Lucky Catch (13 page)

Romeo nodded and gave me a little shrug of helplessness.

“What about anybody else? Did the foreman mention anybody else going up to the restaurant?”

Romeo shook his head, which gave me steam.

“What about Teddie? He was there when I got there. Did the foreman mention him?”

“No, he said he was busy—no one really checks who’s coming and going. It’s a huge project, as you know . . . since you’re the boss.” Romeo took another sip of his hooch. The stuff was having an effect—I could see the red flush rising in his cheeks.

“Not the boss exactly, more of a nominal figurehead . . . none of the authority, all of the blame.”

Romeo didn’t buy it. “Why don’t you have people sign in and such?”

I gave him a disbelieving look. “There’re hundreds of people working there on a daily basis, and probably as many delivering products, consulting, inspecting. If we checked everyone, the logjam would be worse than the TSA line at McCarran on a Sunday.”

“Still—anybody can come and go.” Romeo insisted on whipping that dead horse.

“My point exactly.” I tried to quell my rising panic. “Did Teddie give you a good reason why he was in Jean-Charles’s kitchen in the first place? I would’ve asked him, but I don’t trust him to tell me the truth anymore.”

“Has it dawned on you that Teddie may have told you the truth from the beginning, and the truth just changed?” Romeo kept his eyes lowered, as if conjuring wisdom from a glass of serious joy-juice.

“I’m not willing to admit that possibility yet.”

“Why?”

Defeat forced the air out of my lungs in a long, heavy sigh. “Because then I couldn’t be mad anymore. I want to be mad.”

“Anger only hurts you.” When Romeo finally looked at me, I could see the concern there. Everyone close to me had been shoveling the same shit my way . . . perhaps it was time I listened.

Not yet ready to completely concede, I squeezed his arm.

“He told me he wanted to clear the air with the Frenchman,” Romeo said. “To make sure his intentions were honorable.”

That poked a hole in the thin veneer over my anger. “Just my knight-in-shining-armor. Am I lucky or what?”

Romeo glanced at me, then ground to a halt when he ran headlong into my not-so-happy face. “Look, I don’t like this any more than you do. It’s my job to chase all the leads. I ask the questions and write down the answers, until they lead me to the truth.”

I jumped all over that. “So you don’t believe Teddie either?”

“I didn’t say that.” Romeo looked like he wanted to run. Instead, he shook his glass, bringing to my attention that it was empty. “Rein it in, Lucky.”

I ignored him. “Surely, somebody saw someone other than Mr. Peccorino and Jean-Charles?”

“I’ve got half the force on it. We’re having a hard time just trying to determine who was at the site legitimately. Once we narrow that down, we’ll go through them one by one. You know how it goes—and it’s going to take time.”

“I got a feeling time is something we don’t have with two bodies already and not even a whisper as to what’s going on. Much less any leads.” I took another sip of the bourbon, hoping for some clarity.

Romeo reached for the bottle to refill his glass. I nudged it out of his reach. He didn’t complain. “I still can’t get past the fact that you appear to be in the middle of this somehow.” He seemed genuinely concerned.

Having no real answer and not wanting to speculate, I ignored him. “Any note with this guy?”

“Not that I found.”

“So why a note at the first murder, and not at the second?”

“We got one smoked food service person and one broiled tech guy and no connection between the two, yet you’re assuming we have one killer.”

That sobered me right up. “I think that’s a safe assumption.”

“Based on what?”

“Fear.” I took a couple of nice, large sips of bourbon as my brain freewheeled. Was a large sip still a sip? Or was it called something else—like the first sign of a drinking problem? “The idea of two killers running loose in my hotel is too horrible to think about. Isn’t one enough?” I shot him a questioning look, but he knew me well enough to know a rhetorical question when he heard one. “Let’s start looking for connections—it’ll make me feel better. Tell me about Mr. Peccorino. You said he was a tech guy?”

Romeo glanced at the bottle of Wild Turkey, but didn’t reach for it. Instead, he reached for the cashews and popped a couple in his mouth. “Mr. Peccorino . . .” Romeo pulled his note pad out of his inside coat pocket. After dabbing his thumb on his tongue, he used it to flip through the pages until he found the one he wanted. He began reading. “Richard Joseph Peccorino, born in . . .”

