Delivering bad news always tied me in knots. Delivering bad news to my father made me feel sick, like the condemned, blindfolded, back against the wall, the acrid taste of my last cigarette lining my mouth like cotton. Of course, smoking was probably the world’s only vice I had managed to escape, but I was pleased with the analogy, so I went with it.
Even with Mona providing for-once-silent support, dread coalesced into a cold ball in the pit of my stomach. Sweat trickled down my sides. A case of serious brain freeze paralyzed my thoughts as words left me. After all this time, I should be used to it—as the chief problem-solver at the Babylon, bad news was a big part of my vocabulary. And the Big Boss handled it better than most—at least, up to this point he’d resisted shooting the messenger. Even still, I’m pretty much of a happy-ending kind of gal.
As the elevator slowed, I straightened then smoothed my slacks and retucked my shirt. I buttoned one more button at the top, I don’t really know why.
As the doors opened, I took a deep breath, which wasn’t as steadying as I’d hoped. Motioning for Mona to precede me, I let her step out to take the first bullet. Through the years I’d gotten used to stepping out of the elevator right into the middle of my father’s great room. Three thousand square feet of luxury, the space felt warm and inviting despite its high ceilings and walls of windows. Leather upholstered walls and rich mahogany floors lent a richness further enhanced by brass sconces casting diffused light. Richly hued Persian rugs, hand knotted in the finest tradition, each with a cluster of furniture fashioned from exotic woods and covered with hides from successful safaris, provided cozy entertainment areas—assuming one could get over the fact that some poor beast paid the ultimate sacrifice so your butt could be coddled, something I could never do. I preferred the overstuffed couch by the window. Paintings, lesser works by the great masters from the Big Boss’s handpicked collection, dotted the walls, each perfectly lit.
“Albert,” Mona called. When no one answered, she headed toward the hallway leading to their private wing. “Let me check our room. Make yourself at home, honey. Of course, I don’t need to tell you that.”
Bright sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows that defined the room on two sides. Lured by the view, and comforted by the fact the room appeared empty, I wandered to the windows. The Las Vegas Strip stretched at my feet and angled toward the horizon. To the west, the Spring Mountains hunkered down, a ragged scratch defining the horizon. Carol Lombard had lost her life in a plane crash in those mountains. Clark Gable had never recovered from the loss. Ever the romantic, I thought about the tragedy more than I would admit to.
My stomach told me it was long past feeding time but I wasn’t certain. My stomach often led me astray. The bagel had done nothing but stoke the fire in the hunger machine. Clearly, I needed food, but I also needed to find my father.
Preoccupied and in desperate need of a moment of peace, I stared at my city, its lights now dimmed in deference to the sun. Daytime wasn’t Vegas’s best time. Sunlight doused the neon magic and made everything appear…normal, mundane even, as if the city turned in on itself, regenerating, restoring, awaiting the rebirth of nightfall.
Shutting my eyes, I took a deep, quieting breath.
My mother returned, shaking her head. “I don’t know where he is.” She settled on the couch. Patting the cushion next to her she said, “Come sit. You look exhausted. Rest for a minute. Your father usually comes to check on me about this time of day, after his lunch meetings.”
Her suggestion was a good one. I settled into the couch’s soft embrace. Leaning my head back, I closed my eyes. We fell into a thoughtful silence.
Somewhere I had heard about a relaxation technique where you concentrated on relaxing one muscle at a time. They may have kicked me out of yoga class, but I wasn’t above trying some of the stuff on my own. First my neck. I rolled my shoulders and turned my head slowly from side to side. The tension eased. Only a bit, but I’d take it. Now my breathing. I slowed the rhythm, willing my body to relax. In. Out. The world retreated.
The sound of the elevator whirring to life penetrated my consciousness, hitting me like a Taser. My father. Shady Slim Grady.
When the doors to the elevator opened, I was standing in front of them. My father looked up, surprise on his face. Before he could say anything I stuck out my hand. “Your wallet?”
“What?” He gave me a half laugh as if he thought I was joking.
“Can I have your wallet, please?”
He reached into his hip pocket with two fingers, a sardonic grin, and no questions. After extracting the worn leather billfold, he handed it to me.
