“Moran. The moron. Where?” Then it hit me. He wasn’t the moron. I was. Little Miss Fell-off-a-Turnip-Truck-Yesterday. I’d taken Moran at his word; I’d just forgotten where his allegiance lay.
Dane.
The cold ball of dread exploded.
“Double fuck!” I shut my phone ending the call. Pulling my set of master keys out of my pocket, I let myself into Cole’s room.
His bed didn’t appear to have been slept in. No trash in the trashcans. No orders from room service. No half-eaten pizza. His toiletries untouched. His vibrating alarm clock still sitting on his bed waiting to jostle him awake.
And no kid.
Hands on my hips, I tapped one toe in semiconscious effort to rid myself of the nervous energy that put rocks in my stomach, tensed the muscles of my neck, and soured my already abysmal mood. I stood in the middle of his empty room, waiting, hoping for some stroke of divine luck, some insight that I was previously blind to. The clock ticked loudly then flipped to another number as a minute expired. Laughter echoed down the hallway. A door slammed shut. The elevator dinged, then doors closed on the laughter leaving an eerie quiet. Noise normally filled my world. Quiet echoed—I didn’t like it
And I’d been beaten silly with a stupid stick. No great thoughts, connections, insights. The world was dark. Oz had spoken and I was found wanting. Inspiration was shining a light on someone else’s parade. Not that I was surprised or anything.
I sagged onto Cole’s bed and lay back. Afraid to close my eyes, I stared at the ceiling. The light fixture was some Byzantine thing of filigreed gold—I didn’t like it.
What would Dane want with Cole? Information, but he didn’t have to take him for that. So, where did they go? Who were they looking for? A number of possibilities sprung to mind. The girl? DeLuca? Slurry was in a coma at the hospital under the watchful eyes of Metro.
Despite really concentrating, I came up empty. I wasn’t Dane. I didn’t know what his plan was…other than to catch a killer…or kill a witness. Yes, somehow that girl in the shoes had put herself in the vortex of this maddening maelstrom. Everyone was after her, and I had no idea where to look. I had a feeling Cole might have a clue, but, as usual, Dane was ahead of me.
And I’d hit another dead end.
The innocent phrase hung over my head like a black cloud, ominous and foreboding. The sun was up and everyone knew poker players were nocturnal creatures. Cole should be in his hole, resting up. Nothing good could explain his absence. Well, maybe there was a good reason, but I couldn’t think of one.
I only hoped the kid was having a better run of luck than me.
My eyelids sagged as I surrendered. On the verge of giving up, I gave in. No longer able to stuff my random thoughts into their compartments, they hammered in my head, beating me into submission. Most days, being me was pretty decent, darn good on occasion, but some days it sucked. Today was one of those days. A card-carrying Pollyanna, today even I found it next to impossible to find even a toehold of peace on earth and goodwill toward man.
Too many dead bodies. Too many questions. Where was the connection?
And why did Sylvie Dane get caught in the crossfire?
A gentle vibration shook me. I shifted and ignored it. A few moments, the vibrations grew stronger, irritating. Opening my eyes, it took me several seconds to get my bearings. Pushing myself up, I paused on the edge of the bed and brushed my hair out of my eyes. Falling asleep on the job was becoming a habit. I reached over and slapped the alarm clock, turning the vibrating feature off. The thing read two o’clock. The alarm had been set. Cole had intended to come back to the room.
Why hadn’t he?
Oh yeah, Dane.
As I was struggling with reality, a knock sounded at the door. Still a bit groggy, for a moment I couldn’t figure out what to do. Explaining my presence might be a bit dicey, after all, hotel execs aren’t supposed to go parading through a guest’s room without an invitation, or at least, a good reason, but I had to know who else was looking for Cole. If I needed an explanation, I’d do what I always did—I’d lie.
Finding my balance on the staggeringly high heels—perhaps the Jimmy Choos had not been the best choice—I brushed down my satin pants and rearranged the sweater exposing one shoulder with a hot pink bra strap. Attitude. If I didn’t feel it, I could at least look it. And, as Flash said, if you pretend long enough, it becomes true or something to that effect. That girl had a way with words.
I turned the knob and pulled open the door. “What the…” I caught a glimpse. Hand raised. Arm coming forward. Instinctively I ducked down into the crook of my arm. Closing my eyes, I recoiled. I felt it before my mind could register. Liquid. Rivulets ran down my face. Cold. Not blood. No, something sweet. Like Coke. “Hey!” With the back of my hand, I swiped the liquid out of my eyes.
