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

by Deborah Coonts

  Turns out he had the best words after all.

  I rested my head on his shoulder.

  “So, what is this about, how do you say it? Cold feet?”

  “Yes, that’s how you say it. And it’s not so much that as resistance to change. I feel safe in the comfort of sameness—an ordered world.”

  “This is normal, but it is not the best life.”

  I put my glass on the floor next to my feet, then I leaned back again, angling my face up for a kiss. As I pulled his head toward me, I murmured against his lips, “No, it’s not.”

  Then I took what I wanted, what my heart knew I’d wanted all along.

  I ran. My mother behind. So close I could feel her fear. “Run,” she gasped. My short legs churned. “Faster.” Fear pounded through me. The man behind us. He crashed through the forest. Gray branches stripped bare by winter. They slapped at me—the prodding sting of a whip. Tears, hot and desperate, burned down my cold skin. “Run, Lucky. Don’t stop.” The voice faded. I turned to look. My mother was gone.

  With a tight shriek, I bolted upright, blinking against the nightmare.

  Jean-Charles folded me into a hug, his skin warm, his breath hot against my neck. “It is okay.”

  Home.

  Daylight barely pinked the sky—in our heat we’d neglected to close the shades. The memory of our desperate lovemaking chased away the terror that lingered.

  I was safe here.

  But why had my mother disappeared? Who had taken her? Was the dream my desperate attempt to justify her abandonment—or something else?

  Although the dream was gone, I couldn’t shake a lingering, stalking fear.

  A soft scratching against the door pushed back into the darkness the last bits of cold. Jean-Charles groaned as he nuzzled my neck, creating waves of warm desire, making me groan in unison.

  “Papa?” Christophe, his voice soft yet insistent, conspiratorial in the way of five-year-olds.

  “Children,” Jean-Charles sighed. “Oui, mon coeur?” he said, his voice loud enough to be heard through the slatted door.

  “Are a gift,” I whispered, using words I’d heard him say many times.

  He took my hand, guiding it to where need pulsed, hot and hard. “But their timing is not always so impeccable.”

  I stroked him a few times before letting go. “Considering how many times he has stopped us as we’ve started, I’d say his timing is impeccably consistent.”

  “Papa? Please say Lucky is here.”

  That’s all it took. I bounded out of bed, shrugged into a robe, tied it, and threw open the door almost before I was aware of doing so. Bending on knees that croaked their objection, I gathered the boy in a bear hug. Holding him tight, I breathed him in. His arms, tight around my neck, ensnared my heart. “Voilà, mi corazon.”

  His body echoed with giggles. “That’s not French.”

  “What?” I leaned back to look him in the eye and give him an exaggerated face. “It’s not?”

  He rewarded me with a cascade of more giggles and another snuggle.

  “You must teach me.”

  “Only if you make happy-face pancakes with lots of chocolate,” he whispered against my neck.

  Chocolate for breakfast—one vice I’d managed to avoid. Not that I wasn’t above inflicting it on others. “Happy-face pancakes, coming right up.”

  “I will help.” A man on a mission, Christophe scrambled out of my hug, then disappeared through the living room into the kitchen, his legs churning.

  Jean-Charles had stepped into a pair of gym shorts. He extended a hand. “I have competition for your heart, I think.”

  My knees thanked me as I let him pull me to my feet. “You both have it, just different parts.”

  He gave me an I-told-you-so smile. “I am sorry he awakes when the day is so young.”

  “We will have to adjust our schedule so we have us time. But today it’s actually good.”

  With two dead bodies cooling on his tables, the coroner would start early.

  The Office of the Coroner/Medical Examiner was housed in a low, squat building behind Sunrise Hospital. From the outside, it looked like the rest of Vegas, stucco painted in desert colors. Few would suspect the grim search that went on behind the unassuming façade.

