Free Lucky Break by Deborah Coonts

cringed.   “Wise man.   Doesn’t that hurt?”
    He gave me a look.   “What? Avoiding your mother?”
    People and their habits—he really didn’t know.   “Never mind.”   I watched the flickering images on the array of screens.   Even on a Saturday night inching toward Sunday morning, folks were drinking and letting their bets ride.   “Did Romeo find you?”
    “Oh, yeah.   He’s been calling me every ten minutes or so.”   As if on cue, Jerry’s phone at his hip rang.   He tilted it up, looked at the number, then showed it to me before directing the call to voicemail.   “See?”
    “It’s Teddie’s ass on the line.” A hard thought to swallow, even harder to say.   “Sorta ups the ante.”
    “Yeah.”   Jerry switched to all business.   “I had a few cameras working at Cielo.   We’re going through the tapes now.   Got a hit on the guy in the white dinner jacket with a red bow tie and gold buttons.   A short clip in the lobby.   You want to see it?”
    My heart tripped, then raced.   “Seriously?”
    “Veronica,” he called.   One of his techs looked up, her face painted an interesting cascade of colors by the screen in front of her.   “Cue up the feed and roll it to my office.”
    A small cubicle defined by walls of glass on three sides, so Jerry could have privacy and still monitor his fiefdom, Jerry’s office was barely large enough for both of us and his desk, too.   He turned the monitor around so we both could see.   I leaned against the wall, my feet thankful for the easing of their load.   My job took its toll.   If I didn’t change my ways, I’d work myself into a motorized scooter and a permanent ticket to rehab.
    A few blinks and sputters, then the screen leapt to life.   The lobby of Cielo, people milling.
    “There.”   Jerry pointed to a white splotch.   A man, half-hidden by a potted palm.   He was watching someone.   I followed the direction of his gaze.
    He was watching me.   “Shit.”
    He took a phone call, standing there a minute longer.   The other people in the frame moved, greeting friends, collecting for the interview I’d given, or filtering toward the elevators.   Everyone looked happy, normal.   Except one.
    Kimberly Cho.
    She stared at the man in the white jacket and looked as if she’d seen a ghost.
    The man terminated his call, then looked up at the camera with a chilling smile, keeping half of his face hidden.   The feed ended, capturing him in freeze-frame.  
    I stared at the image.   An Asian version of Irv Gittings, especially dressed as Irv always had.   I could see why I thought he might have been that nightmare from the past when I first glimpsed him.   Dark hair slicked back.   A simian brow, small eyes and a mean mouth above a weak chin.   “What about the cameras in the service area?”
    Jerry gave a hacking, phlegmy cough.
    “You’re killing yourself.”
    He doubled over for a moment, fighting for breath.   The spasms passed.   His eyes teared as he looked at me.   “I know.”
    I wondered what I could say that would make him hear.   At a loss, I gave up.   “The service area cameras?”
    “Not working.   That feed went down just as the crowd was gathering.   Still not sure what happened.”
    I pointed to the image now frozen on the screen.   “He happened.”
    “You want a shot of him, I’m guessing.” Jerry fingered a pack of cigarettes, then flicked them aside.   “It’s pretty blurry and only a half-face shot.   Not going to be much help.”
    “I’d really like a shot at him, but for now, one of him will have to do.”

CHAPTER FIVE

    N EWS of a celebrity murder travels fast.   The Holt Box faithful were beginning to gather even though we’d almost turned the corner into a new day.   Candles, flowers, cards, stuffed animals … expressions of grief clustered to the side of the main entrance of Cielo.   The police had cordoned off the drive and manned a checkpoint, checking people