Assignment Vegas: The Case of the Athlete's Assassin: Jae Lovejoy Cozy Mystery Two (Jae Lovejoy Cozy Mysteries Book 2)

by Lucey Phillips

  In the locker room, I took my spa-issued fluffy white robe into a private changing room. Even though I was alone, behind a closed door, I felt weirdly exposed as I changed out of my clothes and into the bathrobe.

  After I put on the robe and stepped into the matching fluffy white slippers, I hung my clothes on the maple hangers that were engraved with the spa’s tea leaf logo, wondering if the hangers had cost more than my actual outfit—dark jeans and an ivory blouse printed with tiny navy birds. They were certainly worth more than my navy flats, which, I was just noticing for the first time, had seen better days.

  I hung the hangers in the closet that had been assigned to me and tightened the belt on my robe. Just a moment after I dropped my phone into the bath robe’s pocket, I heard my text alert chime.

  My cheeks flushed warm as I groped in the pocket for my phone, wondering if McKenna was texting me to cancel. I didn’t know if I would be more annoyed or relieved at the prospect of missing out on the chance for a great interview, but free to get back into actual clothes.

  The first text said, “Mom’s not coming. Cecile has a rash … taking her to the vet.”

  Who was Cecile? I replied, “Ok, you’re still coming?”

  “Getting in elevator.”

  I prayed that meant the elevator here at the Grand, not an elevator leaving McKenna’s apartment. I paced around the locker room for a moment, trying to figure out the etiquette for what to do next. It felt strange being on assignment without Colin. I’d gotten used to him being with me.

  I didn’t want to sit around where women were changing, but I didn’t want to start the spa treatments without McKenna. Actually, I didn’t even know what treatments we were supposed to get.

  So I did the same lame thing I always do when I’m unsure of myself—I found a place to sit, hung my head, and glued my eyeballs to my phone screen.

  Finally, McKenna walked in. Now she was wearing capri leggings and a bulky pink hooded sweater. She smiled and said hello. I grinned with relief. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.

  McKenna took her robe into a changing room and talked to me through the door while she undressed.

  “Poor little Cecile was scratching, running in circles, just not herself,” McKenna said.

  “Is that your mom’s cat?”

  “Dog,” McKenna said. “A Papillion.”

  Of course, I thought, a high-maintenance pet.

  “My mom ordered our treatments online,” she said. “I didn’t think you’d mind.”

  “I don’t mind. I’ve never done this before.”

  “I love it,” she said. “I bet you will too.”

  I doubted it. McKenna had been an elite athlete since childhood. She was accustomed to trainers and doctors and coaches touching her, evaluating her body and its movements. I, on the other hand, became easily exhausted by the level of physical contact involved in even a haircut or a trip to the dentist.

  McKenna exited the dressing room, tying her hair into a ponytail while she walked.

  “Part of my sobriety is finding ways to unwind without, you know, substances,” she explained.

  I repeated her words in my mind. I wanted to remember that sentence because it was a perfect quote for my story. Also, maybe there was a lesson for my mom in McKenna’s comment—that is, if my mom were ever truly interested in learning that kind of a lesson.

  “Your mom is really supportive of that, your sobriety?” I asked.

  “Yeah. Actually we weren’t that close for a long time. It almost felt like my coaches raised me more than she did. But after I, you know, had all those issues, things changed. She wanted to take care of me and I let her. I know she blames herself a little for how things worked out, but I don’t blame her. Sometimes stuff just happens.”

  “You two seem really close.”

  “We are. Some people think we’re too close, but I don’t care. I guess it’s just what I need right now,” McKenna said.

  “Who thinks you’re too close?” I asked.

  “Well, James, my ex-boyfriend, used to make some comments about how she was always around. He thought I should be more independent instead of letting her baby me so much.”

  Seems reasonable, I thought. Then again, McKenna didn’t get to have a normal childhood. She probably received far more training and coaching than love and nurturing. Maybe she needed to make up for lost time.

