Lucky Bastard (22 page)

Jeremy nodded at Shooter, encouraging him to continue.

“It started out great, all piss and vinegar and white-hot sex,” Shooter said, his voice growing soft, drifting into the past.

I resisted pointing out that his definition of a great relationship and mine were a wee bit off. I didn’t think it would be helpful.

“Then, I don’t know, it sorta went screwy, you know?” He swiveled to look at me, catching me off guard. I nodded, but I hadn’t a clue. “I don’t know where it went off the tracks, but there was something…” Shooter trailed off as his look grew distant.

“Something?” I prompted, ignoring Jeremy’s look. I knew “shut up” when I saw it.

“Yeah, even though she drove him nuts, he couldn’t let her go. Know what I mean?”

“He couldn’t let her go?” My heart sank. “What does that mean?”

“He kept telling her she needed to quit. To get out of the line of fire. To stop tilting at windmills, I believe was how he put it.”

“Out of the line of fire?” I asked. “Wasn’t she just a girl looking for a ride to the States?”

Shooter turned his full attention to me. “Ma’am, I don’t know who told you that, but whoever it was, he was the biggest liar.”

I resisted telling him that Dane had painted that picture of his wife. “If not that, then what was she doing in Afghanistan?”

“Working with the CIA.”

Jeremy and I, neither one of us could speak for a moment as we stared at Shooter.

He didn’t seem to be bothered by our looks of disbelief. “Dane wanted her to quit—a woman’s place is in the home and that sort of thing. They used to have the most god-awful fights.”

“I can imagine,” I choked out between clenched teeth as my eyes threatened to go slitty. A woman’s place…I developed a grudging respect for Sylvie Dane’s self-control—I would’ve been hard-pressed to resist pulling the trigger.

“When she left him, he was really pissed.”

“Pissed enough to kill her?”

Shooter stopped and glared at me. “You oughta know the answer to that. You’re friends of his, right? Friends. You understand?”

Yeah, light was dawning. Dane carried a torch and had a serious case of red-ass. Had he killed his wife? And had someone witnessed it? Is that what all this was about? Silencing a witness?

My heart raced and sweat beaded on my upper lip as I thought through the possibilities. Someone gave Dane those scratches on his cheek and apparently, if the coroner was right and there was no trace under her nails, it wasn’t Sylvie. Dane had time to clean the murder scene, but did he have enough time and skill to get rid of all the evidence? Who knew? And, if he killed his wife because of a personal dispute, what happened to the Stoneman? And why? Who knew? I sure didn’t. But one thing I was absolutely sure of, I’d better figure it out…and quick.

“So, where do we go from here?” Shooter asked.

I thought for a moment. “Well, we got three dead bodies, two murdered for sure, and the only real connection is poker. Why don’t we start there?”

“Can you give us a direction?” Jeremy asked.

“Start turning over stones and see what crawls out.” I chewed on my lip as I thought for moment. “And for God’s sake, find Dane before he digs himself in so deep it’ll take a backhoe to get him out.”

Thankfully, Jeremy knew me well enough to not require an explanation. He turned to Shooter. “You in, Moran?”

Shooter reached behind the counter and grabbed a handgun—it looked like an old Colt. He tucked it in his belt at the small of his back, then pulled his shirttail over it. “Count me in.” Vengeance lit his eyes.

Great, now we had two crazies, locked and loaded and looking for justice.

***

Traffic had thinned by the time Jeremy and I retraced our steps back to Jamm’s to retrieve his truck—there’s something about a Hummer that cries out for a fifty-caliber gun mounted on the roof. Not a bad idea, all things considered, but I resisted suggesting it as I bid Jeremy farewell and headed to the office. Lost in thought he didn’t tell me where he was going and I didn’t ask. With him, the less I knew, the better. He’d been known to cross a line or two in the name of justice—a fact I appreciated, but I didn’t want the details. Becoming an accessory after the fact wouldn’t enhance my résumé.

Miss P looked up when I staggered through the office door—the Jimmy Choos weren’t exactly easy to walk in. For some reason, her presence bothered me. Since I’d used my couch as my bed last night, finding people in my office was like finding uninvited guests in my house—except she belonged there. Regardless, the whole thing got under my skin. Unreasonable I know, clearly I was swinging at the end of my rope. Nothing made sense.

