.

  Someone had left in a hurry.

  Banking on it being the shooter who’d felt the need to disappear, I skidded to a stop and started shouting. “Romeo!” Silence. I stopped at the front of the truck. “Romeo!”

  “Jesus, you could wake the dead.” Romeo. Alive but grumpy. “Over here.”

  I followed his voice around to the other side of the truck. Doors on the side of the back bay winged open, exposing an array of veterinary medicines and equipment, all carefully arranged on shelves and hooks.

  Booted feet attached to jeaned legs protruded from under the right door. Not Romeo’s choice in footwear, so I didn’t panic. I sneaked my head around for a look.

  Romeo knelt by the inert form of Doc Latham. I landed on my knees next to him. The kid didn’t look at me as he focused on the doc.

  “Is he okay? What happened?” I didn’t see any blood on either of them, so that was a good thing. My heart slipped back down where it should be.

  “That asshole, Beckham, came around the corner like a bull chasing a cow in heat. Caught the doc in the back of the head with a two-by-four.” Romeo reached gently around the doc’s head. His fingers came back bloody. “Crushed the bone.”

  He didn’t have to tell me what to do. “You got a phone?” Mine was in my purse, and my purse was missing at the moment. Had I left it in the car? Without looking at me, he handed me his cell, and I punched the emergency button. A few sentences to the 911 dispatcher and I’d summoned the cavalry.

  When I’d finished, I dropped his phone back into his pocket. “He’s breathing, right? How’s his pulse?”

  I pressed my fingers to the side of his neck. Closing my eyes, I shut out the world and focused, searching for a beat…something, anything. “Shallow. Thready. Hope the EMTs get a move on.”

  Already, sirens sounded in the distance. The comforting sound let some mad seep in where the worry had been.

  I wanted to be angry with Beckham, and I was, but I was furious at myself. “This is my fault. I should’ve walked Beckham over to Reynolds and introduced the two of them.”

  “I told you he could go.” Romeo puttered trying to make the vet comfortable—a futility that wouldn’t be appreciated anyway—the guy was out.

  I sat back on my heels. “Hell of a life.”

  “But we rid the world of the Forces of Evil,” he said, parroting my Pollyanna act as he shrugged out of his jacket, laying it over the doc. Watching him, I smiled. Funny how kids grow up and absorb lessons when you aren’t looking.

  “Well, not the Forces, but perhaps their minions.”

  “A win. I’ll take it.” With nothing else to do but wait, he settled back on his heels and looked at me.

  “Whoa. That’s quite a shiner.”

  His eye was already swelling, a shadow circling underneath dark enough to be seen in the half-light.

  “He landed one, but that was it. Staggered me a bit. Gave him just enough time to grab what he wanted then he ran—he took the evidence you gathered from the stall, as well as grabbing stuff out of Doc’s van. I got two shots off, but it was really more of a pissed-off reflex. He’d jumped in his truck and fishtailed out of here before I could level my gun. Might’ve gotten a tire, but don’t think so.”

  “He took the tubes of lipstick and the red ball thingy?”

  Romeo shrugged.

  “Don’t beat yourself up over it. Not much you could’ve done. Any idea what he took from the van?”

  “Barbiturates? But that’s just a guess. We’ll have to do an inventory.” He glanced down at the doc, who hadn’t moved. “Without his help, it might be tough.”

  “Bethany was his helper. Maybe she can shed some light.” The girl was too clever by twice. Perhaps I could figure a way to corral that intellect. Leverage. Yeah, I needed more leverage or at least the illusion of more.

>   The doc’s hat had slipped to the side. I resisted the urge to set it back right. It might be holding his head together or a bleeder in check. Another lesson learned the hard way. Where were the pros? From the echoing sirens, I’d say they were on the opposite side of the arena, working their way around. Pale and immobile, the doc looked darn near dead.

  “Maybe.” Romeo’s lips stretched into a thin slash across his face. His hands on his thighs, his fingers twitching, he watched the doc.

  “There’s nothing we can do. The EMTs are almost here.”

  As the words landed, the ambulance screamed around the corner, then skidded to a stop at an angle to the truck.

  Romeo and I backed away, letting the pros do their thing.

  With no tolerance for any more death, I couldn’t watch. I stared toward the lights of the Strip, close enough to paint the west horizon—the high-beam light from the top of the Luxor had been extinguished, signaling the end of night and heralding the impending day. From where I stood, the magic of the Strip was light-years away. “Any idea how much he took?”

  “We don’t even know exactly what he took, but I’m willing to run with the theory that he took barbiturates and he had time to take enough.”

  I felt Romeo’s stare, then sensed him turning to follow my gaze.

  “You think he was replenishing his supply?” he asked.

  “I’ve got nothing to base an opinion on other than a gut feeling, but no. I don’t think he was part of what has been going on. If I could hazard a guess, I’d say he’s more of a victim. That’s why he was so angry. Men like that don’t like feeling helpless.”

  Romeo pulled in a deep breath. “I agree. But something about tonight put him onto somebody.”

  “Yeah, now he has a target.” I nudged the detective. “You need to get after him.”

  That got a response. He pulled out his phone and started punching numbers and barking orders. At one point, he covered the phone and addressed me. “Any idea what hotel?”

  “One of the suite places around the corner, probably on Paradise.”

  He nodded and went back to his conversation.