Lucky Break (22 page)

At my reference to alternate sleeping arrangements, Romeo didn’t reward me with his normal blush—pale apparently was his new shade and nonplussed his new attitude.
 
He opened the door wider and stepped to the side.
 
“The shooter in the Casino has all the Homeland Security guys lathered up like rabid dogs.
 
And they’ve been chasing my tail for the better part of the day.”

I resisted stepping inside, savoring just a moment more of not knowing.
 
“Hmmm, it’s a wonder I haven’t heard from Agent Stokes.”

Romeo motioned me inside, a matador tempting a bull, not that the metaphor fit me or anything—although there was that pissed off position thing.
 

“Agent Stokes is sitting in your office.”

Homeland Security, could life get any more fun? “Another reason to buy that one-way ticket to a galaxy far, far away.”
 

“Yes, well, that galaxy came with an evil empire, Darth Vader and a Death Star, as I recall.”
 
Romeo really was turning into a great friend.

“But that was a long, long time ago.
 
I’m sure the Jedi have a handle on it by now.”

“Good thing somebody does,” Romeo said not sounding at all like he believed it.

I stuck out my chin, something that always worked for my father when heading into battle.
 
“Let’s see what’s behind door number one, or door number seven, more accurately.”
 
Taking a deep breath as I walked, marshaling what little focus not scattered beyond repair, I shrugged into my normal business-as-usual mode, reaching for my father’s badass attitude and hoped I could fake it until I became it.

The Bungalows at the Kasbah would make any major sultan feel right at home, well, forgetting the whole harem thing… although, this being Vegas …
 
Focus, Lucky.
 
Focus.
 
The short hallway decorated with original art by some of the lesser Masters, our footfalls muffled by hand-knotted silk rugs from Turkey, opened into a
 
great room with soaring ceilings and a wall of windows draped in cascades of thick damask on the far side bracketing a soothing view of the private gardens that ringed a small private dipping pool.
 
A couch, several wing-backed chairs and ottomans were clustered in the middle to take advantage of the view.
 
A dining table with seating for twenty nestled at the front of the bungalow to my left, a wet bar beyond.
 
Double swinging doors sheltered a small prep kitchen from view.
 
Multiple bedrooms with bathrooms
en suite
curved from the left side of the great room, the master suite and media room replete with a one-hundred-ten-inch flat screen, theater seating and a baby grand for those with more refined tastes, curved off to the right.
 
The Babylon’s most prized accommodations—there were only twelve—the bungalows were reserved for the largest whales, most important dignitaries, and celebrities riding the wave of current popularity pandemonium.
 
Everything in here was original, including, from the looks of her, Mrs. Holt Box.

A tiny slip of a thing, Mrs. Box had curled like a puppy in the sun, claiming every square inch of the winged-back chair by the window.
 
Sunlight reflecting from the pool dappled her face.
 
Not a good look.
 
Hair so fine and lightly yellow, spun cotton candy around her head. Doe eyes, a button nose and bow-tie mouth were lost in a long, flat face, one my mother would ascribe to a certain farm animal that men rode into battle, but I was averse to the whole labeling thing.
 
Frankly, I was afraid of being on the sticky end of that whole I-am-rubber-you-are-glue thing.
 
Yes, a traumatic childhood event and the fact that only the transvestite section at the department store carried my size, but we won’t go there.

Dressed in leggings and a red tunic top, her eyes dark, lightly shaded, and ringed in red, her lips a shade of translucent pink, her nails neatly manicured, the tips white, and the rest clear, she exuded a lost fawn attitude.
 
Funny, I don’t know why, but I was expecting more of a Texas don’t-mess-with-me-or-I’ll-bust-your-ass attitude.
 
Her shoulders bowed in, her head hanging, she dabbed at her nose, then her eyes, a forlorn pixie.

Country music was all apple pie and pickup trucks, and love and loss, rowdy bar fights.
 
Mrs. Holt Box was none of that—well, maybe a passing comparison to apple pie, but I couldn’t see her in a truck with a shotgun or rifle hanging across the back window and a coonhound with its head out the window drooling in the wind.
 
Maybe I wasn’t the judgmental type, but I could ride a stereotype like the Pony Express guys rode their horses, until it collapsed under me.

“Mrs. Box, I’m Lucky O’Toole, Vice President of Customer Service at this hotel.”
 
I extended my hand.
 
She didn’t take it. Instead, she stared out the window looking lost.
 
I fought an urge to call the ASPCA.
 
Ineffectual women got my goat, especially today.
 
Okay, I was being harsh—she had lost her husband.
 
I needed to remember that.
 
I worked to tap into a rapidly thinning vein of the milk of human kindness.

I caught Romeo’s look out of the corner of my eye.
 
I took a step back, crossing my hands in front of me.
 
“Mr. Rothstein, who I believe was in contract negotiations with your husband, is my father.
 
First, let me express my deepest sympathy for your loss, on behalf of my family and this hotel.”

She gave me a cool look.
 
“Curious.
 
I didn’t think a hotel of this magnitude would tolerate nepotism.”

Oh, a pixie with a bite.
 
Promising.
 
“We don’t.” I gave her a carefully constructed, don’t-fuck-with-me-smile.
 
“We take advantage of it.”

She seemed to wilt, sugar in hot water, disappearing as I stirred.
 
I felt like I’d kicked a dog.
 
“I’m sorry, that was rude.”
 
She gave me a quick once-over.
 
“I can’t believe you’re standing here.
 
It was your lover who killed my husband, right?”
 
A tear leaked out and she dabbed at it with a shredded tissue.

I snagged another one from the box on the end table, handing it to her.
 
