Lucky Catch (36 page)
He got my meaning. “The truffle, the
real
truffle, was in my walk-in. I had seen it there when I opened the restaurant early to check in the shipment. That was the day you took Christophe to your office, yes?”
I nodded. “Who helped you check all the items in and put them away?”
Jean-Charles thought for a moment. “Rinaldo, of course. My other two sous chefs, the pastry sous chef.” His eyes widened. “And Adone, he came to stock my truck.”
“He stole the truffle. When he jimmied the box, the real truffle wasn’t there. You had substituted the lesser one. He alerted Chitza. They both thought Fiona had switched the truffles. She’d been tampering with shipments all along, so it seemed logical. But she hadn’t messed with this one.”
Jean-Charles shook his head. “I was trying to keep the truffle safe—it is a special truffle.” When he looked up at me, his eyes were sad. “You must believe me, I had no idea anyone would get killed.”
“Of course.” I put my head back on his shoulder. “How could you have known?”
“Okay.” Romeo stepped in. “I buy Fiona, the truffle thing, and Peccorino, but why Gregor?”
“That’s easy,” Jeremy stepped in. He gave me a glance. “Allow me?”
“The floor is yours.”
“He made too much of a stink. He wouldn’t let the truffle thing go. He filed an insurance claim, thereby triggering another investigation—the insurance blokes would never pay that kind of money without their own investigator looking into the theft.”
“And Chitza couldn’t risk someone else poking around. Her deception was wearing thin, anyway.”
“And he made a good patsy. But I also suspect, though I can’t prove it yet, that she lent him the money to buy the truffle, knowing Fiona and Adone wouldn’t be able to resist taking it, leaving Jean-Charles in a very public predicament,” I said, and gave Jean-Charles a look. “But you were working with Homeland Security all along, weren’t you?”
“Not at first. Then I was more under suspicion. And the police, I am not too sure how they will react if they have the chips. I didn’t trust them, but I knew some answers were there. That’s why I had to get Chantal to help . . . to get the chips in your hands. Once there, I knew they’d get to Homeland Security or the police, you would know what to do. We were able to triangulate this location, once we got past Mr. Peccorino’s lock.”
I looked at Jean-Charles for a moment and then asked the last question I was pretty sure I knew the answer to. “And the original truffle?”
He gave me one of his patented Gallic shrugs. “Under lock and key.”
“It never left your walk-in, did it?”
“Non.”
We stepped to one side to let a phalanx of Metro officers through. Romeo peeled off, joining them. My story was done—the rest was up to the white hats to prove.
But, there’d be no more murders tonight.
“Shoot.” I slid to a stop, jerking Jean-Charles to a stop as well. The men behind us managed to avoid a collision, but I don’t know how. “What time is it?”
“Sevenish. A bit after.” Jeremy looked at me liked I’d lost it. “Why?”
“There’ll be one more murder if I don’t get to Drink and Drag in a hurry.”
T
he
Ferrari turned heads even in Vegas. Even in downtown Vegas under the canopy of lights on Fremont Street.
With minutes to spare—the traffic had been as thick as one of the shakes at Heart Attack Grill—I slid to a stop in front of Neonopolis, a previously ill-advised commercial real estate project that was undergoing a resurgence. A surprised valet leaped out of the way.
“What a wuss,” I remarked to Jean-Charles, who still held on to the handhold with a white-knuckled grip. “I would’ve missed him by a couple of inches, at least.”
Opening the door, I unfolded myself from the car. For a moment, I thought Jean-Charles would remain, transfixed by fear, and I’d have to pry his fingers from the grip. But he followed me out of the car. Crisis averted.
I tossed the valet the keys with a smile. “Keep it out front, okay?” I didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, with Jean-Charles on my heels, I bolted for the stairs.
Some sort of evangelical spiritual thing was going on in the courtyard, which somehow seemed appropriate. Everybody could find what they were looking for in Vegas—the trick was knowing where to look.
Drink and Drag was up three flights of stairs on the top floor.
On the brink of apoplexy at the top of the stairs, I smiled at the lady at the door. “Hey, Julius, how’re they hangin’?”
