Lucky Catch

by Deborah Coonts

  “He’s from UC-Berkeley, and we have no record of his gaming activities.”

  UC-Berkeley—way too coincidental. I bet he knew Richard Peccorino. This was the perfect opportunity for a little bit of casual sleuthing. “I’ll take this one. You keep manning the desk.”

  Sergio looked relieved as he leaned back, leaving me alone in my personal space.

  If Dr. Phelps didn’t play in my sandbox, I wasn’t inclined to play in his. His desires would go unfulfilled—a message I intended to deliver personally.

  * * *

  My father caught me waiting for the elevator to whisk me to the penthouse floor and the Sodom and Gomorrah Suite. “We need to talk.” He sounded beleaguered, which didn’t bother me like it normally would.

  I snuck a glance at him—he wasn’t looking at me, so he didn’t catch it. “I’m not talking to you . . . not yet. First, I need to think of appropriate words longer than four letters.”

  Normally well pressed and impeccably put-together, with an air of confidence, tonight my father looked faded . . . almost human. The starch had not only abandoned his shirt, but his posture as well. A short man—I had him by nearly six inches, although at six feet, I was on the tall side—he normally walked with shoulders back and chin cocked, inviting a challenge and making him appear taller. Tonight, he carried none of that attitude, looking not only his size but also his age. Worry deepened the creases that bracketed his mouth and the laugh lines around his eyes. Had his salt and pepper hair suddenly sprouted more salt, or was I imagining that? For a moment, my defenses weakened.

  He must’ve sensed my wavering. “Look, I know you’ve got a bone to pick with me. And I have an explanation—not sure you’ll like it, but I can offer it, if you’d like. But can we do that later? I don’t have the stomach for it now.”

  I relented. “To be honest, me either.” I looped an arm through his. Someone had told me once I shouldn’t let the employees see me being casual with my boss, but the Big Boss was also my father, and sometimes I just needed the connection . . . so, sue me. “You look like life is putting you through the wringer.”

  “Not life . . . your mother.” He hitched up his pants—he’d been losing a bit of weight recently. I’d heard stress could do that—unfortunately not to me, or I’d be small enough to wear on a chain by now.

  “With two dead bodies, I’d forgotten about twins and turkeys.” Funny how murder could put other problems into proper perspective.

  “Twins and turkeys?” My father shot me a harried look—one I could say I had never seen on his handsome, in-control, I-dare-you visage.

  “Mother hasn’t told you about her adventures today?” I tried to keep my voice steady. If my mother hadn’t told him he was going to be the proud father of twins, there was no way I was going to step in front of the firing squad—and it was just like her to maneuver me into position to take the bullet.

  My father looked confused and panicked. Inciting those emotions in others was Mona’s best thing. I should know—I’d lived with her for, well, forever. I almost felt sorry for my father, but he chose her . . . he should’ve run before she threw the noose around his neck. “That woman hasn’t told me anything. She keeps dropping hints. I tell you, there are days . . .” He shook his head.

  “Tell me about it.” I blew at some hair that tickled my eyes.

  For the first time, he looked up and really gave me a hard stare. “Care to share? I’ve always been a willing shoulder.” And he had. To muster anger toward the man who had always been my rock, even before I had been told of our family ties, took energy I didn’t have. To be honest, I couldn’t remember staying mad at him for long.

  “You’re part of the problems today.” As the elevator doors dinged open, I stepped inside and held them for my father, who followed me in. “But we agreed to table it for now. Besides, I’ve got a problem that needs my attention on the penthouse level. Where can I drop you off?” I had been holding the doors, awaiting his response. I released them, letting them slide shut but keeping my finger poised over the buttons.

  “It doesn’t matter.” He raked his hands through his hair, then rolled his head as if loosening his shoulder muscles. “Just killing time, avoiding Mona. I’m along for the ride.

  “Along for the ride—that should be our theme song.” I stuck my card in the slot and punched the button marked ph. “I’m thinking a long soak in the hot tub, a stint in the steam room, then a good massage might do wonders for your mood.”

