So Damn Lucky (Lucky O'Toole Vegas Adventure Book 3)

by Deborah Coonts

  “I’ve got six inches and more than twenty pounds on you, and you’re not exactly in a threatening position.”

  “Good point.” She pushed herself to her elbow. “What hit me?”

  “I did.”

  “Where’d you learn that?” Propped on one hand, she rubbed her temple where my elbow had left a red mark. “You pack quite a wallop.”

  “Growing up in a whorehouse had its advantages.” I motioned with the gun. “It helps that I’ve been hardwired to the pissed-off position since your boss pulled his disappearing act. Trust me, you don’t want to mess with me. Start talking.”

  Molly pushed to a seated position, then crawled over to the couch and pulled herself up. She settled back into the cushions with a groan, and closed her eyes, leaning her head back. “I need to know where Carl is.”

  “Carl who?” Putting a safe distance between us, I moved to lean against the wall, just out of reach.

  “Crazy Carl Colson.” She captured me with those startlingly blue eyes.

  My heart sank. Poor Carl. Didn’t he have enough demons haunting his dreams? Now he had to be stalked by real-life ones? “I don’t know anybody by that name.” I kept my voice as level as I could, but I probably wasn’t very convincing.

  “Yes, you do.” Molly jumped to her feet, surprising me. “I can read it in your face.”

  So much for lying. “Huh-uh.” I brandished the gun at her. “Sit.”

  She reluctantly did as I ordered. “I’m your friend,” she said, trying a different tack.

  “My friends come in through the front door.”

  Narrowing her eyes, she weighed her words. “You know Carl. He told me you were kind to him. You bring him blankets.”

  “Why would this Carl person tell you that?”

  “He’s my father.”

  “Really?” I paused to think. Carl had a daughter? This was the first I’d heard of it, not that I would have any reason to know. “If you guys are so tight then, why don’t you know where he is?”

  “When he gets scared, he runs for the storm drains—that much I do know. But he never would tell me exactly where. He didn’t want me trying to find him when the Others were looking for him.”

  “Who are the Others? Is that why you broke into Danilov’s apartment?”

  Surprise flashed across her face, as if she wasn’t expecting the question, then her composure returned. “I didn’t break in—someone beat me to it.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know.” If she was lying she was a darn sight better at it than me. “Carl told me Danilov had some papers having to do with the Others.”

  When Molly ran a hand through her hair and turned those turquoise eyes on me again, I saw real pain there… and something else, something that stirred a memory. What was it? This time, when Molly pushed to her feet, I let her pace. “Weird things are going on, she continued. “I’ve got a gut feeling my father is in danger. I really need to find him. Please help me.”

  “Oh man!” I let the gun drop to my side as I rolled my eyes. “You’re the Ferengi!”

  When I heard her sharp intake of breath, I knew I’d hit the nail on the head.

  “That’s why you didn’t come immediately when I shouted for you after Dimitri received that threatening note. Come to think of it, when you did show you seemed flustered and out of breath.” The more I thought about it, the more I knew I was right.

  Molly paused as if weighing her options. “How’d you know?”

  “I don’t know too many people with almost turquoise eyes. They are a dead giveaway. Why don’t I make us some coffee and you can tell me what’s going on?” Still wary of her, I kept the gun in my hand, but I no longer threatened her with it. She and I were both looking for information.

  Molly’s eyes darted to the balcony door and for a moment I thought she would make a break for it, then she seemed to resolve some inner conflict and followed me into the kitchen. Pushing my purse out of the way, she boosted herself up to sit on the counter.

  I set the gun within my reach, and out of hers, and busied myself with coffee. With the routine ingrained so it was almost a reflex, I quickly had the pot perking.

  “I’ll tell you what I know,” Molly began. “Dimitri asked me to deliver the hat and the rabbit with the message.”

  “Why?”

  “Publicity. His career, such as it was, was going down the crapper. He thought if he stirred things up, got some attention, maybe he could parlay that into his next gig.”