  The stench of death and decay hit me the moment I pushed through the doors. Even though somewhat prepared, I fought a gag reflex. Even though I’d resisted lingering in a child’s happiness and a father’s amusement, the coroner was hard at work when one of his team ushered me inside. A bright overhead light illuminated the body, open and raw. Hunched in concentration, the coroner barely registered my presence. “Working on the second one now.”

  “Dora Bates.”

  “Prelim tox screen came back. Both she and Turnbull had lethal levels of barbiturates in their systems.”

  “Not unexpected.” In an effort not to focus on the grisly work, I occupied myself with a pile of photos from the crime scene. “May I?”

  “Knock yourself out.”

  Flipping through them, I reacquainted myself with both Turnbull’s and Dora’s deaths.

  “Looks like Dora took one hell of a beating.”

  The safety glasses exaggerated his eyes as the coroner glanced up from his work. “How so?”

  “The color of her skin. Looks like a bad bruise.”

  “Not a bruise—well, not like you mean. Not due to physical trauma. It’s lividity. After the heart stops beating, gravity works its magic and the blood pools.”

  With that tidbit, I returned to the photo. “So, she was dead before she was strung up?”

  “Not necessarily. But she’d been dead for some time before you found her.”

  That got my attention. “How long?”

  He pursed his lips. “Time of death is an inexact science at best, but from the state of both the lividity and rigor, I’d say at least six hours, maybe a bit more.”

  “Really?” My mind whirled. “She died before Turnbull?”

  “That’s the way I see it.”

  I’d been operating under the assumption that they’d died in the order we’d found them. Stupid.

  “I’ve got something else interesting.” The coroner peeled off his gloves then took off his safety glasses. “Follow me.” He led me into one of the labs filled with all kinds of equipment that I couldn’t identify. Technicians bent over scopes and analyzed printouts. He pulled a plastic tray labeled with a case number. “This is the red thread ball you found in the horse’s stall.”

  The ball nestled by itself in the tray. “Looks like it.”

  He looked at me over the tops of his glasses. “It’s the one that was in the plastic bag retrieved from the trash at the Babylon.”

  “Okay.”

  He shook the tray until he could see what he wanted me to see. “See here? The thread leading off the ball part?”

  Bending over the tray, I squinted.

  He thrust a pair of cheaters at me. “Use these.”

  Donning them brought things into sharper focus. “What am I looking for?”

  “The end. See how it looks clean, no threads longer than the others?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It was cut.”

  Pulling off the cheaters, I raised up. “Like on purpose?” I tried to get my head around what that meant.

  “Yes.” The coroner waited, letting me get there on my own.

  “So, someone cut this off her jacket? It was off her jacket, right?”

  He donned another set of gloves, then pulled the jacket from a plastic bag. “From here.”

  The fabric held the smell of death and fear. The ball had been cut from a place almost hidden by the others around it.

  “The killer cut it, then planted it in the stall?”

  “That would be my theory.”

  “Someone set up Dora Bates?”

  The coroner shrugged. “Or they were delivering a message.”

  I let that sink in. “Did you find anything of interes
t in the doc’s van?”

  “I assume you know it was registered to Dr. Dean, one of our recently deceased in Reno.”

  “Yeah, they were friends. Dr. Dean was not feeling well. He let Doc Latham take the van and sub for him here.”

  “The girl tell you that?”

  “Yeah.” I went still. “Any reason I shouldn’t believe her?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Spoken like a true coroner.” My world came back into focus. “How could the police have released the van?”

  “They’d gone over it, hadn’t found anything that shouldn’t be there.”

  I could tell by the look in his eye something good was coming. “But you did, didn’t you?”

  “I found three coiled ropes in the back.”

  “The same rope?”

  “Red and blue thread,” he said as he nodded. “Only problem is, we can’t prove who they belonged to or how they got there. The vet claims innocence.”

  “Let me guess: he swears he’s never seen them before and has no idea how they got there.”

  “You ought to write for the movies.”

  “Truth is stranger than fiction, don’t you know?”

