Hold ’Em Hostage

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Bee's Buzz

“B
ee-Bee, you're a total luck vampire.”

A serious game of Texas Hold 'Em with friends and family at the table is a recipe for disaster. But as my entire existence since I turned forty seemed to have been a recipe for disaster, I supposed this was just an ingredient in a five-course gourmet meal called Belinda Cooley's Life.

Don't think I'm negative. I was in the grocery store line and picked up my horoscope booklet. The first line read: You have more drama in your life in one week than everybody else has in a lifetime.

So there.

My twin brother, Ben, owner of the aforementioned luck vampire comment, sat across from me, glaring and down to his last ten-dollar chip, having just lost almost everything to me heads-up. My best friend, Shana, wiggled around in her chair, two to my right, giggling and drunk on a half dozen Midori daiquiris. We'd entered a sit and go $100 tournament at the Image casino on a lark as we arrived in Vegas. I want to point out that I was the one to sit down first. The two boneheads paid their way into my table instead of waiting for another game to start.
Duh.
The way I look at it, with sit and gos, in which only the top two players are in the money, it's best to play against strangers, definitely not with people you have to sleep next to later. As it was now, even if the best scenario occurred—two of us won the thousand dollars at stake—one of us still would be losing a C-note. Someone would be cranky, which I wouldn't consider if we weren't sharing a comped suite at the swanky Mellagio hotel and casino down the road.

Shana went all in when a two/seven off-suit hit the board on Fourth and Fifth Streets after a Royal Flop. I shook my head. I flipped over my ten/Ace for a straight. She threw her cards in with a particularly colorful Spanish invective (which I find ironic since she is half-Filipino/half-Irish and zero Hispanic but heck, we are from Texas, where everyone swears in Tex-Mex), pushed back her chair and knocked into a man working his way between her and the table behind us. The force of her water-bra-enhanced chest catapulted a ten-inch serrated, bloodstained knife out of his jacket pocket. It bounced across our table, finally coming to rest, point buried in the felt, pointed straight at me.

The knife wielder fled. Shana screamed and fainted into the arms of the Matthew McConaughey look-alike at the neighboring table with whom she'd been flirting mercilessly. Hmm.

Ben rose and headed for the door, only to be stopped by a phalanx of casino security.

We'd officially boarded the roller coaster that is Las Vegas.

And that was just the beginning.

“H
oney Bee,” Frank Gilbert purred into the phone.
Most people would think this an endearing tone. I knew better. My quasi boyfriend was striving for patience. “I leave you for twelve hours and you get into trouble.”

“I didn't
get
into trouble. Trouble found me,” I argued. Out loud, that statement really didn't sound as good as I hoped it might.

“Uh-huh,” Frank answered, patience unraveling. “You managed to be still long enough for it to catch up with you.”

“I'm offended.”

“You should be.” I could hear the smile in his voice.

“So, when are you going to get here so I don't have to spend my entire vacation at the Clark County lockup?” I glanced over at the door. The cops had with amazing speed sequestered us in separate rooms, ostensibly so we wouldn't compare notes on what happened in the poker room. As I sat in the only chair in the room, I couldn't help glancing at what was on the desk in front of me, and I decided that I was in the office of the head of housekeeping.

“Surely you don't need me? If you're innocent, then you should be able to walk out of there anytime you want.”

“First of all,” I said carefully, now the one striving for patience, “you know better.”

“About your innocence?” The laughter in his voice was undisguised.

“No! About the cops letting me go anytime I want. Come on. The knife was bloody. It was pointed at me. My überadroit traveling companion was the one who crashed into him.”

“Who's the perp? What kind of blood was on the knife?”

“Well, the cops are so chummy with me that we're going out to the Black Bear Diner for breakfast later. I'm sure I'll find out over a cup of joe and some oatmeal hotcakes.” I couldn't help the sarcasm—food deprivation made me cranky. And anything involving syrup sounded so good right now. My mouth watered. My stomach rumbled. “They've already asked me who I work for, meaning, of course, which pimp. Men!”

“Honey Bee.” Frank sighed. The pause stretched on long enough to talk. Another sigh preceded his question. “Honey Bee,
what
are you wearing?”

I looked down at my clingy silver lamé hip-length sheath, Lucky jeans and Swarovski-crystal-covered strappy stilettos designed by up-and-comer Angel Rodriguez, who'd just hired my fledgling advertising agency to run his first campaign. I smiled at my sexy shoes. “Um, jeans?”

“And?”

I glanced down again. Okay, maybe the toenail polish in Hottie Mamma was slightly over the top. “I, um, have some new shoes. I know you'll like them.”

