Wanna Get Lucky? (4 page)

“How could it be your fault?” I leaned against the railing and watched the sea of people below. “Lyda Sue quit working for you some time ago.”

Mother took a deep, ragged breath.

“Oh Lucky, you’re going to be so mad at me.”

I shut my eyes and counted to ten. It didn’t work; I was still mad. “Mother, I’m not sure you could make this night any worse, so why don’t you just give it to me straight?”

“Well, a couple of months ago, Lyda Sue came out here and asked me if I would bend the rules for her a little bit.”

“How little?” I had a real bad feeling I knew what was coming.

“She said she had a big fish, a real high-profile guy, and he didn’t want to be seen meeting her. So I let her meet him here.”

“And you didn’t check him out, right?”

“It was Lyda Sue, honey. She’d never gotten into any trouble before, and she was one of my favorites. She always came to visit and cheer up this old lady, unlike somebody else I know.”

“Guilt doesn’t work with me, Mother.” Taking a call from Mother was like stabbing myself in the leg with a sharp knife—extraordinarily painful but not life threatening. “So you have no idea who he was, and nobody there saw him?”

“No, but I do know each time he met her here he arrived in the Babylon’s helicopter.”

Okay, I was wrong, she
could
make my night worse.

“Tell you what, Mother. Why don’t I come for lunch tomorrow, and you can tell me all about this then?”

“That would be wonderful! Will you bring a beau with you?”

“Mother, give it a rest.”

“You know, Lucky, your Aunt Matilda was right. We should have had sons. They’re much nicer than daughters.”

FOR
years I’d been telling The Big Boss that to have an office for me was a waste of time. All I needed was my Nextel and a pair of track shoes. He’d responded that maybe that was so, but my assistant needed a little corner of the world to call her own, and we couldn’t very well put her in the lobby. Unable to think up a pithy reply, I caved. I had to admit, though, the office he shamed me into using was a better place to store my stuff than an employee locker.

Consisting of an outer reception area policed by my assistant, Miss Patterson, a small kitchenette and a room where I stored my stuff and pretended to be important, my office occupied a section of the mezzanine level. With its wall of windows overlooking the lobby, I felt as if I were living life trapped behind glass, like a snake at the zoo, just another of the many attractions at the Babylon.

Miss Patterson, on the other hand, loved it and ran her own little
fiefdom from her desk in the outer office, her very own pulpit of power. From there she corralled all of the worker bees, wayward guests, occasional disgruntled losers, reporters looking for a juicy tidbit, gaming inspectors, policemen and women, and anyone else who wanted a moment of my time.

I’d inherited Miss Patterson from my counterpart at one of The Big Boss’s lesser properties. I was less than impressed when I met her. Fiftyish and frumpy, she dressed as if she had given in to getting older. In Vegas, that was tantamount to a cardinal sin. Every day she hid her body under a long skirt, oversize blouse and tattered sweater. She wore her salt-and-pepper hair in short, soft curls framing her round, impish face. All in all, she didn’t exactly inspire confidence. I never suspected she possessed the most finely tuned bullshit meter of anyone I’d ever met. Looking back on it, I would have been money ahead had I paid her twice what she asked.

She was waiting for me just inside the outer door with a cup of hot coffee and a frown. “Two Metro detectives are in your office,” she said. “They wouldn’t tell me what they wanted.” She sniffed, as if the snub was a personal affront.

I took the proffered coffee and inhaled deeply, savoring the vanilla nut aroma, then sipped. Hot, but not enough to take my skin off, so I drank deeply. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten. A headache was forming just behind my right eye. I hoped the caffeine would help. “If Pierce Brosnan walked in here and wouldn’t give you the time of day, I’d understand you being miffed and fairly disappointed. But two of Vegas’ finest?” I made a rude noise with my lips. I didn’t even get a smile. She was one tough audience. “And the reporters?”

“Several have called. As usual, I’ve given them the standard—this is an ongoing investigation, we don’t know anything yet—and referred them to Metro.”

“What does this place need me for?”

“To handle the police,” she deadpanned.

“Thanks.” I noticed Miss Patterson looked as tired as I felt. “It’s late. You should go home.”

“I’ll go when you go.”

I think she harbored the secret opinion that I couldn’t do my job without her. And, secretly, I agreed with her.