  That got a hint of a grin out of him. “I don’t think I’d be let off my leash for that long. Your mother is hell-bent on raising money for her bid for the open seat on the advisory board—I’m not entirely sure she understands it’s an appointed position. Anyway, there was no talking sense into her, so I said I’d just write her a check.” When he turned and looked at me, he had a hint of homicide in his eyes. “Do you know what she told me?”

  I bit down on my smile. “I can hardly wait.”

  “She told me there was no way she was going to accept a bribe from one of the fat cats who had a vested interest in this city.”

  This time, I let my grin loose. I was pretty sure Mona had no idea what the term “vested” meant. “No saint like a former sinner.”

  “But that’s like biting the hand that feeds you.”

  “Or shooting the goose who laid the golden egg.” I almost felt sorry for him. “Now, we can continue trading clichés, or are you going to tell me what really has you all hot and bothered?”

  “That’s it, I don’t know. I was hoping you could fill in some of the blanks.”

  While I thought through my options, I bought some time. This was like having “the talk” with your kid—I weighed how much to say and what I could skate past. “Can you give me a hint?”

  “It involves Teddie.” My father stepped to the side, putting some distance between us.

  He needn’t have worried. Relief flooded through me—I wasn’t going to have to take a bullet for Mother today . . . at least, not yet. “Of course it does.” I laughed as I fought the urge to run. “All you people will be the death of me. What do they say? Family, just a bunch of folks you wouldn’t invite to dinner if you had the choice? Up to this point, I thought that a bit harsh, cynical even.”

  My father placed a hand on his chest. “Child, you wound me to the core.”

  “If you want my sympathy, I’d tone down the oversell.” I glanced up at the floor numbers as they flashed by. The elevator slowed for arrival. “I believe it was your idea to offer Teddie his old job back. You turn loose the snake, you shouldn’t be surprised when you get bitten.”

  “Point taken.” He looked at me with “guilty” written in every feature. “Any suggestions?”

  When the doors opened, I stepped through. “Why don’t you come with me? I’m going to meet a UC-Berkeley engineer. Should be entertaining.” I kept my voice passive, my face devoid of even a hint of what I knew would be waiting in the Sodom and Gomorrah Suite.

  If I couldn’t get mad at my father, at least I could get even.

  Chapter Ten

  Noise assaulted us halfway between the elevators and the suite—music pulsing, male voices raised above it punctuated by excited shouts. Gales of female laughter. My father frowned in a worried sort of way.

  I shot him a benign look as I raised my hand, fisted it, and pounded on the thick wooden door. We waited and, as I raised my hand to bang again, the handle turned and the door swung open. Quickly, I pushed the door further open and came face-to-face with a completely naked young woman.

  “Hey.” She waggled her fingers at me. Long blond hair, not a wrinkle in sight, and a figure so long and lean if she turned sideways she’d be hard to see, well, except for the requisite Vegas enhancements, those stood out like flags in a gale-force wind. She had the face of an angel and a body built for sin—a combination that could command at least a thousand a night. “Do you have the duct tape?” The way she asked made me think duct tape was part of her normal f
un and games. Probably more than I needed to imagine.

  “On the way,” I lied. Leaning in, I looked over her shoulder.

  The furniture had been moved to the sides, piles of priceless antiques stacked to make room for the crowd gathered in the middle of the large room. I counted ten young men, shaggy-maned, ubiquitous facial hair carefully trimmed in a variety of coverages, wearing trim designer jeans and stylish collared shirts—they didn’t look like nerds. In fact, not one of them looked like they’d had enough time on this planet to have graduated from high school, much less earned the title “doctor”—the oldest looked to be barely thirty. They had convened in a knot in the middle of the large room, their heads pressed together. Bent over a laptop, the ones in the back of the pack on their toes, craning to see the screen, they all tried to outshout each other and the thumping music.