I could feel him shaking his head through the phone line, although he reserved comment. He might have a future after all. “Have you asked about Captain Patterson? He'd remember you.”

“I did. He's busy getting a tan—snapped up by Dade County, Florida, because he handled the media so well during our last fiasco here. He moved to Miami two weeks ago. Poor guy. I think I'd rather be in Vegas.”

I heard Frank swear under his breath. “Without his help it might get a bit sticky, especially if someone connects you to the Steely Stan case, but don't worry. It'll all work out. I'll be there as soon as I can. My flight leaves in an hour.”

“That is, unless one of your famous mystery missions pops up between now and then.”

“Don't start with that,” Frank warned. Our last big trip, which was supposed to have been our first big trip together, was a poker cruise and had turned out to be a lot more and a lot less than we'd bargained for—more adventure, less romance. Suffice it to say, Frank wasn't by my side when we'd set sail, but he was when we docked back in Galveston. As for why and how that happened, well, that's another story.

What Frank did for a living was another story too, one I couldn't tell. He owned a company called FBG Enterprises and carried a business card that read “Security” but don't be envisioning a rent-a-cop on a donut diet. Frank was built like a human panther, carried a concealed Glock and handcuffs, knew how to use both, had an assistant named Joe who looked like the Marlboro Man and acted like Rambo, a part-time PR woman who could be a supermodel and, oh yeah, Frank kept the director of the CIA on speed dial on his phone. Don't you dare tell him I know that last detail, which I garnered through less than honest methods. A breach in privacy that Mr. Security would no doubt disapprove of.

Thinking about those methods made me feel a little guilty, and besides, I was freaked out. I'd seen the county jail on my way to the morgue my last trip to Sin City, and it scared me. Heck, half the folks on the streets in Vegas scared me, so I shuddered to think of what the ones behind bars would do to my fear factor. I sucked in a deep breath and steeled myself to beg. “I'm sorry, Frank. I…I just
need
you right now.”

Ouch, that cost my pride a notch or two.

But it worked.

“Aw, Honey Bee,” he purred. I heard the door click open behind me, but I couldn't hang up. Not until I heard the rest. “Don't worry. Nothing's gonna keep me away from you. Let me tell you what I have in mind when I see you….”

A hard finger poked my shoulder. I tried to sneaky-slide my RAZR phone into my cleavage as Frank kept talking. I heard “whipped cream” and “massage” as it disappeared.

“Miss Cooley!”

I smiled apologetically at the mammoth towering over me who had a Clark County badge conspicuously hanging off the pocket of his pearl-snap plaid shirt. A cowboy cop. Being from Houston, you'd think I'd be used to those types but to tell the truth, my only brushes with the law had been when I was out of my hometown and on vacation. I really should learn that all work and no play was a healthier condition for me. Badge Man cleared his throat. I shrank in my chair. He glowered, unmoved by my charmingly submissive behavior, then spat a wad of chewing tobacco into the garbage can at my knee. Suddenly I was more afraid for my Luckys than my freedom. “Hey, watch it.”

“You're the one who'd better watch it.” He looked at my cleavage without an ounce of interest in anything nonelectronic. Thank goodness. Not that I haven't been known to use my feminine wiles to get me out of scrapes before, but using them with a snuff dipper was above and beyond. Although, throwing him a sidelong glance, I realized he kind of reminded me of Bruce Willis in the last
Die Hard
, ironic mouth and all. Then I remembered Bruce was really good at killing people. He glared. I quivered, just a little. “You were warned. No talking on cell phones. Hand yours over.”

“Even if I
promise
not to do it again, Officer?”

Shaking his head, he opened up his hand and waited. Impatiently.

I retrieved the phone and tried to put it to my ear to see if I could catch the tail end of what Frank had to say but the spoiler snatched it away before I could, severing the connection as he did so.

“Stay here and don't think about using that landline.” He nodded at the receiver on the desk. “We've temporarily disconnected it.”

I couldn't help frowning back at him. For some reason he brought out the second grader in me.

He narrowed his eyes and jutted his lower jaw like the playground bully. Guess I did the same to him. “Someone will be here shortly to take you to be interviewed. I'm Detective Sergeant Dale Trankosky and you'd better wish it won't be me.”

 

T
he next time the door opened, about five minutes
later, I could see that my friend had sent his alter ego. This cop had spent more on regular facials and manicures than Trankosky spent on a year's worth of chewing tobacco. His smile oozed a studied charm it took salesmen years to perfect. His well-cut spring suit could've made the cover of
GQ
. I was immediately relieved, not because I liked him—quite the contrary—but because this was the kind of man I could work. Salesmen sometimes were the easiest sells. Cops not running for office rarely came with this mentality so I counted myself lucky this time.

