He pulled in a deep breath, confirming my suspicion.
Miss P didn’t take long. When she pushed through the door she held a bag high. “Bingo.”
Maybe this was turning into the stupid criminal night I was hoping for.
“You can’t look at that. It’s not supposed to be here. They’ll shoot me for sure.” Frenchie’s knees buckled slightly as he reached for the bookcase next to him to steady himself.
“Then why are they here?” With my thumb, I slowly racked the slide, cocking the hammer and chambering a round. Even though I’d already done that, the sound of a round being chambered, the unspent one arcing away, sure raised the dramatic tension. If Frenchie Nixon thought I was bluffing, at least now he knew I had the ability to follow through. “You lifted the stuff even though Lipschitz and Godwin gave you specific instructions to take only what belonged to Mr. Whiteside. Then you brought it here. Am I right?” Frenchie had a habit of hiding stolen goods on other people’s property. Our last encounter involved a stash of dynamite on the top of my hotel, no less. He was lucky I let him live. Right now, I was rethinking that choice.
“The courier was supposed to stash the extra stuff for me.” His eyes widened when he realized the trap had slapped closed on him.
Like I said, habits. Zebras and their stripes and all of that. “The courier?”
“Detective Reynolds.” Frenchie found a smirk. “Always nice to have a cop working for you, isn’t it?”
A veiled reference to Romeo I ignored. The fact that Reynolds was the bagman didn’t surprise me at all. “Marion, you do the honors.”
Marion poured out the contents of the bag onto a tray Miss P had found under the counter. One look and his shoulders bunched.
“All of it there?” I stopped him as he reached toward an exceptionally gaudy bit of gold and precious stones. “Don’t touch it. Let’s see whose fingerprints show up.”
His finger paused over each item as he worked through a mental checklist. “Yep, it’s all here.”
He pulled his hand back reluctantly as if he was thinking about sweeping up his property in one swipe and making a run for it.
Running from bad decisions and difficult future ones—I was the poster child. “You got this. There is a solution.”
“Not a good one.”
“Yes, a good one,” I corrected. “But perhaps not an easy one.” Preaching to the choir who didn’t want to sing the song. Was I trying to convince him or me? “Is this all of it?” I asked again to be sure.
“All this was in the safe in my bungalow and the door was locked.” Relief eased the hunch in his shoulders and they relaxed. “You got a problem.”
“Indeed. I’m just glad it’s not a four-million-dollar problem. When I’m done, there won’t be enough left of Godwin, Lipschitz, and their inept cat burglar to scrape off the sidewalk.” Before I did, I needed to find who helped them. Reynolds would show up. But someone on our staff had to help with the lock on the door, maybe even the safe, although, given enough time, Frenchie could probably have handled that.
“What does inept mean?” Frenchie asked.
Marion answered for me. “Look it up. Next to the word you’ll find your mug shot.”
“What code did you use on the safe, if you don’t mind me asking?” I asked Marion.
“My jersey number, twice.” He’d made it easy. Most people did.
“Even you could figure that one out, Frenchie.” I felt a smile bloom as I steadied my aim at his heart.
He lifted his chin in an ill-conceived hint of defiance. “You’re not going to shoot me.”
“Depends. I’m having a really bad night on top of an abysmal day.”
“Headache?” Frenchie gave me a leer.
Terrific.
Bad news traveled fast in the city. Especially when I’d managed to take myself out of the game, thereby providing a window of opportunity. Bad, and I felt a twinge of guilt, but not that much. Life had taught me being a fallible human was far easier than pretending perfection.
“You don’t want to piss me off, Nixon.”
“I second that.” Squash Trenton strode through the door. He shouldered in next to me and took in the situation with one glance. “You buying or selling?” he asked me.
Jesus, was somebody handing out invitations? “Oh, no, no. You go away. The last thing I need right now is some attorney to go all by-the-book on me.”
