Assignment Vegas: The Case of the Athlete's Assassin: Jae Lovejoy Cozy Mystery Two (Jae Lovejoy Cozy Mysteries Book 2) Read online

  LUCEY PHILLIPS

  Assignment Vegas:

  | The Case of the Athlete’s Assassin

  JAE LOVEJOY COZY MYSTERY TWO

  Copyright 2017 Lucey Phillips.

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Titlepage

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Author's Note

  | One

  Wandering the halls of the Currents Resort was like being lost in an underwater labyrinth. Normally, I’m not a sucker for Vegas-style smoke-and-mirror theatrics, but I was swept away by the gleaming silver-blue floor and the soft lights that spread in wavy patterns across the high ceilings and walls.

  Colin seemed enthralled, too. He could barely make it five steps without raising his camera to capture our unusual surroundings.

  As we wound our way through the hotel lobby, the casino floor, and the shopping mall, he and I walked in silence, taking in the atmosphere. There was an aroma, too. It was light, and a little sugary.

  We were on our way to meet McKenna Johnson, an athlete-turned-performer, who had won an Olympic gold medal in gymnastics at the age of 13. After her gymnastics career ended with a disappointing second Olympic showing, she battled drug and alcohol addiction for a few years.

  She had a successful stint in rehab and rebranded herself as an aerialist for the most popular show on the Vegas Strip: Dream Myst. The show was housed at Currents Resort, the newest resort and casino in Las Vegas. It featured a two-acre indoor lagoon complete with a coral reef and exotic fish that could be viewed from the casino floors and from acrylic tunnels that criss-crossed under the water between restaurants and gaming areas.

  McKenna was a fiercely private athlete—presumably because the public criticism of her athletic decline and her descent into substance abuse had been so harsh. But, for some reason, she liked my reporting. When the resort asked her to get involved in some publicity for Dream Myst, McKenna said I was the only reporter she wanted to talk to. They granted me exclusive behind-the-scenes access to McKenna’s show and her private life.

  I write a travel series called Assignment America for the online news network Alt News America. My job is to visit different cities and write feature stories about the people who embody the spirit of those places. McKenna was the perfect example of Las Vegas success—someone who had lost everything but managed to rise up and make her dreams come true.

  Colin is an award-winning photographer for Alt News America. He’s also handsome, with a reputation for having an active romantic life. But, so far, I haven’t seen much evidence of that. The Colin I know is quiet, considerate, and a very talented photographer. Also, he saved my life.

  I wasn’t sure he would want to stick with me after our first job together; a feature called Assignment Denver. We got sidetracked from the typical travel writing to cover a murder. We ended up getting close to the suspects and other people involved—way too close.

  Now we were far from the naturally beautiful mountains and fresh air of Denver. Vegas was a man-made oasis, and it was the opposite of the ruggedly majestic Colorado mountains. Even though it was entirely synthetic and consumer-driven, there was still beauty to be found here—it was just a different kind of beauty.

  Colin and I entered a pair of heavy double doors marked “Staff Only.” This area had an aquatic theme, too, but it was toned down compared to the public spaces. The gray-blue color and soft, recessed lighting created a calm atmosphere.

  A slender security guard greeted us from behind a tall desk. After I told him we were there to see McKenna, he made a brief phone call. Soon, a petite woman, wearing a sleek, red mohawk and a headset, appeared from the far end of the hallway.

  “I’m Dee,” she said, as she reached out to shake my hand, then Colin’s. “McKenna’s been looking forward to meeting you.”

  Dee led us down a narrow hallway at a brisk pace.

  “Me too,” I said. “This place is amazing.”

  “Wait till you see the show,” she said, smiling brightly.

  Unlike the other performers, who shared a large dressing area, McKenna had her own private dressing room. But the sign on her door was less than lavish. It was a simple “M. Johnson,” printed in black letters on a plain white piece of paper.

  Dee held the door open for Colin and I to walk inside.

  I’d had no idea what to expect. The only recent photos I’d seen of McKenna showed her in full costume makeup. And the older pictures available, from before she revamped her career, were either mug shots or paparazzi photos depicting her looking emaciated and strung out—always in dark, oversized sunglasses.

  The woman I saw lounging on a couch in the dressing room fit neither of those images. McKenna had the trim figure of an athlete and the healthy glow of a woman who had found some peace.

  She wore her black hair in a loose bun. McKenna looked like she’d either just finished or was about to begin a training session. She had on black leggings and an oversized, gray hooded sweatshirt with the Currents logo embroidered on the front.

  “I was following your news stories from Denver,” McKenna said after our introductions. “I thought you might end up canceling on me.”

  “There were a couple times I thought we weren’t going to make it, too,” I said. “I didn’t want to miss this, though.”

  I asked McKenna if she was ready to get started. She nodded and offered me a seat across from her. After Colin asked, she gave him permission to photograph us during the interview.

