Double Strike (A Davis Way Crime Caper Book 3) (18 page)

NINETEEN

The Regent, where Bradley and I live, has twenty-six units, each with its own private elevator. We’re the only ones with access, and believe it or not, there are times when it becomes another room to clean—umbrellas, Bradley’s golf clubs, the chair with the broken leg. There are times when I hop in the elevator, then step out on the parking level having forgotten something crucial. Like my car keys or my Starbucks travel mug full of perfect coffee. If Bradley’s still upstairs, I call him and he sends whatever down, once my whole suitcase, when Fantasy had been waiting for me at the little airport in Gulfport for an hour. She kept texting.
Come on already, Davis
. We were on our way to the World Game Protection Conference in Las Vegas, and Fantasy doesn’t get out of town all that often without husbands, kids, and dogs. (The conference was so boring. We ditched it immediately and for the rest of the week we gambled all night, slept all day, saw a car disappear, Donny and Marie, Carrot Top, and Britney Spears.)

Bradley and I leave each other notes in the elevator and he’s never left me one that wasn’t a treasure. When there’s been something he’s wanted to say to me before I even stepped in the door, it’s been a keeper, and they’re all tucked away at the bottom of my jewelry box.

When I finally left the Bellissimo on Wednesday night, drove home, and put a python shoe into the elevator, I looked up to see something taped to the elevator wall. It was the paperwork from the Camden County Courthouse.

I was finally free of Eddie the Ass Crawford.

We celebrated.

*     *     *

Richard Sanders was stuck in New Hampshire.

The DEA office in Bedford sent a drug task force crew in to turn the Brewster-Exeter Academy for Boys upside down. Six boys, including Little Sanders, were called on the carpet for having off-the-chart levels of THCA in their rooms. The presence of THCA, tetrahydrocannabinolic acid, means there is or there was a substantial amount of marijuana in the immediate vicinity. Nice, fresh marijuana, not already-been-smoked marijuana, which would put out THCA’s byproduct, TCA. The task force couldn’t find the pot, even after tearing through the mattresses and walls, but they knew it had been there, and told the school their rich white-kid Republican students were masters at hiding evidence and most certainly underage dealers. They didn’t have enough evidence to bring charges against the boys, but it was plenty enough for Brewster-Exeter to expel them. Mr. Sanders was throwing his substantial-donor weight around trying to reverse their decision. I got this news on Thursday morning over coffee in 3B.

No Hair’s tie said No Parking.

“Did you tell Mr. Sanders about last night? About Walter? About Levi Hasselhoff?”

“No.” He scratched the back of his bald head. “I couldn’t do it to him. This is on us, Davis.”

*     *     *

@StrikePlayers And then there were 5. #Finals begin @ 5:00 #StrikeItRich #TheWholeEnchilada #GoodLuck

*     *     *

“I like your headband? Very tres chic?”

She pronounced it “tress chick.”

I’d managed to avoid Missy Jennings all week. It hadn’t been hard; she’s been gambling twelve hours out of every twenty-four since the Strike doors opened and I’d been busy. Too busy to do anything with the one-plus inch halo of hair standing straight up around my face, so I wore a wide black silk headband to flatten the newest of my Bianca Honey Kiss hair.

“And what about these kids these days? Can they just wear you out or what?”

Casino gaming can be intense without being a major player drug manufacturer in a grand larceny ring at the end of a pressure-cooker tournament; I got itchy and squirmy after just a few hours of solitary no-risk gambling and I didn’t grow pot. I would think at this point, with such high stakes, Missy Jennings’s head would be about to blow off, but she didn’t look a bit worse for the wear. She was sweet-tea cool, edge-of-her-seat energized, and didn’t appear to have a care in the world.

“They’re going to make mistakes? Right, Bianca? I say let them learn their lessons?”

Missy Jennings blinked inquisitively while waiting for me to agree with her. We were having lunch in a small private dining room at Wasabi, the upscale Asian-fare restaurant on the mezzanine level. I ordered a Mandarin mixed green salad with ginger lime dressing, and Missy was picking through a square platter piled so high with sweet and sour shrimp noodle salad it could feed a family of five.