“I believe you’ve been misinformed.”
 
I stood, awaiting her invitation to sit.
 
When none came, I claimed an end of the couch.
 
“The man they’re holding is a former lover.
 
But I’m not here about the who.
 
I’m interested in the why.”

“But the police seem to think they’ve got their man.”

I leaned back, crossing my legs, and tried to act casual, despite the pounding of my heart jump-started by the mere oblique reference to Teddie and his predicament.
 
“That’s still in doubt.”

Her posture changed.
 
Switching gears faster that a NASCAR driver, she leveled a stony gaze that probably had eviscerated lesser mortals.
 
“Then why is he being held?
 
The police know what they’re doing and they’ve stopped looking.”

She had a bitch-streak after all.
 
And apparently little experience with Metro.
 
“A misunderstanding.”

That got a snort, sort of a bark really, that made Romeo jump.

Mrs. Holt Box fixed an icy stare on me.
 
“You’re fooling yourself.”
 
She stared down at her manicure on her left hand, curling her fingers toward the palm.
 
“He wore dresses for a living?
 
Stooping awful low to bolster a mediocre music career.
 
He clearly has some issues.
 
I’m sure a man like that would be very jealous of Holt.”
 
She flicked her gaze back to me.
 
“I certainly hope he is prepared to pony up a significant settlement.
 
He robbed me of my husband, conjugal rights, all of that.
 
And my children … ”

I half rose from the soft cushion, showing my rusty game-playing skills and confirming the pissed-off position.
 
Teddie in jail.
 
I couldn’t help myself.
 
“Your husband isn’t even cold—”

Romeo rescued me, pressing me back down with a strong hand, squeezing my shoulder until I winced, and he was sure he had my attention. “Mrs. Box, we’re very sorry for your loss,” he intoned, even managing to sound like he meant it.

Maybe
he
was sorry.
 
Frankly, it sorta looked like whoever had killed Holt Box had released him from domestic prison.
 
Talk about doing a guy a favor … in a backhanded way.
 
I wondered: would being shivved in the stomach and bleeding out be worse than being married to the woman sitting in front of me?
 
A toss-up for sure—the lesser of two horribles.

“We’d like to ask you some questions,” Romeo explained, as if we all didn’t know why we had gathered.
 
“We need to make sure we have the right man in custody.”
 
He held me in place with a stern look.
 
“Lucky?”

Teddie was the eight-hundred-pound gorilla in the room.
 
Ignoring him was practically impossible, but I’d try.
 
“My father mentioned that your husband was under contract to the Babylon.
 
Am I right?”
 
My voice was stony; I didn’t even try to make nice.

Mrs. Box eyed me with disdain, a lioness viewing a mouse—unpalatable, less than satisfying, and no challenge to catch.
 
That was where she was wrong.
 
“Holt was coming out of retirement.
 
He’d decided to return to touring.”

“And he was launching his comeback at the Babylon?”

She sighed dramatically.
 
“Vegas wasn’t really Holt’s kind of place, but your father insisted.
 
And Holt being easily led astray …”
 
She shook off an ugly thought, at least that’s what it looked like.
 

I’d love to know what that thought was.

Picking at the nail polish on her left index finger, she continued without making eye contact.
 
“Holt wanted a smaller venue and low ticket prices so all of his fans could afford an evening with him.”

Something in her tone pegged my bullshit meter.
 
She was lying; I knew it, but how to prove it?
 
My father wasn’t in the best shape to set the record straight.
 
“My father insisted?”

“He came after Holt, begging him to accept his offer.
 
A very generous offer, I might add. One we were grateful to have.
 
Holt had been out of music for some time and with five kids …”
 
She left the rest to our imaginations.
 
From her tone you’d have thought she was hanging by her manicured fingernails to the very edge of solvency.

Frankly, I couldn’t imagine how all the residual royalties on his songs that anchored every country-music song list I’d ever seen for license at properties like mine couldn’t have supported them in fine style on their ranch in Podunk, Texas.
 

“That’s why we were so shocked when your father wanted out of the deal.”

My eyebrows shot so high they threatened to take flight on their own.
 
As lies go, that one was a whopper, but again, the proof thing.
 
“You’re telling me my father wanted to back out of the deal?”
 
Oh, man, the woman was good, but she was wading in deep.
 
I wondered what her angle could be.
 

Reneging was so not the Big Boss.

But he’d bailed on Teddie.
 
A frisson of doubt snaked through me.

And now in ICU, he couldn’t tell me what the hell was going on.

My world tilted, angling as steep as the sand stage at KA.
 
But this wasn’t a Cirque show, although it was beginning to resemble a bad play.
 
Where was my exit cue?

“Yes, your father said the numbers just didn’t work.
 
And while Holt would be great publicity for the Babylon, he didn’t think the upside was worth the cost.”

That was something the Big Boss would’ve analyzed backwards and forwards before inking the deal.
 
“And he told Holt all of this himself?”

Her gaze shifted out the window as if there was something incredible to see.
 
There wasn’t.
 
“I don’t really know.
 
All I know is Holt had this sweet deal at a very large venue in Macau—the Chinese are all over country music, you know.
 
So American.
 
Then next thing I knew, we were launching the comeback in a tiny theater at a Vegas strip hotel, of all places.
 
I never wanted to come back here.”
 
Too late, she seemed to realize perhaps we weren’t the most receptive audience for her denigration.
 
She didn’t apologize or even have the class to look chagrined.

Macau.
 
A connection?

Kimberly Cho worked in our Macau property.

A Chinese diplomat was in town on the sly to “protect” his country’s gaming interests.

We had some Chinese assassin on the loose.

As connections went, that one was lining up pretty tidy.