Lucky Bastard

A Lucky O’Toole Vegas Adventure

Book Five

Deborah Coonts

For Brad Gibson and the hearing-impaired community

As most writers discover, writing is an adventure. At the beginning of a story, the writer often thinks she is in control, that she knows exactly where the story is going. Nothing could be further from the truth. Stories are fluid journeys; each character takes on a life and will of its own. And, they lead their creator on amazing educational experiences, often introducing new worlds and incredible new people. Ultimately, stories, at their essence, are about people . . . and relationships, as is our journey through life.

People often hold on to misconceptions about Las Vegas. Sin City. Lost paycheck. A city where all your desires can be realized. While each of these may be true to some extent, the most interesting question is why do people come here? What do they hope to find? This question is what drives my Lucky series. The whole world, vast hordes of folks, wander through Vegas. And they all bring their hopes, their dreams, their failures, their successes, their joy, their despair.

What they take away is up to them.

Here’s my takeaway from the journey of bringing Lucky Bastard to life: as usual, many thanks are required.

So, a heartfelt thanks must go out to:

Brad Gibson, a wonderful young man who educated me in profound ways. Brad is deaf. And he tackles life with vigor, enthusiasm, and confidence most of us would do well to harness even a fraction of. One of Brad’s passions is poker. Watching him play, communicating with him about his life, opened my eyes to the world of the hearing impaired. Amazing. If I got anything wrong in attempting to present a bit of your world, please forgive me and know the mistakes are entirely mine.

Morgan and Everett Gibson, the two who brought Brad into this world and nurtured him on his journey, molding him into the wonderful, resilient spirit he is today. Thank you all for sharing your experiences, and most of all, thank you for your wonderful, continuing friendship. I am blessed.

Linda Bertuzzi, my dear friend who, despite all of my shortcomings, continues to give this writer a port in the storm of life. There is a special place in heaven and in my heart for you.

Tyler and Lisa Coonts, my kids. You two inspire me every day with your love, compassion, hard work, laughter, and support. The world is so much better with you two in it, as am I. I love you both more than you know.

Barb Nickless and Maria Faulconer, terrific writers and the best friends and critiquers ever! Your help in all things is immeasurable.

My publishing family at Tor/Forge: Bob Gleason, Doherty, Linda Quinton, Patty Garcia, Whitney Ross, Aisha Cloud, and my agent extraordinaire, Susan Gleason. Dream makers one and all.

To independent booksellers, especially Murder by the Book (Houston, Texas), The Tattered Cover (Denver, Colorado), The Poisoned Pen (Scottsdale, Arizona), and Mysterious Galaxy (San Diego and Redondo Beach, California), who have supported this writer in her quest to make the dream of being an author a reality from the very beginning, sticking with me through thick and thin.

To readers. Without you there would be no stories, I’d have to spend every day in the real world, and my passion for storytelling would be unrealized.

To Tiger, Todd, Pierre O’Rourke, David Edgerley Gates, Carol Kahn, Jerry Lamber, Scott Largent, and Diane Mott Davidson. Your voices, your support, your friendship, and your sage advice save me every day. Thanks for putting up with me— you deserve hazardous- duty pay, for sure.

In short, thanks to all.

Now I’m off on the next Lucky adventure, this one set in the gourmet foodie world of Las Vegas, one of the gastronomic capitals of the world. I’m going to need more gym time when I’m finished with my research.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

“Wow
, talk about killer heels.” The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them. I dropped my head for a moment, then recovered. “I can’t believe I said that.”

Openmouthed, I stared at the body of a young woman sprawled across the hood of a candy-apple red Ferrari on display in our dealership, the heel of one of this holiday season’s signature Jimmy Choos embedded in her neck.

“I can,” growled Paxton Dane, the man who had summoned me to the scene and the only other living, breathing human within shouting distance at this ungodly hour of the morning. His tone held a not-so-gentle chiding.

Truth be told, he was right—very bad form. Normally I had a better filter but tonight it was on the fritz. At least I had an excuse.

