Lucky Score

by Deborah Coonts

  “All the way, as you suspect.”

  Darlin’s apartment occupied the whole of the top floor, or at least this wing of it. “You do know what you’re in for, right?” I punched the button, then leaned against the side wall. I tried to cross my arms, but my hooves got in the way.

  Finally, that broke her reserve. “How do you do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “Manage to look in charge even when dressed as a cow with your privates showing and all.”

  I glanced down at my udders. A bit of overreaching, but a fantasy. “Bullshit and booze.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Remember I said bullshit…”

  “Right.”

  “There was this party and the costumes had to be black and white. And my ex is being all passive-aggressive.”

  “Privé.” She reached into her breast pocket and pulled out a card. “Brinda Rose. You knew me as Thorn. After law school, I decided something a bit more grown-up might help.”

  “Did it?”

  “It’s the South where a woman in business has always been considered unbecoming.”

  “In Vegas, the sexism is much more overt. Women are commodities.” I scanned the fine print. “You’re a money manager? From Dallas? Honey, you’re a long way from home. Don’t the Ponders live in San Antonio?”

  “They did. Dallas is not far.”

  “They’re moving to Vegas?”

  “Mr. Ponder will be. The Mrs. will be staying in L.A. where she’s happy.” Ever the loyal employee with a legal background, she held her cards close, giving nothing away.

  “I know they’re divorcing.” On the theory that push only got you push back, I left it at that, laying the foundation. “Weren’t you from New York?”

  “My ex took me to Dallas.” There was pain there, and something else. Revenge?

  “Dallas? That’s grounds for homicide right there.”

  She sagged against a wall. “You have no idea.”

  “I’ve never lived anywhere but Shangri La, so you’re probably right. But the Dallas folks, when they stay at the hotel…”

  “Pretentious, I know. Some are okay under all the big hair and insincerity. The trick is figuring out who is good and who is downright evil.”

  “It’s the same everywhere.” I thought about the evil I chased and fought the urge to chuck the whole thing and run until I dropped. But where would I run to? From what I’d seen of the folks who ran to Vegas to escape, their problems came along for the ride.

  “And you know about Privé?”

  “It’s my job to know.”

  “You’re not the normal money manager, are you?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “A bit more hands-on.”

  “Ah, a keeper. My condolences.” I stuck out my hand. “We’re in the same field, sorta. Nice to meet you, again.”

  We shook while juggling two bottles of very cheap gin. Not sure what that meant, but it had to be some sort of sign. “I assume we are both buying presents for the same person, and hoping for answers to the same questions.”

  She waffled. I could tell she wanted my help, but, in her profession especially, being able to keep information private was a large part of what she was paid to do.

  “Look, your boss is facing life in prison, if not death. We take murder pretty seriously around here, despite popular opinion. He had the murder weapon, his handprint was in the middle of Lake’s jersey, and Lake’s blood was all over him. And a call from his phone to Lake right before the murder presumably to set up the lethal encounter doesn’t look great either.” Of course, we’d placed everyone else at the scene except Mr. Ponder, and the Mrs. hadn’t yet arrived in town, but it wasn’t in my interest to say so. So, swine that I am, I didn’t. I needed to know what she knew and what she was looking for.

  “We’ve got about twenty more seconds,” I said, watching the floor counter wind up. Darlin’ didn’t have cameras with audio in her elevators. Appalling, but right now, I was profoundly grateful. Having a private conversation—who would’ve thought that would be considered a luxury? “Would you mind going first? Give me some background: what brought you here? What do you suspect, and what do you know? Then perhaps I can connect some of the dots for both of us.”

  Brinda gave me an appraising look—being the first to show your cards required some trust. I kept my mouth shut. I doubted anything I had to say in my defense would be taken seriously. The cow suit detracted a bit from my gravitas, as it were.

  Apparently, that was the right tack as she started in. “I’ve got money disappearing from Mr. Ponder’s private account. All cash, so I have no idea where it’s going.”

  “Paying off a blackmailer?”

