Luck Be a Lady (Tahoe Tessie Mysteries) (4 page)

"Oh?" I asked, wandering over to the armoire to get a closer look at the safe.

"He sells cars," she explained. "He owns six dealerships in the Bay Area. Comes up here a couple times a month to blow a wad when sales are up." She paused. "Or when his wife is getting on his nerves."

"Has he ever played in private games here before?"

"Not that I know of," Britton told me. "But it's not something he'd advertise, right?"

"Good point," I agreed.

I peered into the cabinet at the now empty black box. I didn't know a lot about safes myself, not actually owning anything worth locking away, but it looked fairly standard. Much like the one we used at the gallery to house our pricier pieces before a show. Only this one was smaller, the interior shoebox sized, and made of thick, fire-safe metal. The door had a keypad on it with several numbers and a little screen. Neither looked damaged. Whoever had broken into the safe hadn't used force. While it didn't look like Fort Knox, it clearly took someone who knew what they were doing more than I did to get into it.

A master key, a knowledge of safe cracking, and the ability to take out the casino's security footage. Not only were we looking at an insider, but I had a bad feeling we were also looking at a pro.

CHAPTER THREE

As soon as Alfie and his security guy ascertained that the cash was the only thing missing, we all left Carvell and dispersed at the elevators. Alfie and his sidekicks took the service elevator to the control room, while Britton headed up to the penthouse, saying she had someone coming in to help her pack up my dad's things.

I tried to ignore how final that sounded. Instead, I looked down at my watch. I still had an hour and a half before my spa appointment. I hit the lobby button on the elevator, riding it down to the main floor. I had a bad feeling I hadn't done all that much to smooth Mr. Carvell's feathers. Yet.

Four clerks were on duty at the check-in desk: a red-head with a pair of ruby lips, a brunette woman in her forties, a guy in a suit who had a "manager" tag pinned to his lapel, and a large, Hispanic guy with dyed blond hair humming a Bette Midler tune to himself. I made a bee-line for the blond.

He spotted me as I approached, throwing both hands up in the air and doing a squeal that could have come from a twelve-year-old girl. "Tessie King, as I live and breathe, is that you, darling?"

I couldn't help an answering grin. "Hi, Tate. It's great to see you," I told him truthfully, coming in for a hug over the top of the counter.

Tate was about my age, and his mother had worked at the Royal Palace for as long as I could remember. As kids, we'd spent countless lazy summer days by the pool together. As an adult, Tate hadn't wandered far, his love of the casino world only growing where mine had waned. But it hadn't kept me from enjoying my last summer before art school here with him, day-tripping to Reno for mall runs, and enjoying "girl days" at the spa.   

"Baby, I am so sorry about your dad. Are you doing okay?" he asked, his well-waxed eyebrows drawing together in concern.

I nodded, shoving the now-familiar lump in my throat down. "I am. Thanks, Tate." Maybe not quite the truth yet, but close.

"Listen, a guest called down here earlier about a theft in his room?" I said.

Tate nodded, his jowls wobbling up and down. "Carvell. Room 1012."

"Right. Can we comp his room? And maybe give him some credit at the poker tables?"

Tate smiled, showing two dimples in his chubby cheeks. "Darlin', you have your father's instincts when it comes to guest relations," he told me, fingers moving over a hidden keyboard behind the counter.

"Well, keeping gamblers happy isn't all that different from keeping artists happy," I confided.

"Okay, his suite is on the house, and he's got $500 in credits."

"Perfect." While it didn't replace the cash he'd lost, it was at least a start. "Hey, can I ask you something?" I asked, glancing at his computer screen.

"Shoot, dollface." Tate leaned one chubby elbow on the countertop.

"Well, I was wondering if anyone else has reported thefts from their rooms recently?"

"Honey," Tate said, his face breaking into a crooked grin. "We get a few of these a week. People drink, forget where they put stuff, then call down all panicked that they've been 'robbed,'" he said, doing air quotes with his fingers. "Ninety percent of the time, they find whatever they lost shoved down some sofa cushion or tucked under a towel on their bathroom floor."