She was wearing art. I’d never seen anything like it. You could hang her from a hook on the wall of a contemporary art museum between a sculpture fashioned from soup cans and an abstract painted by a manor of meerkats, and people would gawk and sketch. The top and the pants were boxy-cut silk, both cropped, revealing a wide band of dance-toned tanning-bed-bronzed midriff, with the matching cropped silk pants hitting just below her knees.

The whole ensemble was made of a futuristic crazy metallic print—copper, gold, silver, pewter—abstract shapes going in every direction, and it was making me dizzy. She was wearing so much jewelry, if she walked by a magnet it would suck her in.

“Red and I are so happy Quinn didn’t get caught up in that witch-hunt sting your boy got caught up in? Whew!” Jazz hands. “I believe Red might kill him if he screwed up and didn’t graduate?” She took a long noisy pull from her large Coke, light ice, two straws. “Not that we know what we’re going to do with him hanging around night and day when he does graduate, right?” She bounced the entire conversation ball solo. I nodded along. “You know how some kids just aren’t college material? Right? That’s Quinn?” I felt sorry for the four pounds of finger-licking good shrimp she was picking out of the salad and popping in her mouth between words. “He knows he’s headed home to take over the family business, right?” She held up and shook her tumbler of light ice. Another liter of Coke, right? “Red hasn’t worked himself half near to death so Quinn can goof off and party at some college, right?” Jazz hands. “’Course if he played football? That’d be another story, right? Go Big Red Alabama Crimson Tide? Am I right?”

I opened my mouth to speak too late.

“I’m gonna tell you a trick?” She leaned in. (#Shrimp) “If you and your husband would grease a palm or two? You know what I mean? It might
go away
,” she stage-whispered the last two words. “Right?”

I sucked in a breath to get a word in, again, too late.

“These kids, you know? They’re gonna drink their beer, right? And they’re gonna smoke a little weed, right? And they’re gonna sit on the floor and play their stupid games, right?” Three more shrimps down the hatch. “Seems like the school could cut them some slack?”

Games. Sit on the floor. Play their stupid games. I reached for my purse. That’s what else boys have in their dorm rooms. I scooted for the door. Several times today, I made a checklist inventory of boys’ dorm rooms: bed, desk, books, backpacks, clothes. I stood. I’d forgotten Xbox. They all had Xbox. Every single one of them. #PoorPlayStation

“Missy? I need to run.”

“Hey? Bianca?” Shrimp. “Good to see you?”

“Good luck tonight at Strike.” (Right?)

“Girl? I got that covered?”

Shrimp, shrimp, shrimp.

Head down, hiding behind Fendi sunglasses, I took the long and winding road around the mile of mezzanine. The kid casino, Gamer, was packed. Why weren’t these kids in school? (Right?) I slowed down at Shakes, the ice cream shop, looked both ways, then slipped through the unmarked door. I pulled off the sunglasses to scan myself into the elevator with the facial-recognition panel, rode down, then ran down the dark hall. Fantasy and Baylor jumped when I threw open the office door. “I need a knife!”

“Are you going to stab somebody?” Fantasy, bathrobe over bikini, sat up and yawned, arms wide and high.

Baylor muted the television, then dug in the pocket of his jeans and passed me a folding knife. I opened the coat closet, grabbed a handful of beanbag chair and lobbed it in the middle of the floor. I popped open the three-inch blade, speared then sawed through the fabric, stuck my hand in, dug, dug more, and pulled out a shrink-wrapped five-pound brick of marijuana.

