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

by Deborah Coonts

  “Her kid’s one of the barrel racers. I’m curious why Beckham was wandering around the Kasbah. Did you check the guest register?”

  “Yeah, Brandy pulled it. Nothing jumped out but we’re running the names.”

  I drug in a breath, preparing to jump all over him.

  He cut me off before I got started. “Discreetly, of course.”

  I let the breath out in a thin stream. “Thank you.” Background checks and cops had a chilling effect of the joie de vivre in the high-roller rooms. “Give me a half hour to pull myself together. I’ll meet you at the Detention Center. But, in the meantime, would you please find Mr. Beckham before he hurts somebody?” The man was an amateur on a pro’s mission—collateral damage could be huge.

  “We’re looking. It’s like the man evaporated.”

  “He’s after someone, or he wouldn’t have taken the meds from Doc Latham’s van.”

  “Curiously, I got that far all by myself.”

  Now Romeo was quoting me verbatim. “Sorry. Thinking out loud. Didn’t mean to…”

  “I know. We both are barely hanging on.”

  “With some sleep, I’m doing better. Did you get any?”

  “Yeah, some.”

  But not enough. Unspoken, but loud and clear.

  “Look, I’ll keep Mr. Sinclair on ice for a bit. We need to process him and all of that, which will take time. Would you go talk to your mother? I know you’re avoiding it, but she might be able to shed some light, light we could really use.”

  I worked through all available excuses and came up empty. “Okay. I’m assuming we don’t have any more rodeo-related deaths that could possibly distract me, do we?” Half-kidding, the words had the ring of inevitability to them if we didn’t get Beckham first. I didn’t know why. The girls had fingered Toby. But Beckham was on a mission. None of it fit together. And none of it made sense, not that murder ever did, not really. Did murderers have instant regret like the jumpers taking a suicide plunge?

  “Somebody dies, you’ll be the first to know.”

  “I can’t tell you how happy that makes me. I’m over the moon. While I regain my equilibrium, I suggest you put Beckham’s daughter’s feet to the fire and find out who his friends are here and if he said anything that might hint at what he’s planning. We’ll find him. Vegas only shelters its own.”

  “I’m on it, Lucky. Surprisingly, the world kept spinning on its axis while you were asleep.”

  “So much for being important. Let me know if you find anything.” Where would a guy like Beckham go? If he was looking for help committing a felony, in this town, the possibilities were endless. And why the Kasbah?

  I rang off and fell back. I had to think. But first I had to move. Without much hope, I pondered the possibility.

  Not optimal, but fear was a great motivator. A confrontation with my mother, then questioning a potential murderer. With that on my schedule, I felt certain today couldn’t get much worse.

  A small consolation.

  But first a shower. I had my standards, low was they were.

  “You’ve had sex!”

  The voice came from behind me as I strode through the lobby of Cielo, fresh as a daisy and filled with purpose. My best friend, Flash Gordon. “Anybody else, and I would’ve shot you on sight,” I said, knowing she was within earshot, even if I used my inside voice.

  With Flash, everything she said was punctuated with an exclamation point, everything she said was usually cringe-worthy, and everything about her was overdone. So I really was feigning the whole displeasure thing. Sometimes it even worked. This little farce, or variations thereof, was part of our routine, like a secret handshake or something. Truth of it was, Flash would run through fire for me, bring the baseball bat to the party, help me bury the body…all of that. And I’d do the same for her.

  Loyalty—more precious than water in the Mojave.

  Heads turned. Eyebrows raised. My employees smirked. My customers looked like they were considering pumping me for advice on how to get laid in Vegas. Frankly, if you couldn’t get laid in Sin City, then you had a pesky disease, non-existent social skills or a low limit on your credit card.

  While I pretended not to be rocked by her observation, her verbal assault blew to smithereens the careful plotting and planning that I’d developed in the shower.

  With me, organization was a delicate thing and once imploded, all was lost and the day generally careened out of control. An excuse for my normal operating procedure, but I had to blame someone. I shouldered a lot of things, but today, blame wasn’t one of them. So I was a bit miffed.

