Lucky Break (16 page)

“No, ma’am.”

“Would you have a name?”

“Goes by Sam.”

“Sam?”

“He says just Sam.” The kid, his hands clasped behind his back, nodded. “He thought Joe was too…”

“Clichéd?”

The kid didn’t have an answer, and I had the vague feeling he had no idea what I was talking about.
 

Not that I expected to find anything, but I made one more circuit of the Kasbah as I called Romeo and gave him the little information I had.

“We’ll work through the DMV, see if we can narrow it down.
 
Fancy wheels, shouldn’t be too hard. “

I didn’t feel like educating him, so I simply said, “Thanks,” and rang off.

At a dead end, I set a course for Registration.
 
Even though I doubted our dinner jacket guy would have given his particulars to our computer, a guest list for the bungalows at the Kasbah might prove insightful.
 
Since he had a key, I assumed Sam, or whatever his real name was, had at least a passing familiarity with one of our guests.
 
Of course, this being Vegas, physical intimacies didn’t necessarily mean information was exchanged.
 
Short on threads to pull, I decided to give it a shot.
 
But one of the main services we sold to our Kasbah guests was privacy protection.
 
So poking around would be a tightrope walk between privacy and murder to figure out who might know Sam.

Teddie’s phone call caught me skulking through the rows of slot machines as I worked my way toward the lobby, without alerting Mona and her coffee klatch to my presence.
 
For a moment I wavered.
 
Teddie didn’t deserve instant access, but I suspected friends were in short supply for him about now.
 

“Hey.
 
How’re you holding up?”
 
I tried for cheery.
 
Stupid, it came off sounding forced, which it was.

His sigh wavered through the connection.
 
“Your buddy, Squash, has scored me a suite of my own.
 
Of course, it could use a woman’s touch: it’s a bit Spartan.”
 
Even though he was trying to keep it light, tension stretched his voice tighter than the high-C string on his baby grand.
 
I said a silent thank-you to Squash Trenton.
 
Teddie’s stint as a female impersonator was no secret.
 
Assumptions would be made.
 
Mixing and mingling with the general prison population would’ve been problematic for the guards and painful for Teddie.

“That’s good.”

An awkward silence rode on an undercurrent of everything that didn’t need to be said between good friends … best friends of a time.
 

“I have a bail hearing in the morning.”
 
He didn’t ask.
 
He didn’t have to.

“What time?”

“We’re third on the docket at nine, but you know how that goes.
 
Have you spoken to Daniel Lovato?”
 
A tremor of fear vibrated the last word.
 
He cleared his throat.

Was he worried that I would refuse or that Daniel would?
 
“Yes.”
 
His breath rushing out gave me the answer I wanted.
 
“No promises.
 
I don’t want to raise your hopes.
 
You have to know what a FUBAR this is.”

“I know.
 
I didn’t do it.
 
I swear.”

“We have to prove it, Teddie.”

He started to talk.
 
I shut him down.
 
“Don’t say anything.
 
You don’t know who’s listening, and I don’t want to get dragged into court to testify.
 
I’ll take my lead from your attorney.”

“Okay.”
 
His tone suggested he didn’t believe me.
 
“For once, I’m glad that you don’t take direction from anybody.”

I knew it, but there was a time and place for breaking rules, and this wasn’t either.
 
“Teddie, this one is different.
 
One misstep and you’re on a death row suicide watch.
 
Hang tight.
 
I’m doing all I can.
 
I’ll see you in the morning.”
 
Wanting the connection, needing to know he was all right, I clutched the phone, pressing it to my ear long after I knew he was gone.
 

A hand grabbed my elbow.
 
I yelped and jumped.
 
And turned to look into the eyes of an old friend.
 
Hank Pascarelli.
 
He wrapped me in a bear hug, which I enjoyed.
 
Then, hands on my shoulders, he leaned back.
 
“Let me get a look at you.”

Still in his Hawaiian shirt and khakis, but filling them out better than the last time I’d seen him.
 
“You look terrific, Mr. Pascarelli.”

“Happiness will do that to you.
 
I got you to thank.”

Joy hit my heart.
 
“Mrs. Paisley?
 
She feeding you some of her pies?”

Hank let go of me and patted his burgeoning stomach.
 
“Too many.”

“And how is Griffin, Indiana?”

He looked happily confounded.
 
“Who knew I’d find my happy in the fat-big middle of nowhere?”

Hands on my hips, I gave him a smile.
 
“Indiana is hardly the middle of nowhere.
 
Don’t tell me you two are living in sin?”

“Yep.
 
Damned proud of it, too.
 
But I decided she needed to make an honest man out of me.”

“You’re getting married?”
 
At the blush in his cheeks it was my turn to give the hug.

“All the family is coming.
 
Even her Harvard-boy grandson.
 
Good kid.
 
Nice thing you done.”

I put on my best innocent face.
 
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.
 
What’s he studying?”

“Government.
 
Politics.
 
Communication.
 
Something like that.
 
