Lucky Break

by Deborah Coonts

“He told me you could help me.” Mr. Cho looked uncomfortable.

  “I’m sure he didn’t tell you whether I would or not.”

  He gave me a fleeting smile. “He said you wouldn’t.”

  “More accurately, I’m sure he said I wouldn’t want to.” I angled a look at him as I crossed my arms. “To be honest, I don’t know enough to have a beef with you. So, why don’t you come clean with me, then I’ll decide?”

  “So, you will help me?”

  “Depends on what you have to say and what it is you want.”

  “I want my daughter back.”

  Not what I expected. And he’d said perhaps the only thing that could’ve opened my mind a crack. I opened the door to the Porsche. “Get in. Let’s talk.”

  He climbed in the passenger side; I took the wheel. It was a tight fit. My kind of car—one I had to wear. “Did you order the hit on my father?” I asked when we were both settled and the doors shut. I didn’t expect honesty, but I figured going on the offensive was a decent strategy.

  “No. Why would I want him dead?”

  “Holt Box?”

  “I didn’t know until I arrived here that Mr. Box had agreed to re-launch his career here.”

  “How did you find that out?”

  “Everyone knows.” His shoulder against mine moved in a shrug. “It is no secret.”

  Even I’d heard the scuttlebutt. “You came for your daughter? You expect me to believe that?” I did, actually, but I didn’t think I needed to show all my cards at once.

  “I don’t care what you believe. It matters not to me.” He paused, apparently deciding to make nice. “Kimberly and I have not been close. Her mother, she did not want me to have influence on her and did not want people to know she is my daughter. I agreed. My enemies are powerful.”

  Miss Minnie’s life’s work had been the study of men. I’d be a fool to doubt her assessment of Mr. Cho’s character or his situation. “Is Kimberly your only child with Miss Minnie?”

  “I know only what she tells me.”

  “Your life depends on knowing things.” I gripped the steering wheel tight, imagining. “If experience is the best teacher, then you and my father are more alike than you think.”

  “I want Kimberly.”

  “Why?”

  “She needs to know her father.”

  I didn’t like the way he said that. In fact, I didn’t like much about him at all. Maybe his taste in cars, but that was it. “I just can’t shake the feeling that you, my father, Holt Box, Teddie, me, we’re all pieces on a board, pawns to be used to take the king.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Somebody is playing us.” I angled a look at him. “Is it you?”

  “What do I stand to gain?”

  I shook my head slowly as I thought. “I don’t know. Why did you come here?”

  “I told you, to get my daughter back.”

  “And Holt Box? What motivation was he? Enough for murder?”

  “He went back on his word, he stole my daughter, and,” he paused, looking a bit uncomfortable., “it is not good for business to let these things happen.”

  “We have lawyers, the law and the courts. You have Sam.”

  He didn’t seem concerned that I knew. “Sam has worked for me, yes.”

  “Is he working for you now?”

  He focused on the car as he fingered the leather, the woodwork, the fine detailing. “This is a precision machine. It is built for one purpose, and it is brilliant at that one thing. Sam, he was built for killing, and he is very good at it. A machine. But I am not directing him.”

  “Even if you were, I can’t touch you. Not unless China revokes your diplomatic privilege, which they won’t do. You run the money pipeline that feeds them.”

  “Even the men who define my world have their limits. I am not here to kill anyone.”

  “And we’re back to the first question: why are you here?”

  “I am here to make things right; to get my daughter.”

  “Did you order the hit on Holt Box?”

  “No, but no one will believe me. And I will not deny that whoever ordered his killing did me a very large favor.”

  Saving face. With Holt Box’s death Mr. Cho looked like a man who took care of his business. “How did you sign Holt Box? As far as we knew here, he was retired on the farm, hanging with the wife and kids.”

  “Kimberly brought me the deal,” he began.

  Mental note: fire Kimberly. I touched the controls, and marveled at all the whistles and bells.

