Lucky Break

by Deborah Coonts

  “Stupid? You mean like kill someone?” I didn’t try to hide the snark. Had my father been a bit more aware, all of this could’ve been avoided. Of course, put in his position, would any of us have thought Teddie would kill? “You think you know somebody …”

  My father shot me a look—I didn’t have to see it; I could feel it. Father-daughter connections. Aren’t they wonderful?

  “I’ll be quiet, let you finish.”

  “How did you … ?” He slurped from his glass. “Never mind. You and your mother terrify me sometimes. Anyway, as I was saying, Teddie clearly wanted to chew on me over the whole Holt Box thing. We both knew I was within the letter of the contract, but I didn’t think it would hurt to give him a shot at me, make him feel better.”

  Although I found fault in his logic, it still shouldn’t have led to murder. “By the way, what you did ... the contract thing? It doesn’t make me proud.”

  “It was legal,” my father said, as if hiding behind the law could clear one’s conscience.

  I didn’t need to tell him that was a dead-end. “You dangled a carrot, knowing Teddie would do anything to get it. You had all the power. He’s a singer, not a tough guy. And just because it’s legal doesn’t make it right.”

  His sigh spoke volumes. “No, it doesn’t. If it helps, I’m not proud of myself either. In some way I must’ve been punishing him. Clearly, I didn’t understand that at the time.”

  “Punishing him? For what he did to me? Don’t make this my fault.”

  “Well, I’m not the one on trial here.” He threw the words at me.

  “But, curiously, in all of this, you’re the one feeling guilty.” I thought about sipping more Scotch, but that meant I’d have to raise my head, and open my eyes, and that would make all of this real. “Anyway, Teddie’s story?”

  “I let him have his say, about everything: the contract, you, me. The guy unloaded. He was angry, sure, but in control. I put him off. Told him I didn’t have anything to do with his personal life … that was between you two.”

  “Pretty much a lie.”

  My father paused. I could feel the heat of his anger spike, but he didn’t argue. “As to the contract, I gave him the old, tired story about trying to find a solution, an alternative.”

  Part of me wanted to hear what Teddie’d had to say about me, but the part of me that didn’t won. “What did he say to that?”

  “He wasn’t interested. Said he had another gig lined up.”

  My heart sank. His tour. He was going back on tour. Now that horse had been shot out from under him.

  “And then?”

  “Then Benton shouldered in. You know Benton?”

  “Head of the Gaming Commission?”

  “Yeah. He wanted to bend my ear about putting some tables and machines in Cielo. I told him he was talking to the wrong person.”

  Vegas, still a good ol’ boy town, even if it wasn’t still run by the wiseguys.

  “We’d only chatted for a few minutes. Over his shoulder I saw Teddie making for the kitchen. It took me a minute to put together exactly what he meant to do.”

  “And what was that?”

  “There were two men in there he probably hated equally. I wasn’t sure which one he might be after, but I thought it wise I take a look.” His voice was taut with emotion when he said, “You have to believe me. I had no idea he’d try to kill one of them.”

  “I wouldn’t have jumped to that conclusion either.”

  That seemed to placate my father; his voice settled. “I excused myself from my conversation, and I followed him.” The ice clinked in his glass as he took another hit. “By the time I pushed through the door, Holt Box was slumped in Teddie’s arms.”

  “What was Teddie doing?”

  “Shouting for help.”

  “No one had noticed anything?”

  “The kitchen was on overdrive. Everyone was busy with their own tasks, in their own world.”

  I knew exactly how it would be. His reputation on the line with each dish, Jean-Charles was a tyrant in the kitchen. His staff, highly trained and equally anal-retentive when it came to quality, would’ve been lost in their perfectly choreographed dance, their own piece of the symphony. “Jean-Charles didn’t miss his new sous chef?”

  “Jean-Charles wasn’t in the kitchen. His executive chef was. What’s his name?”

  “Rinaldo.”

  “Yes, Rinaldo was running the show while his boss worked the room.”

