Tossed into a sea of emotions, I flailed about like a two-year-old unable to swim. “Odd you haven’t seen fit to tell me I had a sister. But, then again, this whole family thing has been on a need-to-know basis.” Anger burbled to the surface, molten lava sizzling in a cold sea. “Are you going to tell me about her?”
Mona flicked a gaze at her husband; then something inside her seemed to steel. “No. It’s none of your business.”
Of all the things she could’ve said, she said the one thing that pegged my pissed off. “None of my business,” I spluttered. “None of my business?” This time anger solidified in the words. “Since when was family not my business?”
The two people who had kept my father’s paternity from me stared at me with blank looks.
“Oh, yeah, keeping me in the dark is a family tradition, I forgot. How stupid of me. Mother, is the girl yours?”
“Don’t ask me that, Lucky. You can’t get near this. You have to promise me to let it go. For once, let me handle my business.”
“The girl has a photo for Chrissake and a story, but a DNA test would be definitive.”
“It’ll show there is a very strong likelihood I’m her mother.” Mona’s voice was as hard as steel.
“What?” I couldn’t think. Thoughts pinged like buckshot off of steel, whizzing dangerously close to soft flesh. I took a few deep breaths as I weighed my options. My father wouldn’t meet my eyes. He looked paler if that was possible.
Great.
This was the sort of thing my bleeding-heart father would get lathered up over. Whatever was going on, they both were in it up to their eyeballs. No doubt divide and conquer would be a better strategy, but for now I had their united front to climb over, if I could.
“The girl…Bethany is her name…Bethany Fiorelli.”
I caught another veiled look between my former family members.
“Bethany,” my mother whispered. Tears welled. She didn’t try to hide them.
“Bethany,” I said, pressing any advantage I could find, “is a person of interest in the murder at the rodeo last night.”
“What?” Mona looked like I’d plunged a spear through her heart.
“Don’t,” my father barked at her.
An order not to be denied and Mona clamped her mouth shut.
He softened his tone. “I’ve already spoken with…” With a head shake, he caught himself before he said too much. “Was she arrested?” he asked me.
“No.” That cut off that advantage—if the girl was in danger maybe they would’ve been more forthcoming—so I tried another. “An abandoned child will torpedo your political aspirations, Mother.”
She gave a little shrug and dabbed at her eyes with the monogrammed cuff of my father’s shirt. He didn’t go ballistic.
This was serious…way more serious than I feared.
What were they hiding? Well, besides the obvious.
“So be it,” my mother whispered without even a hint of whine. The idea hurt her, but whatever she was hiding hurt her more.
“Who says she was abandoned?” my father asked.
“Aren’t you the voice of reason?” Tackling them one at a time I could do. Together, I hadn’t a chance. I wilted under his pragmatic stare. “Okay, no one. Why won’t you tell me what’s going on?”
My father turned to his wife. “I wouldn’t.”
Mona kept her lips clamped and gave a curt nod. When she looked at me, she deflated. “I want to, Lucky, I really do. You deserve to know, but I can’t tell you.” She reached across my father and grabbed my hand. “You must promise to let me handle this.”
“Is she my sister?”
“I can’t, Lucky. You must know I love you more than life. If I had a choice, I’d tell you.” She swiped at her tears.
I didn’t know who they were for—Bethany, the Big Boss, me…herself? Or the family we used to be. “And the girl?”
“Let your father and I talk, then I want to meet her.”
“So, you want me to tell her that she’s right, that you’re her mother?”
“That should come from your mother, don’t you think?” My father swung into his protective mode. He put his hand on mine. “We love you, Lucky. Give us time to sort this out. Your mother isn’t playing one of her games.”
That cooled my anger and lit my panic. “Why can’t you tell me?”
He turned to stare out the window. He loved the lights, the magic, just as I did. But now, in the heat of the day, the sun dimmed the magic until it was barely visible. “There’s no statute of limitations on murder…”
“What?” My breath left me in a whoosh, carrying that one word and my heart with it.