“Oh, and Jerry dropped off a package, which I put in your purse,” she added.

I nodded. So Marty had seen the light. Now I owed him a big favor.

Girded by the jolt of caffeine and a sense of impending doom, I opened the door to my inner office and stepped inside.

Both detectives turned at my greeting. One stood at my wall of windows, legs spread, hands on hips, surveying the activity in the lobby below. The other, much younger detective held one of the photographs from my credenza. He hastily replaced it. A sheepish grin briefly split his face, then disappeared.

He had been holding my favorite photograph, a black-and-white picture that showed a four-year-old me and my mom with Dean Martin and Sammy Davis Jr. Dean Martin held me as I smiled and reached for the camera. In short-shorts with one of her heels kicked up, my mother had thrown her arms playfully around Sammy Davis’s neck. She was beautiful—so young and full of life.

Another time and place.

Both of the cops were dressed as if they’d come straight from the set of one of those police dramas on television—cheap suits, rumpled jackets and serious expressions.

“We’re looking for your helicopter pilot who was on duty tonight,” said the older one. “I assume you know why?”

“And you are?”

“Detective Richards.” He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a badge, which he flashed. Then he pulled out a business card and shoved it at me. He jerked his head at the young guy. “That’s Detective Romeo.”

I looked at the younger one. He must have seen my amusement, as his face flushed crimson, and I instantly felt like a pig. I was ashamed of myself, sort of. It was late. I was tired. My head hurt. And I’m shallow—I find amusement where I can.

I turned back to Detective Richards in time to watch his gaze wander from my face down my body then back again, apparently missing the fact that my eyes had turned into little slits at his obvious undressing. “We were told you might be able to help us.” He sounded dubious.

“I work mainly the on-property problems. Young women jumping to their deaths at another hotel are a bit out of my purview.” The truth, but not the whole truth.

“So you won’t help us?”

“Can’t help you. I haven’t a clue where the pilot is. Believe me, I’m looking for him myself.” I could feel the detective’s eyes follow me as I moved behind my desk and sat down.

The guy was starting to creep me out. Still, as far as creeps go, he was a benchwarmer in the minor leagues. I played in the majors. I’d come up through the ranks of violently drunk customers with projectile vomiting, groping hands and foul mouths, plus card sharps, thieves, petty thugs, mashers and various other minor criminals. Just imagining this pompous detective dealing with the vomiters made me smile.

That clearly wasn’t the reaction Richards expected. He glowered at me.

Romeo shifted nervously from one foot to the other, his eyes fixed on his partner as if watching for his cue.

I was wondering if I was going to get the whole good cop/bad cop thing, which semiamused me, but then I decided I was too beat to stick around and play. “Gentlemen, I’m tired. I have a headache. And—” I motioned with my arm toward the wall of glass. “—out there is a hotel and casino full of problems, all of which I have to address before I get to call it a night.”

“So you won’t tell us where the helicopter pilot is?” Detective Richards asked again.

“I told you, I have no idea. Why don’t you try the dispatch operator, he or she may know more. You’ll find the dispatch desk in Guest Services.”

Detective Romeo pulled out a pad and started taking notes.

“And the video of the suicide, did you know the television station apparently taped over it after it ran on the eleven o’clock news?” Detective Richards continued.

“Erased? Too bad.”
Bless you, Marty
. Good thing for me, lying by omission wasn’t a capital offense in Nevada—at least I didn’t think it was. “Now, please, if that’s all you want, you’re talking to the wrong gal.”

“You’re not being very helpful,” said Detective Romeo.

I turned to look at him. He shrank back, then reddened again—apparently he was smarter than his partner and noticed my slitty eyes. “My contract says I don’t have to be helpful after midnight.” I spoke slowly, then smiled and batted my eyes at him. I know, I know—I should pick on someone my own size. After midnight I have no self-control.

“You tell us if you find him.” Detective Richards said in his best “do as I say” manner. “You have my card.”

“
If
I find him, I’ll tell him you’re looking for him.” For a moment I held the detective’s steady gaze, then I stood and moved toward the door. “Gentlemen, if you please, I’m needed in Delilah’s Bar.”

I opened the door and ushered them out.