  “How long ago did you and James break up?” I asked McKenna, following her out of the locker room and down the hallway.

  “A few months ago. We still talk all the time,” she said. “He works on the show.”

  That’s when I remembered James. He was the man in dreadlocks who had brought some order to the chaos earlier that day, after Mike was shocked. James had been dressed like the other physical therapy staff members. He definitely seemed like good boyfriend material.

  “He’s the guy from earlier? The guy with dreads?”

  McKenna looked over her shoulder, gave me a nod and smiled. She wasn’t over him.

  At a reception desk, we met a woman named Amber who led us down another corridor. This one featured a glass wall with an enclosed waterfall. At the end of the corridor was a room with several in-ground tubs filled with gray sludge.

  After giving us a little spiel about the healing properties of mineral clay, Amber pulled privacy curtains around two of the tubs and told us she’d be back in 30 minutes to escort us to our next treatment.

  I stood over the tub, clutching my robe tightly around me as I stared at the clay. Charcoal-gray, light gray, and several shades in between made a swirling pattern in the thick liquid. It looked silky.

  “Oh, nice and warm,” McKenna said from across the curtain.

  I wondered if I could just dip my feet in the clay, instead of reclining in the tub neck-deep like we were instructed. How did people wash all this stuff off of their naked bodies when they were done?

  “Are you in?” McKenna asked. “Don’t you love it?”

  I didn’t answer, but I allowed my robe to fall to the floor. I eased one leg into the clay. It did feel warm. It was soft, too. I put the other leg in and began lowering my body into the clay. The pressure the thick liquid exerted against my skin and my muscles felt comforting.

  “Jae?”

  “I’m getting in,” I said. “It’s … nice.”

  “You don’t realize how much tension you’re holding until the mud sort of squeezes it out of you,” McKenna said with a sigh.

  She was right. Suddenly I didn’t care about being naked in this place or about how I’d ever get all this clay cleaned off of my body. That was a dilemma for later. My entire body felt comfortably warmed.

  “So anyway, James,” McKenna said. “He’s a really good guy. But he didn’t understand that my relationship with my mom is just something I need right now.”

  “I can see that,” I said. “At least you two are still on good terms.”

  “It was a complicated situation, lots of baby mama stuff,” she said.

  “Oh,” I wanted to hear about the drama—reporters love drama and gossip. But I didn’t want to pry right now. It was too early in this process with McKenna to risk pushing her or offending her.

  But it turns out I didn’t have to push.

  “He’d been with a different company, a show that was touring in Europe, when he met Anne. She’s French. They weren’t serious—I don’t think, but they ended up having a baby together.

  “They were already broken up before James got a job with Dream Myst. But they wanted to stay together as a family. So Anne got a job here, too, and they split custody of their kid 50-50.”

  McKenna went on to tell me about Ryan, James’ and Anne’s son, who was now almost three. James was a dedicated dad, but never dedicated enough, according to Anne.

  Anne didn’t like Ryan spending time with James when McKenna was around. And she seemed to have crisis after crisis, finding a way to interrupt most of James’ and McKenna’s time alone together.

 
“She’d put him through these huge guilt trips, telling him he wasn’t being a good dad to Ryan. And eventually, I guess, he believed her,” McKenna said.

  “Maybe she was trying to get him back.”

  “Probably,” McKenna said, sounding resigned. “She seemed super possessive. And she never wanted me to be around Ryan.”

  It sounded like a mess.

  “My mom never liked my relationship with James. She said I was always stressed out. She worried I was losing weight and stuff. But James is a good guy. To me, all the drama was worth it. Small price to pay, ya know?”

  “There’s other good guys out there.”

  “Yeah,” McKenna said, her voice starting to trail off. “Mom says I need to get my bearings as a single woman in sobriety—get used to that first.”

  “Well, it’s been a couple years, hasn’t it?”

  “Seven hundred and fifteen days since the last time I used,” she said. “That sounds like a big number, but I know I’m just one little slip away from losing everything. I can never forget that.”