  But Flash had her uses—taking my offloaded bullshit was only one of them. History and experience had taught me a few things. One of them: gathering info was best delegated to the pros. And, as the best investigative reporter in Vegas, Flash was a pro.

  As she skidded in beside me, I continued with my little rant. “Humiliating me in my own hotel is hardly the way to get what you came here for.” I still didn’t know what that was exactly, but, knowing Flash, I could narrow it down to one thing: something salacious no one else knew. Which meant the inside skinny on the rodeo murder. While I tried to figure out how much I’d give up to get the info I needed, I let her run.

  “Please.” She blew at the bangs that tickled her eyes. “Sex isn’t humiliating.”

  She looked like she believed that. She also looked…predictably scary.

  Flash was the Mutt to my Jeff, and she compensated by wearing the most insane heels, six inches of pain-inducing fashion. I never appreciated my height as much as when I looked at Flash’s feet. I prayed for them.

  If Flash was any indication, today was neon green day and I’d missed the memo. She’d captured her lush figure in a barely-there circle of nauseating green Latex, which, I must admit, offset her dark red curls cascading over her shoulders with some panache. Her makeup, as usual, was a bit overdone—if anything, Flash was consistent.

  “Sex not humiliating?” I gave her a disbelieving look. “I have one word: Elliot Spitzer.”

  “That’s two. He wasn’t humiliated, just browned off at getting caught. You know guys like that. They think they deserve a wife and a mistress…or two or three.”

  “Bad behavior cloaked by the public trust. Well, I’m not quite that egotistical or morally corrupt, I hope. But, even though you know where all the bodies are buried, metaphorically speaking, go easy, I’ve a carefully constructed corporate persona. But, as to the sex charge, you should know.”

  She started to argue, then a shit-eating grin split her face. “Damn straight. And proud of it, too. Then again, I get your jam—I’m not corporately-constrained like you.”

  With Flash, offence was the best defense. Yes, I meant it that way.

  At least someone pretended to appreciate the shackles I wore. “Do I really look like I had sex? If I did, it was three continents ago.”

  “No birthday sex?”

  “We’re saving up. But I get it. Even a working stiff in town deserves some nookie.”

  “Working stiff. Cute, but mundane. You can do better.”

  Not even a grin. I was insulted. “Not today.”

  “Besides, I’d hardly call Jean-Charles Bouclet a casual piece of ass.” She fell into step beside me.

  “Good to know. I have cred to protect.”

  “He must be some incredible working stiff. The after-orgasm glow suits you.” She actually said that with a straight face. Impressive.

  “This might be somewhat disappointing, but sleep actually is better for that whole youthful glow thing.”

  Her perfect brows crunched together. “That would be profoundly disappointing.”

  That was already more information than I could handle on an empty stomach. I watched her breasts bounce as she worked to keep up with my long strides. “Do those things ever escape?”

  She rewarded me with the guffaw I’d been hoping for. “Only when I want them to. We all have our assets. The key is recognizing them and
knowing how to put the package to its best use.”

  “That’s what I was afraid of.” I stopped in the middle of the lobby. Today, the whole Japanese Zen thing, with the soothing water features, subtle lighting, and walls of manicured grasses was lost on me…almost. Ever the corporate-type, I took a moment to catalog all the action around me. Nothing amiss.

  Yes, I owned one of the few hotels on the Vegas Strip without a casino. An oasis from the over-amped Vegas vibe. We were about pampering and rejuvenation. And I counted on others paying well for the privilege. A risk. An outlier. Either succeed beyond dreams of avarice or fail miserably. A metaphor for my life lived at the edges.

  Flash scurried a few steps further, then, when she realized I had stopped, she turned around to face me. “Give it up. I know you were front and center with the dead body at the rodeo.”

  “You know the drill. Ongoing investigation. Not free to share, despite first girlfriend status. But here’s the common knowledge as I know it.” I gave her my edited version of the truth.

  She plucked a pencil from between her breasts and a notepad from God knew where and started taking notes.