  “Did you notice anything else, anyone standing around watching?”

  “Things sort of got crazy after that. Teddie did say there was a man in a white dinner jacket, which I though odd and dismissed. Everybody in the kitchen wore a white coat of some kind. But Teddie was very insistent.”

  “Did he happen to mention the dinner jacket had gold buttons?”

  My father’s sharp intake of breath told me he had. “How did you know?”

  My blood froze. “I saw the guy, just from the back. In a way he reminded me of Irv Gittings.”

  My father choked, then spluttered and coughed. Scotch going down the wrong pipe was painful. I sat up, then pounded him on the back, while he tried to suck in some air. Finally, he got control. Pulling a handkerchief out of his inside jacket pocket, he dabbed at his eyes.

  “Are you okay?”

  He nodded. Then, when his eyes caught mine, he slowly shook his head. “Irv Gittings got out of jail two days ago.”

  “What?” Air rushed out of me as If I’d been sucker-punched, which I sorta had. Blindsided more like. But a few pieces of the puzzle seemed to be lining up. Knowing Irv, I knew enough to reserve judgment. He was full of surprises and quite good at the sleight of hand, leaving someone else to shoulder the blame for what he did.

  I bolted the rest of my Scotch, bringing tears to my eyes. “And you didn’t tell me because?”

  “Your mother and I thought it best not to spoil the party, the opening, all of that. Besides, you haven’t really been all that available.”

  He knew I’d come like a dog when he called. Padding a weak argument just made it look even weaker. But, Irv was out of jail; somehow I’d missed that tidbit, and beating my father over the head with it wouldn’t help spring Teddie or find the real killer.

  I’d start with Irv Gittings.

  A protective undercurrent crept into my father’s tone. A bit late, but nobody asked me. “You need to be careful. Irv certainly could have you in his sights.”

  As analogies went, that one was pretty spot-on. “Now you tell me?”

  “He got out on a technicality with the help of a dirty judge. Daniel was apoplectic. We both thought he’d keep his nose clean, at least for awhile.” Daniel, as in Lovato, the District Attorney. I’d known him all my life and still wasn’t sure which side of the fence he preferred. Guess that’s the way it goes with attorneys who turn to politics.

  Irv was out. I needed to talk to Daniel about that. But right, now, there was nothing I could do about it, so I dropped it. “Okay, you walked into the kitchen, saw Teddie holding Holt Box. And what happened next?”

  “I rushed to help. When we lowered Box to the floor, the knife came out in Teddie’s hand. There was blood everywhere. Box was already gone.” My father sounded relieved to be talking about homicide rather than Irv Gittings. I got that—Irv was a far bigger problem. I closed my eyes and assumed my previous position, head back and trying not to think about past mistakes. “How much blood?”

  “You saw. His shirt was soaked. Blood had run all over his hands and forearms. It had pooled on the floor.”

  “If Teddie had just stabbed him … ” I let the thought hang. My father didn’t need to be led by the nose.

  But it took him a beat or two longer than I expected. “There wouldn’t have been that much blood. At least I don’t think there could’ve been, even if the knife had hit something vital.”

  A positive idea to hang my hope on. “That’s something we can take up with the coroner.”

>   “Did you call Squash?”

  “Yeah, he’s on the case.”

  “Then leave this up to him. You’re not thinking right about Teddie and all this. It would be best if you left it alone. You could screw this up rather than make it better.”

  That brought me upright; my eyes wide open as they clapped on my father, pinning him in my glare. “I am so sick and tired of you and Mother telling me what I’m not thinking right about.” I raised my voice enough that Paolo shot a big-eyed glance my way in the rearview mirror. I withered him with a glare until he focused on his driving. “I will not let a friend rot in jail because I did nothing.”

  “You think you’re better than the police?”

  “Please, we’re talking about Metro. And you and I both know I can come through in a pinch.”

  I’d saved my father’s ass a time or two. He was smart enough to shut up.

  “And, if you think about it, had you and Mother not meddled in my life in the first place, perhaps none of this would’ve happened.”

