Lucky Break (17 page)

Miss P hunkered behind her old desk in the front office, wearing yesterday’s clothes, her eyes red, her hair flat, and her smile absent.
 
Guess life had given me my moment of happiness.
 
Now it was back to business.

“If we have a bungalow available, will you move Mr. Pascarelli and Mrs. Paisley?
 
They’re back and getting married and bringing all the family.”

Miss P didn’t perk up like she usually did with good news and a fun job, but she did nod and make a note as she dabbed at her nose with a tissue.

“Did you go home?”
 
I parked my butt on the corner of her desk and resisted the Siren call of the messages overflowing my in-box.

All hang-dog, she shook her head.

“You hang that head any lower, you’re going to be drooling on the desk.
 
You know how much I don’t like that.”
 
I boosted myself from my perch.
 
“Come with me.
 
Some medicinal spirits are in order.”

She still sat where I’d left her when I returned with two breakfast portions of Wild Turkey, each in its very own Flintstone’s jelly-jar glass.
 
I balanced the two glasses in one palm, and with a hand under her elbow, I encouraged Miss P to her feet, then guided her to the couch in my inner sanctum.
 
Thankfully, Tool One and Tool Two were not taking turns with the hammer today, so we had my office to ourselves.
 
The lone light bulb added ambiance, the weak light masking the layer of dust covering everything.
 
“Sit.”

She perched on the edge of the couch, her knees pressed together like a pious schoolgirl, the jelly jar I’d thrust into her hands cradled in her lap.

“Down the hatch.”

She threw back her drink like a pro, only gasping a little as the firewater lit a path all the way down.
 
“Dear heavens.”

“As invectives go, a bit on the weak side.”
 
My need a bit less, I sipped my drink.
 
While I loved my joy juice, the breakfast bit was a stretch.
 
My desk chair groaned as I sat.
 
“Can you add to the punch list oiling the springs in this thing?
 
It’s giving me a complex.”

Owl-eyed, Miss P blinked at me.

Toeing open the bottom drawer, I put my feet on it and leaned back.
 
“Feeling any better?”

Staring at her feet, she shook her head.
 
“I guess you heard,” she said, her voice thin, her shoulders slumped in defeat.

“All I heard was something about some guy—”

“Cody Ellis.”
 
She squared her shoulders a bit and met my eyes.

“Right.
 
Mr. Ellis—”

“Doctor.”

“Really?”
 
So the ladies had been right.
 
And I’d been thinking some Iowa farm boy.
 
A youthful indiscretion.
 
Life never missed a beat to show me how wrong I could be.
 
Color my interest piqued.
 
I tried to hide it, but Miss P had encyclopedic knowledge of my quirks and nuances.
 
“Okay, some doctor asshat shows up—”

“He’s not an asshat.”
 
Miss P’s cheeks flushed, either from anger, embarrassment, or a firewater kick start … or all three.

“He’s not?”

She shook her head, looking like she’d lost her last friend.
 
Or had found an old love.
 

I squinted my eyes, as if that would help me read the answer in her aura or something.
 
Silly, but an undercurrent ran beneath this conversation, if it could be called that—and undercurrent I couldn’t quite get the drift of.

Oh, this was not good.
 
“So is he your husband?”

“That’s what he says.”
 

“And this is a bad thing, right?”

She plucked at an invisible speck of lint on the sleeve of her sweater and looked up over my left shoulder.
 
“Of course.”

What was it the experts said?
 
If a person looks up and left while answering a question, they’re lying?
 
This time I slugged the rest of my drink.
 
“What about Jeremy?
 
I’m taking it he knows.”

“He was there.”

We both had empty glasses.
 
I solved that problem with a quick trip to the kitchenette in my old office.
 
This time Miss P didn’t need any encouragement.
 
My day still in front of me, and Teddie’s life on the line, I decided to throttle-back on the high-octane and put my jelly jar down, then moved it out of reach.
 
“And you’re sure you don’t know where he is?”

“No.
 
He said he needed some time.
 
So I haven’t tried to reach him, not that he’d answer.”

That could explain my inability to reach him, but there also was another explanation.
 
I called Dane.
 

He answered on the first ring.
 
“I’m following Jean-Charles to the Babylon.
 
That guy works almost as much as you do.”

“Once he’s here, I’ll get Security to ride herd on him.
 
I need you to find Jeremy.”

“Has he gone missing?”
 
Dane’s tone turned serious.

“Don’t know, but he’s radio silent, which makes me worried.
 
There’s a benign explanation that I won’t go into, but also some that aren’t.”
 
I stared at a spot on the wall, avoiding Miss P’s stricken look.

“Got it.
 
I’ll let you know.”
 
He rang off.

I tossed my phone onto a stack of papers on the desk, then waved at the resulting small dust cloud and returned to Miss P.
 
“So, why now?
 
Why did Cody Ellis show up now?”

“He grew up.”
 
Miss P said that matter-of-factly, as if was a legitimate explanation.

I was so at sea.
 
“What?
 
Help me out here.
 
How could you have married him if he wasn’t grown-up before?”

“The difference between chronological and emotional maturity.”
 
She leveled her gaze.
 
“I know you know all about that.”

Ouch.
 
“Obviously, I’m still learning.
 
Maybe you could start at the beginning?”

With studied care, she set her jelly jar on the floor by her feet, then rubbed her hands down her thighs.
 
When she looked up, a bit of the worry was gone, replaced by something else, an emotion I couldn’t read.

“It all started in Kenya.”

Blindsided once again.
 