I opened it, plucked out a hundred dollar bill, and handed both back to him. “Make me something.”
He kept the bill in his hand as he stuffed the wallet back into his pocket. The amusement in his eyes disappeared as he looked at me. “That bad, huh?”
I nodded as I took his arm, leading him over to the couch. Mona patted the spot where her feet had been. “Sit by me, Albert.”
He did as she asked. “What’ll it be? An elephant for luck?” he asked.
“Luck is always in short supply.” And Shady Slim’s had run out, but I didn’t add that part.
With Mona absentmindedly kneading his shoulders, my father began to crease and fold the money, his fingers working the paper with the quiet sureness of years of practice. Instead of worry beads, the Big Boss turned to origami to ease the tension, to take his mind off unpleasantness. As he folded, refolded, and creased a small form took shape. This miniature elephant would have its trunk raised…for luck.
With one hand he grabbed mine, opened it, and dropped the tiny shape into my palm. With both hands he closed my fingers over it and held them there. “The two most important people to me are in this room, alive and well, so don’t look so stricken. Whatever it is, I can handle it.”
“It’s Shady Slim. He’s dead. I’m so sorry.”
A tic worked in my father’s jaw as his face clouded. Mona reached for his hand and squeezed, her eyes reflecting his pain. He worked his hand from hers then patted it as he rose. I stepped out of his way. As he moved to stare out the window, I stepped in beside him.
“Heart attack?” he asked after a few moments. Shady Slim had been asking for one for years. Everyone, including Slim, had known it was a matter of when, not if.
“Don’t know. There weren’t any obvious signs of foul play.” I left out the part about him dying on the throne. Somehow I didn’t think my father needed to be burdened with that bit of indignity. “Romeo questioned everyone. There will be an autopsy, but with budget cuts and the fact that no foul play is indicated, it could be a while before we have any results. I’ll let you know when I hear.”
“Arrangements will need to be made.”
“I mentioned that to Miss Becky-Sue.”
My father flinched. “Slim always said he wanted to be buried here. I think he has a plot at Palm Mortuary. He said no funeral.”
“No funeral?”
My father shook his head then gave me a faint grin. “No, Slim wanted a party. He didn’t want anybody going all soft and weepy. I believe that’s how he put it.”
“A wake?”
“From the sounds of it, he envisioned something bigger, something definitively Vegas.”
A themed party in lieu of a funeral?
My father sounded hopeful, but not certain. “I think it’s called a Celebration of Life.”
But of course.
***
The increasing energy level in the lobby assaulted me as the elevators deposited me in the middle of the fray. With long strides, I covered the vast marble expanse taking in every detail while pretending not to. The lines in front of each registration station were several customers deep but moving quickly. With ready smiles, bellmen jumped in to help with baggage. Cocktail waitresses in their tiny togas with gold braided cord, balanced on stilettos while darting in and out, supplying the oil that kept the squeal out of the Babylon’s finely tuned engine. Clusters of admirers gathered under the flocks of blown-glass hummingbirds adorning the ceiling. Others wandered, window-shopping, holding hands, relaxing. A gallery of spectators ringed the large windows in front of the ski slope and rewarded a successful run with raised glasses and a cheer. A spectacular wipeout earned a collective groan and cringe.
Midafternoon was well under way. No wonder my stomach was staging a revolt. Liquid refreshment before dawn and one bagel slathered in a cholesterol-raising amount of butter was hardly sufficient sustenance—at least for this body.
Something told me there was a yummy, juicy, gourmet...French…hamburger in my very near future. The lone bright spot in a deadly day. I’d been sidestepping Jean-Charles’s issue of an appropriate kitchen—it was time we came to some sort of resolution, although I had no idea what. But first I probably ought to put in an appearance at the office and at least pretend I was in charge. And there was Dane…
Feeling the need to move, I took the stairs, two at a time, to the mezzanine. Miss P didn’t give me a glance when I burst through the office door. Her eyes were riveted to the six-foot-four, two hundred and twenty-five pound hunk holding down a corner of her desk—the Beautiful Jeremy Whitlock. For a nanosecond, envy perched on my shoulder. To have a guy like that. I could almost resort to mooning, too…almost. He bent down and whispered in her ear, making her blush, then giggle. Mooning, blushing, and giggling—the woman had no shame! I should be so lucky….
