Wanna Get Lucky? (7 page)

“Hey, Lucky. Where you at?” Jerry was apparently pulling the night shift in Security.

“I’m hot on the trail of a missing helicopter.”

“Then you’re gonna like this. I just got a call from some irate Mexican dude—he kept cussing at me in Spanish like I was too stupid to understand.” Jerry chuckled. “The dude was really hot. Even
I
learned a few words.”

I gritted my teeth and kept quiet. Jerry loved to string me along when he had something really good to tell me.

“Anyway, it seems this guy works as security at Spanish Trail,” he continued.

I couldn’t stand it any longer. “Jer, I’m getting older by the minute.”

“Right. Our missing helicopter is sitting on the ninth green of the Lakes golf course at Spanish Trail Golf and Country Club. Doors are unlocked, but no pilot. I promised the security guy a hundred bucks for not calling the police.”

“I could kiss you!” I reclipped the Nextel just as Dane materialized at my elbow.

“Who could you kiss?” he asked.

“Jerry. He found something for me. Did you find out anything from Captain Kirk in there?”

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” Dane said with an evil grin.

“Okay, smart-ass. You first.”

We both walked toward the waiting limo. “It seems our boy circled around for a while after the gal took a header. Then he asked for clearance to Northtown.”

“Northtown?” I asked as Dane waved Paolo away and opened my door. We both settled in, this time side by side.

“North Las Vegas Airport, a general aviation field off Rancho.”

“I know the place.”

“My buddy checked with their tower. It seems the chopper landed there, but only stayed for a few minutes. The guys in the tower either couldn’t see or didn’t notice whether anyone got on or off. Once he was airborne again, they cleared him to the west. From there the trail goes cold. After the chopper exited the airport’s airspace, the pilot turned off his transponder and disappeared off the radar.”

“Transponder?” I asked, then thought better of it. I could get a lesson in air traffic control some other time. “Never mind.”

“Now I get to see yours,” Dane reminded me.

“Well,” I said as I settled into the deep seat. “Before I turn my cards over, I call and raise you one dinner at the restaurant of my choice.”

He whistled. “It must be good.” He narrowed his eyes as he looked at my face. “Or you’re bluffing.” He waited a moment then said, “Okay, I’ll play. What do you have?”

I smiled and pressed the intercom switch. “Paolo, take us to Spanish Trail, the east entrance, please.”

“REMIND
me never to play poker with you,” Dane said as he and I stared at the Babylon’s missing helicopter silhouetted by the eerie yellow glow of the streetlamps.

We were standing on what I had been told was the ninth green of the Lakes course at Spanish Trail. And sitting right in front of us, big as life, was our missing helicopter. In the dark, the faint glow of the streetlights reflected off its bubble cockpit. With its rotors sagging limply, the helicopter looked like a giant dragonfly.

A man emerged from the shadows. He wore the uniform of the security guards at Spanish Trail. “You guys from the Babylon?”

“I understand I owe you a great deal of thanks,” I said as I rooted around my Birkin. I was able to find three twenties, a five, and four crumpled ones. I felt like a kid amassing his allowance. I led Dane a few steps away. “Do you have two twenties?”

“What?”

Clearly he hadn’t been paying attention. I nodded my head toward the security guard, who waited patiently, not facing us, as if money were beneath him. “Two twenties.”

“Oh. Let me see.” He opened his wallet. “Two tens in here.” Then he started pulling things out of his pockets. “Here, hold this stuff.”

I extended my cupped hands. In them he deposited several over-laden key rings, two handfuls of coins, two rifle bullets, a roll of antacids, multiple wadded-up receipts, and several crumpled bills, which he extracted. All of it weighed more than my Birkin.

“With all this stuff in your pockets, what keeps your pants up?”

“The dictates of fashion.”

I made a rude noise. “There are no dictates of fashion in Vegas.”

“Good point. How about several local laws and the presence of an unwilling female, not to mention the security guard lurking in the trees? Will that do?” He smoothed the bills, then held them out for me. “Two twenties, as requested.”

“Unwilling female?”

“You haven’t exactly extended the welcome sign.”

“This is Vegas, Tex. If I threw myself on my back in front of every pretty boy I see, I’d never get any work done.”