I was getting used to it, which didn’t make me happy.
 
“Like Kenya in Africa?”

“No, like Kenya in Iowa.
 
Jesus H. Christ.”
 
She took a deep breath.
 
“Sorry, this has thrown me off a bit.”

The Mistress of Understatement.
 
Leaning forward, I raised my hands and opened my arms.
 
“Finally! A bit of piss and vinegar.
 
Every problem has solution, but you got to man-up and face it head-on.”

She looked at me from under lowered brows, one side of her mouth ticked up.
 

A familiar look; no interpretation necessary.
 
I grabbed my cockroach paperweight, turning it over and over in my hands.
 
“As you are dying to point out, if running from problems was an Olympic event, I’d have more gold medals than Michael Phelps and Mark Spitz put together.
 
If experience is the best teacher, I have a gold-clad Ph.D.
 
If—”

“I get it.”
 
This time I caught a fleeting smile, or maybe I imagined it.
 
Regardless, her posture softened.
 
Leaning back, she tucked her feet underneath her.

“And I love you, so you should listen to me.”
 
I’d saved the best for last, and I could tell it worked.

“Okay.
 
But just let me get through this.
 
Don’t offer a running commentary.
 
I know I’ve been a fool.
 
I can’t outrun my past.
 
Hell, by that standard I’m one of your beloved clichés.
 
But, admitting that?” She raked a hand through her hair, spiking it back up and perhaps unwittingly showing a bit of her normal moxie.
 
“Well, a bitter pill, that’s for sure.
 
I pride myself on being so … ”
 

“Contained?
 
Enigmatic?
 
Perfect in a way us mere mortals couldn’t possibly attain?”

Her eyes narrowed.

“One step too far, huh?”

We both knew I was jerking her chain on purpose.
 
Pissed off, she had a chance.

“Yep, too far, but too true.
 
Now just be quiet and let me tell you a story.”

“Sure.
 
No more.
 
Not until you’re finished.
 
I promise.” We both knew I had agreed to an impossibility.
 

“So, as I said, it all started in Kenya.
 
We were both young, stupid.
 
I was doing basic nursing duties for one of those volunteer doctor organizations.
 
They do such incredible work, really make a difference.
 
It was all very empowering, satisfying in a way nothing since has been.
 
Cody was—”

A voice shouted from the front office.
 
“Lucky!
 
Lucky are you here?”

Shit, just when Miss P was getting to the good part.
 
“In here.”

Kimberly Cho ran into my office.
 
She too still wore last night’s party costume although she looked even worse than Miss P.
 
For once I wasn’t the one on the short-end of the sleep spectrum.
 
How had that happened?
 
Had I gone mainstream?
 
Old school?
 
Or just old?
 
Perish the thought.

“Oh, thank God!”
 
Kimberly shot a glance at Miss P, then slapped me with worried eyes.
 
“You have to stop him!
 
Now!”

“Who?”

Kimberly stepped around my desk, grabbed my arm and started tugging.
 
I had her by about eight inches and forty pounds.
 
If she wanted me to move, brute force wasn’t on her side.

“He has a gun, and he’s after your father!”

CHAPTER EIGHT

“W
HO has a gun?” I grabbed my phone.
 

Kimberly waved my question away.
 
“Too hard to explain.
 
We must stop him.
 
I saw him from the balcony just outside your door.
 
We must hurry!”

Miss P and I both leapt to our feet.
 
Kimberly turned and ran with both of us hot on her heels.

“Where is he?”
 
I panted the words as I ran.
 
We hit the door to the stairs, then pounded down the stairs and burst into the lobby.

“Baccarat room.”
 
Kimberly didn’t even pause, turning to the left, then regaining speed as she raced over a bridge over the lobby stream, scattering guests.
 
Ducks flapped in a cloud of feathers as they skittered out of the way.
 
As I loped after her, I caught the flash of yellow out the front door.

A yellow Lamborghini.
 
With a black dragon logo behind the front wheel well.

I keyed the walkie-talkie feature of my phone as I ran.
 
“Jerry?
 
Tell me you’re there.”

“Right here.”
 
All business, he knew serious when he heard it.

“The dinner jacket guy is in the building.
 
His car’s at the front curb.
 
Get a license plate.
 
I’ve been told he has a gun and is after the Big Boss.” I raced over the bridge, keeping Kimberly in sight.
 
“I’m en route to the high-stakes Baccarat room.
 
Get eyes open.
 
I need to know where my father is.
 
And, goddamn it, locate that ass playing games with us.
 
And do it now.”
 
Technically, after my last promotion, I was Jerry’s superior, but this was the first time I’d used that attitude.

“I’m on it.
 
Keep the channel open.”

I lowered my head and summoned my after-burners.
 
A flame-out, but I managed to close the distance slightly.
 
I could hear Miss P’s ragged breathing as she pounded behind me.
 
Heads turned as we raced by.
 
The crowd parted, jumping out of the way as we dodged, darted, and ran.

Jerry’s voice.
 
“Confirm your father is in the high-stakes Baccarat room.
 
Several whales, a lot of money in play.
 
Three teams closing.
 
ETA two minutes.”

“Got it.” My heart pounded more from fear than lack of oxygen.
 
My father.
 
A guy with a gun who had most likely killed before.
 
And nothing I could do about it other than run.

I angled to the left.
 
With a two-fingered whistle, I got Kimberly’s attention, redirecting her.
 
Now in the lead, I whipped around the corner and burst through the doors into the quiet decorum of high-stakes gaming.