  New clues, yet no closer.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “WE need to talk.”

  The Big Boss. He’d managed to find me tucking into a plate piled high with food I needed but could hardly stomach. The stench of death was so strong it lingered, almost turning into a bilious taste. That thought alone was enough to put me off my feed. Now I regretted my earlier decision to pass on the chocolate happy-face pancakes, opting instead for the feast at Nebuchadnezzar’s—Neb’s to the staff—the twenty-four-hour buffet at the Babylon.

  After the coroner’s, and armed with a time of death for Dora Bates, I’d given Jerry a narrow time window to search. I hoped he would find our killer on the security tapes, but I wasn’t counting on it. Nothing about this case was coming together.

  So, feeling sorry for myself, I’d done what I always do, I’d opted for food. A necessity, or so my body told me.

  I speared my father with a scowl. “Now you think we need to talk? Why now when I am so far ahead of you in the next move in the Game of Life?” I asked through a mouthful of flaky croissant. “Comfort food,” I excused my choice before he had time to criticize. A reflex from decades with my mother.

  “No rebuke from me. Eat what you want—tasting of life is important. Besides, it all looks good on you. And, as far as you being ahead of me, most days, frankly.”

  Was he buttering me up or being the father I needed? Having seen too much darkness today, I opted to believe the latter. I needed to believe the latter.

  Since our paths had last crossed, his paleness had deepened and his worry was palpable. “Are you okay? You don’t look good.” I tried to hang onto the angry but I couldn’t. All of this was getting to me. So much of it seemed so personal. My family in the bull’s eye; life as I knew it hanging in the balance. What I would give for a run-of-the-mill drunk-and-disorderly, or even a card counter draining our profits.

  He eyed my food like a feral animal. I pushed the plate toward him. “Let’s share.” I got up, then returned with another setup.

  He dug in and his enthusiasm was catching. We powered through half the pile—sushi, fried chicken, something Chinese, marinated cucumbers, a few other vegetables to assuage guilt—before he spoke again. He laid his fork next to his plate, lining it up precisely with the fold of his napkin. Then he placed both of his hands, palms down, on the table. When he spoke, his voice was tired and far away. “No, I’m not okay. Your mother…”

  We both reaped the benefit and bore the burden of Mona. If this was half as important as they were leading me to believe, I could only imagine the emotional scenes he had been wrangling with.

  “But you have seen the doctor, right?”

  “There’s just so much they can do, Lucky. I’m old. I’m worried. And a body can take only so much.” He shut down my argument with a side-eye. “I won’t give up without a fight, so let it be.”

  I capitulated, for the moment, with a sigh.

  “What did Mother have to say about Dora Bates?”

  When he looked at me, his face had gone slack, his eyes hard.

  “You two know her.” Oh shit! They really were hiding something.

  He didn’t admit or deny, preferring to take the Fifth. “Can you come with me?”

  This smoke and mirrors game both alarmed and discouraged me. “What? Now?” My phone dinged. Sitting on the table between us, the thing lit up like Christmas. I flipped it around so I could read the message.

  Dane. Something about the rope. “Excuse me,” I said to my father and punched up the whole message. He’d tracked down the rope maker in Wichita Falls, well, he’d tracked down the guy’s son. The rope maker had died decades ago. The family had donated his inventory to Huntsville State Prison.

  Interesting. So, Cole lied.

  His source was the killer, or potential killer.

  What was that about? Lost in thought, I forgot where I was. I hit Romeo’s speed dial. The call rolled to voicemail. I left a message—I tried to be succinct. It was really important. “Pick up Darrin Cole. He may be in danger. Find out who he buys his ropes from—he’ll know what you’re talking about. Tell him if he lies again I’ll personally break his kneecaps. And, no, I’m not kidding.”

  My father’s voice cut through my muddled thoughts. “Does that work?”

  “You should know.” I ended the call but didn’t put my phone away—if Romeo called back, I didn’t want to miss it.

