Lucky Bastard (10 page)

“You wouldn’t happen to know who bought the pairs you had, would you?”

The sales lady glanced around then lowered her voice. “I really shouldn’t give out that information.”

“It’s part of a murder investigation. I can get a warrant, if I need to, but that would be so…public, don’t you think?” I patted her hand. “We can keep it between you and me.”

“Murder,” she whispered, her attention clearly piqued. Funny how a good killing did that. “If they paid cash, I probably can’t help you.”

“If they paid cash you’d probably have the shoes back.” Regularly johns wanted to buy gifts for their high-end hookers. The ladies preferred cash purchases. When the john went back to the wife and kids, the escort would return the gift and take the cash refund.

“Good point.” The salesgirl’s mouth puckered in distaste at the thought. “We’re in luck, my manager has gone to lunch.”

She disappeared through a hidden door.

I tapped my toes, my arms crossed tightly across my chest, as I exerted heroic willpower, keeping my eyes averted from the enticements in the display cases.

She didn’t take long. Glancing around furtively, she looked guilty. Thankfully, there wasn’t anyone around to see, if you ignored the cameras, which I did. “You know, I’ve always wanted to work at the Babylon.” She pushed a scrap of paper across the counter. “One pair of shoes came back, we sent them to corporate.”

“When did they come back?”

Her eyes hit mine, her confusion apparent. “Last week. Why?”

“And the other pair?”

“We sold them right after they came out—a special order. These were a really hot, limited-edition kind of thing. I remember delivering them myself. And, curiously enough, he paid cash.” Her face paled as she looked over my shoulder. The manager must’ve returned.

I palmed the paper. “Thank you so much for checking on the availability. I’ll send my guest at the Babylon over later.”

Turning, I grinned at her look of relief, then sashayed out of the store as if I hadn’t a care in the world—an Oscar-worthy performance, if I do say so myself. I didn’t look at the name until I was once again settled in the limo, this time en route to the Babylon. Carefully I unfolded the scrap. There, in a flourishing cursive, was one name, a name I recognized:

Frank DeLuca.

***

Frank DeLuca—his dealership. But what dummy would kill someone on his own turf. I know…murder is often a crime of passion and opportunity. And now his shoes. I sure needed another tête-à-tête with the good Mr. DeLuca.

But first, I needed to find my father. The news of Slim’s departure to the Poker Room in the Sky should come from me—I owed him that. Heck, I owed them both that. But, I wasn’t about to tackle that job solo; I needed reinforcements. Mother could help soften the blow, but she hadn’t answered the phone at her apartment.

Miss P answered on the first ring, “Customer Relations. How may I help you?”

“I need to find my mother.”

“If you’re going to kill her, I refuse to be an accessory.”

I filled her in on Shady Slim. “Mona hasn’t been looking for me or anything, has she? It’s still pretty early. I thought I’d find her at home, but no such luck.”

“She’s in Mrs. Olefson’s suite. They called to invite you to tea.”

“Tea? How civilized. I smell a rat.”

“Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”

“That’s what my day was missing—a platitude. Have you ever thought about doing one of those calendars? You know the ones with one page for each day and they have like a joke or a word or something? Yours could include a platitude.”

“Why don’t we do it together? One day a platitude, the next day a cliché?”

“Now that’s really gilding the lily.” Somehow the banter righted the ship of my day, filling my sails. “Personally I’d rather do a Handsome Men of Vegas Uncovered kind of thing, but that’s just me. I’ll be with my mother and Mrs. Olefson. Pray for me.”

“I’ll light a candle.”

“Even better. Oh, before I go, has Brandy had any luck finding Cole Weston?”

“Not yet. She did get a bead on him though, from one of the players last night. He said he last saw Cole leaving the property early this morning.”

“Interesting. Any idea where he went?”

“None.”

“And he hasn’t been seen since?”

“No.”

“Why am I not surprised? Let me know if he appears, okay?”

When I ended the call, my step was lighter. I don’t know why, but I felt the glimmer of a song in my heart. Even a meeting with Mona couldn’t dim my newfound joie de vivre. This being my life, I knew it couldn’t last. Someone would rain on my parade, I was sure of it. The director of my life never could resist shouting, “Cue the catastrophe” every time I hit a happy stride.

Dane caught me at the elevators.