As a challenge to females everywhere, Jeremy had been graced with light brown hair, brown eyes flecked with gold, a ready smile hanging like a hammock between a pair of the deepest dimples, and a body begging to be…Well, I slammed my mind closed on that visual. Suffice it to say he was the kind of male populating women’s fantasies since the beginning of time. I wasn’t immune. I could easily picture Jeremy in a kilt wielding a broadsword, or astride a white steed. But he was Miss P’s knight, and there are certain boundaries no friend would ever cross. Especially not this friend.
“Jeremy, great. I need to talk to you,” I said, as I breezed by on my way to my office. Two steps through the door, I realized it wasn’t my office anymore—it was Miss P’s. But she was sitting at her former position out front, which was where Brandy should be. Old habits are hard to break. And I had a hard enough time keeping up without my staff playing musical desks. I backtracked and this time, under the amused expressions of Miss P and Jeremy, stepped through the makeshift doorway to my new office—or what would someday be my new office, perhaps not in my lifetime the way things were going, but someday.
Miss P followed me with notepad in hand and Jeremy on her heels.
“Take a seat.” I motioned to a tarp-covered form against the wall as I settled into my desk chair. Early this morning, which now seemed a lifetime ago, I had uncovered my desk. Like powdery snow, a fine layer of white now dusted the rich burled walnut.
A cloud of fine grit floated and danced in the shafts of light that filtered through the doorway and shone weakly from the lone overhead lightbulb as Jeremy folded back the cloth over the couch. Miss P sank into the soft cushions as Jeremy straddled the arm, folding one leg over the other so his ankle balanced on his other knee. Holding his leg in both hands, his foot bounced as he glanced around the construction zone.
“I love what you’ve done to the place,” he said, his dimples deepening. What is it about an Australian accent that runs through a woman like molten chocolate?
“Nothing like that personal touch,” I said as I tried to marshal my thoughts—the morning had left me reeling. Two dead bodies are two more than I’m used to dealing with.
Leaning forward, I placed my hands on my desk, idly swiping at the dust. Then, focusing on a point on the wall—not making eye contact somehow made the telling easier—I summarized the events of the morning. Miss P scribbled notes. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Jeremy staring at me intently, a small frown marring his otherwise perfect visage, but neither interrupted me as I filled them in on the dead woman on the car—Dane’s wife—the poker game and my Poker Room showdown with the Stoneman.
After I finished, the two of them stared at me with owl eyes. Jeremy was the first to break the silence. “Hooley-dooley, Dane has a wife.” He reached across the space between us and grabbed my hand. “Lucky, you have to believe me, I had no idea.”
“You work together.”
“He was a right-up guy.”
I looked at him and wanted to believe him. “That’s like telling me he slaps his wife around a bit, but he’s really a great guy.”
Jeremy’s eyes widened and he started to say something, but I silenced him with a raised hand. “Don’t mind me. I’m not exactly feeling kindly toward the Y-chromosome set these days. Nothing personal.”
He gave me a wink. “Of course not.”
Dane was a championship liar and men historically weren’t great at ferretting out the bad apples in their barrel, so I let Jeremy off the hook. “I need you to find a needle in a haystack: an optician somewhere in this town willing to fit red contact lenses. I know Sylvie could’ve gotten those things anywhere, but, if we’re lucky…” I let the thought hang.
“That all?” he asked with just a hint of sarcasm, which made me grin.
“Child’s play for a man of your skills.” Nervous energy overflowing, I picked up a pencil and began tapping a rhythm on the desk. Irritating I know, but it was a far sight better than wringing necks or shooting someone and I figured Jeremy and Miss P would get that. “I have no idea what to make of any of this. I need you to get me a toehold, at least.”
“What can I do?” Miss P asked.
“Someone hung a banner outside the Ferrari dealership—a hand-lettered, butcher-paper sign designed to block the camera recording the traffic in and out of the showroom. Security says the work order came from this office.”