I waved him quiet. “If where he is born is relevant, I’ll pay attention. If not, spare me that sort of thing and cut to the chase.”

He shot me a scowl. “He was born right here, in Henderson. And at this point, I don’t know what’s important and what’s not. He was here with the techie group that’s just ramping up their little get-together at your hotel.”

“Techie group? The Babylon? You mean the guys from UC-Berkeley?” It was my job to at least be aware of every group meeting at the Babylon, whether they were my personal responsibility or not. My young assistant, Brandy, had handled the scientists, as I recalled. The topic of their meeting escaped me—I’d probably read it at some point, but hadn’t understood. Not at all unusual—most technology was beyond my meager geek skills.

Romeo nodded.

“How did a geek end up basted and broiled in the kitchen of a restaurant in a hotel that isn’t even open yet? And why was he with Jean-Charles?”

“Both good questions,” Romeo said quietly.

I couldn’t disagree, so I searched for benign possibilities. “Far from prying eyes?”

“Maybe. But it’s an awful long way to go, and a fairly dramatic presentation, don’t you think?”

“A message in the method.” I deflated. Of course, he was right. This would have to play out to its logical conclusion—and Jean-Charles would be under suspicion until he stopped acting guilty.

I threw a pleading look at the young detective. “What else can you tell me about Richard Peccorino? Anything you can give me, any possible connection, would sure help.”

“That’s all I got. At the time of his murder, all of his colleagues were in a meeting, one that he was supposed to attend. None of them are suspects, so, I’ve made an appointment to talk to them all tomorrow—I spoke with one on the phone just a bit ago, and he’s already pretty oiled, along with all his cohorts, so I thought tomorrow would be better.” Romeo flipped his note pad shut and put it away. “Do you have any idea how long it’s going to take just to bring Peccorino down to room temperature?”

I didn’t know what that had to do with anything, and I didn’t ask—I have a delicate stomach.

“The coroner can’t even touch him yet. He said putting a scalpel to him would be like sticking an overheated sausage.”

“I could’ve done without that visual, thank you.” I threw back the rest of my bourbon, hoping it held the bile down where it belonged.

Romeo motored on as if he hadn’t heard a word. “Hell, it was hard enough putting a name to him. I’m just getting into the meat of it.” He cringed.

I tried not to smile, I really did.

Romeo rubbed his eyes and refused to smile. “God, the more I’m around you . . .”

“Your goose is cooked.” I nudged his shoulder with mine.

“You are seriously sick—if you see any guys in white jackets, you better head the other way.” This time, he couldn’t hide his grin.

“Everybody in Vegas is running from something. Why should I be any different?”

Romeo turned so I could see his look of wonder. “What? Cynicism from you, the head acolyte in the Order of the Perpetually Cheerful?”

“Cynicism? No. Reality. Whether it is cold winter weather or a last name that ends in a vowel, everyone here has left something behind.”

“Maybe so.” Romeo sipped his drink more slowly now. His eyes held a glassy look—Wild Turkey was pretty high-octane for Romeo’s four-stroke engine. “I’d sure like to know what Ms. Richards and Mr. Peccorino left behind.”

I deferred my emotion to his reason. “Maybe that would shed some light on how they got caught in a killer’s crosshairs.”

“I’ll do the background stuff, work the databases, if you’ll help me figure out some of this, connect the dots. These casino folks only want to talk to one of their own. They open up to you.”

“It must be my special charm.”

“No doubt.”

“I did find out an interesting tidbit from Chef Gregor.” I told Romeo about the truffle.

“So Fiona took a look, here in the kitchen, saw the truffle was not as advertised, then took it to Gregor?”

“That’s what Gregor said.”

“Can you check the video feeds to confirm?”

“On my way over here, I called Jerry. It only took him a few minutes, since I had the location and the time. Gregor’s story checks out.”

“And Fiona. Why’d she run to Gregor?”