Mona quieted him with a hand on his arm. “Don’t. Not yet.” She speared me with a look that filled me with her pain. “And Bethany’s grandmother? Where is she?”
“The girl said she’s dead.”
Mona slumped as if her bones had turned to jelly. She looked relieved. “Albert, they’re all gone. All of them.”
“All but one.” He stared at her pointedly. “And you’re my wife.”
“The girl wants to come here and meet you, Mother.”
“I need to think about that.” Her gaze flicked to her husband.
“Would you two let me in?”
They both whirled on me. “No!” they said in unison.
“Give us time,” my father added.
“We may not have time.” I took back what control I could. They both focused on me. “Like I said, Bethany is wanted in conjunction with a murder at the rodeo.”
My mother tightened her grip on her husband.
He shook his head. “I heard about that. Turnbull was his name. The father of two of the competitors.”
“How old was he?” Mona whispered, the color draining from her face.
“Early forties.” He patted his wife’s leg as she relaxed a bit. “What do the police think Bethany had to do with Mr. Turnbull’s murder?”
“They don’t know. They’ve just taken her in for questioning.”
“Then it’ll be all right. Does she have an attorney?”
“Squash Trenton.”
A sad smile lifted one corner of my father’s mouth. “He’s the perfect man for the job.”
“How so?” My phone jangled, making me jump. “Fuck,” I said, hopefully under my breath. From my mother’s scowl and my father’s resigned amusement, I didn’t pull it off. After snagging the device from its holster at my waist, I glanced at the caller ID. Miss P, my assistant. “This better be good,” I barked as I pressed the phone to my face. She didn’t deserve it, but I needed it. I’m weak that way. Something else to add to the ever-growing and already extraordinarily lengthy Lucky O’Toole Self-Improvement Program.
Now, I love a goal. But an unattainable one, especially one I set for myself, pisses me off. Which, at the moment, wasn’t helping.
“Have you had your coffee yet?” She didn’t seem rocked by my tone.
“No, but I’ve had a shot or two of cold urine to the heart, a much better jumpstart.” I didn’t mention the Wild Turkey. Pride cometh before a fall and all that, which I chose to ignore.
“Not from where I’m sitting. I’ll put a pot on. I hope you’re close.”
“Upstairs.”
“In that case, forget the coffee and meet me in the Kasbah. Is Detective Romeo with you?”
My breath caught. “No, but I know where he is.”
“Bring him, too. I’ve already called Metro so the coroner ought to have been alerted.”
Oh, so not good. “Where?”
“Kasbah. Bungalow Twelve. I’ve got all the appropriate folks en route, but you need to be rolled in on this one.”
Just as my feet had hit the sacred soil of Sin City, bodies had started to pile up. I must’ve picked up an ancient curse overseas. “Are curses contagious?”
“If you are receptive.”
It appeared that sympathy wasn’t on the menu this morning. “On my way.”
Right now, an easy choice. If I didn’t leave, Romeo would have several bodies to deal with and, as overworked as he was, I’d feel really bad about adding to his workload.
I discarded Miss P’s call and pulled up my favorites. First on the list, Romeo had the primo spot. If that wasn’t the sign of a misspent life, I didn’t know what was.
He answered on the first ring. “Are you here?”
“Yes, I’m here, but I think we have different definitions of that, and different geography since I’m not there.”
“You worry me,” he said with a sigh.
“Stand in line. We have a bigger problem.”
“Larger.” From his tone, it was easy to tell he was at his problem limit. “We have a larger problem. Bigger indicates size. Larger indicates—”
“Magnitude, I know. Ms. Filbert’s English 101, had to take it twice. Sounds like a death in the Kasbah. Miss P called. Metro’s en route. I’m on my way there now. Remind me to slap you when I see you.”
“Be there in ten. Not on your life.”
I tossed the phone in my bag, then gulped the rest of my breakfast and levered myself to my feet. Three strides and I was around the couch and halfway to the elevator.
“Lucky!” Mona called after me, her tone imploring, yet infused with steel, cut a gash in my heart.