  “I see your point.” Curiously, my father didn’t sound like he was patronizing me.

  “Great. You two learn a lesson, and Teddie pays the price.”

  I scrolled through my contacts in my phone, found the one I wanted, and dialed.

  Dane answered on the first ring.

  “I’ve got something I need you to do.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  EVEN though it was pushing toward 10 p.m., my office was a beehive of activity, everyone at their battle stations when I pushed through the doors. Animated chatter filled the air. Red lights on the phone blinking as callers held. All the lines were busy. Miss P, sitting at her former desk in the front office, held the phone against her ear with a shoulder. She gave me a quick glance.

  I waited until she had finished, then handed her my phone. “I turned it off. Would you mind?”

  She grabbed it, then pressed the “on” button. “We’re already getting calls from Europe, death threats from Texas, and sobbing females unable to talk. And it’s just beginning.”

  “It is juicy stuff. I can only imagine the lies they will fabricate, if that’s not redundant.” My heart hurt for Teddie. The media would mercilessly tear into every corner of his life, only to publish half-truths and innuendo.

  “Bad news sells.” Miss P stopped for a moment. “News.” She gave a derisive little laugh and a shake of her head.

  I knew what she was thinking—what passes for news these days in truth has little resemblance. “Gossip sells. The more salacious, the more tawdry, the better. Doesn’t matter if it’s true or not.” Some wiseacre once said, “All publicity is good publicity. He was either stupid or way too optimistic. I’m sure Teddie would gladly trade places. Want me to take a phone?”

  “We’re just giving them all the standard line: we can’t say anything as it is an ongoing investigation. So far, we’ve been able to keep up. Jeremy’s waiting in your office.”

  “Why don’t we just automate the answering with a recording to that effect?”

  “Then those who need our help couldn’t get through.”

  I looked at all the lines lit up and blinking. “They can’t now.”

  I turned to go. A thought stopped me mid-stride. “The Shooter Show, how’s that going? Any problems?”

  One of the world’s largest gun shows currently occupied most of the larger venues in town, with the aficionados filling most of the rooms. Regardless of how one felt about gun ownership, the annual convention was a huge draw and a financial boon to the city. The Babylon hosted the sales pavilion and the antique portion of the show.

  Miss P gave me her full attention. “No complaints that I know of. Why?”

  “Tomorrow is opening day?”

  “Yes. We have it under control.” She gave me a measuring look. “And how about you? The holiday party for the whales? Need any help?”

  “On my list of things to put finishing touches on today. We’ll be ready. Thankfully, we have a couple of days—I’m not at the top of my game.” Every year we had a holiday celebration for our whales, our bettors that kept one hundred million on deposit with the house to fund their gaming activities. We had forty. Our operation in Macau, despite undergoing a major expansion, had four hundred. It didn’t take a crystal ball to see where our corporate energies needed to be applied, but that was a continuing discussion with the Big Boss. He wanted me to spend some time overseeing operations there. I didn’t.

  “And,” Miss P said, stopping me as I turned toward my office, “you are the honorary starter for the Elf Run on Christmas Eve morning. Do you want me to cancel?”

  A citywide event eagerly anticipated by locals and holiday visitors alike. Christmas in Vegas normally didn’t attract a huge crowd; we weren’t exactly family-friendly. Christmas was usually seen as just a blip in the run-up to New Year’s debauchery. Except for the Elf Run. “To be honest, I had forgotten. Don’t cancel. I would say something stupid here like life goes on, but even I’m not that banal, despite my cliché addiction.” Clearly, even though charging around at full-throttle, I was unable to keep all the plates spinning.

  “Thank you for that.”

  “I’m hurt.” The banter helped me find true north again. Life had been wobbling off track, and I was glad to have my feet pointed down the trail. Teddie’s problems had solutions. We just had to find them. “What time is the race again?” I cringed, awaiting the answer.

  “Race starts promptly at seven. They ask that you be there by 6:30.”