A hooded figure, shadows obscuring a face, paused for moment in front of me, hand raised, fist clenched. Then whoever they were turned and ran. I got a flash of jeans. A gray hoodie. Tennis shoes. In seconds, the assailant disappeared into the elevator that stood open at the end of the hall.
Instinct took over and I bolted after the figure. “Wait.” Two steps and my ankle twisted, crumpling me to the floor. Walking in the stilettos was a skill only recently acquired—running in them was out of the question. “Fuck.” I grabbed my phone and began barking instructions to the hapless security person who had the misfortune of answering. Hot to the touch, my ankle swelled before my eyes. Kneading it didn’t seem to be helping. Ice was clearly in order, then a good shower. This day had me on the ropes already.
Arm-in-arm a couple strode out of another elevator and turned in my direction. They parted to walk around me, one on either side, but said nothing. In Vegas, inanimate objects don’t attract interest.
With Security alerted and on the lookout for my hooded Coke hurler, there was nothing more for me to do. I pocketed my phone and pushed myself unsteadily to my feet, then limped to Cole’s room to attempt repairs—I could only imagine what I looked like. Scaring the guests was against hotel policy.
***
“What the hell happened to you?” Miss P actually looked taken aback when I eased through the office door and she got a good look at me.
“Get Romeo on the phone. Dane’s taken Cole.” I raised my hand at her unspoken question. “No, I don’t have any proof. Which seems to be par for the course.” I reached over her desk and gave the top right-hand drawer a tug. When it opened, I grabbed the spare set of keys to my apartment. Straightening, I tossed them to her. “Then, will you be so kind as to get me another outfit to wear today? This one has seen better days.” I glanced down at the brown stain covering my chest. My clothes were ruined, my hair matted. My skin itched under its sugary crust—too bad they couldn’t have hit me with Diet Coke. So much for Flash’s theory that the world would be mine. “And some ice and a fistful of baggies, sandwich-size.”
She picked up the phone. I stopped listening when I heard her say, “Room Service, please.”
“Oh, and a gun,” I added. At Miss P’s startled look I continued, “There’s a hooded Coke-wielding madman loose in this hotel. I’d sure like to pepper his ass with some double-aught buckshot.”
The door opened behind me. I didn’t bother to turn—I didn’t care who it was. If I had to smile and be nice to one more person today, well, it probably was a good thing I wasn’t locked and loaded. Instead, with one hand on the wall for support, I limped toward my office.
“That wouldn’t be Coke, would it?” Romeo’s voice sounded grim.
“What’s left of one.”
With one hand holding my arm and the other planted firmly in my back, he propelled me toward my office. “Quick. You’ve got a shower back here, right?”
He caught me by surprise. Thrown off balance, I staggered. “Ow.” Pain shot up my leg, weakening my knee as my twisted ankle caught my weight. “Easy. What’s got you all lathered up?”
He thrust me into the small cubicle. “Get out of those clothes.”
“Why, Romeo, I thought you’d never ask.” I didn’t grin—I wasn’t amused.
Pressing his lips into a thin line, he reached around me and turned the taps on the shower. Quickly the room started to fill with steam. Grabbing me by the shoulders, he pushed me into the stream of water, clothes, shoes and all.
“What the hell are you doing?” I spluttered as I came up for air.
“Saving your life.” He started rubbing my hair under the water. “You do it. Get it all off. I mean it.”
“What the hell do you mean saving my life?” The look on his face wiped the smirk off mine, and my pithy reply fled.
“Cyanide.” He slapped a bar of soap in my hand, whirled on his heel, and left. “For once, do as you’re told.”
The three of them, Miss P, Brandy, and Romeo were waiting for me when I emerged, a towel wrapped around my head, and the rest of me wrapped in a Babylon bathrobe of thick Turkish terry cloth. Miss P, a scowl on her face, her eyes filled with concern, held up some clothes on hangers. “I didn’t know what you wanted, so I picked what I thought would be appropriate.” A peach sweater, white jeans, gold sandals with a flat heel.
I reached for them, but she pulled them out of my reach. “I’ll hang them up. Brandy, make her sit and let’s get some ice on that ankle.”
Romeo perched on the arm of a plush chair that cocooned Brandy. His hand on her shoulder, he idly traced the line of her jaw with his thumb and glared at me, relief softening the bite.
