“I don’t know.” And I really wasn’t sure. “Seems pretty convenient for Rosalie that Lou’s dead now.”
“You think she had something to do with it?”
“No, guess not. Sounds like whoever did this did her a favor. It’s probably the same guy who killed Ray Lucci and also tried to run down Will Parker.”
“Who? Oh, yeah, the guy you were making eyes with yesterday.”
Making eyes with? What century did he live in?
I chose to ignore him. “I’m just saying that I think somehow someone wants to kill off these Dean Martin impersonators.” Something Will Parker had said to me yesterday poked my memory. “You know, Will said that the Elvis chapel across the street keeps stealing the Dean Martins.”
We both instinctively looked over at the larger-than-life Elvis, dancing over the white wedding chapel. It was too much, but almost everything in Vegas was too much. You get used to it after a while.
Jeff laughed. “You think there’s some sort of Elvis- Dean Martin war going on here?”
It did sound ridiculous, but then again…
“Maybe,” I said.
Movement in the corner of my eye made me turn. Uh-oh. Anthony DellaRocco, owner of That’s Amore, was scurrying toward us, a big smile on his face, his arms outstretched.
“You’ve come back!” he said. “Have you gotten over your cold feet?”
The latter was directed at me, because, of course, I walked away yesterday.
Before I could say anything, though, Jeff put his arm around my shoulders and said, “We decided a church is the way to go.”
We did, did we?
“I’m afraid we’re here for a sadder occasion, though,” he added.
DellaRocco frowned, confused.
“Lou Marino’s widow is my sister-in-law,” Jeff continued. “She asked if I could pick up Lou’s paycheck.”
DellaRocco’s face registered recognition. “Jeff Coleman? She called to tell me you were on your way. Come with me.”
Jeff held on to my shoulder, steering me behind DellaRocco. I was glad I now had the excuse to get back in that building, but I wished I didn’t still have to pretend I was going to marry Jeff Coleman to do it.
DellaRocco led us inside and down the hall, turning into an office to our right. It was neat as the proverbial pin. A file cabinet stood against the far wall, a big metal desk sprawled catty-corner to it, an expensive big leather swivel chair behind the desk. The top of the desk held a wire basket with some paperwork and a pencil holder with three sharp pencils, and a stapler sat next to that. A framed photograph of a pretty brunette with laugh lines around her eyes faced the swivel chair.
A brown parcel perched on the far edge of the desk.
Anthony DellaRocco sat in the chair and swiveled so he could pull out his top drawer. He slid out a white envelope and handed it to Jeff, who was also looking at the package.
DellaRocco noticed.
“Came for Ray Lucci yesterday,” he said. His eyes moved from Jeff to me and back again. “Some tattoo place.”
Jeff and I exchanged a look.
“You two look like you know your way around a tattoo parlor,” DellaRocco said with a wide grin, his big voice booming.
“What are you going to do with it?” I asked, ignoring him.
DellaRocco looked startled for a second, as if he didn’t get that I was referring to the package. “Oh, you mean this,” he said, tapping it.
“Did you make sure it’s not ticking?” Jeff asked; his tone was ominous, as if it might really be ticking.
DellaRocco’s eyes widened, and he pushed back in his chair, away from the desk. “Didn’t even think to. You think it might have something to do with his murder?”
I was the only one who knew what was in the package, and I knew that it didn’t, but I shrugged, as if it could be the bomb Jeff suggested.
Jeff was leaning down, his ear now close to the box. He shook his head. “Don’t hear anything. You’re lucky,” he said to DellaRocco. “You know, you should tell the cops about this.” He cocked his head at me. “Her brother’s a detective. Why don’t we take this and she can give it to him?”
DellaRocco’s eyes narrowed. “A detective?”
“He’s with the Las Vegas police department,” I offered. “I’m sure he’d appreciate getting the package. It might be a clue to his murder. You might actually be responsible for solving it.” The last bit was a bit much, but he was nodding as though I was telling the truth.
“I see what you mean.” He paused. “They wouldn’t be upset if I didn’t call them myself?”
Jeff chuckled. “She’s practically a detective herself.”
He didn’t see the dirty look I threw him.
“And even if it’s not ticking,” Jeff added, “remember the anthrax that went through the mail and killed that woman in Connecticut after 9/11?”
That did it. DellaRocco pushed the parcel over to Jeff. “Okay, fine. Get it out of here.”
Jeff picked it up and swung it under his arm. He threw his other arm around my waist and started steering me out. “Thanks, Tony,” he said.
“Thank you,” DellaRocco said.
Jeff was pushing me so quickly out the door that I tripped over my feet. “What’s the hurry?” I said. “Do you really think there’s a bomb in that package?”
“Maybe I want to get my fiancée home,” he said with a leer.
I squirmed to get out of his grasp, but he was too strong.
“A few more minutes, Kavanaugh, and you’ll be a free woman again.”
“I’m already a free woman.”
Jeff chuckled. “Why is it so easy to get to you?” His words were light, but there was something underneath his tone that made me take pause.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
He didn’t answer. He pulled me over to the Pontiac.
“I’ve got the Jeep,” I said.
“Just get in, okay?”
We’d barely gotten into the car before Jeff started opening the package.
“Why are you opening it?” I asked.
“Because I’ve done business with Tattoo Inc. And this isn’t their logo, even though it’s got their name on it.” As he spoke, he ripped the cardboard box open.
I peered over the top to see what was inside.
It was the biggest gun I’d ever seen.
Chapter 32
“Smith and Wesson.45,”Jeff said,picking it up out of its packing material and studying it.
“Put it back,” I said, leaning far enough away so my back was plastered against the door behind me. “You don’t know if it’s loaded.”
“It’s not loaded.”
I gave him a look, and he rolled his eyes at me. “I know a little bit about guns, and it’s not loaded. Okay?”
That’s right. Jeff had done a stint in the Marines.
I’d always had guns in the house, since my dad and brother both were cops. But I’d always kept my distance, not wanting to get too close to one. They made me uncomfortable. All those accidental shootings you read about in the paper. I didn’t want to be a statistic.
“What would Ray Lucci want with a gun?” I said, more to myself than to Jeff.
But Jeff answered. “He was an ex-con,” he said, as if that explained everything, and he put the gun back in the box and folded over the top flaps.
I studied the logo. It was the one on the Web site. But this certainly wasn’t tattoo machine parts.
“You’ve ordered from Tattoo Inc.?” I asked.
Jeff nodded. “They’ve got great prices.”
“But this isn’t their logo?”
“Uh-uh.”
I reached over my shoulder and pulled my messenger bag into my lap. Rummaging around, my fingers finally landed on the Tattoo Inc. receipt. I took it out and waved it at Jeff. “Something’s going on,” I said.
Jeff plucked the receipt out of my hand and studied it before looking up at me, his eyes quizzical. “How did you get this?”
I’d forgotten that Sylvia came to me privately this morning. I had to think fast. “I can’t tell you.” So lame.