I didn’t look back. I didn’t answer. I pressed the button. The doors didn’t open immediately. Numb, for once, I didn’t mash the button repeatedly in irritation. Instead, I waited patiently, staring at my shell-shocked visage in the polished metal of the doors. I looked normal—soft brown hair, big blue eyes, haunted yet hungry, dark circles underscoring them, fine lines fracturing my face in ways that made me different than the me I used to be. But inside, I still felt like the old me. An inner/outer lack of synchronicity that kept me out of sorts.
But this too was normal, a normal I was trying to change. Well, except the hair, I really liked the hair.
Caught in the trap of my own emotions, it never dawned on me that I waited because someone had called the private elevator—someone I wouldn’t want to see.
The doors slid open, leaving me face-to-face with another problem with no solution.
Teddie.
He looked as shocked to see me as I felt in seeing him.
Way past playing nice, I didn’t try. Yes, I was still punishing him, and myself, in the process. Someday, I’d grow up, but today wasn’t that day. “Terrific.” At least I could still mutter and grouse, even if complete thoughts were still out of my reach.
He stood there mute, looking like he’d been slapped.
I knew how he felt.
Why did first loves have to hurt so much and for so long?
When he regained function, he gave me a sad look, followed by what I thought was the hint of a smile, then he moved to step by me.
I caught his elbow, and, careful of his leg that had recently had a bullet tear through it, I steered him into an about-face. “Not now.” My tone and vise grip on his arm didn’t allow any argument. “My parents need some time alone.”
Once the doors shut behind us, he gave me a look as I leaned back against the back wall of the car. Putting distance between us, he pressed himself into the opposite corner. “I come up sometimes to check on your mother,” he said as if he needed to explain.
He didn’t.
“How’d you get up here?” The floor was private, housing only one other apartment.
“I’m staying in your old place next door. My place…” He let the words hang.
Even though I’d been the target, not the perpetrator, I still felt responsible for the explosion that had displaced us both. “Yeah.” That small apartment next door was becoming a halfway house for the brokenhearted. That would make a good title for a country-western song.
Teddie’s musical genius was a bit more throwback, so I kept my thought to myself.
“I hadn’t seen the twins since…” His brows furrowed as his gaze slipped to the floor.
“Now’s not a good time.”
This time he gave me a full appraisal. “Are they okay?”
Another question with no real answer. “I think so. No blood was shed.” My attempt at humor didn’t amuse either of us.
“I would ask if you want to talk about it.” Uncomfortable, he shifted, looking for footing on emotional quicksand.
Even with the mess between us, I could still read him almost intuitively. “Don’t.” I missed the days when I could run to Teddie with the biggest secret or the most insignificant irritation. He’d always known how to make me laugh. And laughter cured most ills. Not sure about my current one, but part of me really wanted to give it a try.
“Buy you a drink?” The hope in his words stung.
Guess he could still read me as well. “I’ve been summoned by Miss P.”
“You look like that’s the last thing you need.”
A whole history in unspoken words passed between us. “When did life give me what I needed?” The minute the words escaped, I regretted them. Beating Teddie up for being who he was, was a fool’s errand and getting old. I held up my hand before he could jump in. “I’m sorry. Bad day.”
The thing I’d realized about Teddie and me was that I was part of the whole implosion. I couldn’t put it all off on Teddie. The fact that we stood on different rungs of the maturity ladder had been obvious to me from the beginning. Not that I was any guru or anything, but I had already learned the downside of indulging my ego—he had not. And he’d sacrificed us on that ego altar.
Maybe he’d learned; maybe he hadn’t. Time would tell.
I could forgive but I’d never forget. Was that enough?
Teddie gave me a small laugh. “Despite your efforts to the contrary, you are as easy to read as block letters in big type in a first-grade primer. Anything I can do?”
He looked sincere. He also looked…good. A bit wan, but I was beginning to understand that getting shot could do that. Why did the men around me always seem to be getting shot? I was the common denominator. I tried to connect all those dots, but I had been given a mental piece of chalk when I needed a fine-tipped Magic Marker.