I took a stab at an answer although I was flying blind. “She knew he’d have a cow, and the missing truffle put the Bouclets on the hotseat. She wanted Desiree’s husband and her business. People have killed for less.”

“Good point. Let’s try to prove that, although with her dead, we may never know why she did what she did. Where’d she go after meeting Gregor?”

“Out the back to a rendezvous with her killer.”

“Well, we tie up the time of death pretty tight then. I’m checking alibis. That’s the best I can do right now.” Romeo backed off his stool. “Keep poking around, okay? But stay out of any kitchens. They can be bad for your health.”

A
fter
I sent Romeo home with a full-blown hug right there in front of everybody, which made me feel better but embarrassed him, I cleared our tab, then wandered back to the kitchen, which was firing on all cylinders to feed the crowd out front. I didn’t know what I was looking for. Comfort? Answers? A thread to follow? Some hint of the deadly game being played.

Seeing Rinaldo at the grill hurt my heart. Every member of the staff moved with shared syncopation—calculated efficiency, their tasks ingrained, their movements by rote. I watched for a moment, trying to learn the steps to a dance I didn’t know, set to music I couldn’t hear. Finally, I gave up, judged the flow, then picked my time to ease into the fray, making my way toward the back and Jean-Charles’s office.

Expecting it to be deserted, I paused in surprise to see Desiree and Christophe sitting on the floor. Desiree faced me, her attention on her nephew.

The boy, on all fours, his rear pointing skyward in my direction, hunched over a drawing. Sensing my presence, she raised her eyes to mine. Christophe must’ve felt his aunt’s attention shift. “Papa?” He whirled around.

The hope in his eyes fled when he saw me. His smile turned down and his lips quivered. Pushing himself to his feet, he rushed to me and clung to my legs.

Reaching down, I grabbed him under his arms and lifted him into mine. He settled nicely on my hips, his hand fisting in my hair. “Oh, Lucky, where is Papa?”

I stroked his hair—I could still smell the baby soap from last night’s bath and giggles. Life—it could turn on a dime. “I wish I knew, baby. We’ll find him.”

Desiree stood and brushed down her slacks. Of course, being French, she still looked impeccable—except for the worried crinkle between her eyes, and her shoulders, which bowed, her posture sagging like a clothesline holding too much laundry.

“You’re staying at Jean-Charles’s?” I confirmed.

She nodded once. “I have arrived so suddenly, I have not been there yet, so I don’t know where his house is. I’ve spoken with my daughter, Chantal. She said she can direct me, but of this, I am not so confident.”

“I’ll take you there. Do you have a suitcase?”

“In Jean’s car.” She shrugged and tried to smile.

“Too bad you don’t have a tracking device in the thing.” With the boy clutching my neck, I gave a nod toward the front of the restaurant. “Let’s go. You two must be beat.”

A look of confusion flashed in the Frenchwoman’s eyes—she suffered from the same idiom affliction as her brother—but I didn’t feel the need to explain. “We’ll take one of the limos.”

* * *

The Babylon’s valets were unctuous, if they were anything. I should know, I’m their boss, and as such, I tended to get a bit more bowing and scraping than the average Joe, which didn’t make me happy. As many times as I’d told them it should be the other way around, they still dropped everything to meet my needs. Tonight was no exception. The head valet caught sight of me before we’d had a chance to walk out the front doors and made a beeline in my direction.

I turned to Desiree, who clutched her nephew’s hand. The boy had just a light polo shirt on. And his aunt’s cotton one wouldn’t provide much warmth in the cool wind, either. “It’s chilly outside. Neither of you are dressed warmly enough for the cold desert nights this time of year. Let me go see about a limo.” I glanced at the tangle of cars out front. “It may take a few moments to maneuver through the traffic. When it is out front, I’ll come get you.”

When I stepped through the door, the head valet gave a signal like a conductor cuing the symphony. In the darkness, a pair of headlights blinked on. The car couldn’t move, though, it would have to wait for the running valets to clear a path.

“I’m going back inside to wait with my friends.”