  “I know it’s hard,” I said. Maybe it was the warm clay enveloping my body, or the steamy air, or the nudity. But somehow, I felt safe to let my guard down.

  “My mom’s an alcoholic,” I said. “My whole life, she’s never managed to stay sober more than a couple months. So I really admire what you’ve done.”

  “Wow, so your mom was, like, never there for you.”

  “Pretty much,” I said. I wanted to make McKenna understand that my mom’s alcoholism didn’t just stop her from being a supportive parent. It turned her into a needy child. Dealing with an absent parent would have been so much easier than managing my mom, her constant requests of my support and money—her constant intrusion.

  “Well, I guess it hasn’t held you back,” McKenna said. Her voice was starting to sound as sleepy and relaxed as I felt. “You’re an awesome writer—my favorite.”

  “Thanks,” I mumbled.

  McKenna was quiet. I leaned my head against the edge of the tub and allowed my eyelids to drift closed.

  A bell chimed gently.

  It was a signal that the door had opened. Amber was back to take us to our next treatment, the seaweed wrap.

  She carried our robes while McKenna and I covered ourselves with towels and went into separate shower rooms adjoining the clay bath spa.

  After we washed off the clay and put on our robes, we stepped into our fluffy spa slippers. McKenna and I followed Amber to a room with massage tables, again, separated by curtains.

  This was the moment I’d been dreading. Soon, a stranger would have their hands on me. And my body would be exposed.

  But the clay soak and warm shower had relaxed me. And now this room’s dim lighting and soft musical chimes made me feel like it was okay to trust the situation.

  While the spa staff wrapped our bodies in strips of seaweed, which was warm and a little slick-feeling, McKenna and I rested in silence.

  I don’t believe in spa-oriented pseudo-science—ideas about leaves that absorb “toxins” and mud that promotes healing. But I couldn’t deny that it felt like something was happening. Maybe that something was simply my neurotransmitters responding to brand new physical sensations. But whatever it was, it did feel healthy. If nothing else, the meditative music and soothing lighting put me in a calm mood.

  We finished our evening with a 20-minute session in a crystal salt steam room. Wrapped in our towels and reclining on cedar benches, McKenna and I brought our conversation back to what had happened earlier that day backstage at Dream Myst.

  “James texted me when I was on my way over here,” McKenna said. “He said Mike’s awake. He doesn’t remember the accident, but he seems ok, I guess.”

  I thought about the detective I’d met with earlier, Jacob White, and his suspicions that the electrocution was intentional. James had also seemed convinced that Mike’s electrocution wasn’t an accident.

  “That’s good. Did you still want to go see him?”

  “Yeah,” McKenna said. “I know my mom would like me to stay away, but I do want to see him. He’s one of my closest friends on the show. And he got hurt getting that pool ready for me. I think it’s the right thing to do.”

  “I bet he’d like to see you,” I said.

  “Will you come with me? Maybe I can just tell my mom we’re doing an interview or something. She doesn’t need to know I’m going to the hospital. She’s so freaked out about germs and stuff.”

  “Well. All right,” I said. The more time I got to spend with McKenna, the better my story would be. “But I don’t even know Mike. He probably doesn’t want a stranger visiting him in the hospital.”

  McKenna waved a hand. “It’ll be fine.”

  “Maybe I’ll just stay in the waiting room while you visit him.”

  For a journalist, I have an unusual amount of respect for people’s privacy. That’s probably reason number two million I no longer do news reporting. Writing the Assignment America column is pretty much my dream job.

  “Did James say anything else?” I asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “He wanted to call the police, but the casino manager said no. I just wondered if he said anything to you about what happened—why it happened.”

  “He didn’t really say anything. Just that he’s glad it wasn’t me. If Mike hadn’t been testing the water, it would have been me who got shocked, probably.”

  “Are you scared?”