“Teddie,” she started.

I silenced her with a deadly look.

“Okay,” she continued as she followed me through the construction zone into my little corner of the world. “Jean-Charles, is that better?” She leveled her gaze over the top of her cheaters at me.

“I’m not sure.” I plopped down in my desk chair. “Why do I get the feeling that no matter what I say, it will be the wrong thing?”

“I have no idea.” Miss P sat on the edge of the chair across from me. She perched like a bird, dainty and delicate, pecking away. “There were fourteen messages on the machine this morning from the person I am not supposed to mention, and one from a certain French chef wondering why you didn’t sleep at home last night. He is looking for you and he is worried.”

“Angry?”

“Not that I could tell. Just curious.” Miss P glanced up, waiting, as if I should offer an explanation.

Part of me wanted him to be angry, the other part was afraid of the commitment that that indicated—conflicted to the end. At least I’m consistent. I struggled to keep a bland expression in light of her scowl and I refused to be goaded into providing her what she wanted. From now on, my life would be a closed book. Today was her day for disappointment; I refused to feel bad about it. In fact, I refused to feel anything.

Avoidance, so helpful. “Is that all?”

“Of course not.” She scowled as she read from the notepad she held in her lap. “Miss Becky-Sue stopped by. She said you told her to. Apparently Shady Slim is giving one last party—a Celebration of Life…” Miss P consulted her notepad then looked up, amusement curling her lips into a bow. “Vegas themed, Miss Becky-Sue wants everything from the Mexican National Circus, which happens to be in town, to Mr. Magic himself, Marik Kovalenko, who is not.”

“Do you want me to handle that?” I asked hopefully. “Something to do that doesn’t involve dead bodies would be wonderful.”

“I’ve got Brandy on it.” She glanced up. “Don’t worry, Cole is sleeping and Jeremy is posting some guy named Shooter to stand guard outside his door.”

I nodded, mollified for the moment.

Miss P pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose and continued reading from her notes. “For some reason, Brandy seems to be able to handle Miss Becky-Sue. I don’t know what to make of it.”

“It won’t last.” Experience had taught me that much. When I’d first met Miss Becky-Sue, I’d been young and impressionable, too. “Anything else?”

“Mr. Watalsky asked if you could meet him in the Poker Room any time after noon—apparently the cops thought he wouldn’t go anywhere. I told him yes. Your mother called to remind you about her doctor’s appointment tomorrow afternoon at four—she said she was giving you fair warning—she’s counting on you.”

Miss P must’ve seen my eyebrows snap down and my stellar mood heading farther south as she started reading faster. “The media frenzy is starting as the poker folks arrive, but Brandy and I have it covered. The tournament starts tomorrow, you know. There’ll be the warm-up game tonight. Let some of the names perform for the crowd, before the stakes get high. We’re taking care of that, too.”

“Can’t you be a bit less efficient?” I was a bit player in a melodrama. Either I sat back and found amusement in my plight or I…what? I needed to get over myself. I opted to relax, take a deep breath, and try to smile at my fearless co-worker, who I’d best remember was very good at keeping my ass out of the fire, even though she liked to take a bite out of it from time to time.

“As titular head of this outfit, isn’t it your job to delegate?” Miss P said, her manner a bit less wary. She knew my bark was ninety 90 percent bullshit. “Besides, don’t you have a hotel to build or something?”

“Ah yes, a mere trifle.” I waved my hand expansively. “Demolition has started. The plans are in place and ready to go. Work has begun on Jean-Charles’s kitchen, so he is somewhat mollified at the moment. Now, while all the balls are in the air, I’m thinking about relinquishing the crown and returning to serfdom—things were a lot more straight forward at the bottom of the food chain.”

“We all would be wise to carefully consider what we ask for.” She out-grinned my glare. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t resist—it’s so much fun to poke at you when you’re all huffy.” She rose to go, brushing down her skirt—why she decided to wear all white was beyond me. “Now, I know a chef in need of a hug and some reassurance—he’s been very patient, if you ask me.”

“I didn’t.”

“Yes, well, you know me. Offering unsolicited advice is my gift. Best of intentions, I assure you.”

“I know. Thanks.” I pushed myself back from the desk. “I assume you know where Jean-Charles is?”

