Lucky Catch (32 page)

When the song ended, they both looked satisfied with the progress they’d made—and like they were having fun. “Jordan, Teddie hasn’t talked you into joining his show, has he?”

Jordan gave me a tilt of his head and a slight shrug. “I might do a guest appearance, I don’t really know. We’ll see.” Since coming out a few months ago, confirming the whispers about his sexual orientation, Jordan seemed so much calmer, his true personality shining through. If the admission had any impact on his film career, I couldn’t see it. Rumors had abounded for years, so the revelation had been met with pretty much a collective yawn. That said as much about Jordan as it did about how we as humans had grown in understanding and acceptance. Somehow, that gave me hope.

Teddie picked up where Jordan left off. “I think I have him convinced that a limited run would be a great way to start.” Teddie looked happy, at home.

“Perhaps you should run it by his lawyer first?” Rudy’s voice boomed from the rectangle of light that opened at the top of the stairs.

“Leave it to a lawyer to throw water on the creative fires,” Jordan joked as he squatted and eased himself down from the stage. As he passed me, he gave me a wink, then grabbed me by both shoulders and gave me a lingering kiss on the cheek. Jordan lived with passion—I loved that about him. He hooked his arm through Rudy’s, and I watched them climb the stairs, then disappear through the door, leaving Teddie and me alone.

Teddie gazed down on me with a look I remembered well, and the time and distance fell away.

I raised an eyebrow at him, and tried, mostly unsuccessfully, to hide my smile. “We’ve just been set up.”

His grin blossomed. “Looks that way.” He glanced at his cluttered stage. “Where’s a baby grand when a guy needs one?” Taking a seat on the edge of the stage, letting his legs dangle, he patted the spot beside him. “Join me?”

He didn’t have to ask twice. Settled beside him, I leaned forward, anchoring myself by grabbing the edge of the stage, a hand on either side of my thighs. Our shoulders touched as I swung my legs. I didn’t mind. Soon, our legs swung in the same rhythm.

If Teddie noticed, he didn’t let on. “Any closer to catching the killer?”

I thought it funny he considered that a safe topic to open the conversation. “I feel like the answers are there, just out of reach. Too many pieces to see the whole puzzle just yet, though.”

“You’ll figure it out, I have faith. Just be careful, okay?”

“You know me.” I shrugged and thought about the many layers to that simple comment.

“That’s what scares me.” Teddie stilled his legs, and mine followed suit, as if tethered. “Want to talk about it?”

“What?”

“Anything.”

I gazed out at the empty rows in the darkened theatre. Tomorrow was Thanksgiving. Mona had some big shindig planned, but I was still in the dark as to exactly what—and how exactly she planned to feed the homeless without all the turkeys. Oddly, I didn’t care. Not about not feeding the homeless, but about how and what my mother had up her sleeve. Funny, as I looked back on it, despite some false steps along the way, she usually accomplished her goals . . . and rarely got arrested.

I mentally worked through some topics to broach with Teddie, safe and not so safe. Before I got the chance to open even one can of worms, the door at the top of the stairs burst open.

A thin man rushed through, silhouetted by the light behind, his features shaded in the darkness. “There you are! I’ve been looking all over!” The voice of Adone Giovanni sounded brittle enough to break with a high note. “You must come quickly, this terrible thing has happened.”

I launched myself off the stage, my heart rate spiking with a huge shot of adrenaline. “Not another body?”

“They have arrested Desiree.”

* * *

Along with the hospital, the Clark County Detention Center was one of my least favorite places. Lately, though, I’d been getting to know both of them well. Especially since, due to an odd quirk of corruption and influence peddling, the Strip, and thus the Babylon, were not in the City of Las Vegas, but rather in unincorporated Clark County. As government buildings went, the detention center had at least a modicum of style, stuccoed and painted in colors of the desert. Of course, it was relatively new and had yet to acquire the patina of despair most jails wore. During the ride from the Babylon, Adone had chattered endlessly, saying nothing other than, “I do not think it is what you think.”

Exasperated, I had fired back, “Why don’t you tell me what
it
is, then I will tell you if it is what I think it is.”

Looking like a schoolboy who had spoken out of turn, he had spent the rest of the ride with his arms crossed in sullen silence. Now, he dogged my heels through the metal detectors and incriminating stares of bored officers.

Stopping in the middle of the atrium, I put a hand in the center of his chest. Amazingly, this got his attention. “Sit over there.” I motioned to some uncomfortable-looking plastic chairs strewn haphazardly around wobbly tables. “Wait.”