  She gave me another casual wave of her hand. “Nah. I can’t think like that. I’m just focusing on taking it one day at a time and on doing my job. That’s what my shrink would call an anxiety trap.”

  After our crystal salt steam, we made our way back to the locker room, dressed, and took the elevator to the Grand’s main lobby. There, the noise, lights, and crowds were a jarring shock after spending hours in the calm health spa.

  Dream Myst gives McKenna and two other big performers access to a car service to use whenever they want. We arranged for her to meet me at Currents with her car the next morning. Then we would visit Mike.

  After we said goodbye, I walked two blocks north on the strip from the Grand to Currents. A few minutes later, as I was unlocking my hotel room door, my phone began to vibrate.

  I looked at the number. It was from Alt News America headquarters, Quinn’s department.

  I smiled while I scrambled to put down my things and answer the phone. Quinn was more than a coworker and best friend, she was one of the few positive connections I had to my home town.

  Officially, Quinn’s title is Senior Fact Checker. Unofficially, she’s a hacker. She uses her coding skills to work her way around almost any online security system and access private information.

  Of course, what she does is, at best, unethical and, at worst, illegal. Alt News America doesn’t directly publish the information she uncovers. But reporters use that information to ask the right questions and follow the right leads.

  “Are you a high roller yet?” Quinn asked me after we said hello.

  “Yeah, they comped me the penthouse,” I replied, my tone flat.

  Quinn laughed. “How’s Colin? Have you hooked up yet?”

  I rolled my eyes. “We are not going to hook up. I am a professional.”

  Colin and I did seem to have a moment or two. And privately, I wondered if we would ever move in that direction. While he had become more attractive in my eyes, since he helped me survive being held at gunpoint, I had no idea if the feeling was mutual.

  Besides, I wasn’t ready to offer any of that very personal information to Quinn. Even though she was my best friend, she could be utterly tactless. I decided to deflect her attention by asking about her awkward dating life.

  “Okay, so this guy, Jeremy, he seemed kind of perfect,” Quinn said.

  “But?”

  “I mean, he has a great job as a climbing instructor—how cool is that? He’s in great shape, he’s fun …”

  “But?”
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  “He’s a cat lady.”

  I laughed. “Can a man be a cat lady? Maybe you should call him a cat man.”

  “No. Cat man sounds like a superhero name. This guy is a cat lady. I never went to his house, but even his car smelled like a litter box.”

  “Ew.”

  “And he was way too attached to them. On our second date he was distracted the whole time. He actually ended things early, so he could go check on Ariel, who apparently had the sniffles.”

  “He named his cat after a fairy tale princess?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wow. He really is a cat lady.”

  “Told you,” Quinn said. “Anyway, I was kind of bored earlier so I decided to do some digging on Dream Myst. I cross-referenced some of the show’s staff members with public arrest records.”

  “Wow. What did you find?”

  “Dirt, Jae. Plenty of dirt,” she said. “One of the trainers, this Marcos Marilla, got banned from professional cycling for helping athletes get performance enhancing drugs.

  “He was never prosecuted. So he ended up going straight from the European cycling tour to a touring show called ‘Vivant.’ It’s similar to Dream Myst and Cirque Du Soleil.”

  “You think he brought his pharmaceuticals with him to Dream Myst?”

  “I don’t know. On the one hand, live shows and circus athletes aren’t really regulated or drug-tested by the government. But on the other hand, why would they want PEDs? It’s not like they’re competing for gold medals or prize money or sports endorsements.”

  “No,” I said. “There are no medals, but it is competitive—cutthroat actually—with these casts. There’s always an understudy who wants to be a star and get awarded one of those big contracts. I can see how PEDs would be a commodity on shows like this.”

  “Okay, so it looks like this Marcos Marilla left Vivant when Dream Myst started pre-production a couple years ago. And he brought a lot of Vivant colleagues with him.”

  “Who?”

  “Another PT guy, a makeup artist, a couple production assistants, and a director. Looks like the director guy was higher up in the show.”