Lucky Break (24 page)

“Well, you find him, and I’ll make sure the case is airtight.”

“Just don’t tell anybody we’ve got that machine here.
 
Okay?”

“The cops?”

“They don’t know.
 
In the War on Terror, Vegas is in the bull’s-eye.”

Now, there’s a happy thought.
 
“You got it.
 
Is there anything else?”

“No.” He glanced over my shoulder and lust hit his eyes.
 
“The gun show. I’d forgotten.
 
I know it’s not open but do you think I could take a look?”

“Knock yourself out.”

Moonbird Ridgeway, Moony, to most of us, barked orders to forklift operators who worked for us and the installation guys, who didn’t, as I followed Agent Stokes into the cavernous hall, then watched him stroll away—a kid overwhelmed by all the choices for his one piece of candy.
 

Overalls and a white T-shirt hid Moony’s tiny frame, lending her a no-nonsense air, which she cultivated with an ever-present frown. Her steel-toed work boots had probably been broken in before I was born. Part Paiute, her large eyes and dark skin evoked American Indian, but silver now streaked her jet-black hair. Still, she wore it in a thick plaited tail down her back. Her face, a wide-open expanse, had never seen even a touch of makeup that I was aware of. Perhaps that’s why her skin still held the luminous glow of youth. But, no matter how distant a memory her youth was, wrinkles had yet to defy the force of her vigor. With careful scrutiny, I couldn’t find even the hint of a laugh line.

Often while they were building-out an exhibition, I’d sneak in to watch the amazing dance of men, tools, raw materials, and machines that transformed an empty hollow space into another world. The takedown part didn’t hold the same magic. Watching them dismantle things was like being in on the illusion and none of it was real.
 

“The only folks allowed in here are those here to work,” Moony barked as she gave me the once-over.
 
“I’m thinking from those fancy duds that ain’t you.”
 
Competent and to the point, Moony was as refreshing and as unexpected as a gully washer in July.
 
Born in the saddle on a cattle farm outside Carson City, she was as mean as a prodded rattler, tough and apt to strike … like now.
 
She gave me a glare, then wrapped me in a hug, surprising us both.
 
Shock on her face and pink coloring her cheeks, she jumped back as if contact with me could kill her, like I carried ten thousand volts or something.
 

Not wanting to add to her discomfort, I sailed right on as if a hug from her was an everyday thing.
 
“I’m here to see a man about a rifle.
 
I won’t get in your way.”

She snorted.
 
“You always promise that, and, like a feral kitten, you never can help getting underfoot.”

“Part of my charm.
 
Over-promise, under-deliver.”

She gave me a quizzical look—jokes weren’t part of her warm-and-fuzzy personality, although she liked a bawdy tale better than most, probably due to being raised around mostly men.
 
Her eyes slashed to a hapless forklift on a wayward path.
 
“Next aisle over, Otis!” she shouted.
 
“Dear God in Heaven, are we going to have to send you back to first grade to learn your numbers?
 
Aisle seventy-seven, like I told you.” Like a cowboy herding cattle, she ran her department with a shout and a whip; but she had the lowest turnover of any department head, so I stayed out of her way and let her do her thing. She liked that about me—she’d told me so on numerous occasions.
 

Otis, hunkered down in the seat of a forklift, didn’t look our way as he spun the small machine and motored off.

Moony gave me a wry smile.
 
“You think when you hire these guys you could make readin’ and writin’ part of the requirements?”

“Not my department. I handle them only after they become problems.”
 

“Guess we’re both lucky that way,” she groused.
 

“You know Shooter Moran?” I eyed the rows and rows of booths in various stages of dress, some full fancy, others lean and mean, all sporting enough firepower to destabilize a small nation.

“Who doesn’t know Shooter?
 
That guy’s got a machine-gun mouth and enough bullshit to fertilize half of Clark County.”

“Only half?”

She gave me a snort.
 
“He’s holding forth over on Aisle fifty-three.
 
In the back.
 
That way I don’t gotta deal with him—he’s a pest, thinking he’s so cute while hitting you up for something.”

“I bet you give it to him, don’t you?”

Her flawless skin, unadorned by makeup, creased slightly as her eyebrows snapped into a frown.
 
“If he crosses my path once more, I’m inclined to pepper his backside with buckshot.”

“And I’d be your character witness at trial.”
 

I found Shooter Moran holding forth to a few interested aficionados who gazed enraptured as he worked the bolt on a Winchester 70, my childhood weapon of choice.
 
Tall, sporting appropriate military muscles, with dirty blond hair worn military short, he had an engaging smile that didn’t hide the wariness in his eyes.
 
Even though our paths had crossed through Dane, Shooter didn’t ooze the warmth of a friend, but he didn’t seem like a foe either. And he’d proven he could be useful, unusual for men with his attitude.

Like Dane.
 
But Dane was different.

Shooter had served under Dane in the military, forging an allegiance that bordered on slavish, but that was my opinion and, as such, worth the paper it was printed on.
 
His eyes flicked to mine as I walked up, but he didn’t even hitch in his spiel.
 
I did sort of stand out in the ruggedly male mercenary set.

Dane sat off to the side, his backside perched on the edge of a long table, his legs crossed in front of him, oozing an easy masculinity that was almost impossible to resist … almost.
 
Men who showed a lack of character then found ways to justify it were as plentiful and as painful as jellyfish in an August sea.