  Brinda looked surprised. “I know everything about the man down to the anchor he has tattooed on his left ball.” She held up a hand, again shutting my half-formed question down. “No, not from personal experience. I’m good at what I do.”

  The whole tattoo visual was a bit nauseating. “I wish you’d stop doing that.”

  “I have two law degrees and a couple of decades of asking questions.” She thought I was referring to the anticipating question things, which, I was, sorta.

  “Does Ponder have any enemies?”

  “You don’t claw your way to the top of the heap without acquiring a few, but nobody who is involved with moving the team to Vegas.”

  “What about Senator Lake?”

  “As far as I can tell, they were normal sparring partners in the money game. Lake playing to his constituency. Ponder angling for a profit. If anything was between them, it was a grudging mutual respect.”

  “Why, then, do you think Ponder staggered into the Babylon, drugged out of his mind, covered in blood, and holding the murder weapon?”

  “I have no idea. And I can’t find him, so I can’t get his take.”

  Ponder. His disappearing act didn’t help his claims of innocence. “What about Mrs. Ponder and the divorce. A bitter pill to swallow?”

  “Hard to tell, but I would assume losing her position would rankle, although Mr. Ponder has made a generous financial offer. She doesn’t much care for San Antonio.”

  “If her background is indicative of her character, Vegas would be more her style.”

  “She’s cleaned up her act or taken it underground, but I have no evidence of anything.”

  “And that’s why you’re chasing the money.”

  “The only thread I could find.”

  I felt the elevator slow for arrival. “Time’s up.”

  A frown wrinkled her brow, then it was gone.

  “What?”

  “Boudreaux. He’s in tight with the Mrs., and he’s got a lot to lose.”

  “I agree. He’s in this up to his tight little ass.” I hit her with my don’t-fuck-with-me look. “Boudreaux told me you two were tight, that you were working together.”

  As the elevator’s doors opened, she gave me a skeptical look. “Do I look like his type?”

  “Too smart by half.” I held the door and let her step through before I followed.

  “Even if I felt like rescuing a puppy from the gutter, I’m married.” There was a wistfulness and hurt to the assertion.

  “Not an impediment, I assure you. Mrs. Ponder is married as well. So are half the folks who come to Vegas looking for some excitement.”

  That seemed to steal her moxie. “I know,” she whispered. “Boudreaux is scum.”

  “Scary, too. That whole anger thing.”

  She relaxed—two women bonding over shared abuse. A sign of the times.

  “What I’d really like to do is to catch who perforated Lake, nicking all the relevant arteries and veins to kill him. What they did took a certain kind of hate.” I shivered at the visual. That one would never leave me. The horrible ones never did. “Boudreaux had motive and opportunity. But Ponder had the means and the murder weapon.” I was a little light on motive just yet, but I kept that to myself.

  “Have you figured out where Ponder wa
s at the time of death?” Just like a lawyer, she honed in on a critical omission.

  “Not definitively. I’m chasing a theory. Not sure I can prove it, though. Ponder was covered in a white powder which we suspect was Fentanyl. Got any insight into that?” The buzzer sounded its distress. A few more moments and I’d have to let the doors open.

  “Between you and me, right?” Brinda Rose confirmed.

  I crossed my heart with a dangling hoof. “Scout’s honor.”

  “Mr. Ponder had some back surgery a couple of years ago. Painful stuff. Been addicted to opioids ever since. He’s been tapering off. I really thought he was getting control of the addiction.”

  So, she knew. His addiction wasn’t quite the secret my father thought it was. “Yeah, I know. And my father knows. And you know. Who else knows?” I let the button go and the doors slid open with an audible sigh, echoing my frustration. “Did he share his problem with his wife?”

  “No. As far as I know, nobody in the organization knew.”

  Interesting, her depiction of Mrs. Ponder as being in the “organization” like the water boy or something. “Except you.”

  “I handle the money. And the payments I’m chasing aren’t for the drugs. Those come from a different account, one Mrs. Ponder doesn’t know about.”