Am I clairvoyant, or what?

“Lucky, can I have a minute?” His reflection appeared next to mine in the polished bronze doors.

“Shouldn’t you be in jail?” Looking at him would probably turn me to stone or something, so I didn’t take the chance. But the vision of Dane up close and personal with waterboarding did brighten my outlook.

“Apparently, they didn’t think I’d be a flight risk.” He cleared his throat. His voice sounded hollow.

“Since you have so many ties to the community,” I fired back. Sarcasm is my best thing. Followed closely by my ability to spend the bulk of my time in the company of less than stellar men.

“Lucky…” His voice broke. Tentatively he touched my arm.

I pulled away as if I’d been poked with a cattle prod. “Don’t.”

He dropped his hand; his arms hung at his sides; his shoulders drooped—like a scarecrow with no backbone…and no brain, but that last part was my personal opinion. Either way, it wasn’t a look I would associate with the former Army über officer. I felt my resolve slipping. I am such a pansy-ass. Like a drunk with a bottle, I found it next to impossible to resist a problem that needed solving.

And Dane was most definitely a huge problem.

But he wasn’t mine.

“Look, Cowboy,” I said, summoning fortitude I didn’t know I had. The elevator doors opened and he followed me on. “I got a hotel full of problems to solve and yours isn’t one of them.” I waved my penthouse access card. “I’ve got to find my mother then deliver some real bad news to my father and you’re not invited.”

Dane refused to budge. From the looks of him, he’d dug in his heels like a roped calf. “I want to explain. I
need
to explain. You owe me that much.”

“Owe you!” With hands on my hips, I whirled to face him. The man had cojones; I’d give him that.

I must’ve looked like a banshee from Hell—he retreated into a corner, his color and his courage receding. “Even a condemned man gets a last wish.” He trailed the words out like a flower girl dribbles rose petals—a reluctant peace offering.

“Hollywood hogwash,” I growled. “You need to leave.”

The elevator doors closed and we remained immobile. I figured we had twenty seconds at the outside before someone called the car. I’d been taken for enough rides lately, so I stuck my card in the slot and punched the appropriate button. “Okay then. You got fifty-one floors.”

Dane slapped my hand away then mashed the emergency stop. Grabbing my shoulder he pulled me around to face him. “I need your help. I didn’t kill her and I need to find the SOB who did before your buddy Romeo digs a pit and throws me in it.”

He looked scared. And mad as hell.

The fight trickled out of me like water through a rusty pipe. “Give me one reason why I should help you.”

He deflated. “I can’t.”

Not the answer I expected. I found it a bit redeeming. Somehow, I’d known from the beginning I’d help him. And I’d also known it could be my undoing. If I was wrong; if my gut was leading me astray; if he really killed his wife…well, there was nothing like the prospect of being hoodwinked into helping a murderer cover his tracks and frame somebody else to dampen life’s little joys.

“I’ll listen, but not now.” I released the emergency stop, and pressed the button for an intermediate floor. “Meet me in Delilah’s in an hour.”

When the elevator stopped and the doors opened, Dane stepped off. His hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans, his shoulders hunched up around his ears, he didn’t look at me.

As the doors closed, I stuck my hand out, holding them open for a moment. “And, Cowboy…”

Dane turned to look at me, his face impassive, his eyes haunted.

“No guarantees.”

***

Mrs. Olefson, the hotel’s resident grandmother, lived in a corner room on the forty-first floor with a nice view of the Strip and the Spring Mountains beyond. We’d met when she’d asked to marry her dog in the Temple of Love at the hotel. I intervened, and made a wonderful friend in the process.

Widowed, well into her tenth decade with no real family, Mrs. Olefson and Milo, her Maltese, had asked to stay permanently. God knew we all could use a den mother. Sometimes life gives you gift. We set her up in a sunny room where she held court every day, serving tea, biscuits, and sage advice to all visitors. She was happy. We were happy. And Milo was getting fat.

Giggling greeted me as I raised my fist to knock on the door.

I knocked firmly and the giggling stopped. Heels clacked across the tile floor, then the door flew open.