He’s just started.”

“Dear God, don’t introduce him to my mother.”

“Too late.
 
Those two have been scheming.”

Raising my hands in mock supplication, I said, “I don’t want to know. When’s the big day?”

He gave me the particulars, and I meticulously entered them into the calendar on my phone, the one I could never remember to look at.
 
“You give your bride a hug for me.
 
And best wishes to both of you.”
 
With a song in my heart, I said goodbye.
 
Challenging Fate and my mother, I threw back my shoulders, thrust out my chin, and walked on air all the way out of the casino, through the lobby, arriving in front of Registration just as my confidence flagged.
 
A one-woman army against the forces of evil—daunting odds even for a betting woman—and I wasn’t holding up well.
 

Sergio Fabiano, our front desk manager, paced behind the long registration counter like a caged lion contemplating his opportunities for escape.
 
His dark hair, which he wore long, angled across his face.
 
Looking up, he flipped it out of his eyes and gave me a tight smile.
 
With his flock of adoring females absent, lacking the glow of their adoration he looked almost human … a Greek god dropped to Earth to walk among us mere mortals.
 
A bit fastidious for my tastes, though—I drew the line at a boyfriend who was prettier than me.
 
Teddie came perilously, close and, yes, he looked better in my clothes than I did.
 
His legs weren’t bad either.

Teddie.

“I’m very sorry about Mr. Teddie.”
 
Sergio took a step back. My eyes must’ve gone all slitty.
 
Loosely interpreted, that was my body language for “run.”
 
“He did not do this.”

“Of course not.” I tried to loosen up.
 
As Mona always said, worry did nothing but make you look like a Shar Pei.
 
And anger would get you ten to life.
 
Neither good end goals—not that I made a habit of listening to my mother.
 
That could land me in jail or an asylum.

Slipping between two queues of guests, I basked in the buzz of several languages swirling around me, excitement burbling in each curious word.
 
All shapes and sizes and in various states and styles of dress, our guests were united in holiday cheer, each of them clutching a free beverage of their choice.
     

Leaning on the counter, motioning him close, I lowered my voice.
 
“I need a list of the guests in the bungalows.”

Sergio’s eyes widened, but he knew better than to ask. “Many of them register under false names.”

“Vegas, where you can buy an alternate identity for the weekend.
 
So helpful.”

Sergio leaned into me, getting too close for my comfort.
 
The nuance of boundaries and personal space still eluded him. “That depends on what you’re looking for.”

My flat stare pressed home the point.
 

“Right.”
 
He moved back, leaving a cloud of Aramis or one of those other cloying colognes men often hoped would render females weak-kneed and compliant.
 

They only made me sneeze.
 
I held my breath, hoping to maintain my dignity.
 
When I thought the urge had passed, I took a tentative breath.
 
The sneeze had been hiding, and it was pissed, now doubling me over in a flurry of horrible honking like geese heading south for the winter.

One upside—the lines on either side stepped away, giving me elbow room.
 
One kind woman offered me a tissue.

Apparently clueless as to his guilt, Sergio waited for one of the agents to finish checking in a couple, then eased her aside.
 
His fingers flew over the keyboard, then he relinquished the machine back to his agent.
 
“I’ve printed the list to my terminal in the back.”
 
As he disappeared through the doorway, I understood his logic as I watched the agents printing and grabbing papers from the various printers.
 
The list couldn’t fall into just any hands—access to the bungalow list was coveted by the media sharks always circling, looking for a tasty celebrity morsel.
 

While I waited, I turned and faced the lobby, leaning back, my elbows braced on the counter.
 
Christmas had come to the Babylon.
 
Festive greenery bedecked with rainbowed glass balls laced the countertops and railings.
 
Evergreens sprouted through piles of brightly wrapped packages in every available nook and cranny and bookending the various couches and furniture clusters.
 
Children, high on rumors of Santa’s imminent arrival and the obligatory holiday sugar overload, rushed around like terrified cows being herded by helicopter, darting this way and that, bouncing off each other and the legs of strangers.

Holidays pressed home the point that parenthood should not be entered into lightly, a mantra I made my own.

Music provided a soundtrack to all the chaos.
 
The familiar strains of
Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer
filtered through the hubbub, making me smile.
 
Somebody had a sense of humor.
 
I liked it.
 
Laughter made everything better.

Except murder, the black cloud following me around.
 
So far, I hadn’t seen but a hint of a silver lining.
 
Tomorrow’s bail hearing would either brighten the sky or bring a deluge.
 

Sergio cleared his throat behind me, saving me from a mental stroll through that dark wood.
 
His face clouded as he scanned the names on his list.
 
“I am not so sure this will help.”

I took the list to make my own assessment.
 
Unknown names.
 
Several Sams, as suspected.
 
You’d think those intent on some reputation-damaging fun might be a bit more creative.
 

I sucked in my breath at the last name on the list.
 

Mrs. Holt Box.

She’d checked in last night.
 
“I need a copy of this signature, please.”