  “I don’t know if people would even recognize me without the costume,” she said, smoothing her hair. “I have hydrotherapy in the hot tub after this, so, you know, I’m not wearing any makeup. I’m not really photogenic right now.”

  “It’ll be great,” Colin reassured her. “The more candid the art, the more depth the entire piece has.”

  I smiled at Colin. He had a knack for putting people at ease.

  “Are you injured?” I asked McKenna.

  “No. Well, not really,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “There was this weird slick spot, maybe spilled oil or something, on the floor out here in the hallway the other day. I had on ballet flats so, of course, I slipped and strained this shoulder a little. Nothing serious, but it’s been tight ever since.”

  “Do you, like, take a few days off when stuff like that happens?”

  McKenna shrugged. “The production encourages us to rest when we need it. Plus that gives the understudies a chance to be on stage, to stay sharp. But really, no one wants to do that. In theory, it should give you a longer career to let your injuries heal properly. But it’s scary to see someone else in your role—to see how replaceable you are.”

  I nodded and started writing h
er quote in my notebook. But before I could finish, there was a loud cracking noise.

  I looked up in time to see McKenna flinch. A startled expression crossed her face. The lights flickered, then we were in darkness.

  I instinctively reached toward my messenger bag and held it close to me, waiting for the backup lighting to turn on.

  “What …” McKenna started to say.

  She stopped when a light came on from the corner of the dressing room. It was Colin. He’d set the flash on his camera to glow softly, like a lantern.

  The three of us looked at each other for a moment. Then the silence was broken by a woman’s scream from down the hall. “Mike! Mike!”

  “That’s Dee,” McKenna said, her eyes wide. She jumped up and ran out of the room. Colin and I followed her.

  McKenna was fast. By the time we got to the end of the hallway and turned a corner, Colin and I were both breathing hard, while McKenna was almost out of sight.

  We followed her into a steamy, white-tiled room that smelled like chlorine. The emergency lighting from the hallway created a glow that allowed us to see Dee’s profile. She was on the floor, kneeling over a man’s motionless body. They were beside a small in-floor pool.

  “Mike?” McKenna shrieked.

  Holding her hands to her mouth, she stood frozen over Dee and Mike.

  I felt two hands on my shoulders as a tall man with dreadlocks guided me to the side, so he could get past me. He kneeled on the floor and quickly took charge of the situation.

  “Dee, call 911,” he said. Then he looked at McKenna and pointed to the wall behind her. “Hand me that first-aid kit.”

  He pressed two fingers against Mike’s throat, then leaned his ear toward Mike’s nose and mouth.

  “He’s breathing. He has a pulse,” the man in dreadlocks said. “Do we know what happened?”

  “I was walking by and there was a loud noise and the lights blew out,” Dee said. “I came in here and Mike was lying on the floor.”

  The man held the back of his hand against Mike’s arm.

  “He must have had a hand in the water. I think he was shocked,” he said.

  He looked back at Dee. “Call maintenance. Make sure they don’t switch any circuits back on until they check this pool.”

  The room was nearly full now with men wearing expensive suits, show staffers, and performers.

  “Is he going to be okay?” a rotund, dark-haired man in a navy pinstripe suit asked.

  “I don’t know,” the man in dreadlocks replied. “He’s out.”

  McKenna spoke softly, “I was supposed to meet him here at two for hydrotherapy.”

  Her hands were cupped over her sternum. I expected one of her castmates to approach her, to comfort her, but McKenna was decidedly alone.

  I looked over at Colin, who wore an expression of stunned disbelief. I smirked, knowing he and I were thinking the same thing: not again.

  An EMS crew wheeled a stretcher into the room. A couple of crew members shined flashlights onto Mike so the medics could see as they worked. They started an IV and put an oxygen mask on his face.

  They hooked him up to a heart monitor, which began ticking out a steady rhythm of beeps. Mike’s chest rose and fell with breaths that appeared shallow. He lay still. His eyes were closed.

  In the small pool beside him, little plastic tubes and paper strips stuck close to each other as they floated on the water’s surface.

  I circumvented the dense crowd surrounding Mike so I could get a closer look at the pool. I couldn’t see how he was shocked. There certainly weren’t any cords or appliances near the water.

  Mike had probably been testing the water, checking the chlorine levels in preparation for his appointment with McKenna.

  I looked across the crowd. McKenna was leaning against the wall, her arms folded across her chest. Despite the fact that she was wearing a heavy sweatshirt, and the room temperature was well over 80 degrees, McKenna shivered.

  Colin stood beside her, his camera dutifully hanging from his neck. It must be killing him, I thought, to be so close to an emergency but forbidden from photographing it.

  Duke Minor, the top PR rep for Currents, had given us strict instructions to photograph McKenna in her dressing room and on stage only. Interviewing or photographing other people and places at Currents would not only compromise the casino’s security, it would get Alt News America banned from the site. We were on their turf, and had no choice but to play by their rules.