“In the kitchen.” We both said in unison.

When life got tough, Jean-Charles cooked.

“Are
you hungry?” Jean-Charles had his back to me, yet he knew the minute I walked into the kitchen. As I leaned in to kiss him, he reached back touching my cheek.

The jolt of his touch warmed me, chasing dread and death away. My heart softened just a little.

“Are you all right?” he asked. No recriminations lurked in the simple question. No games. I felt curiously untethered, yet at peace.

“Mmm.” I lingered, enjoying the taste of him, the hint of exotic cologne underneath the eau de onion and hamburger. “That’s debatable.”

“I looked for you last night before I went home. It was late. You weren’t at your apartment.” He didn’t even toss an accusatory glance my way. Instead he focused on the hamburgers sizzling over the coals, even though he could handle the few orders in front of him with his eyes shut.

“You would’ve found me if you’d checked my office.”

“You were working?” He seemed shocked—guess he hadn’t considered that angle, although it seemed pretty obvious to me.

“No, sleeping. I was working then fell asleep on the couch—too tired to trudge upstairs, I guess.” Needing the connection, I nuzzled his neck. “You didn’t call?”

As I nibbled on his ear, I felt him shiver. “You will stop that.” He had the charming habit of framing questions as if he were giving orders.

“I think not.” I actually giggled when he laid the spatula down and turned to catch me in a hug. Me. Giggling! I’m not sure how I felt about that…I mean, besides somewhat giddy, and marginally mortified.

“Then you will be prepared for the punishment,” he whispered before his lips captured mine.

Bending my body, molding it to his, I lost myself in his kiss. Like a flame consuming oxygen, he left me breathless, my heart pounding, liquid fire racing through my veins. Wanting him, needing him, drawing life from him…giving it in return. No drama. No games. It couldn’t last.

When I came up for air, Rinaldo shot me a wink as he stepped in to minister to the orders. I’d never fully appreciated his handiness before.

“Why didn’t you call? I would’ve shared my couch.”

Jean-Charles pulled back, clearly equally as affected, which was a good thing…no, a great thing. He kept his arms around me. “I was thinking it was so late. Perhaps you were with another?”

“I’m not sure whether that is flattering or insulting.” I worked my arms around his waist and held tight. “Really, another? Don’t you know me well enough by now?”

“I did not wish to presume.”

“Presuming is good, but getting it all out on the table is better.”

My Frenchman looked confused as he tripped over another English idiom.

“What is it you want from me?” I asked, not really afraid of the answer. Time had come for me to seize life. Teddie had moved on, although now he was feeling remorse over hurting my feelings, and now he wanted back in. I’d let him off the hook…set him free. “Tell me.”

“I want you,” Jean-Charles said simply.

“I’m a one-guy gal, and I don’t share.”

“This is good. I am thinking you will be more than enough.” He leaned in for another kiss, deeper this time—heat, expectation…and a promise.

As fate would have it, a stolen moment was all we had. The lunch crowd descended, demanding Jean-Charles’s attention and somewhere in the mess of my life, I had a job to do.

River Watalsky had said he would be in the Poker Room any time after noon.

It was noon straight-up.

Time to find out if Mr. Watalsky was a man of his word.

***

Noon was early for poker, a game of the dark, its battles best fought in the wee hours of a new day. I found River Watalsky holding court at a table in the back, surrounded by lesser luminaries and wannabes. He looked comfortable in the reflected glow of adoration. I guess Romeo hadn’t been too hard on him. Of course, a seasoned veteran around the tables, River Watalsky would have little trouble playing the young detective.

Despite his small, angry eyes, River Watalsky had a kind face and a thousand-candlepower smile, which he focused on me as I walked up and pulled out a chair.

“Lucky!” He stood and took my chair, holding it for me as I sat, then helping me scootch it closer to the table. Southern manners from a Mississippi boy. “It’s been a coon’s age since I laid eyes on you. How the heck are you?” Although he was teasing, he seemed genuinely pleased to see me. Gunfire, the ultimate bonding experience? Who knew?

“Still kickin’ and grinnin’, which wasn’t a sure thing last night.” I motioned to the cocktail waitress hovering nearby. “Diet Coke, please.”