“Never been accused of that before.” Squash tried the camaraderie route first. “Glad I’m in time.”
“Bet you’ve never been in quite this situation where a client or two are concerned. And don’t try to play me—I’m wise to your game and immune to your charms.” Okay, that last part was completely untrue. The lawyer was smart and far too clever for my own good. On a good day, I felt confident pitting my skills against his. Today was not a good day. “And, need I remind you, we work for opposite sides at the moment.”
“A matter of opinion.”
If I read his tone right, he was leading me down a path, so I circled back. “In time? In time for what?”
He lifted his chin toward all the bling. “This the stuff Lipschitz and Godwin filed the insurance claim for?”
“Yep.”
“Cool.” Not the answer I expected from their attorney.
I gestured to the bling with the gun. “I have your new clients stone-cold.” I pointed to the second tray. “We found all of this in their safe, which Mr. Nixon here was kind enough to open for us.”
“With a bit of encouragement.” Squash lifted his chin, gesturing toward the pistol. “So, Frenchie, time to come clean.”
“He already said he lifted the stuff. Godwin and Lipschitz told him what and where. Like I said, your clients are toast.”
“Lots of legal hoops to jump through before we throw Stanley and Godwin on the rack.” Squash sounded like the lawyer he purported to be.
“Well, you play by one set of rules.”
“I am licensed by the state. And the Grievance Committee takes a dim view of legal vigilantism. While I can push the limits, I can’t exceed them.”
An interesting gambit, but I wasn’t ready to throw my lot in with the lawyer. “What are you doing here, by the way?”
“When I saw all that food and high-end booze you had delivered to their bungalow, I knew you’d either caught on or had a strong hunch. I followed to make sure no one caused you any trouble and you got what you came for.”
You could fool some of them, some of the time. “That obvious, huh? And your clients?”
“Busy as you intended. And they’re not my clients.”
Everybody had an angle, and I lie, not that I’d expected straight shooting from the hired gun. “You represented yourself as their counsel.”
“Technically accurate at the time, and self-serving. But, since then, we’ve quibbled over compensation, so I have withdrawn my representation.”
“Do they teach you guys how to talk out of the side of your mouths in law school?”
“A third-year elective.”
“Which I’m sure you aced.”
“They’re no real grades in law school.”
“That explains a lot.”
“And you’re no criminal despite how this looks.” Squash loved letting folks assume an answer to their question. I gave him grudging respect for his aptitude—a worthy opponent and a fickle ally.
“Observation and obfuscation, another third-year elective?”
“No, those I learned from you.”
The guy could really dish it. In my diminished state, I was finding it hard to keep pace. “Flattery will get you what you deserve.” A veiled warning I had no intention of delivering on, but bluffing I could do.
“I can handle it.”
He tossed me the ball, expecting me to run with it, but I hadn’t a move left.
Marion saved me. “Flirting with her and she’s holding a gun. You’re either one brave dude or an idiot.”
“Guilty on both counts.”
With no apparent effort, Squash shifted to handling us both.
I regained my verbal footing. “You lied before, Trenton.” Frankly, expecting a lawyer to resist the call of the game was beyond even my level of delusion, but I wanted to believe him—I wanted to believe somebody. “How do I know you’re telling the truth?”
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
“Pretty weak for a professional liar, Counselor. But, I don’t have the stomach to put you on the rack and stretch the truth out of you.” I chose to cut him some slack, or at least reserve judgment. I could be accommodating—especially when holding a gun, looking for answers, and running out of time. I turned my attention to the klepto. “Frenchie?”
He jumped and then wilted under everyone’s attention.
A moment to let him sweat, then I dove in. “Your bosses are going to be pissed. Storing it in their safe puts them in the bulls-eye.” He shook his head so vigorously I thought his eyeballs would fall out. Even the guilty couldn’t resist professing their ignorance. I raised the gun a tad higher and he stopped. “With your already lengthy record, your upside doesn’t look too good.”