"What about the other ten percent of the time?" I asked.

Tate shrugged. "Security always handles it. You'd have to ask them."

"Hmm." I had a feeling Alfie wouldn't be quite as forthcoming as Tate. "Could you tell me who you have staying in room 1424?"

"Sure," Tate said, fingers hopping onto the keyboard again. He keyed in the room number, then squinted at the screen. "Actually, it's vacant. We had a couple there last night, but they checked out this morning."

"What time?"

Tate did some more squinting, and I got the distinct impression he was vainly fighting a battle against the need for reading glasses. "Eight-fifteen. Alvin and Shirley Haverstein."

I pursed my lips. Carvell hadn't left his room until nine. While it was still possible that the Haversteins were in on "Mr. Price"'s scheme, I thought it more likely that our mystery high-stakes player had simply given Carvell a random room number. If he'd set up the fake game just as a way to ensure a large amount of cash would be in Carvell's room, the thief knew there was no way the game would ever actually take place.

"Why the interest in this room?" Tate asked.

I shook my head. "Just following up on something for Mr. Carvell. Hey, you don't know anything about high-stakes games being played at the casino, do you?"

Tate frowned. "Like in the VIP rooms?"

"No. I was thinking more private games."

"Oh no. Mr. King would go bananas if he found out about that." Tate paused, his eyes going big and round at his faux pas. "Sorry. I guess it's hard to believe he's really gone."

Damn. There was that lump again. "It's okay," I reassured him, hearing my own voice come out a little higher than I'd intended. "It's something we all have to get used to."

Tate put a hand on my arm and shot me the sympathetic look again. "I'm here, dollface. Any time you wanna talk. Or just grab a cocktail."

I shot him a grateful smile. "Thank you," I said, meaning it. "And I may take you up on that cocktail."

"I'm off at six, girl," Tate shouted as I made my way back to the elevators.

*  *  *

An hour later I was encased in a big, fluffy white robe and a soothing cucumber mask as I awaited my masseuse, Verlana, in a private room at the Princess Day Spa. I took deep breaths, inhaling the light lavender aromatherapy oil, and willed my mind to empty of all the turbulent emotions I'd experienced over the course of the last few days. I was employing my mother's favorite yoga breathing technique, and just starting to feel my limbs relax, when I heard my name from the spa's lobby.

"I'm sorry, but Ms. King is in a treatment room at the moment," I heard the receptionist say.

"Which one?" a male voice demanded.

My ear perked up, but I didn't recognize the voice.

"Maybe you don't understand," the receptionist replied. "She's scheduled for a massage right now."

"Must be nice," the guy shot back. "But I'm afraid that will have to wait."

"Sir, you can't go back there," I heard the receptionist call.

But whoever it was chose to ignore her as a pair of footsteps took off down the hall, approaching my room.

I tensed, popping up from the treatment table and pulling the cucumber slices off my eyelids just in time to see a man in a grey suit burst through the door.

I let out a yip, sounding like a surprised terrier, and tugged my robe tightly around my middle.

"What is this?" I demanded.

The guy didn't answer, instead asking, "Tessie King?"

I swallowed hard. He was average height, but the tone of his voice and the confident set of his shoulders were commanding enough to fill the room. He had sandy hair, cropped short and dark eyes that were staring at me with an unnerving intensity.

"Who wants to know?" I asked, my eyes cutting from him to the door, wondering just how much of an escape I could stage in the tiny room.

But what he said next killed any thoughts of getting past him.

"Devin Ryder. FBI."

I bit my lip, pulling my robe tighter, suddenly very aware of the fact that I was naked beneath it.    

The receptionist chose that moment to finally catch up to my intruder, but at the admission of his affiliation, she didn't linger. Clearly this guy's creds trumped mine.

"So what do you want?" I asked.

"I need to ask you some questions about your father. Richard King."

"Why?" I challenged, hoping my voice came out more confident than I felt. My head was swimming, going over a dozen different scenarios where the FBI might be interested in my father. None of them good.

"When was the last time you saw him?"