Miss P’s eyebrows snapped into a disapproving line.
“Could you follow up on that?”
Miss P, familiar with my order-framed-as-a-question style, didn’t bother to answer. “Then get Flash on the phone,” I went on. “Somehow we’ve managed to keep Shady Slim under wraps, so give it to her. Tell her to handle it appropriately—she’ll know what you mean. It’s sorta interesting Miss Becky-Sue hasn’t tried to sell the story to People or something.”
“Maybe she’s honoring Slim’s memory?” Miss P offered.
I paused, pondering that imponderable. “Possible, but the high road isn’t her usual route.” I turned to Jeremy. “Can you find out where the Stoneman lives, the places he hangs out in when he has free time, and anything else you deem pertinent? We need to find him ASAP. It also wouldn’t hurt to get a snapshot of his finances.” I pushed up out of my chair. The others rose out of habit. “When you are ready to go round him up, call me; I’d like to ride along.”
He nodded, but his eyes had lost focus as if he were already three steps ahead of me in the thinking game. Apparently not hard to do these days. Being blindsided by life was getting really tiresome.
“Oh, and Brandy? Has she caught up with Cole Weston yet?”
“He staggered in not too long ago, muddy and dead on his feet. He’s asleep in his room. If he sleeps as soundly as most young men I know, she won’t be able to get his attention with the light over the door. And he certainly won’t hear the phone or a knock, so she’s waiting until he appears. Do you want her to get security to let her in his room?” Miss P looked like she knew the answer.
“No. Barging in there half-cocked would open the hotel to serious liability.”
“They’re supposed to meet up at five.”
I glanced at my watch. “It’s almost five now. When they appear, give me a heads-up and I’ll meet them in the Burger Palais. The food’s on me.”
“You got it. And I’ll get on that sign as you asked. Where will you be in the interim?”
“Whomping rats.”
***
By the time I hiked up the steps to Delilah’s, a thumper of a headache pounded behind my right eye. Great. A migraine, a putrid pit in my stomach, two dead bodies, one of them a good friend of my father’s, another a former friend’s wife, a Poker Room manger playing games, and that former friend hell-bent on proving my all-men-are-pigs theory was actually true and not the result of rampant cynicism. Could today get any better?
Pulling my phone from my hip, I flipped it open and hit Jerry’s direct dial. He answered on the first ring. “Jer, where’s Watalsky? Did you tell him I want to see him?”
“I put the bug in his ear, but he said he had plans. I didn’t think it was critical.”
“He’s peggin’ my interest meter.”
“I’ll try to roust him—he was here until after dawn. Left with a pile.”
“Any idea who he took it off of?”
“DeLuca. And he wasn’t happy about it.”
“DeLuca. He’s next on my list. Do you have a bead on him?”
“Girl, he won’t be here at this hour.”
“Keep an eye out for him. Let me know the minute he hits the property, okay?”
***
The sight of Dane sitting at the bar, his back hunched, two empty Buds in front of him and draining a third as I approached, did nothing to brighten my less than sunny disposition.
Thankfully, business was light at this hour. The only other patron sat at the far end of the bar mechanically punching buttons on a video poker machine embedded in the bar top. I thought I remembered seeing the guy here yesterday, and the day before that. I wondered if he ever went home…or if he had one to go to. But, in my line of work, it was best not to dwell on those kinds of questions, so I didn’t. I was only one problem-solver swimming in a sea of problems—drowning wasn’t a possibility; it was an inevitability. So, it was best to pace myself, delay the inevitable.
“Drinking’s really going to help,” I snarled as I slid onto a stool next to Dane.
He set the third empty next to the others, carefully aligning them before he spoke. “You’d be surprised.”
The water cascading down the sandstone wall behind the bar, the flowering bougainvillea trailing from trellises, the soft music, warm colors and muted lights were supposed to be welcoming and soothing. I wasn’t buying any of it. Apparently I must’ve looked ready to chew through a tanned hide or something because Sean, our head bartender, kept his distance as he lifted a bottle and an eyebrow at me. I shook my head—just the thought of a Wild Turkey fireball in my empty stomach convulsed me with anticipatory pain. “Club soda with lime, please.” If he tried to hide his smirk, he didn’t try very hard.
