Lucky Catch (27 page)

“Let me get this straight, some guy is selling foodstuffs in our garage from the back of his truck?”

“They do it all the time in L.A.”

I had no idea. “Who put you on to this guy?”

“Brett Baker. I knew him in L.A.—his sushi is positively orgasmic. And he specialized in some of the more exotic stuff—the things that make your lips go numb and can stop your heart. Truly, I remain in awe of what that man can do with eel and urchin.”

I knew there was a scathing reply laden with innuendo somewhere in there, but I just wasn’t up to the task. “Why would he share that kind of information?”

Jordan gave me his best Hollywood A-Lister smile. “The stuff that people tell me would make you blush.”

* * *

I had a rule in my home that whoever did the cooking was exempt from cleaning up. Needing time to think, I’d shooed Rudy out of the kitchen as well. Dinner in the company of good friends was just what the doctor had ordered, and I was feeling a bit more settled, comfortable in my skin and in my space . . . despite Jean-Charles and Teddie and everyone’s meddling.

As if on cue, Teddie’s voice interrupted my peace and quiet. “Hey, anybody home?”

I didn’t need to look to know he stood in the opening to the back stairway we had installed between our apartments—before I minded him popping in unannounced.

With dish towel in hand, drying the last pot, I turned.

When he caught sight of me, his smile fled. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt. Jordan didn’t tell me you were back.”

“I live here.” Of course, that was a recent occurrence.

Teddie was smart enough not to point that out. “I had a note from Jordan inviting me down—his marinara is hard to resist.”

“The stuff of legend.” Finished, I pulled out the drawer under the counter and put the pot away. “There’s leftovers.”

“Seriously?”

“Why not?”

Teddie looked at me as if weighing the odds his meal might come laced with poison. “As invitations go, that was one of the least encouraging.”

I didn’t feel the need to excuse or explain as Teddie took his usual place at the counter while I pulled out the food I’d just put away.

“I wouldn’t have come down the stairs unannounced had I known you’d be here. Back at the hotel, I got your message. You need time and space, I get that.” He tried to sound sincere, I could see it in his face, but he didn’t pull it off.

“The guys killed the wine. How about some Prosecco?”

“I’ll get it.” Teddie backed off the stool and headed toward the bar with a galling air of familiarity.

Still warm, the pasta only needed a slight bit of reheating. I chose the stove rather than the microwave in deference to Jordan’s culinary sensibilities—he’d often complained the microwave toughened pasta. As it warmed, I assembled a small salad—we’d consumed all the figs and culatello—and Teddie popped the cork and poured us each a flute of Italian sparkling wine.

He raised his glass in a toast. “To friends.”

Reluctantly, I clinked my glass with his. “In the span of less than twelve hours, I’ve gone from wanting to shoot you on sight to being able to tolerate your presence without going postal.”

With a little less “jaunty” in his stride, Teddie carried his plates to the table. “Not exactly the progress I was hoping for, but I’ll take what I can get.”

I followed with the bubbly. Awkward would be the word I would’ve chosen had anyone asked how all this felt.

Teddie attacked the pasta, forking it in without reverence—I was glad Jordan wasn’t witnessing. “Amazing stuff. Do you know his secret?”

“Many, but not the one you’re looking for. He said it had to do with love.”

“Doesn’t everything.” Pausing with his fork, dripping with pasta, halfway to his mouth, Teddie held my gaze for a moment longer than necessary.

Immune to the BS Teddie ladled with ease, I looked past him through the kitchen window—a different angle of the Vegas Strip, but equally as spectacular as the view from the great room. I fought the pull of the warm familiarity of having Teddie in my kitchen, of sharing my home and my life with the man who had been my very best friend. That’s the part I wanted back.

Teddie ate in silence. Consumed by his food, he seemed unaware as I surreptitiously took stock. The few months since I’d last seen him had deepened the worry lines bracketing his mouth and perhaps added a few wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, but overall he looked as delicious as ever.