“Tucked tight, Lucky.” With long, black hair, unmarred olive skin, and eyes that tilted up at the corners, in her white tank top and tiny short-shorts, she was the envy of females far and wide. But
she
wasn’t . . . female, that is. “Her” name was Julius Green and he held a management position at one of the larger Strip properties.
I shot Julius an appreciative glance. “Tucked tight? So I see. What I would do to have your ass.”
“Honey, you can have my ass anytime.” Julius gave me a provocative waggle of his perfectly plucked and arched eyebrows. “And any other body part you might find intriguing.”
Unsure of the appropriate response, I laughed. Safer that way. A man whose manhood was not compromised by wearing women’s clothing had none of the familiar inhibitions. I didn’t see any upside in testing the boundaries.
“You two be safe in there—the place is jammed with all manner of nasties.” Julius shot me a beatific smile.
He waved us inside, past the sign that said
closed for a political private party
. Yes, Mona was holding what I surmised just might be the very first fundraiser at a drag venue. And, going with my whole everyone-has-a-place-in-Vegas philosophy, this seemed appropriate, too.
Vegas not only tolerated nonconformists, we welcomed them with open arms. Considering my lineage, I thought that a good thing.
Pushing my way into the darkness, I realized just how right Julius was. People, in every sort of dress-up and dress-down, packed the large space. Spotlights highlighted young men in very brief boxer briefs dancing on several raised platforms dividing the area to the right. Clusters gathered at each platform like supplicants bowing to a god. The thirsty gathered three-deep around the U-shaped bar. The bartenders were either dancers awaiting their turn under the lights, or men in drag, slender, beautiful . . . feminine, prettier women than most of us born with our plumbing on the inside.
As I scanned the crowd looking for my parents, I realized I had lost Jean-Charles—he had not followed me. Across the crowd, I saw he was still deep in conversation with Julius. Backtracking, I grabbed his hand. “I’m sorry, Julius, for dragging him away. Pun intended.”
Julius groaned, which made me proud. “Honey, you need to work on your material. But your guy here is a hottie.” He gave Jean-Charles a lascivious look. “And that accent! You better watch him inside.” While most drag queens weren’t gay, they just liked wearing women’s clothing, Drink and Drag welcomed one and all, so Julius’s warning was not to be ignored. However, I felt sure Jean-Charles didn’t need my protection.
I pulled my chef’s hand. “Come on, the show’s about to start. And if I’m to live to see tomorrow, I better make my presence known to my mother.” I raised my voice to be heard over the music booming from the rear of the space where the dance floor was open to any and all—even those of us not dressed only in underwear. Of course, if patrons stripped down to their skivvies, they could bowl for free in the bowling alley along the far wall, to the left of the bar.
This place was such a metaphor for Vegas: if you couldn’t find something to suit your fancy, then . . . well, you were to be pitied.
Hand in hand, as we wormed our way through the throng toward the front, my normal height advantage dwindled to none. Me in flats in a sea of men wearing five-inch stilettos had me feeling positively Lilliputian. Okay, overstatement—but I felt normal. For a moment, considering the crowd, I wondered what feeling normal here meant, but I really didn’t think I should overthink it. So I went with it—sort of like accepting that, in Vegas, the land of tiny blond women, I had to shop for clothing in the transvestite section—they had my size, but finding my style was problematic. One of life’s little challenges.
Tonight, the challenge was proving to be a bit larger. The people were packed in like cattle off to the processing plant—an uncomfortable analogy that was probably more appropriate than I liked. Mona, the Pied Piper of Las Vegas. She crooked her finger, and we all did her bidding. Too bad that wasn’t part of the gene sequence she contributed to my DNA. She’d be up front, near the narrow raised walkway used as a stage between the bar and the bowling alley.
We’d made it halfway when the few lights dimmed, and the dancers stopped and jumped down from their platforms as the intro to “Coming Out” blared through the speakers.
“Hurry,” I shouted to Jean-Charles as I tugged on his hand. We arrived at my mother’s side as Teddie and Jordan sashayed onto the stage. Teddie scanned the crowd. Catching my eye, he gave me a look that was easy to read. Warm, inviting, a shy smile.