  “Your property expansion is still in the construction phase, and he wanted a place soon for his big comeback. And he wanted it to be China. The Chinese people are in love with everything American, and country music is quite popular. I made him a very good deal. He seemed quite taken with it.” He spoke with British intonation, and his word choice and cadence matched. I always found that odd, the non-British sounding like the British. Of course, he wasn’t American either, so who was he supposed to speak English like? Clearly I hadn’t thought it through.

  “In addition to being quite taken with your daughter.” I gripped the steering wheel, wondering what it would be like to hit the road in one of these. My car would bring a good price in trade; it was a classic.

  His face darkened. “Yes. They met here in Vegas, became good friends.”

  That’s why I didn’t sleep with friends—well, except for the Teddie thing, which proved my point. Kimberly and I were the poster children for the pitfalls of friends with benefits.

  “She wanted to help him. I hadn’t seen her in ages. I enjoyed negotiating with her. She’s a remarkable young woman.”

  Too bad it took him this long to figure that out. “Yes, that’s why we hired her.”

  “She can be trusted,” he said, like a true businessman, and a father trying to repair his daughter’s image.

  “In this country, we believe in innocence until guilt is proven. So you sign the deal with Holt Box. Then what happens?” I looked out the side window at all the other cars lined up to give away. Several Ferraris, the requisite Bentley that made me curl my lip, a few Lambos. They wouldn’t miss the Porsche, would they?

  “Next thing I know, a man comes to me, tells me Mr. Box has shamed my daughter and then has walked out on the deal and fled the country. And, worse, your father is the one behind it.” He stopped there.

  I stopped pretending and paid attention. I knew a clam-up when I heard one.

  “Who?”

  He weighed his words. “Sam.”

  I could see he was coming around to my theory. “And you got angry and decided to get even.”

  “No. I did not. You must believe me when I tell you I did not ask for him to shoot your father, even though in my country it is how business is done.”

  “I don’t have to believe anything,” I spat. “Besides, what I believe doesn’t matter. It’s all in what we can prove. You can go back home with no resolution, no consequences. But my friend will be charged with murder and tried for it. His life for a crime he didn’t commit.”

  “What do you need?”

  “I need Sam.” I turned toward him and pressed my back against the door so I could watch him. “Can you get in touch with him?”

  “Not directly. He changes phones, always untraceable. I usually get the word out I’d like to talk with him, and he gets in touch with me.”

  “Might be worth a try. There’s money in this somewhere for him, and, according to you, he isn’t on your payroll.” I waited for Mr. Cho’s confirmation, then continued. “See if you can find him, but, remember, you’re not in China anymore.”

  “And then?” He looked at me as if I didn’t matter.

  A chill chased through me. “I don’t know. Twenty paces at dawn? I need Sam in order to free an innocent man who will pay for Sam’s crime if I fail.”

  “You don’t know what you are asking.” A hint of warning cooled his tone.

  Teddie.

  “A dance wi
th the Devil, I fear.” I pulled out my phone and scrolled through some newspaper articles on the Review-Journal site until I found the one I wanted. “Does the name Irv Gittings ring a bell?”

  Mr. Cho frowned. “No.”

  I shoved my phone under his nose. “Does this help jog your memory?”

  He pursed his lips and shook his head. “No. Who is he?”

  I sighed as I shoved my phone back into my pocket—hard to do with my head touching the roof of the tiny car. “I think he’s the guy behind all of this. Only one problem, though.”

  “And that is?”

  “I can’t prove it.”

  Mr. Cho had left me with my thoughts. I realized he’d agreed to nothing. Of course, so had I. Was it possible to agree to nothing? Brandy had rescued me from that tortured conundrum and was now reaching the end of her spiel when Romeo called. I nodded to Brandy. “Great job.” Then I answered the call. “Tell me you’ve broken the case, Irv Gittings is either dead or behind bars, and the balance of the universe has been restored.”

  “Well, not quite, but you might like this.”

  I didn’t think there was anything that came close. “What?”

  “The fire chief called. I’m on my way to meet the arson investigators at your place. Want to come?”