  The naked girl shivered and rubbed her arms briskly—I didn’t feel sorry for her.

  “There’s a nice robe in the bathroom.” She gave me a blank look, and I pointed her in the right direction. I watched her walk away, her perfect, perky, tight little ass taunting me with its lack of jiggle and cellulite. The only way my ass would look like that would be to take a picture and Photoshop the hell out of it.

  “What is going on here?” my father growled, his face flushing red.

  I put a hand on his arm and my mouth next to his ear. I still had to raise my voice. “Let me handle this.” Amazingly, he stepped to the side, crossed his arms, and relinquished the floor.

  The boys had yet to acknowledge our presence. Turning down the music did the trick. The sudden silence hit them with the subtlety of a cattle prod to the butt. They bolted upright, heads swiveling, eyes searching, their expressions confused as if they’d just landed in a parallel universe.

  “Is there . . . ?” My voice still raised, I stopped—without the music, I didn’t need to shout. I regrouped and modulated my rising irritation. “Is there a Dr. Phelps here?” I asked in a normal tone.

  The youngest-looking of the group separated himself from the gaggle. “That would be me.” He wore huge, dark-rimmed, square-framed glasses in the current style. They slipped down his nose, and he looked at me over the top of them. Shaggy hair, goatee, and bedroom eyes, he looked cute enough to be accustomed to having his every demand met. “Do you have the things I requested? I called down to the front desk hours ago. I can’t imagine what is taking so long.”

  Yes, every demand . . .

  He had the glassy-eyed look of too much firewater. In fact, the whole group looked over-amped, not that that came as any surprise.

  “Your list was rather . . . unusual. Would you mind telling me what you need all of that for?”

  Before he could answer, two separate screams split the air—a female one from the direction of the bathroom, and a male one from high above. While the men turned and charged en masse toward the female in distress, my eyes turned upward . . . just in time to see a body peel away from the twenty-foot ceiling and plummet to the floor with a thud.

  Dr. Phelps paused his charge and turned. Gesturing to his fallen comrade writhing on the floor, he gave me the look a brilliant man saves for fools. “The duct tape,” he said, as if that was sufficient explanation.

  My eyes grew slitty, but he didn’t see the warning—he had turned and bolted after his friends.

  I dropped to my knees next to the man on the floor, my father dropped in next to me. “Where’s Mona’s shotgun when you need it?” he growled.

  “Shooting the guests would be a bit of a disincentive, don’t you think?” Before I touched him, I let my eyes wander over the man who had landed in front of me. No odd angles to his limbs. His ribs expanded and contracted—I took breathing as a positive sign. I felt my father watching me. “Would you go check on the woman in the bathroom? And, just don’t hit anybody, okay?”

  “I’m not sure you should touch him,” my father offered, as if he had experience with this sort of thing, which I doubted. He was like most of his Y-chromosomed brethren: the less they knew, the more positive they sounded.

  The man had landed face first—his back covered with long strips of duct tape. I was afraid to roll him over.

  My father gave me a condescending look as he pushed himself to his feet—apparently, there was an epidemic of stupidity going around. “For the record, I would never hit one of our guests.” He retreated toward the bathroom before I could offer an opinion. While he sounded confident, I wasn’t so sure—experience had taught me that if there was a scream-worthy problem in a bathroom it usually involved rodents, insects, or wild animals. How my father would handle that was anybody’s guess, but it would be entertaining for sure. Hey, I’m shallow that way—I take my jollies where I can find them.

  On my knees, trying to decide whether my father was right about not touching the fallen man, I called for the paramedics, then set my phone on the floor.

  The man in front of me groaned. As he rolled over onto his back, he clutched his stomach and started laughing. His lip was bloodied and he’d lost at least two teeth, pieces of which he spit out with a wad of bloodied spit that dribbled down his right cheek as he turned to look at me. He blinked rapidly, then squinted, working to bring me into focus. “You’re pretty. Are you the one they bought for me?”

  “If I am, you got robbed.”