Murder always made me twitchy.

“Death by Jimmy Choo,” I babbled, riding a building wave of panic. “Well, at least she went out with style.” The words and thoughts gathered like dark clouds heralding an impending storm. “This is clearly a new twist on the stiletto-as-a-murder-weapon theme, don’t you think? And can’t you just hear Sherlock Holmes now? ‘Come, Watson, murder’s afoot.’” I choked back a nervous giggle, but was singularly unable to rein in my runaway foot-in-mouth disease. What had the poor woman done to deserve such a hasty exit? Better yet, who could’ve done such a thing?

“It’s ‘Come, Watson, the
game’s
afoot,’” growled Dane, “and you need to put a sock in it.”

Again, he was right, but I wasn’t about to tell him so. I wondered who the dead woman was. And how had the Vegas magic so deserted her? At Dane’s scowl, I swallowed the comment on the tip of my tongue.

“The sock reference was unintentional.” He raised a finger, silencing me. He knew me far too well for my comfort level. When he was sure he had my attention, he continued. “And if you can’t stifle yourself…”

I struggled to get a grip. Focusing on breathing, I gulped steady, even, deep lungfuls of air. Finally, the morbid comedian in me beat feet.

Okay, maybe not. Clamping my lips together, I tried to think.

Anyway I looked at this…situation…it was
so
not good. Three
a.m.
A closed and presumably locked Ferrari dealership—in my hotel no less. A dead woman. A ruined shoe. And somehow all of it had landed in my lap.

Not entirely unusual, but certainly unappreciated.

My name is Lucky O’Toole and I am the Vice President of Customer Relations for the Babylon, Las Vegas’s most over-the-top Strip casino-resort. Drowning in the aftermath of a still deep and turbulent romantic tsunami, I had recently taken temporary residence in smaller quarters in the hotel—a decision I was currently rethinking.

Accessibility clearly had its downside.

Dane was a former co-worker, sometime suitor, and now awkward friend. Despite past skirmishes and unrequited affections (his, not mine, for once), we’d reached a grudging respect for each other, a détente, if you will. He had said little since calling me. Instead, standing quietly off to the side, he lurked like a gargoyle, waiting, observing, while I absorbed the scene. Shadows angled across his features, hiding his expression behind a mask of darkness and reflected light. Arms crossed tightly across his chest, he hugged himself. Was he seeking comfort, or stilling himself from action?

Fight or flight? I was so there myself. Unfortunately, for me flight was not an option. Like it or not, I was the Babylon’s professional problem solver in residence.

And the dead girl was clearly a problem.

Sometimes, being a grown-up sucked.

“Murder sort of refocuses you, doesn’t it?” The normal comfort I found in the familiarity of my voice proved elusive. Dane had enough insight to know I didn’t expect an answer.

Frozen for the moment, I watched as the car rotated on a raised platform in the center of the showroom, each detail captured in the accusatory beam of a single spotlight mounted above. The young woman wore a silver spandex dress, very short, strapless, hugging her every curve. Her feet were bare. A red welt marred the otherwise perfect skin of her neck. As she rotated past, I had an unobstructed view up her dress—no underwear. Of course, this being Vegas, most of the young women went commando—no muss, no fuss, no panty lines, no worry as to how to get them off or where you might have left them when the evening was over. Vegas survival skills they should print in the visitors’ guide, if you ask me. Chasing runaway skivvies was part of my job description—the wrong pair in the wrong place could be a catastrophe of epic proportions. Trust me on that one.

Her eyes were open, sightless. They were blue—one a brilliant sky blue, the other a muddier, ocean-after-a-storm blue. Maybe it was the light, but I found the difference unsettling.

One arm flung over her head, her legs splayed, her shoulder-length hair a spun-sugar pillow under her head, she’d been beautiful. Stunning even. The champagne-colored crystals of the single shoe fractured the light like a disco ball in a cheesy nightclub. A beaded mini hobo—multicolored sequins stitched on silver satin—dangled from a chain wrapped around her lifeless hand. I’d bet my lifetime membership in the Conspicuous Consumers Club it was also Jimmy Choo.

