Lucky Break (10 page)

“I’d really like a shot
at
him, but for now, one
of
him will have to do.”

CHAPTER FIVE

N
EWS of a celebrity murder travels fast.
 
The Holt Box faithful were beginning to gather even though we’d almost turned the corner into a new day.
 
Candles, flowers, cards, stuffed animals … expressions of grief clustered to the side of the main entrance of Cielo.
 
The police had cordoned off the drive and manned a checkpoint, checking people in and out.
 
A serious-faced youngster playing dress-up as a Metro cop leaned over to peer inside—no privacy with the top down.
 
“May I help you?”

“Lucky O’Toole, I own this place.
 
Well along with several banks and a hedge fund, but you get my drift.”

“Some identification, please.”

“You really think some bad guy is going to roll up here in a fire-engine red with the top down?”
 
I’d let Paolo go home at the end of his shift and had borrowed a car from the Ferrari dealership in the hotel.

“You’d be surprised.”

“And discouraged,” I muttered as I dug through my Birkin, an extravagant gift from the Big Boss.
 
I’d abandoned my evening purse—a small showpiece short on functionality.
 
“Everything important seems to hide at the bottom.”
 
My hand brushed the butt of my Glock that I’d tossed in at the last minute.
 
My father told me never to carry a gun unless I was ready to use it.
 
I was ready and wishful.

The cop seemed nonplussed by my explanation and steadfast in his demand.
 
A few curious Holt Box devotees, as identified by their T-shirts in garish hot pink and gold, took an interest and wandered over.
 
One guy snapped a few photos, doing little to help my abysmal mood.
 
If tonight got any worse, I would hop the next jet to anywhere … if only I could find my credit card and ID.

My hand closed around my wallet.
 
“Aha!” I shouted as if I’d discovered the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.
 
But, alas, my luck had run out some time ago, and with no leprechauns in sight, I doubted that would change anytime soon.

The cop waved me through.

This time, when I walked through the lobby of Cielo, it had lost its energy.
 
The party was over.
 
The police clustered in the corner comparing notes. Romeo was back, listening, occasionally asking a question as he jotted in his notebook.
 
A couple of security guys seemed to be on the hot seat.
 

Romeo stepped away from the group after silencing the questioning so we could talk and he wouldn’t miss anything.
 
We met under the Chihuly chandelier of bright glass swirls in the center of the lobby.

This night so far had added years to his face. Still, he looked all of twelve. “Man, I am so dogged.
 
Getting too old for this,” he announced, a beleaguered pro caught in the vise.

“Barking up the wrong tree, kid.
 
I’ve got empathy, but running real short on sympathy.”

“This totally sucks.”

I refused to be sucked into despondency.
 
If I didn’t keep steering the boat through the storm, I’d be swamped by a wave and sink to the bottom.
 
“You got anything?”

He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.
 
“Nobody saw Teddie’s white-coated guy.”

“I did.”
 

His eyes snapped open, and his fatigue vanished.
 
“Why didn’t you say that before?”

“I did.
 
Told you he reminded me of Irv Gittings.
 
Remember?”

“Yeah, that’s right.
 
Man, this case has me chasing my tail.”
 
He gave me a worried, distracted look.

I knew the feeling.
 
Teddie.

“Anything to go on other than you saw him?” Romeo asked, trying to do his job.
 
“Could you recognize him again?”

“I only caught him from the back, with a slight profile.
 
I’m not sure I could recognize my own father if that was the only view I got.”

Romeo deflated.

“But there is a bright spot.”

Romeo didn’t rise to the bait.
 
He was really taking this Teddie thing personally.
 

“Kid, if we find the real killer, then Teddie’s home free.”

“But what if … ?”

“No what-ifs.” I pressed his copy of the photo Jerry had given me into his hand.
 
“Start here.
 
This is the guy we’re looking for.”

Romeo focused on the photo.
 
“Not a very good photo.
 
It almost seems like he knew exactly what he was doing, giving us something but not enough.”

“Like maybe he’s in the system?”

Romeo shrugged.
 
“You know him?”

“No.
 
But I just can’t shake the feeling he’s dressed like that for a reason.”
 
I didn’t mention Kimberly Cho.
 
I needed to find her first.

“Any luck on tracking down the gun?”
 
Romeo gave me his best wishful-thinking look.

My face snapped into a frown, I could feel it crushing my joie de vivre, assuming I had any left.
 
“It’s heading toward midnight on a Saturday night in Vegas.
 
What do you think?”

“Short of paying Mr. Gittings a visit, the answer would be no?”

“And, while many of my choices are suspect, I’m not foolish enough to go charging into Irv’s lair, assuming I knew where he was hanging his hat, with nothing to go on other than a curious coincidence and armed with nothing but my sharp sword of sarcasm.”

“So, you still think this could be personal?”
 
Then what I’d said seemed to penetrate Romeo’s haze of fatigue.
 
“Isn’t Ol’ Irv in jail?”
 
Irv always referred to himself in the third person, a very irritating habit, one of his many.

“Murder is always personal, kid.
 
The question is personal to whom.”
 
I rooted in my purse for my phone.
 
“Guess you didn’t know Irv Gittings was sprung a few days ago?
 
Some legal technicality.”

The tip of Romeo’s pencil broke.

“I’ll take that as a no.
 
Something about the guy in the white dinner jacket reminded me of Irv.
 
Can’t put my finger on it.
 
Irv had a dinner jacket like that, monogrammed gold buttons.
 
And he loved red bow ties.”
 
The whole idea that Irv could be behind Holt Box’s murder seemed a bit out there.
 