My heart tripped.
Mona reached over and squeezed my hand as wolf whistles and cheers greeted our performers. She was decked out in the only thing that still fit—a flowing white peasant skirt and a large pink caftan—her jewels, and a look of peace and joy that was transcendent. My father, casual in pleated slacks and a button-down, leaned around his wife and gave me a thumbs-up.
Our performers, in full makeup, styled coiffures, jewelry gaudy enough to make Elizabeth Taylor drool, and beaded gowns—Teddie’s was his Cher dress, an off-the-shoulder, silver-sequined sheath with an indecent slit up one side—bowed low, as the crowd went wild. I glanced around. Everyone knew Teddie—I could see they were happy to have him home and back in a dress—personally, I had mixed emotions about the dress part.
As recognition dawned that Teddie’s partner was none other than Jordan Marsh, the place erupted. Joining in, I gave Jean-Charles a wicked grin, then stuck my two little fingers in my mouth and whistled as loud as I could.
His reaction to the show was a bit less enthusiastic. “Is that the man who used to be your lover?” he shouted in my ear. “The one who made the ass of himself in my kitchen?”
I shrugged and nodded.
Jean-Charles turned back to the show with renewed interest. I wondered what was going through his head, but I figured it really wasn’t my business. Life would be what it would be. I needed to let go and let it happen.
I turned back to the show. Teddie and Jordan were a great team—the Dream Team of Female Impersonation, God help them both. And God help
me
—I had to negotiate the deal to bring Teddie back to the Babylon and to convince Jordan to join him. What a coup that would be! And after tonight, I had a feeling their price just skyrocketed. Ah, the thrill of the chase! I could pull it off, I knew I could . . . and wouldn’t it be fun?
Bucked with life. Cheering and laughing from the sheer joy of being alive, I hooked my arm through Jean-Charles’s—I’d been doing that a lot this evening. He squeezed my hand, and his smile warmed my heart.
Turning to my mother, I gave her a grin. But the stricken look on her face froze the blood in my veins.
“What?” I mouthed to her.
Her eyes as big as saucers, she looked down.
I followed her gaze.
A pool of liquid between her feet.
I looked up into her eyes, realization dawning.
She held her belly with both hands and smiled. “The babies are coming.”
A NEW BEGINNING
Also by Deborah Coonts
"Paints
a dead-on portrait of Las Vegas that is somehow dark, outrageous, and hilarious at the same time. Lucky O’Toole is wise, witty, and brimming with cheery cynicism.
Wanna Get Lucky?
goes down faster than an ice-cold Bombay martini—very dry, of course, and with a twist." --Douglas Preston,
New York Times
bestselling author of
Blasphemy
Amid the chaos of fight weekend, the hiring of an eccentric new French chef, and her madam mother's intentions to auction off a young woman’s virginity, Lucky is drawn into a deadly game where no one is what they seem, a game that will end only when she discovers who made fish-food out of Numbers Neidermeyer.
Lucky O’Toole and Fabulous Las Vegas—life doesn’t get any better.
"Lucky’s latest lark brims with the over-the-top ridiculousness that I love about Vegas. Fans of the series will fall in love all over again, and new readers will look forward to her next escapade."
--
Publishers Weekly
on
So Damn Lucky
Lucky O’Toole, the newly promoted vice president of Customer Relations for the Babylon, Las Vegas's primo Strip property, has never met a problem she couldn't handle. But when a young woman is found dead, sprawled across the hood of a new, bright red Ferrari California in the Babylon's on-site dealership, a Jimmy Choo stiletto stuck in her carotid, Lucky's skills are maxed out.
NOVELLAS
Lucky O’Toole, the vice president of Customer Relations for the Babylon, one of Las Vegas’s most over-the-top strip properties, is seriously regretting booking a reality television show,
The Forever Game,
in the hotel’s small theater.
Missing dynamite, an old grudge, and whispers from the past, force Lucky to delve into dark secrets best left alone. And when her father disappears, things become personal.