Somebody had a fat wallet and impeccable taste.

Blood trickled from her wound, tracing a graceful path across the woman’s bluish skin then dropping silently to the hood of the car. The reds blended until it was difficult to follow the blood’s meander down the smooth metal to the white faux-marble tile underneath where it pooled, a dark ominous stain. Following imperfections in the stone, tiny rivulets of darkening color flowed outward until they painted a freeform web.

But something important was missing: the other shoe. I bent down to peer under the car. Clean as a whistle. Boy, being Cinderella in Vegas clearly wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

“Who is she?” I asked Dane, hoping he had some easy answers.

With his hands jammed in his pockets, he shrugged, but didn’t look at me.

“You
are
going to tell me how you managed to stumble upon this young woman, in this position, after hours, in a dealership locked up for the night, in a hotel where you no longer work, right?” I pressed, casting a quick glance at him as he stepped into the light, and parked himself at my shoulder.

He didn’t look good. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. Several inches taller than my six feet, with axe-handle wide shoulders, a narrow waist that hinted at washboard abs, wavy brown hair and emerald eyes, he always looked good—especially in his creased 501s and starched button-down. Normally, one glance at the man could throw an unwary female into hormonal overdrive. Tonight however, with dark circles under worried eyes, his brows furrowed, his face pinched with an emotion I couldn’t quite read, Dane didn’t look his best.

I didn’t blame him. Even after years of dealing with the occasional dead person in my hotel, I still hadn’t gotten used to it.

Of course, most of them hadn’t been murdered.

Before Dane answered, he ran a shaky hand through his hair and avoided looking at me.

From past experience, I’d learned a thing or two about Paxton Dane, most of it the hard way. If he was good at anything, the long, tall drink of Texas charm was good at prevarication. Right now, I’d wager my future firstborn that Dane was framing his answer. Like a woman looking for the perfect pair of jeans, he’d try a few on for size until he got the fit just right. Only then would he trot out his choice for my perusal. With Dane, most of the time
what
he told you wasn’t nearly as interesting as the stuff he left out.

“I was in the Poker Room. Watching.” His eyes furtively sought mine then skittered away. He nodded toward the dead woman. “She caught my eye.”

“Understandable.” I took a deep breath, marshaling my notoriously thin patience. “She was playing?” I prompted.

Dane grunted.

I took that to mean yes.

“She’d made it to the final table of the thousand dollar buy-in, but she busted out about an hour ago and left.”

“Alone?”

“As far as I could tell.”

This time I gave Dane my full attention, leveling my eyes to his. He still wouldn’t look at me for more than a few seconds. “What do you mean, as far as you could tell? You’re a private investigator. Don’t you guys notice that type of stuff?”

“I wasn’t investigating, I was watching.”

“Ahhh. So your powers of observation only function when you’re on the meter?” I knew he was smart enough to recognize a rhetorical question, even when it was obscured in dripping sarcasm, so I forged ahead. “If you weren’t …investigating…how did you mange to find her here?”

This time his eyes met mine. “I was on my way to the garage—my truck is parked on level three, row C. You can check it out if you don’t believe me.” The tilt of his chin held a challenge, but his eyes looked haunted. “I saw the door to the showroom was cracked open. I knew the place was closed, so—”

“You investigated.” I finished his sentence, enjoying the minor victory. “Why didn’t you call Security? After all, you used to work for them; you know the protocol. Or, better yet, why didn’t you call the police?”

“I called you.”

“Am I lucky or what?” I blew at a strand of hair that tickled my eyes. Even at 3
a.m.
and far from my best, I had enough functioning gray matter to realize he hadn’t answered my question. Of course, I knew my in-your-face style always shut him down. It must be a Texas thing, those Southern men and their delicate egos. Unfortunately, coddling was rarely in my repertoire. “You weren’t stupid enough to touch anything?”