I didn’t give him a chance to argue as I turned on my heels and approached the desk. The officer sitting behind a clear, bulletproof wall buzzed me through the locked doors to the side of the desk.

Romeo met me on the other side. Turning, he fell into step—we both knew where we were going. “She’s not talking.”

“So why am I here?”

“To make her talk.” He actually sounded serious.

I did not answer in the same tone. “Well, in that case, you should’ve told me to bring the thumbscrews and my sadistic side.”

“I thought you’d know to do that by now.” Romeo didn’t even smile. As I suspected, he was growing into my snark.

Side-by-side, we strode briskly down the hallway, through a couple of sets of security doors, then stopped in front of a door with a mirrored glass window marked
interrogation room two
. Through the window, I could see Desiree sitting at the metal table, hands crossed primly, looking very composed. “I want to be the good cop this time. Okay? You always get to play nice and expect me to be the heavy, breaking kneecaps and all.”

Romeo rolled his eyes as he turned the knob and opened the door.

Desiree turned worried, angry eyes to me as I sat opposite her. The room was small, the space tight for three adults. “I am not who you are looking for.”

A rather odd opening, but I went with it. “Who should we be looking for?”

“They say I am driving a truck? That I tried to kill you.” In an aggressive move, she stood abruptly, propelling her chair backward.

Romeo moved to intervene, but I put out a hand, stopping him.

Desiree whirled and paced, her agitation propelling her from one side of the small room to the other.

Worn out, I stayed where I was. “So you were not in the garage at the Babylon. You were not selling stolen foodstuffs out of a truck?”

She stopped. Placing both hands on the table between us, she leaned into me.

“Why would I do these things? Selling things I stole from myself? It makes no sense. My products are good. If I wish more money, I raise the prices. Few complain.”

I held her gaze. I could smell her cologne. Chanel No. 5, I thought . . . but of course, what else would it be? “Chef Wexler? Did he complain?”

A flicker of surprise. “He tried to play me against Fiona.” Desiree looked insulted at the thought. “He was not successful.”

“I see.”

“You cannot compromise on quality.” Desiree’s voice held an air of finality.

“Agreed. Did Chef Wexler try again to buy from you?”

Her eyes drifted from mine, focusing instead on Romeo, who stood guard behind me. “Yes, but I would not give him credit. After the bad review, I did not trust his business anymore. It is obvious I don’t trust his judgment, so on what basis would I sell to him?”

Using emotion to counter logic was not my strong suit, so I conceded the point.

“So, he has reason to be angry with you,” Romeo stated.

Desire looked askance. “It is business.”

As if that explained it all. “And ego,” I added.

“He is”—she paused, searching for words—“how do you say it? A small fish?”

I felt like saying that so are piranha, but I had a feeling that she’d feel this little bite Christian Wexler took out of her ass for some time to come. Getting her arrested, even if briefly, was a nice stroke of revenge, if you asked me. I’m sure Romeo would have something to say to Chef Wexler about lying to the police and making false accusations, but perhaps the chef’s revenge was worth the price.

Desiree started pacing again, but this time, with less enthusiasm. “When was I to be doing these things?” She threw the question out, not looking at Romeo or me.

“An hour or two ago.”

“Impossible.” She paused, throwing the word down between us like a gauntlet. “I was teaching a class at the Culinary Institute all day.” She lasered Romeo with a stare. “You must check. You will see I am telling the truth.”

“And,” I turned to Romeo, “while you’re at it, you might want to round up Chef Wexler and find out why he lied, and who really was driving that truck.”

Behind me, there was a rustle of clothing. The door opened, then closed. Desiree and I were alone.

As the sole target, I absorbed her ire. “You are fools. Who says these things about me?”

“Where did the police find you?”

“At Jean’s. I had just arrived home. The Culinary Institute is five minutes away.”

“When the police came to arrest you, did you tell them where you had been?”

“Non.”
Desiree gave me an imperious look. “They are thugs, putting on the . . .”

“Handcuffs?”

“Yes, these.” She rubbed her wrists and deflated a little, her bombast leaving as quickly as it had come. “I am scared, so I say nothing until I have a friend.” Her eyes darted to mine. “Tell me, who says these things about me?”

Was she playing me? Who knew? I decided to take a flier and tell her the truth. “Christian Wexler.”

Romeo walked back in just in time to hear me give her the goods. I didn’t look at him, but I heard his sharp intake.

Desiree’s brows knit as she slowly reached for her chair. Pulling it under her, she lowered herself to her original position. “Why would he say this?”