  I handed her a cup of coffee and tried to catch her eyes. That didn’t sound like the Dimitri I thought I knew. But then, I’d been wrong before. “I hope you take it black. The milk has gone blinky.” Along with half the people in this town, I thought, but I didn’t say that. “Did you help him plan it from the beginning?”

  “No. He had it all figured out. My job was to set the plan in motion and make it look real.”

  “You did a bang-up job.” I took a sip of my java. Closing my eyes I reveled in the caffeine hit—my body practically sighing in relief. If I didn’t cut back on all the various forms of high-test I’d been relying on to get through the day, I was in for a huge comeuppance. “Things didn’t work out quite as he’d planned, did they?”

  Molly shook her head as she stared into her coffee mug. “I don’t know what could’ve gone wrong—he’d been working on the trick for months.”

  A little earthly intervention most likely, of the nonmagical, murderous variety I thought, but didn’t say. It seemed reasonable, but the proof was more than a bit thin…in fact, it probably vanished with Dimitri. Having been taught to hold my cards very close to the vest, I didn’t air my suspicions. For all I knew, the sweet young thing in front of me could be in up to her eyeballs, though I couldn’t imagine why. But she had already proven adept at breaking and entering, so who knew what her complete skill set included.

  “So, is he dead or not?” I asked.

  “I honestly don’t know, but I have a real bad feeling.” She looked up at me with those alarmingly blue eyes. “I mean, why would anyone take the body?”

  Why indeed? Taking the first step toward reining in my stimulant addiction, I poured my coffee down the drain. “Here’s what I’ll do,” I said. “I won’t tell you where Carl holes up—”

  “You have to!” Molly jumped off the counter, spilling coffee, her anger flaring.

  I grabbed the gun. That settled her down. “I don’t trust you,” I said. “You’re not coming clean with me on the whole Danilov thing. But for Carl’s sake, I’ll get a message to him. That’s the best I can do.”

  Molly stared at me, a murderous look in her eye. “You have to hurry. The Devil is getting closer.”

  “Christ, I’m so sick of the friggin’ Devil.” I took her cup and stepped to the sink.

  That was the opening Molly was looking for—she made her break. Caught by surprise, I was two steps too slow. Running, she hit the balcony doors, banging them against the stops as she burst through. Grabbing her rope with one hand, she threw herself over the balcony, and disappeared into the darkness.

  Bending over the railing, I peered into the inky blackness, and pulled on the rope. Her weight on the other end, I wasn’t strong enough to reel her in.

  “Damn!”

  Racing inside, the seconds turned into a minute or two as I searched for my phone. I couldn’t find it. Christ!

  With shaking hand, I rooted in my nightstand for my backup—one of the old yellow and black Nextels, bulky but it would do—if it still worked. Pressing the power button, I was glad to see lights and bars. I dialed the desk downstairs.

  It rang and rang, but no one answered.

  “Double-damn!”

  I glanced at the time—almost five. Forrest didn’t start his shift until six. Molly had timed it perfectly.

  Glaring at the balcony doors as I sank into the couch and dialed Romeo, I made a mental note to get all the locks changed and dead bolts installed, posthaste. While I liked visitors,
I preferred they arrive in the normal manner—much better for my blood pressure.

  For once I was glad to see the eastern sky brightening—I’d actually gotten a fair amount of sleep. After five rings, my call to the young detective rolled to voice mail. I tried again. This time he answered after the second ring.

  “Sorry, I was in the shower.”

  “Our aerialist just paid me another visit, and idiot that I am, I turned my back on her. She went over the balcony on a rope—she’s long gone by now.”

  “Wow, you’re thirty floors up.”

  “Amazingly enough, I know that.”

  “Are we in a good mood,” Romeo said, laughing. “Sorry, it’s early and I’m slow on the uptake—you’re the first person to ream the day through my earhole. What did she want?”

  “Sorry. My smile disappeared a few days ago.” This time I came clean about Carl Colson.

  “Do you think Mr. Colson is in danger?” Romeo asked when I’d finished.

  “We have to assume he is.”

  “Do you want me to send a couple of uniforms to warn him?”