“Folks,” River addressed his former audience. “I’m gonna need some space here. Me and the lady need private time, if you know what I mean.” He gave them an exaggerated wink, which got a laugh and willing cooperation. The table cleared and we were alone—or at least no one lingered within earshot.

“So, sweets, it looks like you’re wranglin’ a bushel of snakes.” Mixing metaphors was part of his charm, so I didn’t mention it. River took a sip of a beverage that looked like scotch, but I knew it was watered-down iced tea with the absolute maximum amount of sugar the liquid could hold. Gamblers and their games. Today he sported a Hawaiian shirt, khaki slacks, neatly creased, and sandals—the only things missing were a mai tai with a cute little umbrella, and a tan. His hair stuck straight from his head as if he’d stuck his finger in an electrical socket, or Romeo had some newfangled interrogation equipment I needed to know about.

Despite our late night getting caught in the crossfire and the relatively early hour Watalsky’s cheeks were clean shaven, his eyes clear. He didn’t look the worse for wear, which was more than I could brag about.

“You want to fill me in on that poker game last night?” I asked.

“How’s that guy you plugged? Slurry?” River’s eyes latched on to me—small dark holes, like the barrels of six-shooters.

So much for my ability to steer the conversation. I gave him a less than appreciative smile as my stomach fell around my feet. “He came through surgery, but he’s still critical.” I always thought shooting the bad guy would be a rush. I was wrong. Shooting another human hit me on a visceral level—bypassing rational thought and justification—punching me in the gut.

Watalsky took a sip of iced tea as he glanced over my shoulder. “Too bad. He’d be pretty interesting to talk to.”

“Assuming you could get the truth out of him, which is a darn sight more than I’m getting out of you.” I squirmed in my chair. “You didn’t really go to that game to ferret out the cheaters from the previous night, did you?”

“Hon, I went to that poker game because your buddy Cole told me Slurry would be there. I wanted to know what was between him and the dead girl.”

“Did he tell you?”

“You shot him before I had a chance to ask.” Watalsky gave me sort of a humorous glare, which I thought captured it all.

“Was Slurry the only reason you were there?”

“Hell, no. I was trying to keep the bad guys from perforating the deaf kid.”

“So you weren’t surprised to see Cole there?”

“No, Frank put me onto him. Said he was the key to finding the girl.” A startled look crossed his face and he clammed up.

“The girl?” I leaned in. “You were looking for her? For Frank DeLuca?”

His eyes focused on mine—I’d hit a nerve. He weighed what he said next, I could see it on his face, hear it in his measured words when he finally spoke. “Yeah, Frank was all hot and bothered to find her.”

I waited while the waitress delivered my Diet Coke and arranged it to her satisfaction in front of me and departed with a wan smile. “Why?”

“Hell, I don’t know.” River fished in his pocket and came out with a pair of nail clippers. He began to methodically clip each nail, a habit I found irritating. “After that gal was laid out on his Ferrari, Frank was real shook, you know?”

“Understandable.” I watched one clipping as it arced away until I lost it in the patterned carpet.

“Yeah.” His eyes glanced off mine. “He grabbed me, told me I needed to find some girl. He didn’t know what she looked like. Didn’t tell me what for. So he wasn’t real helpful. I got the impression he was throwing knives in the dark hoping he hit something.”

“Really?” I grabbed the clippers from River then placed them on the table. When he reached for them, one glare from me had him pulling his hand back as if he’d touched a hot coal. “Did he say how he knew there was a girl?”

“Something about a pair of shoes.”

“Shoes. We have several pairs. You wouldn’t happen to know what they looked like?”

“Hell, shoes are shoes. It’s the legs that differentiate, if you know what I mean.”

“So helpful, thanks.” I’d have to corner Frank myself, which, for some reason, didn’t scare me…a fact that probably
should
scare me, but I wasn’t getting butterflies from that either. Only a fool is impervious to fear. Fool that I am, I settled back, watching Watalsky closely as I turned the glass in my hand. “What were you supposed to do with the girl when you found her? And, come to think of it, how’d you know you found the right one?”

“She started flashing that necklace of Sylvie’s around—figured it had to be her. If not, she at least had some info.”

“And?”

“I was just supposed to call Frank when I had her.”

“Did you?”

“Didn’t have the time. You people showed up and bullets started flying.”