Frenchie turned to the lawyer, pleading his case. “Seriously, Mr. Trenton, are you going to let her scare me like that?”
This would be where I’d know which team Squash Trenton played for, other than his own.
He shook his head, milking it. “Looking bad, Frenchie. I’d play ball with Ms. O’Toole if I were you.”
Okay, a good sign, but he could still be using me to get information he wanted for his own purposes.
Frenchie wrapped himself in a hug. Too short to begin with, his sleeves hiked to show a sleeve of tattoos from his wrist and disappearing underneath the threadbare cloth. One was new, or at least looked it.
I didn’t make a habit of remembering tattoos—they just confused me. Since I spent my life vacillating on everything, the concept of permanent ink kept me awake nights…well, permanence of any kind had me counting sheep. “Want to tell me how you got past the door lock?”
With his back already against the wall, he had nowhere to run. Frenchie looked among all of us. The look on his face made me feel practically clairvoyant—he was weighing the chances of running.
I didn’t bother to add my two cents. Curing stupid wasn’t in my vast repertoire of unparalleled skills.
“Okay,” he deflated under the weight of give-up. None of us in the room actually thought he had an upside, just a different angle of sliding into the abyss, leading to either a soft landing or a splat. Either way, he was going down, whether he deserved it or not. And this would be a third strike. I really didn’t like that result—he was a menace and an irritation when he plied his trade in my backyard, but, in the whole horror of the Universe, he was a bit player.
He’d spent his time in local and county facilities. But as a habitual offender, Frenchie Nixon would be eaten alive in the Big House.
I leaned into Squash and whispered, “You’re going to do something, right?”
He took a deep breath. “Sure. But you might consider using that marker you have from the DA.” Daniel Lovato, our District Attorney, owed me big time. Everybody knew it; they just didn’t know why, which was a good thing.
Frenchie Nixon wasn’t exactly who I’d been holding onto that marker for. “I’ll see how this plays out.”
“Time’s getting short, Nixon,” I prodded.
“You gonna help me?” Finally, Frenchie was looking with a clear eye at his predicament. Or at least he knew he needed to deal to get the help he would need to save his ass. The jury was out as to whether he needed me and my penchant for playing outside the lines, or whether he needed Squash to navigate the system.
I wanted to assure but not over promise—such a fine line. Leaving him hanging, though, wasn’t something I could live with. I think he knew that. “You do your part; I’ll do mine.”
He took me at my word. “I stole the stuff as we established.” He made it sound like it had been his idea to come clean. “Stanley told me where it would be and then gave me the cover while I got it.”
“Boudreaux?”
“Yeah. Jesus, when I heard him jawing with Mr. Whiteside here,” warming to his story, he lifted his chin toward Marion, “I about stroked out. Had to dive out the back.”
“How is Boudreaux mixed up in all this?”
“Man, they don’t trust me with that kind of info.” Frenchie scratched at an itch on his left hand, drawing blood.
“Yeah, I know. If you knew, they’d have to kill you.”
Frenchie jerked as the concept hit home. Murder was so far removed from his normal petty, and now not so petty, theft.
I didn’t blame him for being twitchy. This whole thing had me wishing for a new life and a new identity, in a place far from Vegas. “And the door lock? Did he also give you a key?”
“A key?” Frenchie scoffed. “You’ve got those electronic locks. Everybody who’s got a lick of sense can bypass those. Hell, the how-to is all over the Internet. And for a couple of bucks, you can buy all you need.”
“All the locks at the Babylon had been changed to cure that defect.”
“Not that one. They told me it’d been changed back to the old stuff.”
And that opened a whole new Pandora’s Box. “You got in, so it must have been.”
No matter how much I wanted to deny it, this reeked of an inside job. My staff was like family—a betrayal would cut deeply. “How did they know the lock would be one of the old ones?”
“Somebody in Security told them.”