*     *     *

A pattern was developing in which Thomas Sanders, though not innocent, was never guilty. He
was
a little pothead, the extent of which I didn’t know and didn’t want to. But after meeting with the authorities and the school’s administration, Richard Sanders smoothed everything over for his son, and he did way more than the heavy lifting, with the school apologizing profusely to them both. Little Dude would be right back in Calculus I on Monday morning without so much as a scratch. Not that he needed to go down for possession with intent, be kicked out of school and have a record, but it seemed to me like he needed to learn some sort of lessons, somewhere, sometime. He hadn’t taken a lick of heat over driving a car through the casino, smoking pot and letting a hooker in our office, and now this. An hour ago, in the middle of the frenzy started when I found two five-pound bricks of marijuana in the closet, one of the many phone conversations I’d had was with Little Sanders.

“Thomas, did you have any idea Quinn was giving people bean bag chairs loaded with drugs?”

“Dude. No.”

See? This may or may not be true.

“Did you ask him for one?”

“No, dude. They’re in that plane. He says have at it.”

“You know, Thomas, if you say anything to anyone, it will get back to Quinn Jennings and he can’t know. Lives are at stake, Thomas.”

“Dude. I’m on lockdown.”

I didn’t want to bother her, but I called Brianna Strother, who, according to my calendar, should have returned from Elspeth’s funeral today.

“Bean bag chairs,” she said. “I can’t believe it.”

“And the Jennings kid passes them out like Halloween candy,” I said. “We’ve had two in our offices this whole time. The takedown is tomorrow night, Brianna. Are you up for it?”

“No, Davis,” she said. “Thanks for the invitation, but my plans are to brief my bosses, then take some time off. I’m moving to Florida to be closer to Elspeth’s family, then taking an extended maternity leave. At least a year.”

She asked that I contact her immediately when Elspeth’s killer was identified.

Of course.

She thanked me for our help.

I wished her very, very well.

No Hair did the Bianca honors, giving her the light and fluffy headlines version: Your son isn’t guilty; your husband will be home after the red tape. Fantasy, at my side, both of us working the phones and computers non-stop, still in a bathrobe over a bikini, asked him how it went.

No Hair pulled up a chair. “She honestly can’t talk about anything but the fur coat.” Then, “Davis? Do you have that shit on your head again?”

“She’s killing me.” Fantasy waved a hand in front of her face.

I was affronted. “If you two don’t mind, I’d like to get married at some point. And I’d like to have some hair on my head when I do.”

“Well, cover it up more,” No Hair said.

“I can’t. It’s too hot. It melts and drips and burns when it gets hot.”

Fantasy’s eyes popped open. “That must be what’s making it work! You’re getting it on your head, then cooking it! Davis! Cover it up! You know what you need?”

I shook my bull-goo head no.

“Plastic wrap. You need to wrap it up in plastic. It’ll heat it up good.”

“Popeye told me to keep it
cold
.”

“Who?”

“Besides,” I said, “we don’t have any plastic.”

Fantasy pushed away from the desk and returned with one of the bricks of marijuana. It was wrapped in layer upon layer of blue cellophane. Ten minutes later, when Bea Crawford called, we had a big chunk of raw pot on a desk and I had a blue plastic turban on my head.

It was five o’clock. I let Bea’s call go to voicemail because I needed to hit the showers for shampoo, rinse, repeat, shampoo, rinse, repeat. No Hair and Fantasy took off for Strike. Tomorrow morning we would meet with representatives from the Department of Justice and the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and conference with a SWAT team who would conduct the Alabama raids at Jennings Tree Farm and Have A Seat. We’d oversee the takedown here. Instead of winning the million dollar Strike jackpot, Missy Jennings would win a pair of shiny new handcuffs. Along with her husband, her sister, the bartender, the Strike IT guys, and our new casino manager.

It was all coming together in a nice, neat package, and tomorrow, we’d wrap it up and put a bow on it.

Then I’d get married.

*     *     *

“It took days,
days
, David, to replace my wardrobe. And you want me to just
give
you a valuable portion of it after what happened the last time I let you wear something of mine?”