I sipped my Diet Coke as I eyed him. He still appeared unperturbed—one cool customer. But, he’d made several fortunes keeping a poker face. “Can you offer any enlightenment on the last poker game Sylvie Dane played in?”

“Enlightenment is a rare thing.”

Taking a sip of my Coke, I eyed River as he feigned disinterest in whatever was happening over my shoulder. I resisted the urge to turn around and see for myself. “Why don’t you give me your take on the poker game night before last?”

I didn’t have to spell it out—he knew what I wanted. “Yeah, okay. The broad was good, real good. She knew exactly what she was doing.”

“Marking cards, I got that much.” I took another sip of Coke, this time wishing I’d gotten the fully loaded kind, and relished River’s admiring grin. “What I can’t figure is, if she was cheating, why did all the money go to Slurry?”

“I found that right curious as well.” River nervously fingered a strand of beads around his neck—pukka shells, how’d I miss those? “By the end of the evening, the whole table was wise to their game.”

I resisted asking for some Meyer’s dark rum to add to my Coke, just to prove I could. “How do you know?”

“Several of them tried to bring the matter to the room manager’s attention, but he didn’t do nothin’. A’ course you know what my opinion is of him?”

“Universal contempt. The Stoneman might have been an ass, but you can’t fault his consistency.” His opinion was irrelevant to Marvin at his point, but apparently he hadn’t gotten the memo that the rumors of Marvin’s demise were true.

“We don’t tolerate vermin like that where I come from.” He gave me a knowing look. “And they used to take care of fellas like that around here as well. There’s tons of ’em buried in the desert. You know they find bones out there all the time.”

“And they still require dental records to be included in your employment file, just in case,” I added in a feeble attempt to stay in the game.

“You’re shittin’ me.” River looked surprised.

“You turn up stuffed into the trunk of a Cadillac, burned beyond recognition, they’ve got to identify your body somehow. ” Adopting a nonchalance I didn’t feel, I shrugged then leaned back and glanced around the room to see if anyone was taking an interest in our conversation. When I was sure no one was, I continued, but I kept my voice low. “When you think about it, it doesn’t seem so over the top. And, by the way, someone took a dim view of the Poker Room manger. They fed him a lethal dose of poison and left him to rot in the garage. For a noncontact sport, poker is proving to be rather harmful to your health, wouldn’t you say?”

“The Stoneman? He’s dead?” River paled, his expression dead serious.

“Stone-cold. The Poker Room manager everyone loved to hate. Curious, isn’t it?” Only one of the many curiosities of late.

“And Shady Slim,” River mused.

Lost in thought, I’d almost forgotten about him. Romeo seemed convinced there was no foul play, but, nothing about any of this was what it seemed, so I wasn’t ready to accept such an easy out. Now I
really
wished I had some rum for my Diet Coke.

“The lights dimmed in the poker world when his ticket got punched.” Watalsky’s eyes turned dark, his expression serious. “You think him kicking the bucket is related to the other two?”

“I don’t know if any of this is related or if all of it is simply a harmonic convergence of bad card karma.” I leaned forward, dropping my voice further. “But these dead bodies are raining on my Vegas magic parade. I’m starting to take it personal.”

“This is sorta your backyard.” River swallowed hard. “If it’s enlightenment you want, mind you, I’m not for sure. But if I was you, I’d ask that deaf kid. Hell of a player, but lately he’s been snooping around like goddamn James Bond or somethin’.”

***

Cole Weston wasn’t in his room—or at least he didn’t respond when I pressed the button that would flash a light signaling someone was at the door.

And Shooter Moran wasn’t watching Cole’s door. My thoughts were tumbling like pebbles carried in a strong current, but I could swear someone told me he was standing guard. The flush of anger competed with a cold dread as I grabbed my phone and pushed to talk.

Miss P drew the short straw.

“Where’s Cole Weston?” I took a breath and forged ahead before she could respond. “Didn’t someone tell me that that blockhead Moran was standing guard outside his door while he slept?”

“That’s right.”

“I’m standing outside Cole’s door, Room fifteen-four-thirty-two, right?”

“Just a sec.” Voices were muffled as she put a hand over the mouthpiece, which ticked me off. She wasn’t gone long. “That’s right, fifteen-four-thirty-two. Brandy checked him in herself. Shooter was there when she left.”