“Oh, I can think of several reasons.” I didn’t try to hide my sarcasm.

Desiree’s brows knitted in confusion. “What have I done to him?”

“Put his business on the ropes.”

Incomprehension colored her complexion. “But it is only business.”

“Is that how you feel about Fiona? And Adone?”

Her cheeks flushed angry red. “That is different.”

“Only difference is that you are on the receiving end. It was done to you.”

She righted her chair, then sank slowly into it as realization dawned. “I see.”

“Reputation is all we have.” I threw her words back at her.

They hit with the force of a slap. “He was angry, yes. But he understood . . . I think.”

“When his restaurant got trashed, did he blame you?”

When she looked at me, her face was clear. “No, he blamed you.”

* * *

“Her story pans out.” Romeo confirmed what I figured would be true as he walked me out. “I’ll get her things, then take her where she wants to go.”

Lost in thought, I didn’t feel the need to respond. “And Wexler?”

“We’re looking for him.”

Romeo trotted to keep up with me. “Any idea why that chef has it in for you?”

“Sure. He was in the running for the space I gave to Gregor.”

Romeo whistled. “So, Wexler could’ve had a primo spot at the most important Strip property, when the eyes of the world turned in that direction. Most folks I know would kill for that.”

“Apparently.” I did not like where this was going.

“Which spot was it?”

“Where the Burger Palais is now.”

Romeo grabbed my arm, bringing me to an abrupt halt. “Jean-Charles’s place?”

I swallowed hard as I nodded. “Wexler could be behind this whole stunt, setting up Jean-Charles.”

“Your lover.” Romeo’s eyes widened. “Lucky no more.”

I grabbed Romeo and squeezed his arm so hard, he winced—of course, he was down to bone and sinew. “Find Chef Wexler. But don’t kill him until I get my shot.”

A
done
snagged me as I strode through the atrium, lost in thought. “She okay?”

“What?” I tried to focus on him. To be honest, I’d forgotten all about him.

The kohl around his eyes had smudged underneath, giving him a Halloween haunted look. “Is Desiree okay? Did they arrest her?”

I appraised him out of the corner of my eye—to me, his question held a hint of hopefulness.

I gave him the short version, leaving out the important parts.

He looked relieved as we burst through the doors into the fading sunlight—maybe I had been wrong about the hope thing.

The halogens flickered as they fired up. The day had disappeared.

I paused with my hand on the Ferrari’s handle. “I’ll take you back to the hotel.”

He didn’t argue as he followed my lead and folded himself into the car. “This your ride?”

“Only when I’m good.” With the push of a button, the engine growled to life. A flick of my right hand, easy pressure on the accelerator, and we roared out of the parking lot. Heads turned, tracking our progress. A bright red Ferrari lacked even a hint of subtle—I liked that.

“And I bet you are very, very good.”

With a glance, I confirmed he intended the innuendo, which creeped me out. Tatted prima donnas with an attitude—to the extent one didn’t always beget the other—rarely hit my radar. Add the fact that Adone was technically married, and his mistress wasn’t even in the ground yet, gelled the creeping out into a gross-out. What do you know; my libido had developed a bit of discernment. That fact alone gave me hope.“And I’m taken.”

He didn’t seem broken up about that as he turned to stare out the side window, leaving me to the business at hand. I think I probably set a land-speed record getting back to the hotel.

Our good-byes were brief, then I headed for my office—my port in a storm.

I called the Beautiful Jeremy Whitlock on the way. Ideally, he could get some answers from Wexler before Romeo found him. The ante had been upped several times, and I could no longer afford to play by the rules. Besides, I didn’t have the patience for it.

With my serious authority issues, rules weren’t my best thing.

* * *

The Beautiful Jeremy Whitlock met me at the elevators.

“Are you telepathic?” I asked before he had a chance to say anything.

“Just think about me and I appear.” Once again, he shot me those dimples. He should be required to have a license, or at least a concealed carry permit for those things.

Curiously, while I could appreciate, it seemed I’d developed an immunity, another good sign. Perhaps, just perhaps, I was actually growing up and into my own skin.

The doors opened and we stepped inside, then turned to face out as the doors slid shut. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.” I grinned at his reflection.

“I’m getting the short end,” Jeremy groused with a smile as he held back the door for me—the ride up one floor to the mezzanine didn’t allow even enough time for good repartee.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” I fumbled for a key, then remembered my office was still a war zone with a hole in the wall that rendered keys superfluous. “I hope you’ve got something good.”