“Oh, Lucky! I knew you’d come!” Mona, resplendent in a dark purple peasant skirt and a flowing peach top that swooped precariously off one shoulder, grabbed my arm and pulled me inside. Holding my arm to her side, she kicked the door shut. “Come, come. We have that tea you like—the peach one from Teavana. And you’re in time—we’re just getting started.” A smile danced across her face, then sparkled in her eyes. Pregnancy had filled the hollows of her face, rounding the sharp edges. Her dark brown hair fell in soft waves curling lightly at her shoulders, bangs barely tickling her doe eyes. Like a Rembrandt Madonna, she glowed. And she looked like my sister—my younger sister.

Just getting started, she’d said. I didn’t even take the bait—I’d find out what she was up to soon enough. Giggling usually meant mischief.

With Mona, naughtiness was gift—a natural aptitude bestowed on her at birth.

At some point in the normal course of life, the roles of parent and child are expected to reverse, with the child assuming a parental caregiver role. I had been born into the role. Lucky me.

Mrs. Olefson beamed when she saw my delight as I took in all the touches she’d added to her space. “You like it, I can tell. I’m so pleased.” A tiny woman, she all but disappeared in the overstuffed chair. As usual, with her white hair perfectly coiffed, her face painted to accent not alarm, and dressed primly in a St. John suit and sensible pumps, she looked prepared for an audience with the queen. Milo, a ball of white fur with a black nose and a red bow, curled at her feet. He’d pricked one ear at me, then had lost interest.

The tea service, made of exquisite bone china glazed with a pretty floral pattern and arrayed on a silver platter covered with a linen doily, was placed on a table within Mrs. Olefson’s easy reach.

Trotting out her best Emily Post, she delicately pinched the curved handle of a tiny cup with one hand and the larger handle of the pot, covered with a crisp white napkin, with the other. Holding them both up, she raised a questioning eyebrow at me.

“Yes, please. One lump, a touch of milk.”

“Traditional. I thought as much.” She smiled as if I’d earned a gold star.

While she performed her duties, I glanced around, taking in my surroundings more completely. Yup, Miss Marple’s drawing room. That’s what this whole thing reminded me of. Something very British, very proper.

“Here you go.” She extended the cup to me.

Reaching, I cradled the delicate porcelain with both hands, as I would a baby bird, afraid to crush it. Steam and the subtle scent of ripe peaches filled my nostrils as I breathed deep. Blowing briefly, I then took a tentative sip. Still a bit hot.

Mona, ruffled her skirt around her as she kicked off her shoes, then pulled her feet up, tucking them under her as she settled into a corner of the couch. She worried with a stray thread and refused to meet my gaze directly. Squirming like a child under adult scrutiny, she chewed on her lip.

I waited, biting down on my smile. If Mona was good for anything, she was good for a laugh. But, she would also interpret a grin as a sign of weakness. And history had taught me that I never, ever wanted to give my mother the upper hand if I could help it.

So, I remained calm, detached. “Mrs. Olefson, I love all the personal touches you’ve added.”

“Thank you, dear.” Her hand shook a bit as she grabbed a cube of sugar with the silver tongs, then dropped it into her own cup. She added a dollop of milk, then settled back with a smile of self-satisfaction as she gazed around the room.

“Is that your husband?” I nodded toward an oil painting on the wall of a smiling man with a round face and happy eyes.

“Oh, yes. It wouldn’t be home without Ollie.”

“Ollie Olefson. That’s…memorable.”

“Ollie is his nickname. His given name is Randolf and he just hates it.” She spoke of him as if he’d just gone off to work for the day and would be home soon. Her loss made me sad, but her memories filled my heart. At the end of the day, that’s all there really was.

“Lucky, we have something we want to talk to you about.” Mona had apparently filled her quota of quiet time.

“Then this isn’t a purely social visit? I’m shocked.” I grinned as I lifted my cup to my lips.

Mother straightened. Sitting tall, she made herself big then leveled her gaze, but her eyes didn’t meet mine. Instead she looked to my left out the window, leaving me with the distinct impression she was following the instructions on what to do when confronted by a grizzly. “You know how I gave up Mona’s Place because you told me to?”

“That’s not exactly how I remember it, but go on.” I took another sip of tea—it had cooled nicely.

“Well, I’ve been at loose ends since then.” She worried with a bright pink toenail. Finally she looked at me. Her eyes held the expression one would expect from a dying man pleading for his life. Mona and her drama. “I’ve been so bored, honey. I just don’t know what to do with myself.”