Security? What had Jerry not been overseeing? Or better question, who? “Okay, then what? How’d Reynolds get roped in?”
“He’s on their payroll. Hangs around here all the time. But he wasn’t the one I was supposed to hand off to.”
“Really?” I sensed a bit of bravado building in Frenchie Nixon and I didn’t like it.
“Your friend, that kid, you know the one? He was supposed to be the bagman.”
“Detective Romeo?” I tried to keep my voice steady and my hands distracted. I couldn’t tell if he was lying.
“That’s the one. You and him are tight, right?” He enjoyed poking me with that goad.
“I know him, yes.” I kept any emotion out of my expression and tone.
I raised the gun higher, my finger tightening on the trigger.
His eyes widened.
“He’s been playing on the Dark Side. I don’t know what game he’s got going. He’s not a bad dude, not like some of the others, but running with that crowd, the kid is going to get burned.”
Well, that was the second thing Frenchie Nixon and I agreed on this evening.
“You do know we’re going to have to call the police, right?” My comment was meant for everyone. No one argued. I turned to Miss P. “Get Metro here. And tell them no Reynolds and no Romeo.”
I left Miss P with the gun, holding court and making sure Frenchie Nixon didn’t so much as blink. Marion backed her up. When I was sure everyone was resigned to his fate, I pulled the lawyer aside.
He let me lead him to the back of the shop. “Why Ms. O’Toole, so forward.”
I whirled on him. “Cut the crap, Trenton. Tell me what you’re really doing here.”
The façade of bullshit disappeared. “I represented Lipschitz and Godwin in an insurance case. I sued the insurance company on their behalf. We won. The company paid. Then it turned out all the goods they claimed had been stolen from them had, in fact, been stolen from the original owners. None of it was this sort of thing, this memorabilia, which would be so easy to trace. But, they’ve got insurance scams going every which way.”
“And your carcass roasting over the coals for filing the suit on false premises. Is the insurance company turning up the heat?”
“What do you think?”
“Well then, Mr. Trenton, it looks like we both have a problem. How do you think they’re playing this memorabilia gambit?”
“I can tell you
.” Frenchie poked his head through the door.
Miss P’s voice filtered in through the opening. “Sorry.”
“She’s not the shooting type.” Frenchie shrugged, then slithered his thin frame through the opening. “I’m here cuz I wanna help you.”
I hated being played. “Don’t think that gives me any warm fuzzies. You want to help me so I’ll help you.”
“So, it works for everybody. A good deal, right, Mr. Trenton?”
Squash sent me some amused side-eye. “Seems like. Long as you deliver. Do you know how this scam works?”
“Sure. Pretty sweet. The clients approach one of the dealers with some goods to trade in exchange for their supplements, you know.”
“Supplements. Cute.” I scoffed under my breath, but apparently not low enough to keep from being heard.
Frenchie took that as a compliment, puffing up like a rooster parading his wares for the hens. “The dealers report that to the boss. The boss arranges to have the stuff lifted. The clients report it stolen, which it was. Insurance makes them whole.”
“It’s not stolen if you are paid for it.”
“See my problem,” Squash said.
“They did this to you? Wanted you to sue the insurance company to pay up without letting you in on the details?”
“Close enough.”
“I’m surprised you let them live.”
Squash cocked his head to the side and gave Frenchie Nixon a hard stare. “Once I get my ass out of the crack, all bets are off.”
I didn’t doubt him for a minute. Frenchie Nixon’s Adam’s apple bobbed several times as he paled. Looked like he didn’t doubt the attorney’s resolve either.
“Who’s the boss?” I asked Frenchie.
“You think somebody like me is going to be trusted with that kind of information?”
I kept my no to myself.
“Even if I was privy, you know. I wouldn’t want to know. They kill folks with that kind of knowledge just to keep them from squealing to cops and pushy hotel types.”
“I notice you left attorneys off your list.”
Lucky Score Page 20
