Double Strike (A Davis Way Crime Caper Book 3) (19 page)

“Danielle Sparks.”

I’m thirty-three years old. Barely thirty-three. And my past came back and slapped me stupid every ten minutes. I’m really not old enough to have so much bad history. I wonder if Bradley Cole would consider moving to a deserted island somewhere so no one could find me and ask me to pay for my old sins.

Danielle Sparks and I went back, all the way back. She hated me on the playground, even more on the football field at halftime when we twirled fire batons for the Pine Apple Pulps, and even more than that in the courtroom, as she sat beside her boyfriend Eddie the Ass during our second divorce. She’d been a cashier at the Piggly Wiggly in Pine Apple where she’d sneaky smashed every loaf of bread I’d ever bought, and all this ill will culminated in me accidently shooting her—all her fault—yet
I
was the one who got in trouble. I was a cop at the time, on duty, and maybe she wasn’t holding a shotgun on me, but in my defense, I simply misfired. I’d been aiming for Eddie the Stupid Crawford and shot her totally and completely by mistake.

#AccidentsHappen

#Don’tFireOffRoundsInTheDark

“What? What, Daddy, could Danielle possibly sue me for?”

“Honey, she’s claiming it’s your fault she’s a prostitute.”

“How can she be a prostitute when she gives it away, Daddy, and how can I possibly be responsible?”

It was the most frivolous of all frivolous lawsuits. Danielle went to Dr. Crazy Kizzy complaining her mouth felt like it was full of thumbtacks and her legs felt like cooked spaghetti. Kizzy said it sounded like either a prolapsed uterus or mercury poisoning to him. Danielle went with mercury poisoning and blamed it on Mel’s Diner. Specifically All-You-Can-Eat Fried Catfish Fridays at Mel’s Diner. (That fish was carp, all day every day, including Friday.) Her chances at a happy marriage and an honest income were gone. Who’d marry a woman with a mouth full of thumbtacks? And spaghetti legs couldn’t very well stand up at the cash register for eight hour shifts at the Pig. (And how is it that spaghetti legs and thumbtacks in your mouth don’t interfere with prostitution?) She was forced to turn to the entertainment industry for employment, and all because of Mel’s Diner. Which I owned. (I do not.) She took her diagnosis across the street to Smerle T. Webb, Esq., who told her it was a slam-dunk personal injury civil suit. I asked Daddy how much. Sixteen thousand for two years of lost income at the Pig, and three million for pain and suffering. Not to mention Bea Crawford throwing me under the bus for the millionth time in my life. I could hear it now. “Well, Davis, I only meant for him to get Danielle off my back. I didn’t tell Smerle T. to go and sue you. That’s your fault. I can’t help it Danielle hates you.”

“If you could slow down long enough to replace Smerle T.’s car, it would go a long way in smoothing his ruffled feathers.”

Might as well buy Danielle and Kizzy cars too. I’d buy cars for everyone in Pine Apple if they’d all sign a waiver to leave me the hell alone.

It was closing in on seven o’clock. I needed to scoot to the casino. I was armed and ready in my silk pajama parachute jumpsuit and studded leather shoes. After the scenic route, Daddy and I finally arrived in Lickskillet.

“The Scottsboro crew and their arsenal are camping along the entrance of the property,” Daddy said, “and the Jennings’s residence has a domestic employee who arrives at nine every morning and stays until four. From the satellite feed, the only other signs of life are in the airplane hangar, and from what I can determine, honey, that’s where your man is. And speaking of the airplane hangar, an odd thing popped up.”

“What?”

“I found forty-thousand dollars of excavation work when the hangar was built, along with fifty-thousand dollars of concrete hauled in. You don’t have to do forty-thousand dollars of digging to put a metal building on top of the ground,” he said, “and fifty-thousand dollars of concrete is double what they would need for the square footage.”

That’s because they’d built an underground bunker beneath the airplane hangar. Walter Shaefer had most likely not seen the light of day in five years.