The head valet nodded, his eyes watching the limo. “Yes, ma’am. It shouldn’t be but a few minutes. A busy time right now.”

I didn’t feel the need to engage in further obvious observations. As I turned, my eyes searched through the glass doors for Desiree and Christophe. They waited where I’d left them, but someone else had joined them. A trim figure in chef whites, with short dark hair, knelt down in front of the boy. Chitza DeStefano reached out and touched his cheek. The boy ducked his head but didn’t cower back—he didn’t seem afraid. Of course, Christophe Bouclet was a resilient spirit; at least, what I’d seen of him so far indicated as much. The chef said something to the boy, then pushed to her feet. With a nod to his aunt, Chitza eased into the crowd and disappeared from sight.

Pushing through the door, I smiled when Christophe caught sight of me and a grin split his face. He pulled away from his aunt and launched himself into my arms. As I cradled him against me, it occurred to me that he gave me comfort and strength when I intended the opposite. “Did you know that lady talking to you?”

“No.”

“What did she say?”

“She told me I look like my mother.” He pulled his head back and eased his hold around my neck so he could look at me. “Did you know my mother?”

“I would have liked to.”

He gave me a sweet smile as he laid his head on my shoulder. “Me, too.”

My heart cracked a little. “Do you want to ride in a big car?”

Christophe nodded against my cheek.

“I’ll take you home.”

“To papa?”

“I don’t know. But your aunt will be there until your father comes home.”

“And you.” Even though his voice was small and tired, the statement was clear—he wasn’t asking.

I didn’t think sleep was in my near future, but I also didn’t think it appropriate to say so. Nevertheless, the thought made me tired.

Out of the darkness, one of the Babylon’s limos eased into to view, then settled at the curb in front of me. With a tilt of my head, I motioned Desiree to follow me outside. The valet bowed and, with a glistening white smile, brandished the door. “Please, Ms. O’Toole, allow me.”

“Thank you.” At my nod, Desiree preceded me into the car, disappearing into the cavernous interior. Once settled, she reached for her nephew. I passed the boy to his aunt. As I bent to lower myself into the car, Paolo, the Babylon’s head chauffeur, bounded around the front of the car, muscling the valet off the door handle.

A short, dapper man with jet-black hair combed straight back, smiling dark eyes, and a thousand candlepower grin, Paolo bowed dramatically. “Ms. O’Toole, allow Paolo.”

I slipped the valet a twenty and turned my tired smile on Paolo. Even at this hour, his pants held a sharp crease, his shirt and jacket were unrumpled. A twenty-five-year service pin, his only accessory, sparkled in his lapel. Just standing there, he oozed so much energy, I felt that if I grabbed his hand, my hair would stand on end. “Are you driving us tonight?”

“But of course!” He gave a smart, efficient nod, which, due to the frequency with which he trotted it out, had probably become a learned tic.

“Great,” I said, as I lowered myself into the car. I loved Paolo, I really did, but in anything other than small doses, he wore me out. Somewhere in his DNA lurked the solution to the world’s energy crisis.

The door closed with a thunk, plunging us into relative darkness. Window tinting dark enough to attract attention from even the most casual passersby was de rigueur
in Vegas. The whole thing made me feel foolish—an impostor dashing the expectations of those hoping to catch a glimpse of someone important.

I sat facing forward and Desiree sat across from me, with her nephew sprawled across her lap.

Once ensconced behind the wheel, Paolo slid down the dividing glass and waited. I gave him the address and general directions. They were probably an insult: he prided himself on knowing the city better than the hordes of rats that infested the suburbs. Yes, we have rats, thousands and thousands of them, as large as toy poodles—some of the local wildlife
not
touted in the visitor guides. When I was a kid, I used to sit on the back porch at dusk and pick them off with my air rifle. Alas, with the growing human population, that was a magical childhood that my children would never know—assuming I ever had any children, which was in serious doubt at this point.

As we started rolling, I leaned my head back and closed my eyes, savoring the first peace of the day. With the lights of the Strip fading to a glow behind us, I felt myself relax. After taking a few deep breaths and marshaling my panic-scattered thoughts, I felt the prod of unanswered questions. Raising my head, I focused on Jean-Charles’s sister—the resemblance was striking, of course; after all, they were twins. “Do you feel up to helping me out a bit?”