I parked my butt next to his and adopted his pose.
 

He looked unhappy when he saw me.
 
“Where’s your security detail?”

“I out ran him a long time ago.”

“Lucky, having guys watch your back is a good thing.
 
Especially considering yours has a target on it.”

I stared down the aisle at the seeming endless array of tables and guns.
 
“Bringing my own muscle has a chilling effect on my investigation.”

He sucked in a breath.
 
“It may come down to you or them.”

“I’ll try to be smarter than that.”

Dane gave up the fight with a snort and a shake of his head.
 

Maybe he was right.
 
Maybe I was being stupid or reckless.
 
But I didn’t care.
 
Some things mattered more.

Teddie.

“So, what’s so secret that I’ve got to hear it in person?” I asked.

“Shooter can give you the lowdown.
 
It has to do with your buddy, Gittings, and a particular weapon with a bayonet.”

As my cauldron of questions started to boil over, Shooter wound up, dismissed his acolytes, and sauntered over.
 
He hitched up his pants and settled a long look on me like he was preparing for a summation at the end of a long trial. “Hey.”
 

Talk about letdown—all show and no go, a man of few words, I’d forgotten.
 
“Hey.
 
Hear you got something interesting to tell me.”

“Yeah.
 
You know how awhile back you helped send down the casino dude, the big wig?”
 
He rolled his eyes upward, like Mona, looking for a brain ... and a name.

“Irv Gittings.”

“Yeah, that’s the dude.
 
Well, he started liquidating a bunch of stuff on account of his legal bills and all.”

Or to pay for a hitman, but I kept that little stink bomb to myself.
 
“And?”

“Well, Captain here,”—he nodded toward Dane who had been Shooter’s captain in the military; once a captain, always a Captain, I guess—“he showed me the photo of the bayonet used to kill Holt Box.”
 
The way he said the singer’s name reminded me of the penitent before the altar.

My patience on the pegs, I shot a look a Dane.

“He’s almost there.”

Shooter looked between us like he had no idea he was the subject of our brief discussion.
 
“We okay here?” he asked.

“Hanging on every word,” I said with a tight smile.

“Right.
 
Well, you know I deal in guns, and a lot of people who need to liquidate in a hurry, well they look to me to solve their problems.”
 
Shooter looked a little uncomfortable.

“Look, what you do and who you do it for is your business.
 
I’m just interested in Irv Gittings and his guns.”
 
I’d tap my foot in frustration, but it’d gone to sleep.

“Right.
 
Well, I got his whole collection.
 
And that gun, the one his granddaddy used in the Civil War?”
 
He waited for my response.

“The one with the GG engraved on it.”

Shooter’s face lit.
 
“Yeah, that’s the one.”
 
He reached around behind him, scanned the guns lined up like birds after a hunt, then plucked one from the middle.

I leaned forward.
 
“Is that the gun?
 
Irv Gittings’ gun?”

“Naw.
 
This one’s just like his except his was in better condition. “This here’s a pre-Civil War Sharp’s Carbine.
 
A new model 1859—these were configured for bayonets.”
   

He handed it to me.
 
“A Sharp’s, sweet gun.”
 
I worked the bolt, weighed the gun across my palm.
 
“Perfectly weighted.
 
You could knock a guy off a horse at over a thousand yards with one of these.”

“Real badass.”
 
Shooter nodded, finally warming to me.
 
He should remember I’m fluent in most calibers.

“So, what about Gittings’ gun?”
 
I handed the weapon back, holding it until Shooter’s eyes met mine.
 
“You had it?”

“Yeah, but I sold it.”
 
He didn’t look like he was hiding anything, just sort of confused.
 
“A guy came in, asked for it specifically, like he knew I had it.
 
Weird thing was, I was just processing the whole lot into inventory.
 
Hadn’t even gotten to that particular gun.”

“How’d he know you had it?”

“He didn’t say; I didn’t ask.”
 
He shrugged.
 
“Sometimes it’s better not to know, you know?”

Oh, boy, did I know.
 
“If you don’t know, then how is that helping me find the guy who bought the gun?
 
I’m assuming he bought the bayonet, the murder weapon, as well?”

“Yep, bought the whole rig.
 
I wouldn’t sell it piecemeal anyway.”

“I assume he had to register the gun?”
 
Hope flared.
 
“You have his personal information?
 
You know how to find him?”

“No, he didn’t have to register it.
 
Antique gun rules and Gun Show loophole.”

Anger burned; I couldn’t control it.
 
The last twenty-four hours had killed my normally low reserve of self-control
 
“Dane.”

This time Dane didn’t put me off.
 
“Shooter, quit milking it and tell the lady what you told me.”

Shooter deflated.
 
He’d been enjoying holding all the cards.
 
“The guy paid with a pre-signed check.
 
When you see the signature, you’ll understand why I took the paper.”
 
He reached to the side, popped the drawer on the cash register, and slid out a slim piece of paper.

I barely resisted ripping it out of his hand as he held it out.

I scanned for the signature.
 
I wasn’t expecting this.
 
“Seriously?” I asked, looking from one man to the other.

They both nodded.

The signature was Irv Gittings’, bold and brassy.
 
The heading said “Irv Gittings Holdings.”

“Why would he connect himself to a murder?”

“Unless he didn’t know the gun or bayonet would be used that way.”
 
Dane said, delivering the blow.