Lucky Break (4 page)

The men looked brilliant in their fitted formal wear.
 
The women, many of them powerful businesspeople in their own right, dressed to showcase figures and surgery, rather than their innate loveliness and quiet competence that made them truly interesting and set them apart.
 
Superficiality—a Vegas thing that didn’t make me proud.

Most days I felt like I waded alone in my quest for something a bit more solid than pretty outsides and relationships measured in hours.
 
As Teddie had likened it, Don Quixote and his windmills, considering this was Vegas, where one could try on a different life for the weekend.

Excited voices competed with lively tunes from a quartet in the corner.
 
Sinatra.
My Way.
 
Perfect.
 
Mouth-watering aromas drifted from the kitchen each time a waiter pushed through the swinging doors.
 
The tables and chairs had been hidden away, leaving the expanse of wooden floor open for gathering, dancing, and whatever.
 
Bar tables with high stools ringed the floor, except that the far wall of windows overlooking the glory of the Strip was left unobstructed.
 
The dark green walls, the wooden beams overhead, the brass sconces casting a warm glow, and the wrought-iron light fixtures above, each with a tiny flame in glass where a light should be, gave the space the comfort of a French country house, just as Jean-Charles had wanted.

“Food is pleasure,” he told me, “to be enjoyed and shared with good friends.
 
I want my customers to feel like friends here.”

From the looks of it, he’d accomplished that in spades.

Many turned to greet me as I worked my way across the room.
 
Mona and my father were encircled against the far wall of windows, the multicolored lights of the Strip backlighting them.
 
My former assistant and now the Head of Customer Relations at the Babylon, Miss P, nuzzled her intended, the Beautiful Jeremy Whitlock at a table in the corner.
 
Their wedding was set for Christmas Eve, only a few days from now, it would be the first to be performed at Cielo.
 
Brandy, my assistant, had corralled a few important media-types, presumably stroking their egos as she spoon-fed them the story we’d like to see printed.
 

Still no Kimberly Cho.
 
I tried not to be worried.
 
But, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t shake the feeling that tonight was going to be anything but routine.

Waiters passed trays of delectables, which I waved away for the moment.
 
Me?
 
Passing up a feeding opportunity?
 
I was either sick or the apocalypse was imminent.
 
I should wear tight clothes more often.
 
Perhaps one day I’d fit comfortably in them and pigs would fly.

The Babylon’s head bartender, Sean, appeared at my elbow with a flute of bubbly.
 
“Schramsberg rosé.
 
Medicinal.
 
Chef’s orders.”
 

That I didn’t wave away, thanking him with a smile as he stepped back behind the bar. I spied Jean-Charles across the room and began working my way toward him.
 

The back of a man walking away from me caught my eye.
 
For a brief moment my heart went cold.

Irv Gittings? It couldn’t be.
 
An old, old flame, back when I was young and stupid, the thought of him usually had me reaching for a deadly weapon.
 
One of my proudest accomplishments had been to play a large role in seeing him put behind bars a few months ago.
 
There were nights I fell asleep picturing the problems he would be having in the general prison population.
 
He’d tried to frame the Big Boss for murder, and then steal the Babylon from him.
 
A capital offense in my book.
 
And this was Nevada, one of the last outposts of the Wild West, where the death penalty was considered fitting punishment.

The guy easing out of the kitchen and striding away from me was dressed like Irv used to:
 
a white dinner jacket with the crested gold buttons glinting on the sleeve as he raised his hand and a red tie that I could just catch a corner of as he angled away.
 
The cut of the jaw, the arrogance in the exaggerated shoulder-back posture … I narrowed my eyes.
 
No, not Irv.
 
Shorter, maybe.
 
And hair more pepper and less salt than Irv’s.
 
But close enough to be spooky.
 
I got ahold of myself.
 
Irv couldn’t be here.
 
He was playing games with the inmates at Indian Springs.

Jean-Charles was engaged in animated conversation with a couple I didn’t recognize when I stepped in next to him.
 
Without missing a beat, he snaked an arm around my waist and pulled me close.
 
Pausing, he introduced me.
 
His fiancée!
 
I never tired of hearing it, and, to be honest, it still shocked and delighted me each time he referred to me that way.
 
With the pleasantries over, he picked up the conversation where he’d left off.
 
Parking my head lightly near his, I let the words recede and my thoughts wander.

Just the nearness of him tingled me in places long dormant if not near dead.

Teddie was nowhere to be found.
 
A minor blessing, all things considered.
 
I didn’t know why he came anyway.
 
Nothing but bad for him here.
 
He’d left this life.
 
We’d moved on.
 
I’d moved on, despite what my mother said.

The unease from my brief talk with Kimberly Cho had lessened to a low thrum, like distant traffic, my joy eclipsing that niggling feeling that something was off.
 
Of course, being bushwhacked by Mona and Teddie hadn’t exactly started my evening down a smooth path.
 
Swaying to the music just a bit, making Jean-Charles grin as he tried to concentrate on the people in front of him, sipping my Champagne, I began to relax into the joy of life.

Big mistake.
 
Tempting Fate had never worked out well for me.

Detective Romeo materialized at my elbow.
 
Nodding to the others, he leaned in close to my ear.
 
“We have a problem.”

“Nope,” I said, enjoying the happy bubbles that tickled my nose as I took a big sip of my Schramsberg.
 
Then they tickled and warmed all the way down, settling into a nice pillow of contentment somewhere deep inside.
 
“No, Romeo, w
e
do not have a problem.”

“Lucky, this is serious.
 
And yes,
we
have a problem.”
 
He tugged on my arm, sloshing a bit of my Champagne.
 