  “A.M.?” Mornings were not my friend. And lately I’d noticed a profound immunity to caffeine. The more I relied on it, the less effective it was—like my mother. “Why do people want to run? And at such an ungodly hour?”

  “For fun and health.”

  “Aren’t we supposed to drink for our health?”

  “Milk.”

  I hated milk. “I’ll keep my vices. They make me happy, and happiness is good for my health.” Before she could shoot a hole in my justifications, I retreated. Out of habit, I started toward my old office, now Miss P’s, then rerouted. With her at her old desk out front, she’d thrown me off. Perhaps we both were having a tough time adjusting to the new musical offices thing. Old habits.

  My new office looked a lot like my old office, just larger, in a different location, and still under construction. I’d gotten so used to the two-guys-with-one-hammer crew who came each day to entertain me with their lackluster finish-out efforts and creative excuses that I wouldn’t know what to do when they actually finished. Adoption was a possibility. That or find them a stand-up gig.

  My burled walnut desk anchored the room, and me—my ship on the stormy seas. Two chairs fronted it. The walls were bare but for some paint splotches, as I tried to decide which color suited me. A difficult proposition as my choice changed with my mood. And right now, I was favoring something dark and dismal.

  Jeremy, his tux wrinkled, his tie undone, lay on my couch, one arm across his eyes. I took a moment to enjoy the view. Over six-feet of well-muscled Aussie with gold-flecked eyes and wavy brown hair, the Beautiful Mr. Whitlock was indeed serious eye-candy. And, once he trotted out that delectable accent, truly swoon-worthy. The fact that he loved Miss P beyond measure, a woman fifteen years his senior at that, put his perfect-male score off the charts. She was one lucky gal.

  My desk chair squeaked as I sat, then toed-open a lower drawer, put my feet on it, and leaned back.

  Jeremy’s body twitched, the only hint he was aware of my presence. “You okay?” he asked.

  “Been better, thanks.” I reached for my version of worry beads, a paperweight on the corner of my desk. Lucite encasing a golden cockroach, it had been a gift from the hotel staff after I’d dealt with a particularly odious guest intent on loosing thousands of the bugs.

  “What can I do to help?” Jeremy eased his legs around, putting his feet on the floor as he levered himself to a seated position, then speared me with those eyes as he flashed his dimples. His
wavy hair mussed from the impromptu nap begged to have fingers run through it.

  Good thing I was genetically hard-wired to not go play in someone else’s sandbox, but I had no idea how he fended off the hordes of less-principled women.

  I motioned him closer, then I remembered I needed my phone. I buzzed Miss P.

  “On my way with your phone.”

  I’d quit asking her long ago how she could anticipate my every need, but it still creeped me out a bit. Breezing through the doorway, a cloud of chiffon and a fresh floral scent, she stopped next to the desk. “Here you go.” She held out my phone. “Twenty messages from your mother. I assume by now she is either dead or has found someone else to shoot. Several from a few of the reporters who have your personal number. And an odd one.”

  “Odd? How so?” I took my phone, not so sure I wanted it.

  “A strange sort of chuckle, then a hang-up.”

  “Male or female?”

  “Male. I left the message on there. Maybe you can recognize the voice.”

  Jeremy and Miss P huddled closer as I pressed play.

  Short, low, with a hint of madness, the chuckle was worthy of a Halloween spook house, giving me goose bumps.

  “You recognize him?” Miss P asked, angling a look at me over the top of her cheaters.

  “Can’t be sure. But did you know Irv Gittings was released from prison a few days ago?”

  Shocked looks from both of them answered that question.

  “Pretty light sentence for murder,” Jeremy said.

  “Apparently, he got out on a technicality. And something about a judge on the take. I plan to take it all up with the D.A.”

  “Wish I could be a fly on that wall,” Miss P mumbled, as she tore the top sticky note off the stack on my desk. I handed her a pen. “You’ll want to see him first thing?” She didn’t even pretend she expected an answer as she made a note to herself.