Lucky Break (15 page)

“Go for it, Mother.
 
After last night’s shelling, one more tossed on the rubble won’t even make a dent.
 
But, give me a moment.” I took a sip of bubbly, savoring being in the dark for a moment longer, gathering fortitude.
 
“Okay, I’m ready.
 
Who is Cody Ellis?”

Mrs. Olefson patted my thigh.
 
“Cody Ellis,
Doctor
Cody Ellis is Miss P’s husband, dear.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

“S
HE’S married to a doctor?”
 
Praying this was one of Mona’s jokes, I looked at each one of the women gathered around me, pausing for a few seconds on each.
 
They each looked stricken.

No joke.

“I think we ought to gather up the good doctor and get rid of him,” Mona said, folding her cocktail napkin with studied care, so she didn’t have to meet my scowl.
 
“But nobody will listen to me.”

“That’s because you are suggesting commission of a felony,” I explained, which added to the whole surreal thing I was feeling.
 
“No, two felonies—kidnapping, murder and maybe bigamy.”

“Picky,” Mona muttered.

All eyes turned to me, looking for answers.
 
Unfortunately, answers were in short supply, but boy did I have questions.
 
Questions that tumbled through my brain like those little numbered Bingo balls, the whole who-what-when-where-how-and-why thing.
 
All good things to ask, but knowing Miss P and how close to the vest she held her personal life, I doubted any of the women around me had answers.

Trying to marshal logical thought, but knowing it would be an impossibility, I instead contemplated alternate careers in faraway locales as I stared over Flash’s shoulder into the casino.

A figure standing against the far wall, immobile, stared at me.
 

I bolted to my feet, knocking over my flute, breaking it.
 

The man at the party.
 
The white dinner jacket.
 
He still wore it.
 
And that empty, evil smile.

“Lucky, what is it?”
 
Mona asked with a hint of worry.

Flash swiveled to look behind her.

The man pushed himself from the wall, nodded at me, then turned and melded into the patrons drifting from one table to another.
 

As I turned, I shouted to Flash over my shoulder.
 
“Find Irv Gittings.
 
Be careful.
 
Jeremy’s gone after him, so maybe find him first.”

Questions flashed in her eyes, but I couldn’t wait.
 
I bolted through Delilah’s, startling a few men nursing drinks at the bar, down the stairs, and onto the floor of the casino.
 
Thankfully, I was tall and the crowd thin.
 
I caught a glimpse of the man as he ducked through the entrance leading to the private area of the hotel.
 
Dodging and darting as nimbly as I could, I still dislodged a cocktail server’s tray.
 
Glasses clattered and tumbled, but she managed to keep them on the tray.

“Sorry.”

She gave me a tired smile.

I ducked into the passageway and, lowering my head, I ran.
 
The hallway ended, dumping me out into a huge atrium area known as the Kasbah.
 
A loose grouping of bungalows, each with its own swimming pool and all nestled under glass that allowed sunlight to nourish the tall palms and the lush flowering undergrowth, the Kasbah was reserved only for our most important guests.

The security guard behind the desk rose as I appeared, looking like he didn’t know whether to stand his ground or run.
 
I didn’t blame him.
 
I skidded to a stop.
 
Out of breath, I managed to gasp out the words, “Man. Running. Where’d he go?”
 
Hands on my knees, I sucked in huge gulps of air, hoping I didn’t stroke out while my heart beat against my chest.

“Not, sure, Ms. O’Toole.
 
He waved the key then headed around to the right.”

“Have you seen him before?
 
Any idea who he is and where he’s staying?”

At least the man had the decency to act ashamed at his lackluster performance.
 
Security guard, my ass.
 
I made a note of his name and vowed to bring him up to Jerry, knowing I’d probably give the kid another chance.
 
But, seriously, keeping those who didn’t belong on the outside was the guy’s only job.
 
How hard could it be?
 

“You should get everyone’s name and bungalow number, then cross-check them with registration, you know that, right?”

The guy developed a curious interest in his feet, which he shuffled a bit, rocking from side-to-side.
 
“We have a lot of Asians staying here right now.
 
Sometimes I find it difficult to distinguish them.”
 
He looked up at me, clearly stricken.
 
“And they go everywhere in packs.”

Finally, I straightened and could take a normal breath.
 
“Do better, okay?
 
I know our guests can be demanding, but it’s our job to keep them safe.
 
But I also understand the difficulties.
 
I cut my teeth behind a desk like yours and not too long ago.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Flash skidded in beside me, not even huffing.
 

I twirled my finger at the security guy.
 
“We’re just going to take a spin around.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I walked slowly and, yes, peeked in windows where I could.
 
Although I felt like it, I couldn’t just go banging on doors.
 
The guy could be anywhere.
 
He could’ve jumped in one of the limos waiting at the back entrance, idling, ready to whisk a bungalow resident anywhere at a moment’s notice.
 

“What can I do to help?” Flash asked.
 
She sounded serious.

“I need info.
 
Can you dig up anything on Irv Gittings that might have a tie to any of the players so far?
 
Holt, his wife, Kim Cho, and anybody else you can think of.
 
I need some connections.”

“Sure.”
 
She put a hand on my arm.
 
“How well do you know Kimberly Cho?”
 
Her voice dropped to a hush.
 
She glanced around, as if looking over her shoulder.

“Well enough to know anybody who has influence in Macau has interesting friends.”

“Who make their own rules,” she said, in case I was slow on the uptake.
 

I patted her hand.
 
“Thanks.
 
I’ll watch my back.
 
But, I won’t run from a fight.”

“I know.
 
Just be careful.”
 
I seemed to be getting that same advice a lot.

She’d been the third person in the last twenty-four hours to give me the same veiled warning.
 