  When I’d wound down, she gave me a thoughtful look. “What do you need from me?”

  That caught me a bit off guard—not her usual angle. But I knew the steps of the dance, no matter who led. “I need you to get the videos from YouTube. No security feeds inside the arena, just outside in the parking lot where everyone expects bad to happen. So the interesting stuff will have been captured on an iPhone from the crowd. You can bet the videos will be posted almost immediately to YouTube where news has a shelf life shorter than last week’s tuna. The killer knew he’d go viral. So let’s watch what he wants us to watch.”

  “Got it.”

  “And I want you to dig deep into Reno.”

  “Reno? Like the city, Reno? Nothing ever happens in Reno besides quickie divorces and air-show mishaps. Good people just stop there for gas and Ho-Hos on their way to Tahoe. They don’t linger.” Her face flushed with emotion.

  “Really?” The vehemence was over the top, even for Flash. Like a flashing red light, it slowed me down a bit, but it didn’t make me stop. I was never one to err on the side of caution—nope, I’d blow through the warnings every time. Had the scars to prove it, but I was still alive. “Something bad happened when the rodeo made their Reno stop.”

  Her lips clamped tight into a thin line. “I would say Reno is known for bad, but that’s too whiney even for me. Got in with a black hat there.” She raised a hand. “Don’t ask. And yes, bad cowboy is not an oxymoron. So, if a bit of nasty went down with the rodeo, I’m your gal. Got a knife to sharpen.”

  “Isn’t that an axe to grind?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “No.”

  “Alrighty, then.” I wasn’t sure if Flash being poised on pissed off and contemplating sharp weapons was a good thing or a bad thing.

  “So something happened in Reno. Like what?”

  I gave her a look. “If I knew, what would I need you for?”

  “Comic relief?” My look wiped her attempt at a smile. “Okay, this is serious shit. I get it. So, stop with the visual memo—I hate it when your eyes go all slitty. Makes me want to run. So, seriously, any idea?”

  “Actually, I do know one thing. A healthy horse suddenly went hooves-up when the rodeo stopped there.” I gave her the particulars. “I want you to see if you can find the owners and talk to them.”

  “What are you looking for?”

  “Connections.”

  “Connections I can do.” She tried not to smile but failed.

  “Be careful. This isn’t a busload of NBA players all thinking you’re a worthy piece of ass and you working hard to live down to the expectation.”

  “Those days are in my rearview,” she said with a haughty air.

  “One day doesn’t count.” I shut down the banter. “First YouTube, then Reno.”

  I started to walk away to keep her attention. “And then find out what you can on a Sara Pickford. She owned a ranch outside of Reno.” I thought about asking her to dig deep into Dora Bates, but I figured we’d have her soon enough and her present was way more interesting than her past, right now. I didn’t specifically ask her to check into the girl’s background. Maybe I was protecting Mona, or myself. With or without my help, she’d come out in the grandmother’s story. Justification, I know.

  “Easy-peasy.” She tucked her pencil and pad away. “The normal agreement?”

  “Give me what I need and you’ll have the exclusive.” That agreement had worked well, and I had no intention of breaking that streak.

  Our dealings finished, I continued to the front of the hotel and pushed through the doors into the day. Cool and crisp, it called for a light jacket and I was glad I’d grabbed mine as an afterthought. Leather as soft as butter, it settled over my shoulders as if made just for me. Money might not be able to buy happiness, but it sure could buy exquisite Italian leather…and fine Italian iron. The growl of the Ferrari echoed from the bowels of the parking garage to the right.

  Although so new he squeaked when he walked, the valet actually had found my Ferrari—or one that looked like it. Such trifles didn’t hit my radar today.

  Mona loomed in my near future. Questioning a potential murderer was child’s play compared to the kid-glove handling my mother would require.

  Grateful for my car, I handed the kid a twenty. He returned my gratitude with a smile and a shallow bow.

  Flash followed me around the car, then hovered as I folded myself into the small space. “You think I could get a bow for a twenty?”

