“I see.”
“You cannot compromise on quality.” Desiree’s voice held an air of finality.
“Agreed. Did Chef Wexler try again to buy from you?”
Her eyes drifted from mine, focusing instead on Romeo, who stood guard behind me. “Yes, but I would not give him credit. After the bad review, I did not trust his business anymore. It is obvious I don’t trust his judgment, so on what basis would I sell to him?”
Using emotion to counter logic was not my strong suit, so I conceded the point.
“So, he has reason to be angry with you,” Romeo stated.
Desire looked askance. “It is business.”
As if that explained it all. “And ego,” I added.
“He is”—she paused, searching for words—“how do you say it? A small fish?”
I felt like saying that so are piranha, but I had a feeling that she’d feel this little bite Christian Wexler took out of her ass for some time to come. Getting her arrested, even if briefly, was a nice stroke of revenge, if you asked me. I’m sure Romeo would have something to say to Chef Wexler about lying to the police and making false accusations, but perhaps the chef’s revenge was worth the price.
Desiree started pacing again, but this time, with less enthusiasm. “When was I to be doing these things?” She threw the question out, not looking at Romeo or me.
“An hour or two ago.”
“Impossible.” She paused, throwing the word down between us like a gauntlet. “I was teaching a class at the Culinary Institute all day.” She lasered Romeo with a stare. “You must check. You will see I am telling the truth.”
“And,” I turned to Romeo, “while you’re at it, you might want to round up Chef Wexler and find out why he lied, and who really was driving that truck.”
Behind me, there was a rustle of clothing. The door opened, then closed. Desiree and I were alone.
As the sole target, I absorbed her ire. “You are fools. Who says these things about me?”
“Where did the police find you?”
“At Jean’s. I had just arrived home. The Culinary Institute is five minutes away.”
“When the police came to arrest you, did you tell them where you had been?”
“Non.” Desiree gave me an imperious look. “They are thugs, putting on the . . .”
“Handcuffs?”
“Yes, these.” She rubbed her wrists and deflated a little, her bombast leaving as quickly as it had come. “I am scared, so I say nothing until I have a friend.” Her eyes darted to mine. “Tell me, who says these things about me?”
Was she playing me? Who knew? I decided to take a flier and tell her the truth. “Christian Wexler.”
Romeo walked back in just in time to hear me give her the goods. I didn’t look at him, but I heard his sharp intake.
Desiree’s brows knit as she slowly reached for her chair. Pulling it under her, she lowered herself to her original position. “Why would he say this?”
“Oh, I can think of several reasons.” I didn’t try to hide my sarcasm.
Desiree’s brows knitted in confusion. “What have I done to him?”
“Put his business on the ropes.”
Incomprehension colored her complexion. “But it is only business.”
“Is that how you feel about Fiona? And Adone?”
Her cheeks flushed angry red. “That is different.”
“Only difference is that you are on the receiving end. It was done to you.”
She righted her chair, then sank slowly into it as realization dawned. “I see.”
“Reputation is all we have.” I threw her words back at her.
They hit with the force of a slap. “He was angry, yes. But he understood . . . I think.”
“When his restaurant got trashed, did he blame you?”
When she looked at me, her face was clear. “No, he blamed you.”
* * *
“Her story pans out.” Romeo confirmed what I figured would be true as he walked me out. “I’ll get her things, then take her where she wants to go.”
Lost in thought, I didn’t feel the need to respond. “And Wexler?”
“We’re looking for him.”
Romeo trotted to keep up with me. “Any idea why that chef has it in for you?”
“Sure. He was in the running for the space I gave to Gregor.”
Romeo whistled. “So, Wexler could’ve had a primo spot at the most important Strip property, when the eyes of the world turned in that direction. Most folks I know would kill for that.”
“Apparently.” I did not like where this was going.
“Which spot was it?”
“Where the Burger Palais is now.”
Romeo grabbed my arm, bringing me to an abrupt halt. “Jean-Charles’s place?”