“Miss Cooley?” he asked, smiling and extending his hand. I accepted it, along with the strong, quick shake. A clunk in the hallway called his attention and I noticed the tattoo on his neck, peeking out from the collar of his yellow dress shirt—a snake's fanged open mouth, a clawed hand holding a serrated scythe, a shark's tail. The creature's body was hidden beneath the suit. I was going to comment on it, but before I could open my mouth, he'd spun around, looking at me with eyes a bit cold for my taste. I reminded myself I wasn't marrying him. And cold was preferable to Trankosky's heavy distaste.

“I apologize for this terrible inconvenience. I'm here to make sure you won't be detained much longer. Follow me please.”

I returned his smile and sighed. “How kind. Thank you.”

Before I could work on him for a dinner from my favorite Egyptian restaurant on The Strip (I was still starving!) while I was being interviewed, his phone rang as we walked down the narrow office hallway that spilled into the Image's exotic gardens of amazingly real-looking fake greenery. “With me,” he answered after holding the phone to his ear for a moment. He paused again, then lowered his voice, “I had to get her away from the five-ohs.”

I assumed I was the “her,” but I wondered what a “five-oh” was. Was that copspeak for the media? I made a mental note to ask Frank, or perhaps I could ask my
GQ
escort once he got off the phone. Hmm. He was currently doing a lot of rather unhappy listening to his cell phone. I tapped his shoulder. What was his name again? Um. I don't think I'd asked. I don't think he'd offered. Uh-oh.

I was following a stranger. I'd presumed he was a cop but he could be many other things. He could be hotel security trying to look like an undercover cop; he could be an undercover cop trying to look like hotel security; he could be a crime boss executioner trying to look like either of the above.

“Excuse me.” I tapped his arm. “I have to go to the ladies' room.”

He hid his irritation by smiling. Practiced and perfect. I halfway relaxed again. “Of course, we'll find you one,” he lied to me, still listening to his caller and choosing a path deeper into the gardens instead of toward the reception desk and possible restrooms.

Hmm. I really didn't want to put him on guard by asking if he was really a cop. As much as I didn't like spending time with the cops, I probably would like spending time with someone pretending to be a cop less. The caller was apparently upsetting him, because he picked up his pace and forgot to keep me in front of him. It was perhaps my only chance.

I ducked behind the next palm tree. Why hadn't I thought to ask for any credentials?
Because, you stupid girl, you were so convinced you could manipulate him you didn't consider he was already doing that exact same thing to you.
Dumb, dumb, dumb. Considering I'd found myself caught with the wrong person in the wrong place a few times too many on my last trip to Vegas, I should've been more careful. Of course, if he was a cop, I was in bigger trouble than I was before. If he wasn't one, however, I was in even worse trouble, of an undefined variety. Why would a non-cop want to spirit me away anyway? My heart raced.

What was I going to do? I didn't know to which interrogation room the authorities had taken Ben after he'd chosen the exact wrong time to visit the potty (or so he said). Shana was still rolling around semiconscious in the arms of the hottie in the poker room. Frank was still in another state. I was on my own. I slid into the depths of a gardenia bush as my escort came marching back down the path, pocketing his phone and muttering obscenities under his breath while maintaining a poker face I'd kill for. Oops, I'd better not even be thinking that. The security at these casinos was so high tech I wouldn't be half-surprised if they'd installed mind reading devices under the leaves. If my friend here had connections with the hidden cameras, he would soon know where I was hiding.

I sucked in a deep breath and did an inventory of what I knew before I was discovered. My escort wasn't wearing a badge but the Image wouldn't have stood for any uniformed rent-a-cops running around under their tony roof anyway. Each casino had a culture, I reminded myself, and my ability to properly play security would hinge on my understanding of those cultures. For instance, there was a certain casino on the south end of The Strip where they could back a paddy wagon next to the craps tables and none of the patrons would bat an eye. Now, a serial killer could be playing twenty-one in the middle of the Mellagio and they would still send in an undercover security dude in a three-piece suit to lure him into the basement before they cuffed him so as to not offend the sensibilities of the high-priced clientele there.

Suddenly I knew how to out my escort—I'd approach the concierge desk as a semihysterical woman and claim I was being stalked. He'd have to identify himself if he were on the level or disappear if he were up to something nefarious. I crept through the garden toward the opposite side that dumped out near the hotel's reception desk. The only problem was the lagoon between here and there, with only the very public bridge as the connection. I tiptoed through the leaves and plastic rocks to the edge of the water, which, unfortunately for me, was the only thing real about the Image lobby. Damn.