*     *     *

@StrikePlayers They’re dropping like flies! After 4 hrs of play only 4 players left! #iHotGaming #OneMillionBigOnes

TWENTY

I tackled a Bianca Sanders chore last summer that had served me well: I worked with a dialect coach from a New Orleans film company to teach me Bianca Speak. I already deserved an Academy Award for my dramatic portrayal, but always with limited lines. Bianca Casimiro Sanders’s parents were born-and-bred Italians, so there’s that, and she was raised in the Midwest, and there’s that. I’m Alabama through and through. You see the problem.

The dialect coach, a woman named CeeCee, about my age but a foot taller, had spa music going in the background as she “tapped the Broca’s region of my frontal lobe” with “auditory feedback” and “repetitive tongue thrust” exercises, and after six weeks, I could turn it on and off like a faucet.

The addition of Hair and Makeup Angela helped close the gap between me and Bianca even more. Bianca was a big believer in Botox, while I’d never even dreamed of having poison hypodermically injected in my face. With a needle. So when Angela waved her wand over me—Bibbity Bobbity Boo—her base was the cosmetic equivalent of Elmer’s Rubber Cement, the thick first-grade clear glue in the brown bottle that smelled so good, to keep my facial expressions tight and partially frozen, especially around my mouth and forehead. Then Angela “contoured” a lot. Then she “smoky eyed” me.

Her final Bianca touch was always lip filler to plump me (tingled), a needle sharp pencil outline, then red/black lipstick, so everyone could take one look at me and see just how mean I was based on my lipstick shade.

If ever I needed to fool someone into believing I was Bianca, it was tonight.

He eyed me suspiciously. He definitely didn’t want to piss Bianca off, but absolutely didn’t want fake Bianca, the Bellissimo’s bumbling security screw-up, in his casino as his plans, years in making, stretching from Vegas to northeast Alabama to Biloxi, involving dozens of people, millions upon millions of dollars, and a murder was coming to fruition.

I crossed one pajama jumpsuit leg over the other and cut my eyes at Levi Hasselhoff.

“Well well well.” He said it sing-song. “Bianca.”

I turned my head slowly. “Can I help you?”

He rocked on his heels.

“Do you
need
something, Mr. Newman?”

He looked me over, head to shoes-made-of-dog-collars.

“I’d like to welcome you to Strike.”

“And I’d like some privacy. And a cocktail. Send someone.” He battled with himself, eyes narrowed to snake slits, and finally decided I was Bianca. He half bowed, then backed away.

#Whew

Baylor and Fantasy had set me up at dormant iGaming kiosk three, with a sliver of a view of Crazy Pants Missy Jennings in front of me (who hadn’t changed from her art deco lunch outfit) (I’m one to talk about Crazy Pants), and a black granite wall at my back. They would stay close, to cater to Bianca’s each and every whim and make sure no one ambushed her from behind.

“I fell out of my bikini.” Fantasy sat a glass of wine down beside me.

“You did not!”

“I did,” she said. “Flashed everybody a tata for ten minutes. Baylor saw me and fell on the floor laughing, or I’d have never known.”

“He needs to grow up,” I said. “Did anyone take a picture? I’ll Snapchat it.”

She took my wine and held it hostage until I said I was sorry.

“I told No Hair I’m done with this.” She tugged at her bikini top to make sure she was still wearing it. “I’m sick of the allergy shots and I’m freezing to death. Tomorrow night, I’m in street clothes, not poking these brown things in my eyes even one more time, and these extensions,” she displayed a handful of Halle Berry hair, “are coming off tonight.”

“Is there any way to turn off this chocolate chip cookie?” I was in a fog of it.

Fantasy nodded at the flat screen in front of me. “Ask your buddy.”

The chair, welcoming me with fragrance, was also asking for my thumbprint.

Hello, Walter.

The screen blazed with fireworks.

I was glad to see him too.