I swallowed hard as I nodded. “Wexler could be behind this whole stunt, setting up Jean-Charles.”
“Your lover.” Romeo’s eyes widened. “Lucky no more.”
I grabbed Romeo and squeezed his arm so hard, he winced—of course, he was down to bone and sinew. “Find Chef Wexler. But don’t kill him until I get my shot.”
Chapter Nineteen
Adone snagged me as I strode through the atrium, lost in thought. “She okay?”
“What?” I tried to focus on him. To be honest, I’d forgotten all about him.
The kohl around his eyes had smudged underneath, giving him a Halloween haunted look. “Is Desiree okay? Did they arrest her?”
I appraised him out of the corner of my eye—to me, his question held a hint of hopefulness.
I gave him the short version, leaving out the important parts.
He looked relieved as we burst through the doors into the fading sunlight—maybe I had been wrong about the hope thing.
The halogens flickered as they fired up. The day had disappeared.
I paused with my hand on the Ferrari’s handle. “I’ll take you back to the hotel.”
He didn’t argue as he followed my lead and folded himself into the car. “This your ride?”
“Only when I’m good.” With the push of a button, the engine growled to life. A flick of my right hand, easy pressure on the accelerator, and we roared out of the parking lot. Heads turned, tracking our progress. A bright red Ferrari lacked even a hint of subtle—I liked that.
“And I bet you are very, very good.”
With a glance, I confirmed he intended the innuendo, which creeped me out. Tatted prima donnas with an attitude—to the extent one didn’t always beget the other—rarely hit my radar. Add the fact that Adone was technically married, and his mistress wasn’t even in the ground yet, gelled the creeping out into a gross-out. What do you know; my libido had developed a bit of discernment. That fact alone gave me hope.“And I’m taken.”
He didn’t seem broken up about that as he turned to stare out the side window, leaving me to the business at hand. I think I probably set a land-speed record getting back to the hotel.
Our good-byes were brief, then I headed for my office—my port in a storm.
I called the Beautiful Jeremy Whitlock on the way. Ideally, he could get some answers from Wexler before Romeo found him. The ante had been upped several times, and I could no longer afford to play by the rules. Besides, I didn’t have the patience for it.
With my serious authority issues, rules weren’t my best thing.
* * *
The Beautiful Jeremy Whitlock met me at the elevators.
“Are you telepathic?” I asked before he had a chance to say anything.
“Just think about me and I appear.” Once again, he shot me those dimples. He should be required to have a license, or at least a concealed carry permit for those things.
Curiously, while I could appreciate, it seemed I’d developed an immunity, another good sign. Perhaps, just perhaps, I was actually growing up and into my own skin.
The doors opened and we stepped inside, then turned to face out as the doors slid shut. “I’ll show y
ou mine if you show me yours.” I grinned at his reflection.
“I’m getting the short end,” Jeremy groused with a smile as he held back the door for me—the ride up one floor to the mezzanine didn’t allow even enough time for good repartee.
“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” I fumbled for a key, then remembered my office was still a war zone with a hole in the wall that rendered keys superfluous. “I hope you’ve got something good.”
At my sidelong look, he swallowed the quip I’d known would follow. “I did some poking around on that guy, Livermore.”
I flicked the switch, juicing the single bulb that hung on a wire over my desk. The weak circle of light pushed back the darkness enough to leave me wondering what lurked in the corners. I assumed my normal position leaning back in my desk chair, my feet propped on an open lower drawer. Resting my head, I stared at the ceiling. “I’ve forgotten my manners—can I get you anything?” I raised my head and opened one eye. “Champagne, perhaps?”
He gave me a grin of true contentment.
“Well done, by the way.”
“I’m a lucky guy.” He bowed his head briefly, then his smile turned all business. “Livermore. It was sheer dumb luck I found out who he was. That bad rug he was wearing made him hard to identify—especially from my grainy photos.”
“It’s funny how hair changes a look. I assume he was using an alias.”