If he was after me, why didn’t he just kill Teddie or the Big Boss?
 
Now, here I go, making myself truly terrified rather than just marginally so.
 
“Maybe I’m seeing monsters where there are none.”

Romeo fished another pencil out of his pocket.
 
“Murder is pretty monstrous.”

“All I know is, somebody’s playing games.”
 
I palmed my phone between us.
 
“Not sure if this is related to the murder, but it’s worth checking out.”
 
I played the message for him.

“Creepy.”
 
He jotted down the number.

“And awfully coincidental.”
 
I turned my phone off, then dropped it in my purse.
 
“I’ve got Jeremy trying to trace it.”

“Once again, you are at the vortex of a shit-storm.”
 
Romeo said it with a resigned groan.

“It’s a gift.”

“I’m assuming you didn’t call him back.”

I pretended to be offended.
 
“What, and give him the satisfaction?”

“Good.
 
We’ll reach out when we’re ready.”

“And the same rules, okay?”
 
I touched him lightly on the arm as he glanced over his shoulder at the men who were waiting.
 

My touch brought him back.
 
Romeo gave me a grin filled with energy. “Same rules.
 
You get to shoot him.”
 

His flush of energy arced between us, jump-starting hope.
 
We were on the hunt.

“Any preliminary from the coroner?”

“Stab wound killed him.”

“I’m shocked.”

He smiled, a cat playing with a mouse.
 
“There was a blood trail.
 
Stabbing occurred around the corner from where he died.
 
Near the walk-in refrigerator.”

“Teddie’s in the clear?” I pressed, trying to tame my hope.
 
Nothing this bad was ever that easy to fix.

Romeo confirmed my cynicism.
 
“You know how this is going to go down.
 
The media, all the hype, we’ll have to take extra care that we are not only exploring every possibility, but that we actually look like we’re doing exactly that.
 
The world will be watching.
 
It’s been what, a couple of hours?
 
I’m sure you saw them out there—the sharks are already circling.”

“Extra scrutiny.”
 
I knew the drill.
 
That weight was on my shoulders, too, but unlike Romeo, I was used to the load.
 
“Like running the gauntlet, kid, there is an end.”

“If they don’t kill you before you get there.”

“There is that.”
 
Although it’d be easy to jump on the Irv Gittings’ bandwagon and go tilt at another windmill, there was another angle.
 
“Anything on Holt Box?
 
Any reason why someone would want to kill him?”

“The wife is in Texas.
 
The local Mounties notified her.
 
She’ll be here tomorrow.
 
Maybe she can shed some light.”

“Will she be staying at her husband’s place in the Kasbah at the Babylon?
 
I think he had Bungalow 7.”

“That’s what I’ve been told.
 
Want to be in on the questioning?
 
You always seem to have a lighter hand than I do.”

“Need you ask?”
 

Romeo returned to his men.
 
He seemed to take my confidence with him, so I took a moment to let things settle, absorbing some of the tranquility I’d built into the lobby.
 

My hotel.
 
Heady and terrifying, a high-octane mix of emotions that kept me putting out fires before they lit me up.
 
Sleep was hard to come by; alcohol and caffeine were my drugs of necessity.
 
A limited solution, but for now it kept the lid on.

The opening only ten days away, we were booked solid for the holidays and beyond.
 
Casinos with their filtered air and carefully controlled party vibe, windowless rooms, and money-driven excesses weren’t everyone’s idea of a vacation.
 
I was banking on the folks who wanted to separate pleasure from table play.
 
And, to be honest, Vegas had cut its teeth catering to men with the gambling, the sportsbooks and the strip clubs and topless revues for the tame crowd, the full-monty strip joints for the rowdier bunch.
 
Time to even that playing field.
 
Women made up an ever-increasing percentage of Vegas visitors.
 
And it was long past time to cater to their sensibilities.
 

Turning in a full circle, I savored the warm tile floor laced with wood, the blown-glass light fixtures in all the colors of the rainbow, the art, modern, but not too, bright and lively, gracing the beige walls.
 
Even though it was costly, I went with a wallpaper of grasscloth.
 
Desks clustered on thick rugs in oranges and greens, serving as a personal reception area.
 
The concierge desks were opposite reception.
 
The far wall opened into a casual piano bar and restaurant simply called the Lobby Bar.
 
Long planters of bamboo and other grasses I didn’t know the names of separated the area into smaller conversation areas filled with comfortable couches and chairs clustered around large square tables with marble tops.
 
The entrance to the Spa was tucked into the far corner.
 
Glass and brass, clean and comforting, where a squadron of fresh-faced experts in relaxation and comfort would greet customers and whisk them to paradise one floor up.
 
The Spa comprised the whole of the second floor, half of it the swimming pool area with a retractable glass roof.
 
If life would just slow down, I could set up shop by the pool and never leave.

Designed in the European style toward pleasure, pampering, and fabulous food, Cielo had no gaming—a risky move in Vegas, but one true to my heart … in many ways.
 
Jean-Charles’s restaurant was our calling card, lending just that perfect bit of European flair.

My blood pressure eased, my mind stopping whirling, life receded enough for calm to ooze in.
 
Hotels I could do.
 
Life, not so much.

I clapped my hands, getting the attention of some staff that had been on hand to help with the party and now huddled in the corner.
 
“Smiles.
 
And get some music playing in here.
 
I’m feeling the need for some country.
 
I bet you guys can find the right playlist.”
 
Someone had stolen Holt Box’s chance to make more music; the least we could do is honor him by playing his hits.
 
Briefly I wondered it that would be in bad taste, but what better way to honor the singer?
 
Either way, someone would complain.