“Mrs. Sanders, it’s Davis.” I peeled a layer of blue Saran wrap off my head, trying to hold the phone and mop my face at the same time. “And if you’ll remember, you’ve had
my
clothes since the morning after the fire. I need something to wear to the Strike casino tonight and I have nothing. I’ll be attending as you again and I know you’d like me to look presentable.” I eyed a small metal garbage can and wondered what would happen if I burned the stinky blue plastic. I could barely breathe for it. “Mrs. Sanders? Are you still there?”

“I’ve decided to redecorate, David. The white is damaging my eyesight. You’ll need to be here all day tomorrow to meet with the decorators. I need several options.”

“Fine,” I said. (#NeverGonnaHappen) “But for tonight, would you mind buzzing Angela up and giving her a few wardrobe choices for me?”

She hung up.

Thirty minutes later, Angela and I were eyeing the few wardrobe choices Bianca sent. She was so, so mad at me. Both were from the new Gucci Spring Collection (it wasn’t even winter yet), and both were hideous. There was a black lamé jumpsuit that looked like a black silk pajama parachute clown suit and a small, shapeless leopard brocade shift dress that would look like a mini leopard pillowcase on me. She sent one pair of shoes: six-inch spike heeled open-toe boots consisting entirely of straps of metal-studded leather. #Ridiculous

I wore the Santa’s Helper outfit.

(No, I didn’t.)

“Oh, good grief.” Angela pulled the towel off my head. “You have bangs.”

*     *     *

One last call.

“Daddy.”

“Punkin.”

“I feel like I haven’t seen you in a month.” I dug through the accessory drawer and added bright clunky jewelry to the mix. There wasn’t enough bright clunky jewelry in the drawer to distract from the Big Fat Fashion Disaster I was wearing. “Catch me up.”

My sister Meredith had been on a second and third date with the doctor. She told Mother and Daddy if all continued going well, she’d think about introducing him to my niece Riley. Not anytime soon. No need to rush things. My grandmother and her husband found a home for Cyril’s “mangy mutt who had onion breath,” and rented a thirty-foot travel camper. They were leaving for a weekend Senior Couples Counseling Retreat in DeSoto State Park.

“Who’s driving?” I asked. “Granny can’t push a grocery buggy and Cyril can’t see his hand in front of his face.” My father skipped enough of a beat for me to know who they’d roped into driving. My rat-rat ex-ex husband. Who’d drive the devil around for ten bucks and a forty-ounce Colt 45.

“That’s not the worst of it, Davis, and you might as well hear it from me.”

Dr. Crazy Kizzy was back at his prescription pad and had written Cyril one for, what my father called, a “marital aid.”

#SomeoneShootMe

“How about you, honey?”

Was my father asking me if Bradley took “marital aids”? We weren’t even married!

“Your situation with the marriage license.”

#DodgedThatBullet

“Believe it or not, Daddy, Bea went to the courthouse, straightened it out, and we got the golden ticket in the mail yesterday.”

“You’re free and clear?”

“I am done with Eddie and his mother forever, Daddy. For. Ev. Er.”

Total silence on my father’s end.

“Daddy?”

“Honey. You’d better sit down.”

I absolutely hate those words.

“Have you heard from Bea?”

“Yes and no. She called; I wasn’t in the mood to answer.”

The “favor” Bea had done me, having her snake-in-the-grass son drop the suit against me, had been part of a deal she’d made with Smerle T. He agreed to drop Eddie’s lawsuit without a fuss, but only if she’d agree to provide him with another bone to chew. He couldn’t sit around twiddling his thumbs in today’s economy, because it looked like his other big divorce (Granny and Cyril) might fall through too. Surely she could come up with something. Bea told him she did have a little problem he could nose into, have arrested, then show up at the jail to save. He tracked down Bea’s little problem, and instead of helping Bea out of the fire, he threw me into it. Smerle T. was naming me as defendant, Daddy said, in a lawsuit he would file on Monday, because Bea let it slip (all over town) that I was now the proud owner of Mel’s. (No, I’m not. I dumped money in her checking account to be rid of her rotten son. I hadn’t signed a thing. And didn’t intend to.)

“Who’s suing me now, Daddy?”