Jeremy rubbed his chin and looked a bit chagrined. “I assumed so as well—a stupid, greenhorn mistake.”
“Never assume,” we both said in unison.
“Hiding in plain sight, was he?”
Jeremy nodded. “Dane actually was the one to put me onto the bloke.”
I pretended I didn’t see his worried glance in my direction. “How’s Dane doing?”
“Good days and bad. His ego and his heart took a huge hit when he lost Sylvie.”
He actually hadn’t lost Sylvie—she had died, and he hadn’t been able to save her. Ego-induced blindness had been partially at fault, but I didn’t think it appropriate or necessary to point that out—beating a dead horse.
“Turns out Livermore’s a PI—gives my profession a bad name. He mostly stakes out cheating spouses, that sort of thing. Word on the street is, he’ll do pretty much anything for a buck.”
“Dane’s kind of guy.” That was snarky, not sure why. Okay, I knew why—Dane had been a huge disappointment as a friend . . . huge. Disappointment. Trust. People being less than they could be . . . or should be. Maybe I was just a victim of my own optimism . . . and arrogance. Who was I to think others should live up to my expectations? “Where does he hang his shingle? Livermore, I mean.”
Jeremy gave me a grin with a bit of wicked in it. “The low rent district.”
“Let me guess, Naked City.” A section of town straddling Las Vegas Boulevard just north of Sahara and extending almost to downtown—its exact limits depended on who you talked to—Naked City had been home to a bunch of the showgirls back in the heyday. They had taken to sunbathing nude on the rooftops of their apartment buildings, hence the name. When I was a kid, I thought living there would be the best, but, when I discovered that ‘Naked City’ would not be part of the official address, I lost interest.
“You got it.” Jeremy smiled. “And he’s expecting us.”
* * *
The Ferrari still waited in the valet, its engine not yet cool.
Jeremy paused when he saw the car. “Maybe we should take mine.”
I stepped around him, then raised a questioning eyebrow. “A Hummer is so much more understated.”
“Good point.” He joined me in the car and gave me the address as I started off.
“He’s expecting us?” I asked. If I was to play a part, I needed to know what part. At the end of the driveway, I took a right, heading north, away from the glitz and glamour.
“Yes. I told him it was about a job.” Jeremy seemed to be enjoying this. “He said he’d wait. I got the impression he’s pretty hard up.”
“There’s no telling what people will do when their backs are against the wall.”
Naked City began where the sexy, high-end part of Las Vegas Boulevard ended. Over time, the showgirls had filtered away—the lucky ones wedding mobsters and moving to estates in one of the elite enclaves off Rancho. Cheap motels replaced the apartments. Pushers and pimps moved in.
In recent years, signs of new life energized the law-abiding residents. They had rallied together to clean up their neighborhood. Still a rougher section, Naked City showed a bit of renovation, refurbishment . . . even gentrification. With the resurgence of development in downtown, that would continue. If someone wanted to speculate on real estate, this wasn’t a bad section of town to focus on.
“Take the next right.” Jeremy’s voice cracked the silence.
I downshifted, using the engine to slow us, then accelerated through the turn.
Jeremy scanned the street numbers. “There. Third one down.”
I killed the lights as I eased to the curb, then shut the engine down. A look-at-me car by design, the Ferrari attracted attention, which we didn’t need right now. Of course, I’m sure I wasn’t the first person with a fancy car to troll the street looking for a low-rent PI. Vegas was that kind of town.
Two cinder-block boxes stacked one atop the other housed the yin and yang of Mr. Livermore’s existence—eat and sleep upstairs, work downstairs. The upper windows were dark, but light shown in the one on the right downstairs. The thin curtain diffused the figure of a man standing in front of the desk. Short, hunched shoulders as if hiding from attention, a quick glance toward the window . . . Livermore.
I met Jeremy in front of the car, then turned and followed him up the broken concrete sidewalk. “When he sees me, he’ll smell a rat.”