  “That would scare him to death. Not to mention it might be dangerous for your men—I get the impression some of the people living in the storm drains wouldn’t welcome the police.”

  “Point taken. Are you going to warn him, then?”

  “Not personally,” I said. “I seem to be attracting all kinds of attention. And I can’t shake the feeling someone is keeping tabs on me. But I’ll get word to him.”

  “You need me to watch your back?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “What then?”

  “Find Molly Rain.”

  ***

  After a hot shower, I spent some time picking out my uniform for the day. What did one wear to lunch with a very urbane Frenchman? One could never go wrong with Chanel—I chose a fitted suit in an understated shade of dove gray, a sexy hot-pink lace cami that bordered on the indecent, and a pair of hot-pink Loubous with a lower heel… Jean-Charles was tall, but not that tall. I accessorized with my square-cut diamond earrings and nothing else.

  Since understated seemed to be my mood today, I carried it over to my makeup and hair—subtly highlighting my eyes and cheekbones and letting my hair fall softly, brushing my shoulders and tickling my eyes. With one last look in the mirror, I checked the results. A confident hotel executive stared back—a perfect mask for the confused woman inside. How I wished the inner me would match the outer.

  Despite turning my place upside down, I couldn’t find my regular phone. Where I’d left it was anybody’s guess. I tried calling my number, but no luck—oh it rang all right, just not within hearing distance. So, I called the phone company and had them roll my normal number to the one on this phone and launched into the day. The phone would turn up—it always did.

  Needing some fresh air and perspective, I chose to walk to work. The day had brightened into one of those picture-perfect, bluebird days that remind us of why we live in Las Vegas: cool air, warm sun, and birds soaring on the early thermals. I took my time as I walked, trying to absorb some of the peace. But knowing that Carl had become the lightning rod for this devilish business, I found it hard to do. Well, that and the fact that I kept looking over my shoulder—I knew someone was there, I just couldn’t see them.

  I hated it when people came to Vegas to muddy up the magic.

  Half oblivious to my surroundings, with the Babylon looming in front of me, I jumped at the loud shrill of my phone. Who would be calling me at this hour?

  Teddie.

  Staring at the phone, racked with indecision, I waffled through two rings, then finally punched the button rolling the call to voice mail.

  Strolling up the drive to the front of the hotel, I didn’t worry about the stray rabid journalist lurking about. In Vegas, news had a half-life of about an hour. Deciding a turn through the casino would do me good, I bypassed the stairs.

  Early in the day the casino looked a bit bedraggled, as if everyone had gone to bed after the party, leaving the cleanup for later. Even dark and virtually empty, the big room still held whispers of the previous night’s fun and frivolity. Contemporary music with a driving beat had given way to the languid ballads of Frank Sinatra and Etta James, which was always fine by me; I’m a sucker for a good love song.

  Cruising through the rear of the casino, I bounded up the grand, double-helix staircase to the Mezzanine, where huge windows let the light compete with the dungeon atmosphere of the gaming rooms.

  At a tea table flanked by two Queen Anne chairs, Mrs. Olefson was taking her morning meal of coffee and scones—she in one chair, Milo in the other. The dog looked bored, perking one ear only when his mistress reached for a crumb. Carefully coiffed, attired in St. John, and properly accessorized, the diminutive lady appeared ready for an audience with the Pope or perhaps a chance encounter with the Queen.

  “Mrs. Olefson, how are you this morning?”

  “Fine, Dear. How are you?”

  “Limping along.”

  “What a nice party your boss had last night—so sweet of him to let me stay.” With a snap of her fingers, she cleared Milo from the chair. “Sit with me for a minute, would you?”

  “I’d be delighted.” Mrs. Olefson apparently hadn’t read the morning paper. I took Milo’s place and, to his credit, he didn’t seem bothered by it.

  Mrs. Olefson pushed the coffee pot toward me and gestured to an empty cup. My resolutions being short-lived, and having a clinically low level of self-discipline, I helped myself. This health-kick thing was off to a rough start.