I shook it off as I watched her step to the curb and whistle for a cab, usurping the bellman’s job and negating the need for a tip.
 
I grabbed my phone, then hit Jerry’s speed-dial.

“You looking for trouble or already find it?”
 
His cough sounded worse than last night.

“You coming down with something?”

“You mean besides emphysema or something?”
 
His voice held an edge.

“That was a joke, right?”

“Sure.”
 
He drug air into his lungs between hacks.
 
“What can I do you for?”

I paused.
 
Should I, or shouldn’t I?
 
“A one-way ticket to Paris, first-class and a suite at the Ritz for as long as my recovery takes.”

That dulled the edge.
 
“You know what I meant.”

“Is there a twelve-step program for innuendo addiction?”

“Anything for a cheap laugh, right?”
 
Jerry chuckled.

“Hey, made you smile.
 
I heard it.”
 
I plucked a few dead flowers off a gardenia bush.
 
Even wilted and brown, they still smelled divine.
 
I’d strolled halfway around the Kasbah and not seen a soul.
 
That would change.
 
The whales were nocturnal, preferring the darkness to gamble by.
 
I never could figure that out—the casino had no windows and no clocks, as if time was irrelevant and sleep an unnecessary impediment.
 
“Listen, a guy just blew through security at the Kasbah.
 
He flashed a key, but I’d like to know where he went.”

“Gimme a sec.”

He was back almost that fast.
 
“He peeled around the perimeter then jumped into a Lambo.
 
He looked like your guy from the party.”

Not what I wanted to hear.
 
“Yep. The one and the same.” I’d love some nose-to-nose time with that guy to convince him to come clean. I couldn’t prove he’d killed Holt Box, but I would.
 
“Man, everything that happens in Vegas is memorialized in digital form.
 
How’d he have a key, then?”

“Another mystery for you to solve.”

The guy was gone, but I bet not forgotten. Somebody would remember him.
 
“Anything to distinguish the Lambo?”

“You’re kidding, right?
 
It was a Lamborghini.
 
I’m thinking that’s distinguishing enough.”
 
Jerry covered the microphone on his phone, but I could hear the hacking coughs he tried to hide.

A tickle of worry touched the back of my neck.
 
“You sure you’re okay? Maybe you should go home.”
 
I reversed my course, doubling back to talk to the valets.
 

“I’m fine.
 
So all you have to do is round up all the Lambos in town.
 
Shouldn’t be too hard.”

I’d have rolled my eyes if he was standing in front of me.
 
“You’re serious, aren’t you?
 
You know all those kids that have been rolling into town?
 
The ones buying table service and bottles of Cristal at Babel and Pandora’s Box and keeping the Babylon in the black?”
 
The question was rhetorical, so I motored on.
 
“They all have serious iron, at least one car for each day of the week.”

That left Jerry speechless.

“So not as easy as you might think.”

“And a lot of them are from the Far East,” Jerry said, sounding a bit more subdued.

“Just like our white dinner jacket guy.
 
Keep an eye out for him, would you?
 
I have a feeling he’ll be back.”
 
I stared out at the circular drive, the private entrance hidden behind huge gates and sheltered by lush foliage, far from prying eyes.
 
Even the boldest paparazzi hadn’t yet pierced our veil of secrecy.
 
The Babylon prided itself on jealously guarding the comings and goings of our top-tier clients.
 
For once, I wasn’t sure that was a good thing.

“Anything else?”

“Not right now.
 
I’ll get Jeremy working on the car, see if he can narrow the pool of possibilities down a bit.
 
And you need to go home.”

“I’d just be miserable there.”

“Yeah, well, if you’re carrying the plague or something, and you decide to share, there will be no place you can hide.”
 
I disconnected, then hit Jeremy’s number.
 
The call rolled directly to voicemail.
 
Odd.
 
I stared at my phone for a moment, trying to remember the last time I’d not been able to get in touch with Las Vegas’s premier private investigator.
 
I think he’d been shot or something—at least that had been his excuse.
 
That cold ball of dread in my gut grew heavier.

“May I call a car for you, Ms. O’Toole?”

“What?”
 
Jeremy’s voice stopped; I heard the beep.
 
I didn’t leave a message. Instead, I killed the call and put my phone in my pocket.

“Do you need a car?”
 
The valet looked like he’d just graduated eighth grade.
 
A Dennis the Menace doppelganger, his innocent face hiding a youth spent cutting his teeth on taking the family Suburban for joyrides.
 
Books and covers, I wasn’t one to judge. But the kid wasn’t exactly one to instill confidence in a Ferrari owner leaving his car while he gambled or dallied … or killed a country-music legend.
 

“The guy who just left in the Lambo, you know him?”

“The yellow one with the black dragon logo?”

A bit more to go on.
 
Not much, but I’d take it.
 
Although I doubted the DMV kept note of distinguishing logos on registered automobiles.
 
“Yes.
 
That’s the one.
 
Do you know the gentleman?”
 
I almost choked on that word.
 
Of course, strip clubs were routinely referred to as gentlemen’s clubs, so perhaps the term didn’t carry the class it used to.

“Not personally, but by reputation, yes.
 
He’s the son of some bigwig from Macau.
 
Throws his money around but is a real george when it comes to the staff.”

“Dropping a ton at the tables and the clubs but stiffing the staff.
 
Not a stellar character.
 
And not very bright.”
 
Anyone who even brushed up against Vegas knew the town ran on tips.
 
You grease the right palm with enough green, the world would be delivered to your suite.
 
What was it the Big Boss had said on national television?
 
“You can get anything you want at my hotel?”
 
I’d about had a stroke, but the Earth kept spinning, the cops hadn’t raided our facilities, and Vegas remained the adult playground it had always been.