  “She knows about this one?”

  “Yes, but she doesn’t have access. All the transactions are triggered through his phone, a fingerprint-protected app. If his addiction got out, well you can imagine the ramifications, not only with the NFL but in business as well.”

  “Well, somebody damn sure knows.” And our lawyer/money manager was super naïve.

  Lifting a print was child’s play.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  DARLIN’S PARLOR boasted flocked red wallpaper, dainty Queen Anne couches covered in purple velvet with frayed edging and crushed under the weight of the kaleidoscope of young men draping themselves suggestively, skirted end tables boasting lamps of fish-netted legs topped with fringed shades, and enough creep factor to scare off all but the most desperate.

  A telling comment as to where I fell on the spectrum.

  Nothing moved as if we were all on a set awaiting the opening curtain. The only things showing signs of life were the potted palms weeping in the corners. Frankly, if I had to live here, I’d be weeping too. When I was a child, Mona had not been happy when I’d taken a peek and dug in my heels, refusing to venture past the threshold.

  The stuff of nightmares, the place wasn’t the only thing that gave me the creeps—and made me sad. Darlin’ was the poster child for aging ungracefully. Tonight’s choice of music was “Fly Me to the Moon,” a far sight better than the groaning and wailing she shot out of speakers at decibels not even reached by jet airplanes.

  Four-foot-ten and eighty pounds dripping wet, Darlin’ commanded attention from her perch on a raised chair, her legs stretched in front of her, her feet resting daintily on a footstool. The two girls who I’d sent on ahead sat on either side, like acolytes at an altar. Olivia had stashed her derringer—I didn’t speculate as to where. Quick studies, both women had figured out their place at Darlin’s. Romeo, arms crossed and looking a bit shell-shocked, held up the wall in a corner.

  For a woman sliding toward eighty, she pushed the fashion envelope. She normally wore her hair long and blonde. Tonight she sported a shorter, sassier look in flaming red. Not a good look, although she had softened her lipstick to a shade of pink rather than the usual volcano red—a bit less garish, but not much. In keeping with her aging ungracefully, she sported sheer black hose with a perfect seam on her still-thin legs ending in a pair of red stilettos. She’d traded Lycra for leather, but her skirt was still black and still so short it had decency on the run. Given the season, she’d opted for a figure-hugging sweater, in black, of course. She’d abandoned her leather jacket with the Elvis mosaic on the back, choosing instead to have her idol immortalized in velvet and hung on the wall above one of the couches.

  Her toes reaching for the floor, she slithered off the faux-throne. “Lucky! Brinda!”

  “You two have met?” I raised an eyebrow.

  Matilda gave me a look that, had she been capable of empathy, would have verged on pity.

  “Honey,” she took a hoof in both hands, “your mother told me you’ve been under a lot of stress and haven’t been yourself since coming back from Asia. I had no idea—Mona’s never been known as one to undersell anything.” She plucked at my black-and-white hide. “My therapist is a doll—young, handsome, he makes me feel more like me than ever.”

  So many possible comebacks, none of them appropriate. But, if I ever laid myself out on Darlin’s therapist’s couch, I hoped my friends would put me out of my misery. “You’re so kind.” I half-squatted, then bent down to give her a hug—four-foot-ten is a long way down from my six feet. “Aunt—”

  “Don’t you dare.” She gave me the stink-eye. “Now I know you need that empty skull of yours cracked open under a bright light. But, given your current attire, I’m thinking you need a heavier hitter than Dr. Damien.”

  She gave Brinda a quick hug, then gave a heavy sigh as she blessed me with a once-over. “I had my money on Mona going daft before you did.”

  “I’m overcome.” The snark did a complete fly-by, racing over her head unnoticed as I knew it would. “But, in my defense, lumber-sexuals are all the current rage, and I hear the next big thing will be agri-sexuals. Farm animals will be their focus. I’m getting a jump-start.”

  That one got her. She grimaced in distaste, a shudder racking through her.