  The EMS crew moved Mike onto the stretcher, covered him with a sheet from his feet to his chest, fastened straps across his legs and torso, and wheeled him away.

  The bulk of the crowd followed the crew out of the room. I walked up to McKenna.

  “Are you okay?” I asked her.

  She nodded, but she didn’t look okay.

  I tried to give her a reassuring pat on the arm, but comforting was not always an emotional behavior that was within my grasp. My gesture felt awkward.

  “Maybe we should go back to your dressing room,” I suggested.

  McKenna nodded and muttered “thanks” as she wrapped her arms tightly around herself and followed Colin toward the door.

  “Don’t touch that, James!” someone yelled toward the man in dreadlocks. James was lifting a panel from the floor. He held his palms up.

  “It’s all right,” he said. “I’ve got to take the pool off the grid so they can turn the electricity back on.”

  “Let maintenance do that,” the man in the pinstripe suit yelled. “You don’t want to get shocked too.”

  Now James was lying stomach-down on the floor, his head and arms reaching into the hole where the panel had been.

  After a moment, he sat up, wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, and said, “We’d better call the police. This has been tampered with.”

  “It was an accident,” the man in the pinstripe suit announced. “Let maintenance look at it.”

  Then the man pointed toward the door. “Everybody out,” he said. “This room is closed until maintenance can clear it for safety.”

  As we followed McKenna back to her dressing room, Colin leaned close to me.

  “Do you think we should leave?” he asked quietly.

  I shook my head. Excusing ourselves would be the polite thing to do. But I was afraid that if we left, and McKenna was spooked, we might not be invited back.

  After all we’d done to get here on time, I needed to get my story.

  | Two

  When the three of us got back to the dressing room, McKenna paced for a moment. Then she drew in a shaky breath before blowing her nose.

  Colin and I looked at each other awkwardly, across the dimly lit room.

  “Can we, uh, get you anything?” Colin asked McKenna.

  “I’m okay,” she said. “My mom will be here soon anyway. She always brings me lunch.”

  Colin and I looked at each other again. McKenna was a grown woman. Why did she need her mother to visit her at work, with lunch, on a daily basis?

  Of course, she was a minor celebrity. The norms of society, such as “don’t bring Mother to work after you’re old enough for driver’s license,” don’t really apply to celebrities.

  “Do you think Mike is going to be okay?” McKenna asked as she took a bottle of water from her mini fridge.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Are you close with him?”

  “Kind of,” she said. Then she paused, “Not outside of the show, I guess, but he’s helped me lots, with injuries and stuff.”

  She took a sip of water and asked, “Are you going to write about this in your article? About Mike getting hurt?”

  “No. The casino was really clear. They’re only allowing us backstage—and to interview you—if I stay on topic. They’d pull our access if we tried to write about something else.”

  “That’s good,” she said. “I know Mike wouldn’t like being in the news.”

  With a low-grade hum, the lights flickered on and a small fan o
n McKenna’s vanity countertop resumed spinning.

  In the brighter lighting, I could see that McKenna’s eyes had a red-rimmed appearance that hadn’t been there before the power had gone out. Her lids were puffy. She caught me staring and smiled weakly.

  “Sorry,” she said with a sniffle. “Normally the production is utterly obsessed with safety, but it seems like weird accidents have been happening a lot lately.”

  A woman with a deep widow’s peak pulled into a sleek bun burst into the room. She was carrying two large brown paper bags.

  “Oh Kinny, are you okay?” she asked as she set the bags down and ran toward McKenna.

  McKenna’s stiff facial expression collapsed in on itself as she began to sob.

  “I don’t know, Mom,” she said as she drew her knees toward her chest and wrapped her arms around them. She buried her face behind her forearms while she cried.

  “Oh baby, don’t do that,” the woman said as she pulled at least a dozen tissues from the box on McKenna’s vanity. “Here, honey,” she said, holding the tissues out toward her daughter.

  McKenna reached out and took the tissues, but dropped half of them on the floor.

  I glanced sideways at Colin while McKenna continued to cry. The weeping woman in front of us was not the story subject I’d expected. I’d planned on writing about a post-prime Olympian who had rebuilt her life from scratch—who had overcome her demons and found her happily-ever-after.

  But that wasn’t the McKenna Johnson we’d discovered today. The McKenna from today seemed to be anything but a survivor. She seemed broken.

  While she patted her daughter’s shoulder, McKenna’s mom said hello and introduced herself to Colin and I as Mariah Johnson.

  There was a soft knock on the door. McKenna glanced toward the door, but before she had a chance to say “come in,” a tall woman, athletic-looking like McKenna, stepped into the room.

  She had long, wavy, auburn hair and was wearing workout clothes.

  “Oh my God, did you hear what happened? I just wanted to check on you,” the woman said. Despite the frantic expression on her face, she was very pretty.