Sean put a tall glass filled with clear liquid and bubbles in front of me. Bubbles really weren’t my thing—unless they were rising through a golden liquid from a very specific region of France. However, I’d been trying to cultivate a taste for water—part of my anemic effort to improve my health—so Champagne had been downgraded from an everyday thing to a special occasion thing. And bubbles were an attempt to make a tasteless beverage palatable. Why did everything that was good for you have to be so unappealing?
“If anyone wants to know what a lying creep looks like,” I said, glancing at Dane as I took a tentative sip of the soda water, grimaced, then placed the glass back on the bar and pushed it away. Bubbles didn’t help. “I’ll just send them your picture.”
If my verbal arrow hit his soft underbelly, I couldn’t tell. I hoped it had, but felt bad if it did. What can I say? Conflicted is my natural state. Apparently I am incapable of feeling a pure, unadulterated emotion without wallowing in ambivalence.
“I take it you looked at the security tapes.” Dane motioned for another beer.
“Convicting. And that’s ignoring the serious issues you have with the truth for a moment. Those tapes alone are more than adequate for a grand jury. The two of you leaving the Poker Room, heading toward the dealership, where she was found dead—you were the last person to see your wife alive.”
“Only if I killed her.” He glanced at me then focused on lining up the fourth beer with the others. He didn’t take a sip.
“How much money were you guys wrangling over in the divorce?”
He glanced at me. “Enough.”
“And those scratches on your face.”
With a haunted look in his eye, he raised a hand to gently probe the angry red gashes on his right cheek. One of them was deep enough to have drawn blood.
“Did Sylvie give you those?”
“She was pissed when I showed up in the Poker Room.”
“Why?”
He gave a snort. “With Sylvie, the rising of the sun each day could piss her off. I know it looks bad.”
“Bad!” At a loss, I stared at him. Clearly his reality wasn’t mine and words weren’t bridging the gap. I grabbed his arm, swiveling him around so he at least half faced me and had to meet my eyes. “Cowboy, let me give it to you straight: You are so far up shit creek even a Mercury outboard wouldn’t help.”
“But you can.” This time, when his eyes met mine, they held.
“Dane, I’m a customer relations person. If you’ve got a pesky rash, an ill-advised marriage to be annulled, your bathroom is too small, your bed too hard, your dinner unacceptable, your show tickets for the wrong show, your wife needing to be rubbed the right way, I can fix that. But you’re looking at twenty to life with no parole. What you need is a pit bull with a Bar card and a healthy dose of divine intervention.”
“Or someone who can uncover the truth.”
“A concept you seem curiously divorced from.” Throwing caution to the wind, I grabbed the full bottle in front of him and drained half of it before coming up for air. Beer, not my beverage of choice—a bit low on octane—but it was a darn sight more bracing than water with bubbles. “I can’t help you,” I said as I slammed the bottle on the counter. I resisted wiping my mouth with the back of my hand as being a wee bit tacky.
“Can’t or won’t?”
Unwilling to answer, I shrugged and refused to meet his gaze. Conflicting emotions waged a battle in my churning belly. Of course, the beer hadn’t helped. And it also wasn’t helping me fight my Pavlovian response to other people’s problems.
Dane reached for the bottle still clutched in my hand. I relinquished my hold and he drained the remaining beer in one swallow. “I’ve lost your trust,” he said as he again carefully aligned the bottle with the others as if keeping score.
“One of the many downsides to lying.”
“If I promise to be square with you, will you at least listen before deciding whether you will help or not?” He gave an almost imperceptible nod to Sean who popped the top on a fresh longneck, then slid it down the bar where it stopped, still upright, in front of Dane—a skill I marveled at.
“Cowboy, I would like nothing more than to hear the truth. But how do I know when you’re giving me the straight skinny and when you’re shining me on?” I asked even though I knew he had no answer. Trust, once lost, can be regained but never fully restored. And, picking the right horse in this race would be critical. If I picked poorly, I’d be in desperate need of a get-out-of-jail-free card.
