Lucky Break (23 page)

And everybody thought Teddie killed Holt Box?
 
The punchline to a joke.
 
I pulled the folded picture of our shooter, and suspected killer even if I was the only one suspecting him at this point, out of my pocket.
 
“When were you here before?”

 
“What?”
 
Her gaze stayed glued to the paper in my hand.
 
What was she hiding?

“You said you never wanted to come back.
 
When were you here before?”

“A long time ago.
 
Holt and I barely married.
 
Before he was somebody.”
 
She smiled a sad smile.
 
Perhaps remembering better times.

“I think I may have met you then?”

Mrs. Box looked like I‘d slapped her.
 
“I doubt it.”

As I watched her fidget, her face pale, her eyes haunted, the memories started coming back.
 
“Irv Gittings.”

She reared back.
 
“Who?”
 
She choked, then cleared her throat.

“Irv Gittings.
 
He gave Holt his first Vegas stage, didn’t he?”

She licked her lips and nodded.
 
“Yes, the Rumba Room and the Moonlight downtown.”

“It’s coming back to me.
 
The Rumba Room was a very good venue back then.
 
How did Holt get the gig?”

Crossing her arms, she pushed back into the deep folds of the chair.
 
“I don’t know.”

She glanced away at something in the garden over my left shoulder.
 
Lying.
 
“I think you do.”
 
She didn’t argue; instead she kept looking out the window.
 

I unfolded the paper with as much dramatic flair as I could, then thrust it under her nose.
 
The tension in the room was palpable.
 
“Does this man look familiar?”

White dinner jacket, gold buttons, red bow tie, he hardly looked like a killer.

Mrs. Box’s eyes widened.
 
Her hand fluttered to her throat.
 
“That’s Sam.”

Well, she got his name right.
 
“Sam?” Romeo asked.

I knew who Sam was; I didn’t have to ask.

“Yes, he’s Holt’s assistant.
 
The one who came back with him from Macau.”
 
She finally deigned to look at us.
 
Okay, she ignored me, focusing on Romeo.
 
“He’s fabulous.
 
Takes care of everything.”

“Sam.
 
Takes care of everything,” I hissed at Romeo after we’d said our goodbyes and had been assured that Mrs. Box would have Sam contact us the moment he returned, which was, of course, if not a lie, a virtual impossibility.
 
Sam might be bold, but he wasn’t stupid.
 
“I just bet he does.
 
And she was lying through her teeth.
 
That woman is horrible.”
 

“She’s like one of those frogs,” Romeo said, sounding a like a boy watching his first
National Geographic
show on Africa—riveted and a bit horrified.

He’d taken a hard left turn, and I’d hit the wall. “Frogs?”
 

“Yeah, you know, the really cute-looking ones?
 
Tiny, all pretty colors that make you want to just reach out and hold them?
 
Then you find out they’re like the most poisonous thing in the world.”

What had started out as a bad analogy turned out to be spot-on.
 
“Remember that when dealing with women.
 
Brandy excepted, of course.
 
I wonder where Mrs. Box fits in all this mess?”

“I know what you’re thinking.”
 
Romeo shut me down with his best skeptical look.
 
“She might be horrible, but that doesn’t make her a killer.”

“It’s not too hard to imagine her and Sam, or whatever his real name is, conspiring to get rid of Holt.
 
Or Ol’ Irv Gittings.
 
Boy, I’d love to see the two of them tangle.”

“That’s all great except for one thing: killing her cash cow seems pretty short-sighted.
 
So, if she killed him somehow and I’m not saying I even consider that a viable theory—why?”
 

“Why?”
 
I asked weakly. I hated people pointing out large holes in my theories. “Is Why in this game?”
 

Romeo laughed a bit.
 
“Why plays left field.”

“Everything with me is out of left field.”
 
That made me smile, breaking through the worry, the sadness, the outright terror of an imagination in overdrive. “But the shortstop is more my speed.”

“I don’t give a darn?”
 
Romeo said, his voice pitching higher at the end in question.
 
“No, that’s your problem, Lucky.
 
You not only give a darn, you care too much.”

“It’s a gift.”

At the edge of the casino, I stopped.
 
Hooking a thumb to my right, I said, “I’m going this way.”

Romeo brushed down his jacket and straightened his tie.
 
“I’m going to have dinner with my lady.”
 
He puffed a bit.
 
“I’m taking her to Tigris.”

Tigris was the Babylon’s top chow hall, strictly five stars.
 
“Wow.
 
Special.
 
Good for you.
 
Every lady loves a little fuss to be made over her.
 
Brandy could use a break, I’m sure.”
 
I didn’t even want to think about the chaos in my office, including Mr. Homeland Security.
 
“After that, go home, get some sleep.”

“If you do the same.”

“Sure.”
 
I was lying though my teeth, and we both knew it.

Until Teddie was sprung, Sam off the streets, my father out of danger, and Irv Gittings shot at dawn, shut-eye was not on the menu.
 
I could try, and probably would, but it would be of little use.
 
I knew myself pretty well even though I fooled myself more often than was good for my mental health and longevity.

But all that for later.

Right now I needed to see a man about a gun.