  With her back to me as she retreated to her throne, I let my victory shine through in a sly smile, which Brinda caught and returned. I resisted a fist pump to rub it in.

  The young men, hired to be unctuous and apparently good at their jobs, rushed to give her a boost.

  My turn to shudder, an involuntary spasm that shook my udders.

  Darlin’ seated herself, arranging to present her best parts forward. Once settled, she gestured to the women at her feet. “Now, what’s this I hear about somebody coming after these beauties?”

  With a glance at Brinda, I filled her in.

  Darlin’s expression hardened. “I’ll keep the girls with me. Mind you, not because I have any love for Justice Lake or Beau Boudreaux. Justice tried to take my daddy down back when mining around Ely resembled the 1849 Gold Rush. And Boudreaux, he’s been feathering his own nest since he was a toddler. When his best friend got busted for the drugs all of the football team were taking, thanks in large part to Lake, he rolled on them all in return for keeping his resume spotless. A huge scholarship and the NFL beyond were on the line. Guess I can’t blame him.”

  “His best friend was a guy named Fox?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Did Daisy Bell know the two of them?”

  “She went to school with those boys.” Darlin’ was a championship prevaricator from way back—she’d had to be to get this far in a white-boy world. I hadn’t the time or the patience, or, quite frankly, the skill, to parse the truth out of her.

  “I’d like to talk to her.”

  “It’s a free country.” Something in the way she said it didn’t ring true.

  “She keeps a low profile. I don’t know how to find her. I’d like your help.”

  Darlin’ pursed her lips and shook her head. Her smile weakened, as did her bravado. “We haven’t talked in a long time.”

  Liar.

  “Is she in trouble?”

  Darlin’ glanced between Brinda and me. “I got this, Lucky. Don’t worry.”

  This case was completely crazy—my lead horse, Mrs. Ponder, hadn’t even made the starting line by the bell. Still, she was a comer—I just had to prove it. “Is Daisy Bell okay?”

  “I told you. I’ve got this.” Jesus, just like my father. The two of them handling their own problems the old Vegas way. Didn’t they know this was the new Vegas? Yes, it was grown from the seeds of the old way
, but now burying a body in the desert didn’t earn you respect—it earned you a spot on Death Row.

  “Can you send your staff away? We need to have a private chat with your two guests here.” I motioned to the girls who bracketed Darlin’.

  “I told you she knew,” Stella hissed.

  Olivia didn’t answer. Instead, she eyed me coldly. “Shut up, Stella.”

  Darlin’ gave a dismissive wave and the young men draped all over the room peeled themselves off the furniture and disappeared one by one through the swinging doors that led to the kitchen.

  After the last of her males disappeared, I watched the doors swinging while I gathered my thoughts. “Okay, ladies, I want to know what you were doing handing out “invites” to the Privé party and riding up and down in my elevator. I know you show up at a lot of the NFL soirees all over the country. I also know you dropped by to see two pawnshop guys who run a black-market business in stolen sports memorabilia.”

  They glanced at each other but didn’t offer any info.

  “Romeo?” At my summons, he levered himself off the wall. “Want to deliver these two ladies to Boudreaux?”

  “Boudreaux,” Stella spluttered. “He’ll kill us.”

  “You can’t do that!” Olivia added. “Put us in jail.”

  “For what? You told me yourself you weren’t guilty of anything. And you weren’t hooking in my hotel. You also said that.” I resisted a smirk.

  They knew what I wanted.

  Stella gave Olivia a pointed look. At her nod, she turned back to me. “Look, we just talk to the guys, find out who’s got problems that need a solution. Not much different from scouting johns. Money’s almost as good.”

  “So, you are the marketing department for this little drug, memorabilia, insurance scam?”

  “We just find the guys. What happens after that isn’t on us.”

  I didn’t think now was the time to educate them on accomplice culpability. “And what were you supposed to be doing last night?”

  “Making sure Marion Whiteside stayed at the party.”

  “Who asked you to do that?”

  They clammed up.