“Yes, but all work and no play—”

“Makes Lucky a dull girl, I know. Now, about work. Take those twenties and the other money buried under your stuff here and give it to the guard.”

“What are we paying him for?”

“Just do it.”

He did, and the guard melted into the shadows.

When Dane returned, I handed him all his stuff back, dropping only a few coins in the process. “Sure makes it easier to find lost helicopters when someone calls and tells us where it is.” Yes, I have a knack for stating the obvious. “So, what do we do now? Should we call the police?”

He walked slowly around the helicopter. “Eventually. But what do you say we take a look inside first?”

“After you. But don’t touch anything,” I said. Working in a casino, I’d seen my share of crime scenes. I knew the drill.

Dane pulled a handkerchief out of his shirt pocket, covered his right hand and reached for the door.

I grabbed his elbow, stopping him. “What if somebody’s in there? Do you have a gun?”

“It’s hanging on the rack in the back of my pickup.”

“Guarded by the coonhound, no doubt. But, I’m serious, what if there’s a body in there?” A vision of Willie having met his demise in a prolonged and excruciating way popped into my head. I crossed my fingers.

“If it’s a body, we certainly won’t need a gun.” Dane threw the words over his shoulder as he turned to examine the helicopter.

I was right behind him. A shiver chased down my spine—I looked over my shoulder but saw no one. This whole thing was creeping me out.

Using the handkerchief, and touching only the edge of the handle to avoid smearing any prints, he lifted the latch of the rear door on the right side. “If I remember correctly, Lyda Sue went out this way.” He eased the door open, then flashed the beam of a flashlight Paolo had lent him around the interior.

Half expecting another dead body to fall out of the thing, and half hoping it would be Willie, I held back, keeping Dane’s body between me and the helicopter.

“Nothing unusual here,” Dane muttered.

Drat, no dead Willie. In fact, no Willie, dead or alive.

Dane then trained the beam of light on the door latch. “Hmmmm . . .”

“What?” I leaned around him to get a peek at what he was looking at.

He pointed to the inner workings of the latch. “See how this bit of metal is shinier than the rest? It almost looks like someone filed it so that . . .”

I could just make out what he was talking about. “Yeah?”

“And these striations in the metal?”

“Barely.” I drew back. “What does it mean?”

Dane stood and looked at me. The look on his face frightened me.

“Murder.”

THE
next hour was a blur. We called the police and they arrived with sirens blaring, which, I’m sure, endeared us to the sleeping residents of Spanish Trail. We gave our statements—several times—then finally, were allowed to leave.

The clock struck three bells as I dragged my sorry ass through
the front door of The Babylon. My brain had ceased working an hour ago, and my body was threatening mutiny. I had one last thing to check on before I headed home.

My luck appeared to be holding. Sergio still manned the front desk.

“Can you give me a quick rundown before I quit for the night?” I asked as I propped myself up against the check-in desk.

“The megamillions lady and three of her friends are ensconced in the Sodom and Gomorrah suite with their three masseurs—they requested tall, blond and decidedly male—and a feast fit for a king. I have the Ferrari waiting for the body shop to open.” He ticked them off his fingers as he recited. “Let me see, there was something else . . .”

I wish he hadn’t told me about the masseurs and Mrs. Paisley and friends. I’m very visual. I closed my eyes and tried to shut my mind to the images flashing across it. Were the young men part of the feast fit for a king? “What’s the latest on the naked stair dweller?” Another wonderful image. If I ever got to sleep, my dreams were going to be doozies.

“Ah yes, Reverend Peabody.”

“
Reverend
Peabody? You’re kidding, right? Of what church? The Church of the Seven Virgins?”

Sergio offered a tired smile. “As of last hour, the doctor had checked on him several times, and each time he was resting peacefully. However, I don’t envy him the headache he’ll have in the morning.”

“So he’s all right?”

“Yes. The doctor will keep checking on him.” Sergio paused. A slight frown creased his flawless face.

“How did you figure out who he was?”

“Security gave me the name he registered under. Needless to say, it wasn’t his real name. I put two and two together when I kept fielding calls from a lady from Iowa looking for her husband. She said he was supposed to be in his room, but he hadn’t called, and she hadn’t been able to reach him.”

“You’ve checked his room?”