With a weak grin, he crossed his heart. The smile didn’t reach his eyes. “From here on out, no matter what, no more lying.”
“You know what this is like?” I focused on the television hanging in the corner while I fought a losing battle with myself. Even with the sound muted, I could tell the talking heads were discussing our murder. In Vegas, while good news traveled fast, bad news traveled at the speed of light. The one bright spot appeared to be that Shady Slim Grady’s demise was still under wraps. “This is like one of those word problems in freshman algebra: If a liar tells you he’s not lying, is he?” My resolve weakening, I gave Dane a tepid smile. “I never got that answer right.”
Sensing my weakness, he went for the kill. “Help me? Only you can fix this.”
Manipulation at its best and most obvious. Why didn’t it put the fear of God in me? I must have a death wish.
“Against my better judgment, I’ll listen, but we take it one step at a time.” Relief washed over him, easing the tension from his features, relaxing his posture, and breaking my heart a little bit. “However, if you try to hook a ring through my nose and lead me down some path, I’ll bust your ass. Are we clear?”
“Crystal.” He grabbed my arm and squeezed. “Thank you.”
“As a token of your good faith, give me Sylvie’s phone.”
“I don’t have it.” He shook his head. “Before I called you, I looked for it. That’s why my boot prints were around the…” He swallowed hard, then cleared his throat. “The car.”
“Give me her number.” I boosted myself up and leaned across the bar. Sean had a bunch of pens stashed in a glass next to the register. I grabbed one, then handed it to Dane. He wrote the number on the back of a cocktail napkin, which I folded and pocketed.
Fire burned in the pit of my stomach. My body was trying to tell me something, something more than it was hungry, but I ignored it. “Sean, do you have some peanuts or something back there?”
“Peanuts, please! This is the Babylon. We have plump whole cashews and dates from the finest Persian markets. Extra-virgin olives…” The kid’s smile lit his face as he pushed a bowl of the delicacies in front of me. With blue eyes, a receding hairline, and short-cropped brown hair, which he spiked up, Sean had an easy rapport with customers and, apparently, us corporate types. He loved to tell young ladies that his last name was Finnegan and he was Black Irish. I knew the truth: His last name was really Pollack and he was from New Jersey, but far be it from me to bust his myth.
Even though I knew there was no such thing as an extra-virgin olive, I played along, appreciative of Sean’s attempt to lighten my mood. “Then those olives are the only thing extra-virgin in this town.” I pretended to grouse as I picked at the nuts Sean set in front of me. I popped a few in my mouth and said to Dane, “Okay, let’s try to figure out who’s playing whom. Why don’t we start with the poker game? Tell me everything you know.”
“I got pieces, but I don’t see how they fit together.” Resting his elbows on the bar, Dane sipped his beer as he settled in. “Sylvie called me a week ago. To be honest, I was surprised to hear from her. Our relationship, if you could call it that, was acrimonious at best and over a long time ago. After being granted an early discharge, I started the formalities, as I told you.”
“Early discharge?”
“Cost-saving program.”
I tested a few of the dates as I listened. “What made Sylvie call you now?”
“She was scared, I think. Although, with her it was hard to separate the truth from the bullshit.”
“At least you two had something in common: Lying, the bedrock of a solid marriage.” I avoided the olives as being far too healthy while I contemplated another beverage choice.
“Do you ever give it a rest?” Now it was Dane’s turn to snarl.
“Not when I’m angry.” I said matter-of-factly, then turned my attention back to the bottles behind the bar. “Sean, how about a split of Veuve Clicquot?”
After rooting in the refrigerator under the bar, he popped the cork, filled a crystal flute and set it in front of me. “Celebrating something?” he asked me with a quick glance at Dane who continued to scowl into his beer.
“The demise of good judgment.”
“Always in short supply,” he said as he wiped his hands on a bar towel. “But you’re lucky, in this town, it’s not valued.” With a nod and a raised eyebrow at Dane, he wandered to the end of the bar to check on his other guest, leaving us alone.
“What is it with bartenders?” Dane snarled when Sean was out of earshot. “They’re always spouting some profound philosophical bull they’ve overheard.”