ONCE
the door had closed behind the detectives, I paused at Miss Patterson’s desk long enough to kick off the flats I had been wearing and grab a pair of killer Jimmy Choo’s she kept stashed for me in her bottom drawer. With their delicate silver straps and six-inch heels, they were the best “knock me down and fuck me shoes” I owned.

The phone rang incessantly—all three lines were lit. We both ignored it. “Have the dispatcher call me on my cell.” I sank into one of the chairs across from Miss Patterson’s desk. She grabbed a notebook and pen as I tried to stuff my already tired and swollen feet into the strappy shoes. “I told Jerry to keep Willie in Security, but now that the police have gone, tell Jerry the minute Willie shows his face around here, I want him strung up by the balls and brought to me. I’m going to hang him on a spit and roast him over
an open fire.” The mental image of a well-done Willie brought a smile to my face.

I tightened the straps on the shoes, then I arranged my décolletage to show a bit more cleavage. Fuck-me shoes and cleavage—the perfect costume for my part in Mr. Fujikara’s production. “Tell Operations two detectives are on their way to dispatch. Get rid of them quickly and for God’s sake don’t let them run into Willie, assuming, of course, we actually find the bastard.”

I took a deep breath, steadying myself. My mind was whirling. “See if Felicia Reilly is working tonight. She’s a cocktail waitress and usually works in the high-stakes room—the same place Lyda Sue worked. Miss Reilly is Willie’s latest conquest. If she’s on the property, I want to see her in my office in thirty minutes.” I paused to let Miss Patterson, who scribbled fast, catch up. “Then see if you can find the Beautiful Jeremy Whitlock.”

“The Beautiful Jeremy Whitlock?” Miss Patterson’s normal dour expression brightened.

Hmmm, did Miss Patterson harbor a secret crush? I nodded. I’d probably have a crush on him, too, but I’d sworn off men. They were all pigs and to be pitied.

Nobody ever referred to the private investigator as just Jeremy—he was always the Beautiful Jeremy Whitlock. And, I had to admit, the name fit. “See if he can come by tomorrow afternoon.”

With both shoes firmly strapped on, I grabbed the edge of the desk as I carefully rose to my feet. Wearing high heels had never been my forté. Walking in them even less so. I took a tentative step, then another, gaining confidence by the time I reached the door and pulled it open.

I had made it to the elevator when my Nextel spoke my name. I pulled it from its holster and pushed the direct-connect button. “O’Toole.”

“Ms. O’Toole, this is Ben Hawkins in Guest Services. I worked dispatch tonight. Miss Patterson told me you wanted to talk to me.”

I didn’t know Ben. He sounded young. His voice shook. I
couldn’t be that scary, could I? “Yes, Ben. Thanks for calling so quickly.” I stepped into the waiting elevator, thankful to have a wall to lean against. Normally, I took the stairs—the casino level was only one flight down—but not tonight, not in these shoes. “Have you guys had any luck locating William, the helicopter pilot?”

“I wish. The whole world wants to talk to him. I keep calling him on the radio. I’ve even tried his cell, but he doesn’t respond.”

I knew the answer, but I had to ask. “Why are you calling him? Isn’t he back yet?”

“He never came back.”

Ever hopeful, I asked, “Does the FAA have any reports of a crash nearby?”

“No, ma’am.”

Bummer. Of course Willie couldn’t have just crashed and burned, saving me the trouble of tracking him down. He never was helpful that way.

I glanced at my watch—12:35
A.M.
A bit under four hours since Lyda Sue hit the lagoon. I didn’t know how much fuel Willie’d had onboard the helicopter, but it couldn’t have been more than three hours’ worth. I thought I remembered Willie explaining they usually went light on the fuel so they could carry more paying customers.

Willie the Weasel had vanished.

And he took our friggin’ helicopter.

AS
the elevator doors opened and I headed for Delilah’s Bar, a wall of sound hit me. The night in full swing, gaggles of folks wandered about, drinks clutched tightly. Of course, it could have been any time of day or night in the windowless, hermetically sealed casino. Casinos are designed to trap gamblers and keep them wagering until they dropped, and, in our case, that strategy seemed to be working. With flashing lights, snippets of music, and an occasional siren, the slot machines vied with each other for players. The tables were all in play, with people packed at least two deep around each. Other folks wandered between the tables and the machines.
Glasses in hand, they ogled the other wanderers, apparently looking for a different kind of entertainment. Energy shimmered off the crowd.