To be honest, like a wilted flower given water, he’d perked up a bit since our plane ride home. His short blond hair had been freshly gelled. The turquoise of his eyes looked enhanced—it wasn’t. And the fringe of long lashes inspired envy in each woman he met—if she could get past the lust part. Most couldn’t. I hadn’t. And I’d lost a treasured friendship for it. The sex had been delish, but not worth the price.
He radiated the comfort of the we that we’d used to be. How I longed to dive into his arms for a big hug to make the world disappear. But I wasn’t an any-port-in-a-storm kind of gal.
Morals, such a bother when the child in me longed for comfort.
Ah, well, like I said, life rarely gave me what I wanted, but I was old enough to know it generally served up what I needed, whether I liked it or not.
“How’s the leg?” I asked, then realized it had been maybe a day since we’d gotten off that plane, not even.
“Same.” He’d changed clothing since I last saw him. The bandage on his leg necessitated the gym pants. In keeping with comfort, he’d grabbed his Harvard sweatshirt, the one with the neck cut out…the one I used to wear. Yeah, Teddie was the whole package--Harvard, Julliard, GQ, but he’d made the fatal error of believing his own press.
The elevator whirred to a stop and the doors slid open, inviting in the cacophony of the hotel at full bore. Catapulted by my need for normalcy, I leaped into the fray. A few strides took me to the center of the lobby, where I stopped under the canopy of blown-glass hummingbirds and butterflies in sweeping flight. While I relished having my own hotel, the Babylon was still my responsibility and it would always be the home of my heart.
People schooled like tiny silver fish, flashing Vegas sparkle as they darted through the lobby, completely oblivious to the inlaid marble floors—a wo
rk of art that took millions of man-hours, not to mention a hefty pile of green to complete. In Vegas, if you don’t push the limits, you’re falling behind. That held true in every facet of the life experience here.
Excitement and joy permeated the air. Lines snaked from the stations at the reception desk that lined one side of the lobby under brightly hued cloth tented above. Staff clothed in miniscule gladiator uniforms worked the lines, offering complimentary flutes of Champagne. The opposite wall was a huge sheet of Lucite behind which skiers could try their hand at skiing in the Mojave on our man-made slope, complete with moguls, a rope tow, and a buff and bodacious Ski Crew ready to give comfort. I’d suggested a St. Bernard with a neck flask of medicinal spirits, but the insurance guys slammed that idea. Such killjoys.
The Big Boss loved to promote his indoor hill as the only skiing in Vegas. While he was technically accurate, he neglected to mention there was skiing in the winter months a short drive north of town at Mt. Charleston. Even folks who visited Vegas multiple times a year often didn’t know they could shush through real snow in the morning, then sun by the pool in the afternoon. Of course, keeping our clientele at the tables was job number one, so I didn’t feel the need to enlighten.
If you didn’t keep them in the House, the House couldn’t win.
And the House always wins.
A few survivors of last night’s New Year’s Eve pandemonium staggered through the sets of double glass front doors. A girl with smeared lipstick, a wilted dress, and sparkly stilettos clutched in her hand. Several young men, arms thrown around each other’s shoulders in an effort not only to remain standing but to walk in a relatively straight line. Just inside the doors, they paused, confusion reigning over their features. One of our security guards checking hotel room keys—a New Year’s requirement to get into the hotel—rushed to help them. Another young man piled in behind the others. Naked except for a clear plastic guitar filled with an amber liquid that he wore on a shoulder strap just the right length for the guitar to cover vital external organs, he sloshed when he walked, giving anyone who cared a peek. Another security guard handled him. I could tell from the young man’s outstretched arms that he didn’t have a key, but, boy, I bet he had a story—if he could remember. I was tempted to edge closer to practice my eavesdropping skills, but homicide goaded me with the shock of a cattle prod.
Lucky Ride (The Lucky O'Toole Vegas Adventure Series Book 8) Page 16