“But of course.” A perfunctory response—outward willingness covering Gallic coolness.

While we glided in comfort through the quiet residential streets of Vegas, I asked her all the questions I could think of, and all that were appropriate in the presence of a five-year-old. Desiree answered with a strong voice that didn’t sound at all like prevarication—and I’d had a lot of recent experience with that, so I should have been able to recognize it when I heard it. As I wound down, defeated, she relaxed back into the comfortable seat cushions.

“I am so sorry, but I cannot think of anything about my brother that seemed unusual or stressed lately. He can handle very much, so for him to be upset would be very much out of the ordinary—I would’ve heard the tension in his voice. We are twins.”

“A special bond, a connection the rest of us don’t have. Or so I’ve been told.” As I talked and thought, a miracle at this hour, I pulled my phone from its place at my hip and punched the screen to life. No messages, no calls. No joy. I put the thing back where I’d found it.

“We can finish each other’s thoughts.”

“I wish you could conjure each other’s location.” Glancing out the window, I recognized the neighborhood as Paolo eased the big car down the off-ramp of Summerlin Parkway, then stopped at the red light at Town Center Drive. We were close. “Did you know the chef who was talking with Christophe?”

“No.” She shifted under the boy, who had fallen asleep across her lap. “She said her name, but it was not familiar to me. Why?”

I looked out the window, staring up at the stars. I felt like wishing on one of them, but I wouldn’t know what to wish for first. “Just curious. None of my business, really. So, tell me about Adone.”

She let out a long sigh. “He is impossible, brilliant, arrogant, a wizard in the kitchen.”

“A bad boy.” I nodded. I had one of my own. “You loathe each other.”

“Loathe, what is this?”

I could see the pain on her face as the car passed under the street lamps. “Hate.”

“Oh, no, I love him.”

“Even worse.” What was it with strong, smart women and the stupid romantic choices they made? Christ, it was almost a bad joke . . . almost.“Adone was happy being Jean-Charles’s second?” I raised my voice at the end in question.

“He knows how this business is. I am sure he was thankful for the chance—no one else would give him that, not after he spat on the Escoffier, especially on U.S. television.”

“Change, it always makes some uncomfortable.”

“In France, cooking is a religion.”

“So, spitting on the Escoffier is like crucifying Christ a second time?”

Although she seemed a bit taken aback at my crude metaphor, she gave a curt nod and a wisp of a smile that dissipated quickly under the worry in her eyes. “This is so.”

I could only imagine the bloodshed in this country that a change of such magnitude would bring. For an uncultured American, it was hard to imagine food enflaming such passion, but I took her word for it—the French were odd that way.

“And what was Fiona Richards’s angle, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Desiree looked out the side window. In the muted glow of distant lights, her expression was impassive, but she didn’t look happy. The French may embrace a European freedom when it came to monogamy, but women were women, no matter their nationality. And sexual freedom always exacted an emotional toll—a piece of one’s soul. When the one you loved chose another . . . that pain, I knew.

“Men, they are always thinking that having sex with a woman is a sign they are still wanted, they are still attractive.” Her eyes sought mine. “But men do not understand, if the woman is not worthy, they have gained nothing.”

Other than a good time, I thought, which might have been the sole goal, but I thought better of trotting that little observation out. “Some women will prostitute themselves for what a man can give—money, power, prestige, knowledge. But accepting the trade does not make a man a better man.”

She nodded once. “But just because a man is weak does not mean he is not worthy of your love.”

My personal jury had reached a different verdict, so I didn’t offer a response. “So, what did Fiona want with Adone?”

“I am not sure.” Desiree turned once again to stare out the side window, but I doubted she was admiring the passing landscape. “He is good in the bed.” She gave me a half-grin, then glanced quickly down at her nephew—he was asleep, so she needn’t have worried, but her concern was nice to see, nonetheless. “But it was something more—it does not take a special man to fulfill one’s physical appetites.”