The movement of his hands drew my attention. Artist’s hands, graceful and beautiful, with long fingers to stretch across the keys. I’d loved to sit next to him at the piano while he played. But today, his hands didn’t have the beauty they had once held. Red scrapes marred his knuckles, scratches sliced his fingers, a fingernail . . . no, two fingernails were torn, one badly enough to sport a Band-Aid.

When my eyes lifted to his, I caught him staring at me, his fork lifted halfway.

“You were there,” I whispered, I don’t know why. “Were you following me?”

“I told you I wanted to help. You wouldn’t let me go with you.” He set his fork down, deliberately placing it just so before he answered. “Two people have died already, Lucky.” His eyes had turned a deep, serious blue.

I knew that look. “Learn anything interesting?”

He didn’t answer me immediately. And inner battle raged—I could see it in his eyes, in the tautness of his expression.

“Tell me.” Propelled by a need to know, I leaned forward. “You have to tell me. As you said, two people have died already—and one almost.”

Teddie swallowed hard, a pained look contorted his features. “Your French chef was there.”

“Jean-Charles?” Suddenly feeling light-headed, I reached for my flute. As if that was going to help. Without taking a sip, I replaced the glass, forcing a calm tone. “What was he doing?”

“I saw him talking with the scientist who . . . got hurt, then I lost him in the crowd.” With his finger, Teddie pushed at a slice of mozzarella. The cheese had a dark slash across it, an angry balsamic stain that looked like dried blood outlining a wound. “I worked my way through the crowdk trying to catch sight of him again.”

“And did you?” My hand shook, so I placed it palm-down on the table. The other one, I kept in my lap.

Teddie glanced down at my hand. Pain pinched the skin between his eyebrows. His voice faltered.

“Tell me.” My voice had gone hard as I braced myself.

His eyes met mine. His face cleared. “I was far away—on the other side of the pit. And the crowd was pressing in, so I could hardly move. But I saw Jean-Charles. Just before the show started, he jumped on the crane and started climbing to the cockpit.”

“Did you see him get inside?”

Teddie drew his lips into a thin line and shook his head.

Thinking back, I tried to remember the timing. “The crane’s engine, had someone already cranked it over?” Adrenaline blew through my brain, clearing some of the alcohol fuzz.

Teddie furrowed his brows and glanced away. When his eyes returned to mine, they were untroubled. He nodded, slowly at first, then more vigorously, as his lips curled slightly upward. “Yes. Yes, the engine was already running.”

“Are you sure?”

This time, his smile broke through. “Absolutely.”

“So someone else was in that cab.” My heart beat faster with renewed hope. “What did you do then?”

“I fought through the crowd, trying to get to him. I’d almost made it . . .” He stopped.

“What happened?”

He looked at me just like he used to. “I saw you dive into that rock pile.”

* * *

Teddie had hugged me long and hard before he’d climbed the stairs back to his place. Several hours later, as I curled under a cashmere throw in the comfort of my winged-back chair in front of the window, I still felt the press of his body against mine. A fire flickered in the fireplace—gas logs, but they provided some heat and a comforting ambience I was grateful for.

Sleep refused to come.

Jordan and Rudy had tiptoed off to their quarters when Teddie had shown up. At first, I’d been peeved, as if the whole thing was a setup. Now, I didn’t care. Everyone had been right: dealing with Teddie was something I had to do.

By carrying around the hurt and the anger, I hurt only myself.

My phone, a new one Miss P. had handed me as Mona led me away, sounded at my hip. I had yet to personalize anything, much less the ringtone. So, no more “Lucky for Me.” I didn’t miss it.

Two
a.m
. Who could it be?

My heart rate accelerated as I thought of Mona—even though her due date was still weeks away, anything could happen. I pulled the phone from its holster and squinted at the number. No name—I had no idea how to synch my contacts through the cloud, as Brandy had told me to do. I thought the number looked like Romeo’s.