  “Not the kind you’re alluding to.”

  She thrust herself through the open window. “I’m on this. Anything else?”

  “Bring me back something to help me break this open, and you can write your own ticket.” I stepped on the brake and shifted into drive. Flash pulled back and I accelerated down the driveway. What if the truth steamrolled Mona? Would I let Flash run with the story? After a nanosecond, I knew I would. I’m not some holier-than-thou Holy Roller, but I do believe that one has to own up to the truth, to accept it, to pay the price. And I was no exception to that rule.

  Keeping life simple, elemental—harder in the short run, but far easier as time strung itself out in an ever-thinning line toward the future.

  Yeah, another lesson learned the hard way.

  I’d sent Flash on what sounded like a wild goose chase. But she usually bagged her limit and then some.

  This time, I was counting on it.

  And dreading it.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  MY mother was exactly where I expected to find her—in her apartment, the one that had been the Big Boss’s alone for as long as I could remember. The hour was well into socially acceptable and cruising toward happy hour. Alcohol sounded alluring, but breakfast should probably be first on my list…if my waning self-respect was a concern.

  Champagne, not just for breakfast anymore.

  I should probably be made to wear that saying pinned to my shirt like a scarlet letter—not that it would change anything. Shame wasn’t one of my hobgoblins…and a good thing, too.

  The ride up in the elevator had done little to give enlightenment as to how to proceed with my mother and not lose blood in the process. The private elevator had deposited me in the middle of the great room, which I stopped to drink in, as usual. Its perch on the fifty-second floor of the Babylon and its wall of surrounding windows on two sides gave the space the feel of a very comfortable tree house. By day, the view of the Strip paled, muted by the ever-present sunshine, but by night it was magical—a kaleidoscope of lights that could be seen from space, or so I’d been told.

  Masculine was still the overriding motif: leather upholstered walls dotted with lighted works by the lesser Masters. The more important works by the major Masters hung in the Big Boss’s private museum in the Bazaar at the Babylon, our high-end shopping corridor downstairs off the lobby. The wood floors ad
ded warmth. Clustered on bright colored rugs, the furniture made of exotic woods and the pelts of animals that had formerly found a home on the Serengeti added testosterone. Personally, I’d rather watch the animals bounding across the savannah, but the Big Boss hadn’t consulted me, not that that was unusual or anything. A dead zoo offended my sensibilities—thankfully there were no desiccated heads or stuffed carcasses here in the more public area of the apartment. But in the private sections, Mona slept under the watchful eye of former carnivorous predators—stuffed heads lurking over her like vultures at a dwindling waterhole.

  In life, irony abounds if you look for it.

  Mona had moved into my father’s space, but little had changed.

  If anything, my father had a mile-wide out-of-my-way streak. From the outside, his incorporation of my mother into his world and his space seemed seamless. But, knowing my father as I did, I could see the toll it took. He loved her desperately; I knew that. But loving Mona exacted a price.

  “Lucky? Is that you?” Mona’s voice sounded sharp and full of purpose—unexpected and terrifying. With the birth of the twins, Mona had milked the overworked, under-slept sympathy card to the point of making most who dealt with her for any length of time desperate to stuff a sock in her mouth, then paste a couple strips of duct tape over her nose and mouth. She often had that effect—it was her special gift.

  But now she sounded like she was back on her game.

  And, when Mona got the bit in her teeth, all bets were off. I shuddered and blocked out the most recent fiasco—a thousand live turkeys, a public market at the holidays. But that was better than her scheme to auction a virgin…a national black-eye that proved there really is such a thing as bad PR.

  My mother could sense my presence as if by osmosis, which had freaked me out as a child. Now I tried to spin it as a positive—if my mother knew I was close by, maybe, just maybe, she’d rethink whatever stupidity she was contemplating. My theory rarely worked, but hope springs eternal and all of that.

  Even though I knew where she’d holed up, I followed her voice, squinting against the sunshine streaming through the ceiling-high looking-glass walls. Ignoring the bar and its myriad weird and wonderful healing waters took Herculean self-control.