A tic worked in his cheek as he ran a hand over his eyes. “I checked for a pulse. That’s all.”

“Uh-huh. I suppose that’s your bloody footprint then?” I pointed to a half print under the driver’s-side door—triangular with a pointed toe.

His head swiveled in surprise, his eyes following my finger. We both glanced at his feet—very expensive kickers made from some exotic skin. “Looks like it,” he acknowledged with a deepening frown.

“Not messing with a crime scene—isn’t that the first thing they teach you in investigator school? Right after they give you your very own decoder ring?” I asked, but Dane didn’t take the bait.

None of this was adding up and Dane didn’t seem inclined to offer any clarity. And to think, thumbscrews weren’t included in my vice president’s superhero utility belt. An oversight I’d have to remedy. But, until then, I’d have to wait for answers. Not one of my best things. Especially since I had no doubt that, while
what
Dane had done would make interesting reading,
why
he had done it would keep me riveted.

But I’d leave Dane’s questioning to the police—surely
they
had a set of thumbscrews somewhere. Or, better yet, a water board.

“Well,” I said, my word choice matching my brain function, “it seems a bit late to muster the in-house cavalry, but don’t you think it would be wise to call young Romeo?”

Detective Romeo was the ace up my sleeve at the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department—Metro to the locals. Romeo was definitely a high person in a low place.

The still wet-behind-the-ears detective and I had met chasing a weasel. We’d bonded over an oddsmaker who had become a tidbit for a tiger shark, and cemented our working relationship while investigating a disappearing magician. He’d do his job, but he’d watch my back as well.

Loyalty, a precious commodity in a fickle world.

Having one of Metro’s finest on speed-dial spoke volumes about my life, but I refused to think about it. Instead, I flipped open my phone and pressed his number.

The kid was going to have a field day with our Ferrari girl.

***

Dane and I had boosted our butts onto the dealership’s Parts and Service counter and now sat, hands tucked under our thighs, feet swinging. My thoughts whirled as I concentrated on my alternating white ankles and studiously avoided looking at anything else. My feet, which protruded from the ends of my purple flannel pajama pants, were tucked warmly into fuzzy slippers. A departure from my normal vice president costume, but at this god-forsaken time of morning it was all I could muster. I was particularly proud of the faded UNLV tee shirt that rounded out my ensemble—a Vegas fashionista to the end.

The whir of the motor turning the Ferrari’s dais and the imagined drip of blood mingled with the distant echoes of fun and frivolity leaking in from the casino beyond the closed doors, thankfully keeping silence at bay.

Quiet would have been way too creepy.

Unable to resist the draw of the macabre, I cast a furtive glance at the girl’s body as if half expecting her to push herself to a seated position, remove the shoe from her neck, and laugh at a really great practical joke.

But she didn’t.

“Do you normally sleep in flannel pajamas?” Dane’s voice sliced like a knife through my carefully constructed calm.

I flinched, then shot him a sideways glare. “Why would you care?” I snapped. “We resolved that issue, as I recall.”

“Not entirely to my satisfaction.” He gave me one of his famous grins although it lacked its normal wattage. Still it seemed out of character, not to mention out of place and inappropriate.

Too antsy to sit any longer, I hopped down from my perch and turned to face him. “I’ll have you know there are numerous factors that influence what I sleep in.” Hands on my hips, I paused and looked at him. A smirk lifted one corner of his mouth. Smirking was not on my list of acceptable responses. “Why are we talking about this? It seems…irreverent or something. Not to mention that it’s none of your business what I sleep in or who I sleep with.” Now where had that come from?

“You don’t have to rub it in.” Dane eased himself to feet. “But somehow talking about something normal…”

I knew what he meant, comfort in the mundane. Not that my sex life was mundane, it was nonexistent, but that was another story. And not that Dane and I normally talked about it, but there had been a time, fairly recently in fact, when he’d been in the running.