*     *     *

@StrikePlayer Congrats finalists @DanceMamaMissy and @love2win. Open play for eliminated Strike contestants noon till 6, showdown tomorrow night. #Don’tMissIt

*     *     *

By agreeing to allow unlimited social media access, all fifty Strike contestants had allowed the central processing unit—which we now knew wasn’t in a room just through a door behind the small casino, but in a Lickskillet, Alabama, deep in a bunker—full access to their cyber lives. The game knew what time the players woke up and how they liked their eggs. The game knew what the players pinned on Pinterest and what they ordered from Amazon. The game knew the details and to whom the players private-room chatted. The game knew checking account balances, favorite books, the music the players listened to, and what they watched on television. The game knew the make and model of car the players drove, because somewhere on Facebook, everyone’s posted a picture of themselves dangling the keys to a new car.

A hard truth: If you put it on the Internet, the Walter Shaefers of the world can see it.

The game knew and catered, immediately and specifically, to the needs and desires of the person behind the thumbprint.

I logged on and the screen flashed a huge pineapple. I smiled behind my hand.

Options popped up, and I watched as Walter Shaefer chose for me. No, I didn’t want to participate in the community jackpot, and no, I didn’t want to compete with any other players. Just me and the game. The screen asked if I was ready, and Walter answered for me—yes. Five slot reels popped up with five lines each. Randomly placed in the twenty-five squares were police badges, black Volkswagen Bugs, white saucers with two strawberry-frosted Pop Tarts, and double black-eyed mug shots of my rotten, rotten ex-ex-husband from an old DUI, that flashed, then faded to sun-kissed Bradley Coles.

I tried not to squeal.

A column ran down the right screen, like stacked ads, displaying live iGaming going on around me. Someone in one of these kiosks was playing a slot football game, Bears versus Giants, someone else was trying to line up ingredients for a chocolate ganache, and another someone was scrapbooking, trying to land Disney characters on the correct backgrounds. The right screen also contained a pay table, showing me what I’d win if all the black VWs lined up, or if I spun Bradley’s into a diagonal line. Below that was a help screen I could access, and at the bottom, my instructions to unlock bigger and better games with bigger and better jackpots and the best, the sought-after bonus rounds. Missy Jennings had been “miraculously” advancing, then landing and winning bonus rounds since the Strike doors opened.

Not such a miracle after all.

Show me a bonus round, Walter.

I pushed the play button and was awed with visual and audio effects. When my car landed on a reel, it did a wheelie, wiggling its front wheels, flashed its lights, then honked. The police badge hit play spaces and spun itself into a rotating siren light, bright red, pull over now. The Pop Tarts burst out of a toaster, twisted in the air, sprinkles flying, then landed stacked on the plate. The mug shot of Eddie the Ass got a baseball bat to the face, complete with dizzying stars, then became a bonus space, turning into Bradley Cole. Every space with Bradley zoomed out and became a beach scene with a wedding ring twirling through the air and landing in his open palm. I hit the jackpot on my first spin (never ever ever ever happens in real life), five Bradleys on the beach, advancing me to the next level of play, compliments of the man under the airplane hangar in Lickskillet.

Scary, how much Walter knew about me in a day. Scary.

The next game Walter had for me was a calendar. My gaming options on the first screen asked me to choose a day. I chose tomorrow and the game broke out into thundering applause, then advanced to the next level. The screen filled with a clock face, and a small bundle of dynamite in the lower left corner. I hit the play button repeatedly until I worked the clock to early evening, I chose seven-thirty, then engaged the dynamite option. The fuse lit, then the dynamite exploded. I did squeal this time.

Now Walter knew when we were coming for him tomorrow evening.

You’ve unlocked film clips
, the message center said.
Enjoy
.