  He reached up and curled a strand of my hair around his finger, then gave me a shy smile. “You’re my prize.”

  “For this little stunt?” I tugged at the duct tape. A short nail stuck through the end of one of the pieces. I pulled on a few other strands; they, too, held nails.

  Letting go of my hair, he looked around and seemed confused to see the room empty. “Did they get it?”

  “Get what?”

  Before he could answer, shouts echoed through the room. My father’s voice. Livid, with a hint of hysteria . . . not good. Perhaps I had overplayed my hand.

  “Stay right there,” I ordered the duct-taped man as I pushed myself to my feet, grabbed my phone, and bolted toward the bathroom. The lists of felonies already committed was long enough to land us all on Nancy Grace.

  As I rounded the corner, I skidded to a halt.

  The scientists huddled in the corner next to a shower stall large enough to rain on a serious parade. Dr. Phelps had a bloody lip, a hurt expression, and a growing red welt on his jaw, which he massaged tenderly. “He hit me.” He nodded toward my father.

  I was batting a thousand, which didn’t make me happy. Turning, I growled at the donor of half of my DNA—a fact I wasn’t too thrilled about right at the moment. “The one thing I told you not to do.”

  He glared at me thorough narrow slits as he cradled two white tiger cubs in his arms. Blood oozed from a line of scratches on one cheek, and he looked a bit shell-shocked. And pissed as hell.

  When he took a menacing step toward the scientists, I put myself in his path. “Let me handle this.” I turned to Dr. Phelps, stepping on my own urge to get physical with the twit. “Consider yourself lucky, I would’ve broken your nose.”

  I took a deep breath and counted to twenty. Then I counted to twenty again for good measure. I turned to my father. “I told you not to hit anybody.” Like that was really going to help.

  “He asked for it.” When his eyes met my slitty ones, he backed down a bit, the red flush in his cheeks pinkening. He had the good sense to look remorseful as he proffered the cubs. “What should I do with these?”

  “Just tell me their mother isn’t within striking distance.”

  He shot a worried glance at the closed door to the steam room. A low, threatening growl answered my question.

  “Great.” I pulled my phone and hit Jerry’s speed-dial. As it rang, a thought hit me and my heart jump-started. “Where’s the girl?”

  All the men in the room looked at the closed door to the steam room.

  Still holding the phone to my ear as it rang, with two strides, I crossed the marbled expanse, then grabbed the handle and tugged ope
n the door.

  “Yo, girlfriend. Whatcha got?” Jerry said when he picked up—he sounded bored.

  I tried to answer, but words failed as I stared at the young woman, now wrapped in a robe, cradling a large, white tiger across her lap.

  The woman cast a beatific smile at me. “Isn’t she sweet? Look, she loves to be rubbed behind her ears.” Like an overgrown housecat, the tiger tilted her head and leaned into the scratching.

  “Lucky? You there? What’s the story?” This time, Jerry’s voice held a bit of a worried edge.

  As the wave of emotion receded, carrying my panic with it, I let out a huff. “Ah, Jerry. Where to start? To begin, I need an exotic animal vet to the S and G suite, probably a tranquilizer gun with enough juice to tame a wild tiger, although she’s looking pretty happy at the moment.”

  Jerry started laughing. “If she’s hungry, I got a thousand turkeys we could feed her.”

  I almost said a thousand and one as Teddie flashed through my mind, but I resisted. “That’s a thought. Why don’t you suggest that when you call the Secret Garden and see if they are missing some mammals?” Siegfried and Roy kept a full animal farm behind the public version of the Secret Garden at the Mirage. Replete with in-house vets and special organic food prepared on the premises, the huge building housed a multitude of white variants of several species—tiger, lion, and jaguar among them. The last time I was there, I thought there was also a bear, but it’d been a while. “And, since I’m sure they’ll be grateful to get their man-eaters back with no public fanfare, see what you can get in trade.” I couldn’t imagine how the idiots broke in to steal the felines, but to be honest, I didn’t really want to know.