Wanna Get Lucky? by Deborah Coonts Page A

understand I owe you a great deal of thanks,” I said as I rooted around my Birkin. I was able to find three twenties, a five, and four crumpled ones. I felt like a kid amassing his allowance. I led Dane a few steps away. “Do you have two twenties?”
    “What?”
    Clearly he hadn’t been paying attention. I nodded my head toward the security guard, who waited patiently, not facing us, as if money were beneath him. “Two twenties.”
    “Oh. Let me see.” He opened his wallet. “Two tens in here.” Then he started pulling things out of his pockets. “Here, hold this stuff.”
    I extended my cupped hands. In them he deposited several over-laden key rings, two handfuls of coins, two rifle bullets, a roll of antacids, multiple wadded-up receipts, and several crumpled bills, which he extracted. All of it weighed more than my Birkin.
    “With all this stuff in your pockets, what keeps your pants up?”
    “The dictates of fashion.”
    I made a rude noise. “There are no dictates of fashion in Vegas.”
    “Good point. How about several local laws and the presence of an unwilling female, not to mention the security guard lurking in the trees? Will that do?” He smoothed the bills, then held them out for me. “Two twenties, as requested.”
    “Unwilling female?”
    “You haven’t exactly extended the welcome sign.”
    “This is Vegas, Tex. If I threw myself on my back in front of every pretty boy I see, I’d never get any work done.”
    “Yes, but all work and no play—”
    “Makes Lucky a dull girl, I know. Now, about work. Take those twenties and the other money buried under your stuff here and give it to the guard.”
    “What are we paying him for?”
    “Just do it.”
    He did, and the guard melted into the shadows.
    When Dane returned, I handed him all his stuff back, dropping only a few coins in the process. “Sure makes it easier to find lost helicopters when someone calls and tells us where it is.” Yes, I have a knack for stating the obvious. “So, what do we do now? Should we call the police?”
    He walked slowly around the helicopter. “Eventually. But what do you say we take a look inside first?”
    “After you. But don’t touch anything,” I said. Working in a casino, I’d seen my share of crime scenes. I knew the drill.
    Dane pulled a handkerchief out of his shirt pocket, covered his right hand and reached for the door.
    I grabbed his elbow, stopping him. “What if somebody’s in there? Do you have a gun?”
    “It’s hanging on the rack in the back of my pickup.”
    “Guarded by the coonhound, no doubt. But, I’m serious, what if there’s a body in there?” A vision of Willie having met his demise in a prolonged and excruciating way popped into my head. I crossed my fingers.
    “If it’s a body, we certainly won’t need a gun.” Dane threw the words over his shoulder as he turned to examine the helicopter.
    I was right behind him. A shiver chased down my spine—I looked over my shoulder but saw no one. This whole thing was creeping me out.
    Using the handkerchief, and touching only the edge of the handle to avoid smearing any prints, he lifted the latch of the rear door on the right side. “If I remember correctly, Lyda Sue went out this way.” He eased the door open, then flashed the beam of a flashlight Paolo had lent him around the interior.
    Half expecting another dead body to fall out of the thing, and half hoping it would be Willie, I held back, keeping Dane’s body between me and the helicopter.
    “Nothing unusual here,” Dane muttered.
    Drat, no dead Willie. In fact, no Willie, dead or alive.
    Dane then trained the beam of light on the door latch. “Hmmmm . . .”
    “What?” I leaned around him to get a peek at what he was looking at.
    He pointed to the inner workings of the latch. “See how this bit of metal is shinier than the rest? It almost looks like someone filed it so that . . .”
    I could just make out what he was talking about. “Yeah?”
    “And these