“How the hell did you translate Coke into cyanide?”
“I was just coming to tell you that the coroner’s report came back on Mr. Johnstone.”
“The Poker Room manager,” I added for Brandy’s benefit. The rest of us had the displeasure of knowing him.
“Right.” Romeo continued. “On a hunch we tested your Poker Room manger’s clothes and personal items, looking for any trace of poisoning. We found it on the dirty shirt from his locker. Coke with enough cyanide residue to kill him…eventually.”
“What do you mean, eventually?”
“The poison had to have been absorbed through his skin. It would take a while for that to happen, but he would’ve exhibited symptoms for some time before the poison built up to lethal levels.”
“Symptoms? Like what?” I was starting to feel sick, nauseous.
“Vertigo, light-headedness, confusion, giddiness, difficulty breathing. You know, all the oxygen-deprivation kinds of things.”
“Thinking back on it, when I fired him, he was acting sort of weird.”
“How so?” Romeo reached for his notebook. “What time was this?”
“About four, I guess. It was after I left you and Dane in the showroom. Then I took a shower.” I hooked my thumb at my office behind me. “Same place. It wasn’t long after that that I hit the Poker Room and Marvin was abusing Cole.”
Romeo made a few notes then looked up. “You said he was acting weird. What do you mean?”
“He was sweating, flushed, pulling at his collar. To be honest, the thought that he might’ve been drinking crossed my mind—he did smell like amaretto or Frangelico, something like that. Something nutty. But now…I guess it could’ve been the poison.”
“You’re not feeling any of those symptoms are you?”
At the thought, a squirt of adrenaline surged through me. But, after taking stock of how I felt, I started to relax. I was tired and angry, hurt and homicidal, but not light-headed or confused—and certainly not giddy. In fact, the pain and anger cleared my head and focused my resolve, like the red dot of a laser sight on a target pistol. “No. Thank you very much.”
Romeo nodded, and gave me a quick, knowing smile. “Where could the Stoneman have been doused with Coke?” Romeo asked.
The question sounded vaguely rhetorical, but I actually had something to add. “I can’t tell you exactly where—I have Jerry checking some of the other feeds to see if he doubled back into the hotel—but I can tell you when.” I filled him in on Rachael’s story about Marvin leaving the Poker Room as the high-stakes game was getting underway.
“And you think she was telling the truth?”
“One of the stewards corroborated.” I adjusted the ice bags on my ankle—the skin had gone numb. “They both said he wasn’t gone long. He couldn’t have gone far.”
A chill washed over me. “The Ferrari dealership?”
Romeo let out a breath. “So, maybe he did notice Sylvie was cheating?”
“Or they were in it together?”
“But what were they up to?” Defeat tinged the detective’s voice.
“Don’t give up yet, Grasshopper. We’re getting more pieces to the puzzle, surely the picture will start to become clear.” Okay, I wasn’t sure I believed me either, but, although I may be a fool, I’m no quitter. Especially when folks were messing with my Vegas mojo. “What about Cole Weston?”
“I’m ahead of you there.” Romeo looked pleased—and capable. As I suspected, he had grown into his badge. “I put an APB out on him—we’re beating the bushes but he hasn’t surfaced.”
“That Coke wasn’t meant for me,” I stated, trotting out my flair for the obvious. But this time I wasn’t looking for answers…I was looking for reassurance. Nothing like being mistaken by a killer to suck the joy out of a dismal day.
“I’d say Mr. Weston is a marked man,” Romeo agreed, giving me what I wanted. “We’d better find him first.”
“I don’t know what else to do.” I carefully extricated my foot from its shell of ice—the whole thing was blue and numb. I wiggled it, testing the limits. Better, but well below my normal championship levels—I was going to need a pinch hitter, or at least a designated runner. “Ladies, let’s get back to work.” I levered myself to my feet.
Romeo rushed to my side. The kid looked dead on his feet. “Where do you want to land?”
“Desk chair, but I can make it on my own, thanks.” I rotated my foot, making several circles. The range of motion seemed to be increasing, at least, that’s what I told myself. With the current body count at three, I did not have the time to baby a recalcitrant body part. “If I don’t tackle some of that paperwork, I won’t be able to find my desk tomorrow.” Stymied, thwarted at every turn, I was in desperate need to accomplish something. Paperwork. I
must
be desperate.