“We just need to get him to open the door, not that that will be a problem.”
“No need to alert him any sooner than necessary.” I used Jeremy as a shield, keeping him between me and the window in case Livermore decided to take a peek.
Behind me, a car roared around the corner, tires squealing, engine whining at a high pitch.
A loud pop.
A backfire?
Before I could move, Jeremy grabbed me. Throwing me to the ground, he covered my body with his. “Stay down.” His voice was an angry whisper.
In the shadow, out of the rectangle of light cast by the office lights, we didn’t move. Holding my breath, I was afraid to breathe.
More pops. Bullets pinged off the building, ricocheting into the darkness. Several hit the lawn near us. The ground absorbed them with a wet sucking sound. Glass broke.
The car slowed. The bullets stopped.
My heart hammered even though my chest was squeezed tight by fear. I could almost feel the shooter’s eyes moving, looking for a hint of movement, anything to give away our position.
Sweat trickled under my blouse. Adrenaline surged. I couldn’t move.
“Stay here,” Jeremy’s voice sounded hoarse in my ear. In the blink of an eye, he rolled off me. As he rolled, he reached for the gun he kept in a holster in the small of his back. Using momentum to bring his feet under him, he stopped in a crouch. Gun at the ready, held tight in both hands, he squeezed off a few rounds.
Metal thunked into sheet metal as he laced the side of the car.
The driver, shrouded in darkness, stepped on the accelerator, gunning the engine. Tires whined, rubber shredded, then caught. The car fishtailed as the driver struggled for control. I sat, mesmerized. Waiting. The car straightened and accelerated down the street. The brakes glowed red, then the car turned right at the far corner.
Jeremy glanced at me.
“Go!” I tossed him the keys.
He snagged them midair, then ran. In a nanosecond, he had the Ferrari at full growl. He floored it. The taillights blinked once, then he, too, turned out of sight.
Silence closed around me. My heartbeat thrummed in my ears. It was the only discernible sound. Slowl
y, I peeled myself off the ground. Searching for balance, I rose to my full height, unsteady and shaking, wobbling like an old tree in a savage wind. I brushed down my sweater and jeans and took my bearings.
This was the sort of neighborhood where the sound of gunfire made people stay indoors, so I wasn’t surprised to find myself alone. Livermore’s office still stood, the light shining.
But Mr. Livermore had disappeared.
Worse, the glass window was shattered.
Willing my legs to obey, I bolted up the walkway. The door was unlocked. “Mr. Livermore?” I tried to keep my voice calm, but I couldn’t. The volume too high, the tone too tight, it shook with fear and an overdose of excitement. I didn’t care. “Mr. Livermore?”
I darted into the front room. It was empty. The cool night breeze blowing through the broken window billowed the threadbare sheers inward. A siren sounded in the distance. I paused. Bending at the waist with my hands on my knees, I pulled in deep lungfuls of air. The siren grew louder.
A scuffling sound came from behind the desk—a massive oak monstrosity, its varnish yellowed and peeling. Someone had carved names into the wood—Jessie loves Darryl.
Narrowing my eyes, I moved closer. “Mr. Livermore?” My voice was calmer now.
“Don’t shoot.” The little man rose from behind his wooden fortress. Hands held high, he was as pale as Casper. He shook like a dog on his way to the vet, his whole body racked with tremors. Confusion creased his brows, then the light dawned. “Ms. O’Toole?” Slowly, he lowered his hands. Wide-eyed, he took a step back. “Were you shooting at me?”
I gave him the special look I reserve for a few select morons . . . and Mona, on occasion. “Really?” I held up my hands, palms out. “Do I look like I’ve been shooting at you?”
“Who, then?”
“I don’t know.” The siren had faded—I could barely distinguish it from the sounds of the city.
“Why would someone shoot at me?”
Considering his profession, I thought the question a bit naïve. “Cleaning up loose ends, if I may hazard a guess.”
Lucky Catch Page 29