"Two years ago."

This caused him pause, one eyebrow rising ever so slightly.

"We weren't overly close," I explained. Then felt silly for feeling like I owed him an explanation. "Why do you want to know?

But again, Agent Ryder didn't answer my question, instead shooting me another of his. "Have you talked to him recently?"

I chewed my lower lip again, trying to remember when the last time I had talked to him was. Christmas? My birthday maybe? "I… I'm not sure."

"You're not sure if you've talked to him or you're not sure it was recently?"

"Right. The second one."

The other eyebrow went up. "You don't seem very confident in that statement."

"Well, you're making me a little nervous," I confided.

The corner of his mouth twitched upward, the small movement transforming his face. I had a feeling that if he actually allowed that smile to grow, it had the potential to be kind of charming.

"Tell me where you were last Tuesday," he said.

I tensed. Tuesday. The day my father died. "I-I don't know. At work. At home. Why?"

"Can anyone verify your whereabouts?"

"Whereabouts?" I shook my head. "Look, what is this? My dad died of a heart attack."

But Agent Ryder just stared at me, his eyes dark, assessing, so penetrating I had the wild thought he could see right through my now very thin feeling robe.

"He
did
die of a heart attack, didn't he?" I asked, dread building somewhere in the center of my chest.

He answered very slowly and deliberately, as if choosing his words carefully. "The M.E. has yet to determine a ruling."

I swallowed. Hard. "Wait. Are you saying there's a chance that my dad's heart attack wasn't from natural causes?" I asked, the words coming out forced even to my own ears. "That there's a chance he was
murdered
?"

Agent Ryder paused. "We're investigating all angles at the moment."

"Oh my God…" the words tumbled out as I tried to wrap my brain around the idea of someone wanting my father dead. While I'd often heard him joke about the competition or the teamsters wanting to "bump him off," the reality that someone actually
had
was jarring enough to make my head spin. "So someone deliberately stopped my dad's heart?"

As was beginning to become an annoying habit, he answered with another question again. "Do you have any idea if your father had a recent disagreement with anyone?" he pressed. "If there was anyone who might have been upset with your father?"

While his face was as void of emotion as any I'd seen at the poker tables, I could feel his eyes taking in every nuance of my posture as I answered. I shifted self-consciously from one bare foot to the other.

"Not especially. But roll the dice. He ran the biggest casino on the South Shore. I'm sure there were a lot of people who resented not having a piece of that pie."

"Like you?"

"
Me
?" I sputtered. "You're kidding, right?"

"You now have the whole pie."

I shut my mouth with a click, eyes narrowing. I took it back. He was
not
charming. "I don't need this pie."

"Really? Because that art school wasn't cheap. You have quite a few student loans."

"Wait—have you been investigating me?" I asked.

His mouth threatened a grin again. "That's kind of my job."

I shook my head. "Look, I do have student loans. So what? So does most of America. I pay my bills. I have a decent job. Trust me, this casino is one thing I don't need."

If he believed me, he made no sign of it, instead switching gears abruptly. "What about your step-mother?"

It took me a moment to realize who he was talking about, the words "mother" and Britton never quite going together in my mind. "You mean Britton?"

He nodded. "Death is a lot less messy than divorce. Especially when there's a pre-nup involved."

I shook my head. "No way. You've got her all wrong," I told him. "There is no way Britton would hurt my father." Defending Britton was the last thing I expected to do. But despite the fact that she dressed somewhere between a stripper and an oversize tween, I couldn't imagine Britton actually hurting my father. As strange as it seemed, I got the impression that she had actually cared about him.

But Agent Ryder didn't seem convinced. "How well do you know Britton?"

I could feel him watching my body language. I did my best not to give anything away. Which was ridiculous because I had nothing incriminating
to
give away.

"We aren't best friends, if that's what you're asking."

"Did you know her before she married your father? I understand she was a cocktail waitress here."

Honestly? This was the first I'd heard of that. I guess I'd never really asked much about their relationship or how they'd met. I shook my head. "No. I never met her before they married."

"But you didn't approve of the marriage?"