“Wisdom gained from vicarious experience—the safest kind.” One sip of champagne and every nerve ending jumped with joy. On some level I knew that should bother me. However, caring was an insecurity I hadn’t the time nor the energy for—coping took everything I had. “What was Sylvie doing in that poker game?”
Dane didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he stared into his beer. I could almost see the wheels turning—the truth shouldn’t be that hard. “I don’t know,” he finally said, “but she was as twitchy as a dog before a storm. She bought in for cash—she wouldn’t tell me who staked her—she never had that kind of green.”
“Anything you do know?” What I meant was did Dane know anything important that I couldn’t find from another source, but I was betting he knew that. The guy hid plenty of IQ points behind the aw-gee-shucks cowboy routine. I’d learned that the hard way—which was pretty much my MO, especially when it came to men.
“Someone was watching her, I know that.” Dane glanced at me as if trying to see if I was buying it or not, then he refocused on his beer.
“Who?”
“She didn’t say.”
I grabbed his knee and spun him around. Face to face, I leaned in. “Don’t play me, Cowboy. I didn’t ask you what she said; I asked you what you know. I’m five seconds from walking.”
“Okay, okay.” He rested a hand on my knee, as if anchoring me to my stool. “I don’t know who exactly was watching her. Several of the players in the game showed more than even the normal amount of interest my wife generally drew, but nothing that seemed odd. Everyone seemed pretty focused.”
“With those guys, it’s about the chase,” I said, thinking out loud. “Winning is everything. There is no such thing as enough. The games they play when the stakes are high are subtle, but very serious. And the Poker Room manager, did she mention him?”
Dane thought for a moment. “Not that I recall. Why?”
“I just find it odd, that, with all his years of experience, he didn’t figure out she was cheating. After that much time, you just develop a sort of sixth sense, you know?”
Dane shrugged. So he knew she had been cheating…“She was slick.”
“Maybe the manager wasn’t that smart, but if anyone else knew…” I let the thought dangle. Vegas was a boat riding on a river of money. Anyone messing with the flow was a marked man…or woman. One possible motive, and a tableful of “persons of interest.” “You told Romeo that she called you during the game, but we both know that isn’t true. Why’d you call her?”
“I wanted her out of there. I could tell the noose was tightening—someone was onto her.” His voice cracked. Swallowing hard, he cleared his throat.
“Saving damsels in distress is your thing, isn’t it?” Dane had run to my defense a time or two so I knew the drill. “But she didn’t want to be rescued.”
“No, she was pissed.” His brows snapped down. “Damned independent women.”
“Excuse me?”
He shrugged, but didn’t meet my angry gaze. Nor did he look sorry.
“You two left the Poker Room together. It’s not too big an assumption to believe you stayed together, but that would make you the killer. You say no. So, what’s your story? Lead me through it.”
Dane worked his shoulders, stretching. “I’m a fool.” I detected a hint of defeat in his voice, but I wasn’t about to argue—I happened to agree with his assessment. “Once we were out of sight of the Poker Room, she…” Again he rubbed his cheek and winced. “Like I said, she was pissed. Said we should split up. She didn’t want anyone to see us together and it would give me a chance to see if anyone followed her.”
That sounded reasonable…I guess, since I’m such an expert in this arena and all. I nodded for him to continue.
“We were to double back and meet in Delilah’s. She promised she would lay the whole thing out for me.” His eyes narrowed and his face shut down. “Guess she had no intention, really. She didn’t show.”
“So how’d you end up in the dealership?” I took another sip of my champagne—much better bubbles.
“I really was on my way to the garage—my truck is still there if you want to check. I saw the dealership door ajar and the rest is history.”
“Not quite—there are some giant holes in the story. You didn’t smell a rat?”
He shook his head.
“Bad time to be wrong.” I resisted diving in for more nuts—Champagne with anything other than beluga was like a crime against the god of good taste or something. No need to add my name to the shit list of another minor deity—I was on enough of those lists already. “Did she clue you in to her need to detour through the dealership?”
“She was pretty good at keeping me in the dark.”
“A skill you seemed to have picked up,” I said as I sipped my bubbly and eyed him over the top of the glass. “Do you have any idea why she would go there?”
“None.”