After counting to ten, twice, I gave him my full attention.

Even though spit-and-polished in a slim-cut dark suit and Hermès tie, his sandy hair cut and combed, even his recalcitrant cowlick bending to propriety, he looked a little ragged around the edges.
 
His blue eyes dark, his smile absent, a frown puckering the skin between his eyes, he looked at me as a friend, which doused that warmth I’d been enjoying.

This was personal.

Brandy, my assistant and his girl, squeezed his arm.
 
Her eyes big as saucers, she remained mute.
 
Not good.

As I disengaged from my chef, handing him my glass of Champagne, I gave him a reassuring smile.
 
This was his party, his time to shine, and whatever it was Romeo was dragging me into, I’d keep it to myself.

Yeah, I’m a dreamer.

Weaving through the crowd, I noticed security was guarding the exits.
 
At this point, I doubted anyone wanted to leave as the party was just getting started, so the fact that they couldn’t hadn’t yet caused any alarm.
 

“Lucky.
 
Come on.”
 
Romeo, one hand on the kitchen door, motioned to me with the other.
 

I joined him.
 
“What’s going on?”
 

“You are not going to like this.”

“You always say that.” I followed him into the kitchen.

Two steps inside, I stopped in my tracks.
 
“And you’re always right.”

 
Holt Box lay on the floor, a red stain spreading across his chest, soaking his chef’s whites.
 
His face, slack.
 
His eyes, sightless.
 
His skin losing the ruddy flush of oxygenated blood.

Teddie stood over the body, holding a knife.

My father pressed to his side, blood on his hands.

CHAPTER TWO

F
OR a moment time stopped.
 
My heart, too.
 
I tried to process the scene in front of me. Two of Romeo’s off-duty guys working security for the party bracketed Teddie and my father and kept else everyone back.
 
Not hard to do, since the kitchen had come to a standstill.
 
Waiters, cooks, and prep staff stood rooted, open-mouthed.

Something burned on the stove.
 
Water bubbled in a large pot, billowing steam.
 
I thought I caught the hiss of butter in a hot pan.
 
The roar of a party reaching a crescendo filtered around the swinging doors as they opened and swung back behind me, then opened again, repeating the cycle.

“I’m assuming he’s dead?” I asked Romeo, my voice a squeak of its normal timbre.
 
A stupid question, really, but, with me, hope was the last thing extinguished by reality.

Romeo didn’t bother to answer.
 
Instead he started barking orders to the officers who had filled in the tight space behind us, explaining the opening and shutting of the door.
 
Movement restarted; so did my heart, pounding against my chest.
 
My father gave me a tight look and a shrug, which I couldn’t interpret.
 
Teddie avoided my eyes, which spoke volumes.

Brandy moved in next to me—a vision in a white sheath, her face needing only the lightest touch of makeup to enhance her natural beauty, her long dark hair pulled back, her face tight, her eyes big.

I leaned down and spoke softly.
 
“Go back to the party; work damage control.
 
Get Miss P onboard.
 
You two know what to do.
 
Tell Jeremy to meet me at the office later.
 
I’m sure he’ll be there anyway.
 
This is going to be a shit-storm of epic proportions.”
 
Just the thought made me want to run and hide.

A presence loomed behind me emitting a low, feral growl.
 
The hairs stood on the back of my neck.
 
I turned barely in time to catch his coattail as Jean-Charles hurtled by me.
 
“Whoa.
 
Whoa.”
 
Digging in my heels, I hung onto him with all I had, using my weight as leverage to stop his considerable momentum.
 
“That’s a crime scene.
 
You really don’t want to go adding your DNA do you?”

That stopped him, but I held on, unsure as to whether he’d stay stopped.
 
He raked a hand through his hair as he worked for control.
 
A man in whom emotions ran deep, Jean-Charles had a temper, but the level of sheer hatred I saw in his eyes surprised even me.
 
Love and hate, two passions equally strong pulling in opposition, like the moon and the sun.

His mask fell back in place as he turned and glared at me.
 
“I will kill him,” he muttered, the tone of his voice leaving no doubt he meant it.

I assumed he meant Teddie.
 
“Not if I get to him first.”
 
The level of joy in the anticipation left me breathless.
 
For the first time I understood what the bard meant when he said revenge was best served cold.

And my father standing there, bloodied and a bit unnerved, sobered me up.
   
Seeing him that way … Dear God, he couldn’t have had something to do with this, could he?
 
An irrational thought, of course.
 
My father wasn’t prone to killing, at least not that anyone had proven.
 
But, even if he had that proclivity, why would he kill his prize pony?
 
If Teddie was right, Holt Box was worth millions to the Babylon.
 

Teddie.

“Somebody get that pan off the stove,” Jean-Charles shouted, then turned on his heel and pounded through the swinging door so hard it reverberated off the outside wall.
 
If some hapless soul had been on the other side, Jean-Charles’s exit would have doubled tonight’s body count.

Brandy followed him out, tossing a worried glance back at me over her shoulder as she disappeared.

“Fetch me a plastic bag large enough to hold that knife,” Romeo ordered, extending his hand toward the kitchen staff.
 
Someone managed to locate one, and Romeo held it open in front of Teddie.
 
“Put the knife in here.”

Teddie’s eyes found mine.
 
He shook his head slightly, then did as Romeo asked.
 
The knife looked old, with a long, narrow blade, the tip angled only on one side.
 
The metal had a green tinge.
 
“I know how it looks,” he started.

My father elbowed him.
 
“Wait.
 
You need a lawyer.”
 
His eyes found me.
 
“Lucky, will you make the call?”