  When I had settled back in the big chair, Mrs. Olefson said, “I have a problem I hope you might help me with.”

  “Fire away. Problems are my specialty.”

  “I’ve been thinking.” She refreshed her coffee then glanced at me. “I really like it here. The rooms are lovely, the staff is so friendly—some of the ladies from Housekeeping even come by to check on me. And your French chef plies me with wine.” She gave me a wink. “I keep telling him he is courting the wrong lady.”

  “I’m under the impression he already has one of his own,” I said.

  “Really, he’s never mentioned anyone.” For a moment Mrs. Olefson’s face clouded, but then she brightened. “No matter if he does, she couldn’t be as wonderful as you.”

  “You’re very kind.”

  “Last night, I told your boss how special you are. Maybe he’ll give you a raise.” The little matchmaker/promoter gave me a self-satisfied smile.

  “Perhaps. Thank you.” I set my coffee cup on the table, feeling virtuous that I had limited myself to just one cup. “Now, what did you need my help with?”

  “Oh yes.” She set down her cup and sat up straight. Taking a deep breath, she gave a nod, as if to herself, then said, “Would it be possible for me to move into the hotel?”

  “You want to live here?” I don’t know what I was expecting, but that wasn’t it.

  “Yes. I can pay for it.”

  “That was not a concern of mine,” I reassured her. “Could you let me talk to my…boss? I doubt we’ll be able to keep you in the Sodom and Gomorrah Suite, but if you’re willing to take something smaller, I think we may be able to work something out. I can’t promise, but I feel confident.”

  “A simple room with no view would be sufficient.”

  Her question had caught me off guard, but the more I thought about it, the more I liked the idea of having her around. God knew we all could use a den mother. Made of sturdy Midwestern stock, I had no doubt she would be up to the task. “How long were you thinking of staying?”

  “Could we leave it open-ended?” She looked at me with wide eyes. She wanted to be with friends—that much was clear.

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  ***

  Miss P breezed into my office. “I’m starting to worry about you. This is the third time this week you’ve beaten me to work.”

  “Yeah, well, early bird and all of that, you
know. I made notes on your list of journalists who want a bit of my time. Could you arrange all of that? I’d prefer to do it by phone, as you know.” At her nod, I handed her the last of the paperwork. “We must kill a tree a day just in this office alone. Can you get Brandy to look into how we can handle some of this stuff electronically?”

  Miss P raised an eyebrow. “And drag you kicking and screaming into the twenty-first century?”

  “I want information before I commit. As we all know, change is inconsistent with my personality.” I motioned to a chair. “Is Jeremy with you?”

  “He stopped to talk to Jerry, but he should be here any minute.”

  “Great, I’ve got something I hope he can help me with.”

  Miss P shrugged out of her coat—a trick while balancing the papers I’d handed her, but she managed. “I take it you want coffee?” she asked.

  “No, thanks. I’ve had enough.”

  That stopped her. “Okay, what’s up? This is not the Lucky I know.”

  “Would you quit it?” Unwilling for her to read me, I avoided her eyes, pretending instead to be absorbed by my cockroach paperweight, moving it a few inches to the left, then back again. “I know it’s not spring, but I feel the need to clean house,” I offered as an explanation.

  “Out with the old, in with the new?”

  Her words hit closer to the mark than even I realized. Jeremy saved me from having to elaborate, or invent an excuse not to. “G’Day.”

  I don’t think I’d ever get tired of hearing him say that. If I was Miss P, I’d just have him talk to me each evening, so I could sit back and listen—which was probably a male fantasy anyway, so not too difficult to pull off.

  “Take a seat, both of you.” I motioned to the chairs opposite my desk. “I need some help.”

  ***

  After I gave Jeremy his marching orders, he left and Miss P and I put our heads together, checking average room vacancy, revenue per room, and all the other variables we could think of that went into profit.

  “You’re committing a room to a nongambler, so no gaming revenue there,” Miss P said after over an hour of throwing around numbers. “That’s the only revenue stream you’re going to have to compensate for.”