CHAPTER TEN

B
Y design, to get to the exhibit hall in the convention center at the Babylon one had to make the long trek through the casino, around through the lobby, then saunter past all the shops in the Bazaar, our ode to conspicuous consumption.
 

I picked up Agent Stokes of Homeland Security in the lobby.
 
“You saved me a trip,” I said as I shook his hand.
 
“I was just going to stop by the office to grab you.
 
Today is nuts.
 
Would you mind if we talked on the way?” Before he had time to object, I grabbed his arm and pulled him gently along with me.

Tall, broad shoulders, blond hair cut short, and looking all business-like in a subtle blue jacket with Homeland Security in bold lettering on the breast, he shook his head and fell into step.
 
“I’d like to talk to you about one of your guests.”
 
With my height, his mouth was ear level, which was a good thing, as he’d lowered his voice.
 
“Not really something for public consumption.”

I gestured to the crowd around us.
 
“Look around.
 
The public couldn’t give a darn about us and what we’re talking about.
 
I know you Feds think everyone snaps to attention at the mere presence of Homeland Security, but to most of us Homeland Security is a rude agent with cold hands and an attitude at the airport.”
 
I darted a look at him. “Is the public at risk?”

“That’s TSA.”
 
He didn’t look worried. “Don’t think so.”

“Same difference.” When he slowed down, captured by the smell of charcoaled beef wafting from the Burger Palais, I urged him on.
 
“Glad you’re on top of it.”

 
“Are you particularly glad to see me, or do you treat everyone this way?”

I didn’t think I was being that bad.
 
“Sorry, I needed to offload some snark—being unctuous takes its toll.
 
You drew the short straw.”

 
He glanced around and apparently saw my point about nobody paying any attention, then he leaned into me slightly, his mouth closer to my ear.
 
He smelled like gunpowder.
 
“You’ve got a diplomat flying under the radar.”

“Mr. Cho.”
 
I looked at him with renewed respect.
 
“Have you shot anyone today?”

He gave me a wide-eyed look, then processed my question.
 
“It’s the jacket.
 
Wore it at the range.
 
I like the smell.”

“Me too.”
 
Then I thought about yesterday.
 
“Most days.”

He faltered a bit at that remark but quickly regained his equilibrium.
 
“Heard you had a shooting yesterday.”

Agent Stokes hadn’t made the family connection—no real reason for him to have.
 
“Yes.”
 
I swallowed hard.

“I was with your Security man just now.
 
We went over the tapes.”

“Jerry?”

“Coughs a lot?”

“Yeah.”
 
I moved Jerry up my mental worry list.

“Have you ID’d the shooter?”

“Our LA office has been onto him for some time.
 
He’s a punk with some ties to criminally influenced gangs in Macau, and curiously, here in Vegas.
 
We don’t know his real name, goes by—”

“Sam, I know.”
 
We stopped at the entrance to the convention center.
 
We’d left the crowd behind.
 
Only a few stragglers, mainly couples, wandered down this far.
 
The gun show didn’t open until later.
 
“Do you have any idea what’s going on here, why Sam, or whatever his name is, shot Mr. Rothstein?”

“I was hoping you did.”

Great, another misguided believer.
 
“Not yet.”
 
In case I’d missed a detail or hadn’t made the right loop to be included or there was something Agent Stokes might feel inclined to help with, I filled him in on what I knew and what I suspected.

It took him several moments to process.
 
“Irv Gittings.
 
If we could find him.”

“Tell me about it.
 
But whether he’s jerking my chain or not, I still have to prove who killed Holt Box.
 
Strong suspicion is your buddy Sam, but nobody saw him do it.
 
Heck, I can’t even place him in the kitchen for sure.
 
I saw him the night of the party.
 
He looked to be leaving the kitchen at about the right time, but I never saw him in there for sure.
 
And a defense attorney would rip my testimony to shreds, given my past relationship with the accused.”

“You think that crank call on your phone was from Irv?” He looked like he was warring with himself.

“My best guess is it was too coincidental to be anyone other than one of the actors in this play. But we don’t know.
 
Romeo is running the number, but I’m sure it’s a burner phone.”

“You got the number, though?”

I pulled out my phone and scrolled to it.
 
“Right here.”

Agent Stokes took my phone and made a note of the number.

“What good is that to you?”

He looked around like he was expecting a bolt out of the blue to fricassee him where he stood.
 
This time he really did whisper.
 
“You ever heard of Sting-Ray?”
 
I shook my head.
 
“You didn’t hear it from me either, but I can find this phone.
 
It might take me a bit, but I can do it.”

“I’m pretty sure I don’t want to know the things you can dig up.
 
But if you can find him.”
 
I stopped; a thought pinged.
 
“Can you also record what is said and texted and all of that, anything the phone is used for?”

Agent Stokes shifted from one foot to the other.
 
“Yeah.
 
I’m not telling you anything the major media hasn’t sniffed out, but it’s very controversial.
 
The technology is very hush-hush, so no one can reverse-engineer it.
 
The courts are all over the thing, dismissing evidence because we can’t say exactly how we got it.
 
So, if I find the guy, I can’t guarantee any records can be used against him.”