I watched Jim Carrey in the role of Truman Burbank in
The Truman Show
escape fictional Seahaven. Next I watched a clip of Tim Robbins as Andy Dufresne crawl to muddy freedom in
The Shawshank Redemption
. Then
Star Wars
music came through the surround sound speakers at my head as Hans Solo and gang were rescued from the garbage compacter by trusty, ever handy droids.

Me too, Walter. I’m very happy for you.

The next movie clip cued—
Escape to Witch Mountain
?
The Great Escape
?—but flashed to black before it could begin, immediately replaced with fifty beasty little Yorkshire Terriers all over the screen, violently barking their little heads off at me.

Walter could see me. Walter could see
behind
me.

Levi Newman Hasselhoff appeared at my right arm. “I trust you’re enjoying yourself, Mrs. Sanders?”

I tried to kill him with my smoky-eyed stare for a long hard minute, then turned back to the game, where a blinking envelope popped up in the lower right-hand corner of the main screen. I waited until the coast was clear, then clicked the communication open. A small photograph of a dark-haired girl smiled at me from a porch swing. A young Walter Shaefer sat beside her. The girl’s feet didn’t quite reach the ground. A tabby cat was curled in her lap and they both held mason jars full of lemonade. Above her, a black metal mailbox to the right of the front door displayed a Lickskillet, Alabama address.

Got it, Walter. We’ll secure this girl first.

*     *     *

We convened in 3B at 3 a.m.

“Are we ever going to get any sleep?” Fantasy was wearing people clothes.

“One more word out of you and we’ll go right back to ballet.” Baylor looked at his watch. “In three hours.”

“You know, Baylor,” she poked him in the arm, “you don’t get employee loyalty by making threats. You (poke) are (poke) not (poke) management (poke) material.”

“And you are?”

“Kids.” I covered my eyes with a hand, blocking the light. I was so tired I couldn’t feel my legs. “Don’t make me stop this car.” I heard the beeps of the door being coded. “There’s your dad. Now straighten up.”

No Hair sank onto the sofa beside me. “Let’s have it. Baylor, you go first.”

“I’ve got two waitresses we need to take a look at.”

“By my count,” Fantasy said, “you’ve slept with half of them. So you’ve already had a good look at one, if not both of them.”

I told No Hair they’d been fussing since we got here. He growled at Baylor, who turned beet red. So he had slept with at least one of them, and probably on the clock, since we’d all been on the clock for a solid week.

“Which girls?” No Hair asked.

“Seriously? You need a list?”

No Hair closed his eyes and explained that he didn’t want the names of women Baylor had personal relationships with, but, however, if he wouldn’t mind, he would like to know how to identify the two women in question. Baylor coughed up the names of his gold bikini friends who’d strayed from their normal routines tonight. The first he noticed passing notes between Wesley the bald brother bartender and Red Jennings, picking up from one and dropping off to the other, and the second bikini girl went to the ladies lounge with Missy Jennings for four long visits, and Baylor added she was jumpy, spilled drinks, mixed up orders. I said I’d run them through the wringer in the morning and see what squeezed out.

“Tomorrow night,” No Hair said, “when we cast the net, we need to catch everyone. Anyone we let slip will disappear.” He turned to Baylor. “Where do these girls live?”

“They’re in a townhouse on Dismuke Avenue. Fifteen A.”

“And you just knew that off the top of your head, Baylor?” Fantasy kicked him. “How many bedrooms?”

“Three.”

“Good grief, Baylor.” I could hear myself whining, weary-mother style. “Learn how to keep a secret or at least how to lie.” The boy didn’t know the word discretion. “Although,” I uncovered my eyes, “the whole IT department lives in townhouses on Dismuke too.” No Hair opened his mouth to bark out an order and I waved him off. If he’d let me get some rest, I’d run every resident in every unit in the townhouse complex and if they’d ever uttered the word “strike” they were going down.

“Now, Davis,” No Hair said. “Go.”

“Walter is running the system alone,” I said. “Wherever they have him, there’s no escape route or he’d have found it by now, but he doesn’t have anyone looking over his shoulder.”