At my sidelong look, he swallowed the quip I’d known would follow. “I did some poking around on that guy, Livermore.”

I flicked the switch, juicing the single bulb that hung on a wire over my desk. The weak circle of light pushed back the darkness enough to leave me wondering what lurked in the corners. I assumed my normal position leaning back in my desk chair, my feet propped on an open lower drawer. Resting my head, I stared at the ceiling. “I’ve forgotten my manners—can I get you anything?” I raised my head and opened one eye. “Champagne, perhaps?”

He gave me a grin of true contentment.

“Well done, by the way.”

“I’m a lucky guy.” He bowed his head briefly, then his smile turned all business. “Livermore. It was sheer dumb luck I found out who he was. That bad rug he was wearing made him hard to identify—especially from my grainy photos.”

“It’s funny how hair changes a look. I assume he was using an alias.”

Jeremy rubbed his chin and looked a bit chagrined. “I assumed so as well—a stupid, greenhorn mistake.”

“Never assume,” we both said in unison.

“Hiding in plain sight, was he?”

Jeremy nodded. “Dane actually was the one to put me onto the bloke.”

I pretended I didn’t see his worried glance in my direction. “How’s Dane doing?”

“Good days and bad. His ego and his heart took a huge hit when he lost Sylvie.”

He actually hadn’t lost Sylvie—she had died, and he hadn’t been able to save her. Ego-induced blindness had been partially at fault, but I didn’t think it appropriate or necessary to point that out—beating a dead horse.

“Turns out Livermore’s a PI—gives my profession a bad name. He mostly stakes out cheating spouses, that sort of thing. Word on the street is, he’ll do pretty much anything for a buck.”

“Dane’s kind of guy.” That was snarky, not sure why. Okay, I knew why—Dane had been a huge disappointment as a friend . . . huge. Disappointment. Trust. People being less than they could be . . . or should be. Maybe I was just a victim of my own optimism . . . and arrogance. Who was I to think others should live up to my expectations? “Where does he hang his shingle? Livermore, I mean.”

Jeremy gave me a grin with a bit of wicked in it. “The low rent district.”

“Let me guess, Naked City.” A section of town straddling Las Vegas Boulevard just north of Sahara and extending almost to downtown—its exact limits depended on who you talked to—Naked City had been home to a bunch of the showgirls back in the heyday. They had taken to sunbathing nude on the rooftops of their apartment buildings, hence the name. When I was a kid, I thought living there would be the best, but, when I discovered that ‘Naked City’ would not be part of the official address, I lost interest.

“You got it.” Jeremy smiled. “And he’s expecting us.”

* * *

The Ferrari still waited in the valet, its engine not yet cool.

Jeremy paused when he saw the car. “Maybe we should take mine.”

I stepped around him, then raised a questioning eyebrow. “A Hummer is so much more understated.”

“Good point.” He joined me in the car and gave me the address as I started off.

“He’s expecting us?” I asked. If I was to play a part, I needed to know what part. At the end of the driveway, I took a right, heading north, away from the glitz and glamour.

“Yes. I told him it was about a job.” Jeremy seemed to be enjoying this. “He said he’d wait. I got the impression he’s pretty hard up.”

“There’s no telling what people will do when their backs are against the wall.”

Naked City began where the sexy, high-end part of Las Vegas Boulevard ended. Over time, the showgirls had filtered away—the lucky ones wedding mobsters and moving to estates in one of the elite enclaves off Rancho. Cheap motels replaced the apartments. Pushers and pimps moved in.

In recent years, signs of new life energized the law-abiding residents. They had rallied together to clean up their neighborhood. Still a rougher section, Naked City showed a bit of renovation, refurbishment . . . even gentrification. With the resurgence of development in downtown, that would continue. If someone wanted to speculate on real estate, this wasn’t a bad section of town to focus on.

“Take the next right.” Jeremy’s voice cracked the silence.

I downshifted, using the engine to slow us, then accelerated through the turn.

Jeremy scanned the street numbers. “There. Third one down.”

I killed the lights as I eased to the curb, then shut the engine down. A look-at-me car by design, the Ferrari attracted attention, which we didn’t need right now. Of course, I’m sure I wasn’t the first person with a fancy car to troll the street looking for a low-rent PI. Vegas was that kind of town.

Two cinder-block boxes stacked one atop the other housed the yin and yang of Mr. Livermore’s existence—eat and sleep upstairs, work downstairs. The upper windows were dark, but light shown in the one on the right downstairs. The thin curtain diffused the figure of a man standing in front of the desk. Short, hunched shoulders as if hiding from attention, a quick glance toward the window . . . Livermore.