  “So, can you come with me?”

  “What?” I tried to focus, then I remembered. “You want me to leave in the middle of all of…this? A killer on the loose…now Darrin Cole with info that could possibly blow this open?”

  “Yes. There’s a story you need to hear. I only have part of it; the rest is your mother’s to tell, when and if she wants to. But I think I can help you find your killer.”

  “Her story? You’re the one who knows where all the bodies are buried.”

  “That mouth of yours…”

  “Is my best weapon, but often too pointed. Sorry. Is Mother coming, too?”

  “No, I’ve left her at home. Strict instructions not to leave the apartment.” He held up a hand as I started to argue. “This time, she’ll listen. She knows what’s at stake.”

  “Am I the only one who doesn’t?” Hurt and anger crept back in. And, this time, real worry. I covered his hand with mine. “Look, I trust your judgment, but you’re a bit close to this one. And, not feeling well—you said so yourself. If you’ll give me a bit more to go on, I can help.”

  “You won’t want the consequences of knowing, and your mother and I can’t afford them. Trust me.” He looked like this cost him as much as it did me. I doubted it, but at least it hurt him. “You must believe that keeping you out of this is for your own good.”

  If he’d stopped before that last bit, I would’ve been okay. But telling me that sort of thing, using those words, made me feel like a powerless kid again, and I was anything but…well, most days. “Murder. It’s the only explanation. Mother, as your wife, can’t be forced to testify against you.”

  “But you can. If you’ll trust me, I’ll show you. At least part of it. And we’ll have our killer.”

  “Show me?” My heart was pounding. My nightmare came back to me in Technicolor flashes of fear. “Is Mother in danger?”

  His lips thinned into a wicked line. “Yes.” He held up a hand. “I don’t know for sure, but if you’ll come with me we can find out.”

  “Where?”

  “Reno.”

  That one word told me I had to go.

  “Your mother thinks I’m crazy. Maybe she’s right.” He pressed a hand against his chest. With a wince, he rearranged the pain. “She has a point—it’s pretty far-fetched. Humor me and we can be certain.”

  At least he was honest. “You dangling a carrot? Wav
ing the white flag? Going to dazzle me with bullshit, or are you really here to help? We got two dead. Now’s not exactly the time to go wild goose hunting.”

  The air left him and I could see how sick he really was.

  I laid a hand on his arm. “This is killing you.”

  “So then, getting rid of the secret I’ve carried since I met your mother will help.” He brushed off my concern. Even in his condition, he wasn’t one to back down, especially when reason wasn’t on his side. Just like my mother. They were two-halves of the same heart.

  “Your mother’s story to tell. The girl is not mine, I can tell you that. But she is important to your mother for reasons that time will make clear.” He speared me with a look.

  “You know who the killer is?” Wow, I’d always asked for easy answers. Now that one stared me in the face, I was a bit skeptical.

  He gave me a lopsided grin that struck me as incongruous. “I need to dig up a body first. You in?”

  “You do know how to show a girl a good time. How could I resist?”

  The G-5 waited on the tarmac in front of the FBO at McCarran. The car tooled through the gates and stopped next to the stairs, extended to welcome us, before the whole thing registered. “I’m in the middle of a murder investigation—well, two actually—and you’re whisking me away?”

  “We won’t be gone long.”

  Paolo’s eyes flicked to mine in the rearview as he mashed his chauffer’s cap on his head and then stepped outside.

  I knew not to say any more. Instead, I followed my father up the stairs, his gait painful and slow. Somehow, I resisted taking his arm to steady him. He had to believe in his strength to get us through. As much as I’d love to force him back in the car to head to the hospital, there were lives at stake here…including his own.

  Once the door was buttoned up and the pilots were busy up front, I leaned forward. We were seated in the club seating, my father across from me. “We’re going to Reno?”

  He nodded.

  “To the girl’s grandmother’s farm?”