“If he doesn’t have anyone looking over his shoulder, then why isn’t he out?” No Hair asked. “He could’ve waved a computer flag five years ago.”

“Because there’s a girl.” Ten minutes earlier, I’d run the address. Her name is Cecelia Kelsey, she was Walter’s high school sweetheart, she still lives at the address in the photograph, and her welfare must be what’s kept Walter in a bunker for five years.

“How do you know all this?” No Hair was tugging at the knot of his tie.

“He communicated directly with me, which is how I know he’s alone. He sent a picture of a girl, which is how I know there’s someone else involved. The threat against the girl must be so great that no one has to stand over Walter with an assault rifle. If that were the case, he wouldn’t have been able to talk to me. I’m not saying busting him out will be a cake walk in the park. No doubt there’s an army to wade through to get to Walter,” I came up for a breath of air, “but thankfully, that’s up to the feds and out of our hands.”

“Godspeed to them,” Fantasy said.

No Hair asked if there was anything else. There were a million other things, and they’d all be waiting on us when the sun rose, but nothing else to go over tonight. “Let’s run through our game plan for tomorrow,” he said, “then get some sleep.”

#Sleep

“I’ve got ten sets of eyes on Levi Newman,” No Hair said. “He’s upstairs in his suite and he’s not going to sneeze that we won’t know about it before he can even wipe his nose. We have eyes on the Jennings, Cassidy Williams, plus the bartender,” he said, “and we’ll stay on every one of them until we get them in the Strike doors tomorrow night. At which point,” No Hair said, “we’ll lock it down.”

“We need to get a few cars on the ones living in the townhouses.” I rubbed my Bianca green eyes. “And not one of us.”

“I don’t know if I can even drive home,” Fantasy said. “I know I’m not up for a stakeout.”

“I could watch those girls,” Baylor said.

We all stared at him.

“What?”

No Hair stood. “Go home. Get some sleep. We’re going hot tomorrow,” he said, “everyone packing and ready.”

“I can’t get a gun in my bikini, No Hair. I’ll be in street clothes.”

Fantasy and I held up fists and air bumped. I was tired of her being gold and naked too. Her legs are so damn long.

“We get this done or we’re all in street clothes,” No Hair said. “
On
the street. Us and the four thousand other people who work here.” He made it to the door in one step. “Up,” he said. “Go home. Get some sleep. Richard will be back in the morning. This will all be over tomorrow.”

*     *     *

The sun came into our bedroom through a wall of windows looking out over the Gulf at a low morning angle, caught a crystal lamp base, and projected a chandelier starburst all over the room. This was maybe the third time we’d seen this show. Like the other two times, we didn’t move until the sun did. Or in today’s case, when a thick line of dark clouds crossed the sky.

“Davis?”

“Hmmm?”

Bradley stretched and rolled my way. “I signed for two court summons yesterday.”

I pulled a pillow over my head.

He lifted it. “Why are two people suing you?”

“I only know of one person suing me, Bradley, and she’s suing me because she’s a prostitute.”

“How is that your fault?”

“Exactly.”

He dropped the pillow back on my head. It’s so loud under a pillow. I could hear my own heartbeat. “Who else is suing me?”

“The Pine Apple lawyer. Smerle.”

“He’s suing me because I stole his car.” Loud and dark under the pillow. I could stay here. “Bradley?”

“Hmmm?”

I came out from under the pillow to a different day. No starburst show, no sunshine, no hope of escaping my past. “You’re a lawyer. Can you fix it?”

“It depends.”

“On what?”

“If you want to move back to Pine Apple,” he said. “I don’t have a license to practice in Alabama. We’d have to move.”

I wish I had Bradley’s patience.

*     *     *

@StrikePlayers T-minus 6 hrs. till doors open for the last time. Open play for Strike contestants. Don’t miss it! #Fireworks #ShinyNewCar #AMillionBigOnes