  He sounded like he was inviting me to the prom. “Do I get dinner and a corsage?”

  “What?”

  “Never mind. Want to pick me up, or should I meet you there?”

  “I’ll swing by. Meet me out front.”

  I let myself into Romeo’s unmarked, ignoring the squeaky hinges and lumpy seat. For the short ride, I didn’t bother with trying to fish the seatbelt out from between the seats. “What’d they do, rescue this thing from the crusher at the junkyard?”

  “Still working my way up.” Romeo looked a bit fresher and he’d changed clothes. “I won’t be sorry to turn this one in. Maybe I’ll get one that doesn’t require two quarts at every fill-up.”

  “Still, you’d think the department could spring for cars manufactured in this decade.” As a fan of classic cars, I was torn—criticizing what was probably two years from being a classic felt like a betrayal. Romeo and I filled each other in on what we knew. It didn’t take long, which didn’t make me happy. We suspected a lot but knew very little. In this sort of game that was akin to having our ears to the ground and our asses in the air—not a defensible position.

  “We have the button and the photo.” Romeo ran through the high points, summing up. “But no jacket and no tape placing the guy, Sam?” I confirmed with a nod. “We have nothing placing him in the kitchen where Holt Box was killed.”

  “Eyewitnesses?” I knew there were like a million people in that kitchen.

  Romeo blew out a sharp breath. “Very unreliable even if they did remember something, which, in this case, nobody does. Everyone was wearing a white jacket and was busy with their own tasks.”

  Nothing but loose ends, questions with no answers. Speculation with no proof. “What about the tapes Forrest gave you? Anything there?”

  He darted a glance my direction. “Rented van, abandoned on the west side. Trace in it is overwhelming, as you can imagine. Trying to match a set of fingerprints or anything to this crime will be a half-inch short of a miracle.”

  “Clever. But expected.” I shifted as an unruly spring poked me in the butt. “Any shots that can help us identify the guys? Do you smell gasoline?”

  “Yeah. Got a full tank and there’s a leak in there somewhere. No facial shots—they knew where the cameras were.”

  “Pros.” I expected that too, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t disappointed.

  “Weird thing, though. After watching the two of them, I got the impression one was a woman.”

  That I wasn’t expecting. “Really? Anybody we know?”

  As we approached the Presidio, I rolled down the window in Romeo’s rattletrap, having to press the glass down the last few inches. I stuck my head out and peered up at my apartment. A huge hole gaped where my bedroom used to be. Curiously, one curtain billowed through the hole, only partially burned. Soot and smoke blackened the building above, but it looked like the fire had been contained quickly, my apartment taking the brunt of it.

  “Like I said, they were careful.” Romeo, looking like a kid behind the large steering wheel, turned up the drive to the Presidio, parking in the same spot I’d left the Ferrari in yesterday. He killed the engine and pocketed the key. “I gave the tapes to our forensics staff. They have this gait analysis that might help us.”

  “Is that admissible in court?”

  He had the door open and one leg out, catching the breeze and letting in more of the stench that still perfumed the air and clenched my stomach. “At this point, I don’t care. If we have an idea of who, I’m sure we can catch them clean.”

  “Since we’re doing such a great job as it is.” Hanging back, I let Romeo lead us up the drive. Unlike the rubberneckers on the highway, I never liked seeing the aftermath of an accident. Although the fire was no accident, it was a loss just the same, perhaps worse. And witnessing the devastation made it hurt.

  Forrest rushed to greet me the moment I stepped inside the foyer, his face, his whole body crumpled with distress. The smell of smoke lingered here, subtle yet noticeable. “Miss Lucky, I am so sorry. This is all my fault.” He blocked my way, taking both of my hands in his huge mitts. “I let the plumbers in. It had to be them.” His gaze shifted to Romeo. “Right?”

  “I don’t know yet.” He moved to step around Forrest, subtle in his hinting.

  Subtle was no longer a tool in my toolbox. I disengaged my hands. “Forrest. It is what it is. I’ve called servicemen before and forgotten to tell you. Why would you think this was any different? Perhaps we need to change that policy, but that is for later consideration by the Homeowners Association. I don’t blame you. I blame myself.”