Sergio nodded. “Empty. And I confirmed his identity with her—she described him to a T. At first, the wife was unwilling to tell us who he was, but I convinced her I needed to know his real name so that I might find him.”

“Did you tell the wife we had him?”

“Of course not. I wanted to talk to you first.”

“Perfect. Next time she calls, tell her that half our phone system is on the fritz, including the phone in her husband’s room, and that you personally checked on him. He is, in fact, asleep and you didn’t see any need to awaken him. In the morning, when our Reverend Peabody from Iowa awakens, give him coffee, intravenously if necessary, a hand towel for modesty’s sake, and some aspirin, then have someone bring him to my office. I should be in by nine at the latest.” I looked at my watch. “I may not be functional, but I’ll be here.”

I
stepped through the front door and out into the night air. The artificial daylight created by the lights of the Strip held the darkness at bay. I paused and took a deep breath. The heat of the midsummer’s day had given way to the coolness of a high desert night. Dry and still, the air was like wine, and I drank my fill.

My nerves were as frayed as the end of a broken rope.

Try as I might, I couldn’t shake the image of Lyda Sue’s body flailing like a broken rag doll as it hurtled earthward. Could it really be murder? And on top of that, add The Big Boss’s strong hint that Paxton Dane was something less than the good guy he appeared to be.

I was toast.

My thoughts shifted to Paxton Dane. I had a hard time believing he was a bum. He seemed fine to me—more than fine, in fact. However, I learned my lesson long ago—my taste in men sucked. Since I was unable to stop fantasizing about Paxton Dane, history dictated he would turn out to be a bum. So, no welcome mat for Mr. Dane.

A nice walk and I’d be home.

A voice interrupted my reverie. “Ms. O’Toole?”

I recognized Paolo’s voice. I opened my eyes, which took longer than normal to focus. When they did, I saw Paolo, his smile a beckoning beacon, standing at attention next to the open door of the limo.

“Need a ride home?”

I sighed with relief. “You, my friend, are a prince among men.”

HOME
for me was the whole thirtieth floor of The Presidio, Las Vegas’ premier multistory residence—or so said the sales brochure. A tower of glass, The Presidio was home to professional athletes, entertainers, extraordinarily rich foreigners . . . and me. My best friend, Teddie, occupied the penthouse one floor up.

In contrast to its exterior, the lobby was warm with wooden floors covered with thick luxurious area rugs in rich shades of orange and red. Lush landscapes graced the faux-painted walls. The spa and fitness facilities were reputed to be the best in the city. The Presidio also housed the Silver Club, again supposedly Las Vegas’ best private club. Who made these pronouncements, I didn’t know, but you couldn’t verify them by me—I’d never been to either one. I worked for a living. No, to be more precise, I didn’t actually have a life. I worked and slept—not “a life” in anybody’s book.

Forrest, the security guard, nodded as I staggered though the doors. A mountain of a man, all sinew and bulging muscle—he was the security guard from central casting. Rumor had it, he’d played in the NFL for a couple of years then blew out a knee. A nice guy, but I had no intention of ever making him mad.

“Ms. O’Toole. Tough day?”

“A little tougher than most.”

“Yeah, I caught the news.”

All I could do was nod. “Is Teddie home yet?”

“Not yet.”

Teddie’s show would have been over hours ago. I guess he’d gone out after. Everybody had a life except me.

I nodded as I stepped into the elevator, waved my magic key card over the pad and punched the button for home.

The elevator deposited me in the middle of my living room.

“Where you been, bitch?”

God, I’d forgotten about the bird. My one foray into pet ownership and it had to be a belligerent macaw with a foul mouth. I walked over to Newton’s cage. “Glad to see you, too, my pet.”

The bird eyed me warily. “What’s for dinner?”

“The usual.” I stuck a stick of celery through the bars of his cage.

He attacked it with relish.

I wish I felt that way about celery. Weight control would be so much easier.

Despite Newton, my apartment was my sanctuary. Walls of windows, high ceilings, large open rooms decorated minimally with brightly colored contemporary furniture and modern art in brilliant hues on the walls—what few there were. The kitchen, so I was told, was a work of art. I wouldn’t know. Give me a phone to order takeout, a microwave to heat it, and a fridge to store what’s left, and I’m happy. On the other hand, the master bath was critical, and it was a masterpiece.