I met Jeremy in front of the car, then turned and followed him up the broken concrete sidewalk. “When he sees me, he’ll smell a rat.”

“We just need to get him to open the door, not that that will be a problem.”

“No need to alert him any sooner than necessary.” I used Jeremy as a shield, keeping him between me and the window in case Livermore decided to take a peek.

Behind me, a car roared around the corner, tires squealing, engine whining at a high pitch.

A loud pop.

A backfire?

Before I could move, Jeremy grabbed me. Throwing me to the ground, he covered my body with his. “Stay down.” His voice was an angry whisper.

In the shadow, out of the rectangle of light cast by the office lights, we didn’t move. Holding my breath, I was afraid to breathe.

More pops. Bullets pinged off the building, ricocheting into the darkness. Several hit the lawn near us. The ground absorbed them with a wet sucking sound. Glass broke.

The car slowed. The bullets stopped.

My heart hammered even though my chest was squeezed tight by fear. I could almost feel the shooter’s eyes moving, looking for a hint of movement, anything to give away our position.

Sweat trickled under my blouse. Adrenaline surged. I couldn’t move.

“Stay here,” Jeremy’s voice sounded hoarse in my ear. In the blink of an eye, he rolled off me. As he rolled, he reached for the gun he kept in a holster in the small of his back. Using momentum to bring his feet under him, he stopped in a crouch. Gun at the ready, held tight in both hands, he squeezed off a few rounds.

Metal thunked into sheet metal as he laced the side of the car.

The driver, shrouded in darkness, stepped on the accelerator, gunning the engine. Tires whined, rubber shredded, then caught. The car fishtailed as the driver struggled for control. I sat, mesmerized. Waiting. The car straightened and accelerated down the street. The brakes glowed red, then the car turned right at the far corner.

Jeremy glanced at me.

“Go!” I tossed him the keys.

He snagged them midair, then ran. In a nanosecond, he had the Ferrari at full growl. He floored it. The taillights blinked once, then he, too, turned out of sight.

Silence closed around me. My heartbeat thrummed in my ears. It was the only discernible sound. Slowly, I peeled myself off the ground. Searching for balance, I rose to my full height, unsteady and shaking, wobbling like an old tree in a savage wind. I brushed down my sweater and jeans and took my bearings.

This was the sort of neighborhood where the sound of gunfire made people stay indoors, so I wasn’t surprised to find myself alone. Livermore’s office still stood, the light shining.

But Mr. Livermore had disappeared.

Worse, the glass window was shattered.

Willing my legs to obey, I bolted up the walkway. The door was unlocked. “Mr. Livermore?” I tried to keep my voice calm, but I couldn’t. The volume too high, the tone too tight, it shook with fear and an overdose of excitement. I didn’t care. “Mr. Livermore?”

I darted into the front room. It was empty. The cool night breeze blowing through the broken window billowed the threadbare sheers inward. A siren sounded in the distance. I paused. Bending at the waist with my hands on my knees, I pulled in deep lungfuls of air. The siren grew louder.

A scuffling sound came from behind the desk—a massive oak monstrosity, its varnish yellowed and peeling. Someone had carved names into the wood—Jessie loves Darryl.

Narrowing my eyes, I moved closer. “Mr. Livermore?” My voice was calmer now.

“Don’t shoot.” The little man rose from behind his wooden fortress. Hands held high, he was as pale as Casper. He shook like a dog on his way to the vet, his whole body racked with tremors. Confusion creased his brows, then the light dawned. “Ms. O’Toole?” Slowly, he lowered his hands. Wide-eyed, he took a step back. “Were you shooting at me?”

I gave him the special look I reserve for a few select morons . . . and Mona, on occasion. “Really?” I held up my hands, palms out. “Do I look like I’ve been shooting at you?”

“Who, then?”

“I don’t know.” The siren had faded—I could barely distinguish it from the sounds of the city.

“Why would someone shoot at me?”

Considering his profession, I thought the question a bit naïve. “Cleaning up loose ends, if I may hazard a guess.”

Livermore swallowed hard as he sank into his desk chair.

I don’t know what it was, a near-death experience, an overdose of jump start, or an exhaustion of patience and energy, but suddenly, a few things fell into place. I advanced on Mr. Livermore. Placing my hands on the desk, scattering the few files and at least a day’s worth of mail, I leaned into him, towering above him. “Why did Jean-Charles hire you?”