I let the silence stretch between us. “The cameras in the hallway leading to the front door of the dealership weren’t any help—they were blocked.”
“Yeah. I saw the sign.” He moved to get Sean’s attention then apparently thought better of it—I guess five was his lucky number. I did not smile at the pun.
“Do you have any idea how she got in? Did someone let her in?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.”
“Doubtful.”
“I’ve told you all I know.” He reached over and squeezed my hand. “Trust me.”
“Said the spider to the fly. Where men are concerned, trust isn’t good for my health.” I finished the flute of Champagne and poured the rest of the contents of the bottle into my glass, before I spoke again. “Did you see anything odd? Anyone hanging around looking nervous?”
“Odd? In this loony bin?”
My patience at an end, I leveled what I thought was my best stern gaze on him. “Anything that looked…I don’t know…wrong?”
He pursed his lips and shook his head.
“And you didn’t show up on any of the security feeds after you and Sylvie split up. Where’d you go?”
“I doubled back. I wanted to see if anyone followed her.”
“So why did you avoid the security cameras? That looks a bit suspicious, don’t you think?”
“I wasn’t avoiding them, it just looks that way.” Dane took a deep breath and looked at me, conjuring his most sincere look. “Lucky, it all looks bad, but I’m telling you the truth. You have to believe me.” His eyes skittered from mine as he hailed the bartender. “Sean, what do I owe you?” he asked as he reached into his back pocket for his wallet.
Sean glanced at me and I shook my head. “It’s on the house,” he answered.
Dane backed off the stool, then pulled a hundred out of his wallet and tossed it on the bar. “This ought to cover it.” Then he turned to me. “If you find out anything, you let me know.”
“You didn’t seem surprised she was cheating. You wouldn’t happen to know why she was also losing, would you?”
That got his attention. His eyes snapped to mine and widened in surprise. The most amazing color of green, those eyes were his best feature—emerald whirlpools that captured the weak and unsuspecting. Conscious effort was the only thing keeping me from surrendering my sanity and succumbing to the pull.
Leaning back, putting a few more inches of distance between us, I nodded in answer to the question I saw lurking in his expression.
“She busted out,” he said. A statement, not a question.
“Curious, isn’t it?” I knew I’d never keep the sarcasm out of that simple statement, so I didn’t waste the effort.
“It doesn’t make sense.”
“Amazingly, that much I’d figured out all by myself. Do you have any idea why she would cheat, then not win?”
“Something scared her? It was part of a bigger plan?” He rubbed his eyes and for a moment he let his mask slip and I saw the toll all of this was taking. Not that I felt pity, but I’d be lying if I said his pain didn’t squeeze my heart a tiny bit. “How the hell do I know?” He made it sound like an epithet as his shoulders drooped in defeat.
“Go home, Cowboy.” I picked up his Ben Franklin from the bar and stuffed it in his shirt pocket, then patted his chest. “This mess will be waiting for us tomorrow. Maybe a new day will bring a fresh perspective.” In my experience, that was rarely the case, but a little ray of hope is a powerful thing.
Taking my hand from his chest, he raised it to his lips—his skin was cold. With a sardonic grin, he let my hand go.
I watched Dane saunter away—he really did have a Grade-A ass. Too bad he was one as well. Even though he hadn’t answered my questions, he’d shown a few of the cards he was holding. He hadn’t told me about the necklace…or the shoes. He hadn’t explained dodging the security cameras—a skill we all had—at least not to my satisfaction. Although he acted surprised, he hadn’t asked how I knew Sylvie had been cheating or how she had done it. Yup, there was a lot he hadn’t shared. But he had told me one thing loud and clear—we weren’t partners. Like a TV cop working his snitch, Dane wanted to keep me close, letting me do his work for him.
He might think me a fool, but he had met his match. Coming up through the casino ranks, I’d cut my teeth on inveterate liars, cheats, cardsharps, and other vermin. Compared to them, Dane was a piker.
“Did he kill her?” Sean’s voice at my elbow startled me out of my reverie, which was a good thing as my thoughts had done a one-eighty toward committing a murder rather than trying to solve one.
“If he did, he’s dead meat.”