  His shoulders turned in. With his head hanging low between them, he looked like a chastised puppy.

  I didn’t know what else to say, so I did what I always do—I changed the subject. “Have the other tenants been allowed back into their homes?”

  “Yes. They got the fire out pretty quickly, containing it to your place really. There’s enough smoke damage to Mr. Teddie’s that he won’t want to stay there until it’s been cleaned. No structural damage, just cosmetic.” Again, his face scrunched; he looked like he wanted to cry.

  I knew exactly how he felt.

  Romeo steered me by the elbow around Forrest, propelling me toward the elevators. “They’ve restored service. We won’t need to use the stairs.”

  That was a good thing. Thirty flights of stairs. After having survived the blast, I didn’t want to meet an ignominious end dying of apoplexy halfway home. Neither of us said anything, and I studiously avoided looking at Romeo’s reflection as I tried to ignore the stronger smell of smoke and fire.

  The elevator slowed. I prepared myself, but nothing could’ve prepared me for the sight that greeted me when the doors opened. A blackened shell. That’s all that was left. Acrid dark water pooled in the low spots on the floor. My furniture reduced to piles of cinders. The color erased from the walls, the artwork gone. As if my life had disappeared.

  “Wow,” Romeo whispered.

  “Not exactly the word I was reaching for, but, yeah, wow.” Hurt unfurled in my belly, squeezing my heart. I’m sure in the days to come I’d reach for something, forgetting it was gone, rekindling the incredible sense of loss that overwhelmed me now, stealing my voice, and erasing me. I’d thought I was prepared.

  I was wrong.

  Not wanting roots to grow, I moved slowly though the great room, pausing, remembering where furniture was placed, hoping for the comfort of a memory and finding none—as if the memories had burned with the inanimate objects that triggered them. It was all gone, a clean slate, the past reduced to smoke that drifted away on the wind. A part of me, defined by the space I’d created, was gone now too. Did that leav
e more space for the me I was yet to be, or simply a hole that would remain, a testament to who I used to be?

  Sadness weighed on me; yet, underneath I sensed buoyancy unconstrained by the tether of past choices. Romeo walked beside me, a reverence in his posture, quiet and reflective.

  “It’s just things,” I told him.

  He glanced at me, unsure. “Things.”

  “They can be replaced.” I took in the devastation, imagining the heat that tore through my home, turning everything to cinder and ash. “Could’ve been me in here. Or one of my friends.”

  “I still can’t believe how close you came.”

  He had no idea. One decision to walk down memory lane, to deal with the ghosts, the what-ifs and the why-nots. Had I just gone to bed, I’d be dead.

  In a way, Teddie had saved me.

  Now it was my turn to return the favor. “Let’s see what the pros have to tell us.”

  The investigator with the Clark County Fire Department looked about as old as Romeo, both of them kids dressing up for Halloween. Slicked down, carefully cut dark hair, a fresh face yet to be introduced to a razor on a regular basis, piercing blue eyes that looked older than the mountains—interesting pieces to the puzzle of an investigator that stood eye-to-eye with me. “Fred Stone, Fire Investigator.” His voice was unexpectedly deep, like a spirit speaking through a medium and as unnerving. “You’re Ms. O’Toole, the owner?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re lucky.”

  “Yes.”

  Knowing the guy wasn’t following, Romeo looked uncomfortable. He knew my wise-ass, and this wasn’t it.

  “In two ways,” I explained, taking pity. “My name is Lucky, as in Luciano, but I also am aware that being alive today makes me very lucky indeed.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the inspector intoned like Sergeant Friday.

  A bad day, and a bad act. How lucky could I get? “Any idea what caused the fire?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” As he led us back through the bedroom into the bathroom and dressing room, I tried not to think of the things that were no more. The clothes could be replaced. The shoes, too. But the jewelry, each piece a memory, a celebration of a life event, a milestone. That I would miss.