I hit the green spot, then pressed the phone to my ear and took a flier that I might just be right. “Hey. You okay?” I whispered, not wanting to awaken my houseguests.

“Sorta.” Romeo sounded dog-tired. “Are you still awake?”

For some reason, recognizing his number felt like a small victory. I thought of my normal flip response, but decided this wasn’t the time. “Yeah.”

“I know this is weird, but can I come up?”

“You know I’ve moved back to my apartment, right?”

“I’m downstairs.”

“I’ll send the elevator.”

* * *

When the elevator doors opened, disgorging the crumpled detective, I thrust a beverage in his hand—three fingers of single malt in a cut-crystal Steuben tumbler.

“Nice digs.” Romeo took a long pull on the scotch as he glanced around the apartment. I’d left the lights dimmed, so the Technicolor reflection of the Strip lights painted the walls in a rainbow of soft colors.

The view beckoning, Romeo walked to the window. Silently, I stepped in beside him. “You’d never been here?” Considering the lifetime of disasters we’d shared over the past year, that seemed impossible.

“Maybe once. I don’t remember.” He sipped as he drank in the view. “This town . . . ,” he started, then quit, shaking his head.

“Is like a good woman—tough on the outside, tender in spots.” I crossed my arms to keep myself from hugging him. For some reason, I sensed he needed to stand apart, to find his own strength, to work through whatever had brought him here.

“But all I see is the bad side of human nature, all day, every day.”

“That’s all you allow yourself to see. Look harder.” I risked putting a hand on his arm and giving it a squeeze. “And if that fails, remember you always have me. I mean, how bad can life be with me in your corner? Life has graced you immeasurably, Detective.”

He snorted twenty-five-year-old scotch through his nose as he doubled over. Personally, I didn’t think my comment was all that funny. When he’d dried his eyes and wiped his face with the napkin I’d handed him, he finally got down to business. “Your hunch about Barrymore was right. The chef had two more RFID chips, and a story about how Jean-Charles had asked him to order some high-end stuff and chip it.”

“What kind of stuff?”

“Foie gras, mainly. And some Kobe beef for the hidden menu burger.”

I stepped over to the couch and relaxed into its welcoming embrace. “Tell me about The Barrymore.” I pulled the pillows closer, packing them around me—my normal defensive position.

“Not much to tell. Chef fed us, which was . . . amazing. What a romantic place. And the food! An undiscovered gem, if you ask me.”

“Yes, it won’t be undiscovered for long.” I let him enjoy his memory for a moment, then I brought him crashing to earth. “And the murders? Did you find anything new?”

“Just the chips.”

“What did you do with them?”

“None of them can be read by a normal RFID reader. Apparently, Mr. Peccorino added some sort of extra hoop to jump through. Curiously, none of the other Berkeley guys knew a work-around, so I handed all the chips to Homeland Security.” At my sharp intake of breath, he held up a hand. “Don’t worry, I didn’t use you to chum the waters. They’ve got a bunch of scientists working on tracking our food supply—all in the name of national security, or so they say. They’re reverse-engineering the thing, but it’ll take time.”

“And they probably won’t share.” I thought about Special Agent Stokes . . . Joe. Maybe I had a work-around of my own. “Do you have any new info on Dr. Phelps?”

“Not out of the woods yet, but they’re pretty sure he’ll make a full recovery.” Romeo plopped down next to me. Stretching his legs out, he leaned back and closed his eyes. His hands cradled his glass on his belly.

“Anything interesting on the alibi front?” I asked.

“Looking for easy answers?” The young detective shot me a smirk.

“Any answers.” I curled farther into the corner of the couch, tucking my feet underneath me, and pulled even more pillows around me—if we were going to talk murder, I needed my defenses.

Romeo stared at the ceiling. “Alibis. When Fiona was killed, the workday had pretty much started. Practically everyone was wandering around on property at the Babylon. Everyone except Chef Wexler, who said he was off trying to find some interesting things at the Asian market in Korea Town.”