Double Dog Dare Page 14

  Impressive.

  But all facts. No insight. Nothing that would give me an edge. I didn’t know if I’d need one, but always be prepared. I was on my way to his Bellissimo portfolio—we’d have some dirt on him—when a text hit my phone from No Hair.

  Do you and/or Fantasy have the cage covered?

  I replied, with shaking thumbs, Yes.

  Unnerved by being reminded of what I had ahead of me, I clicked the wrong casino marketing tab. Instead of searching for Al Abbasov specifically, I pulled up the inhouse VIP list. Available to casino management—hosts, pit bosses, and floor supervisors—the inhouse VIP list was a who’s who of current guests, ranked by importance, either fame or fortune. Which would work, because Al Abbasov, at two million barrels of oil per day, would surely be at the top of the list. But he wasn’t. He was in the number two spot. We had a guest with more money than Al Abbasov? We did. Their names were Cleavon and Candy Smucker.

  Who?

  Smucker? As in schmucks? Were these the people causing so much trouble?

  Curiosity got the better of me. I clicked on their joint portfolio. The Smuckers weren’t tenth-generation jelly money, they were lottery winners. Cleavon and Candy, of Marietta, Georgia, another suburb of Atlanta, won a record-shattering 1.7 billion dollars with the single winning Mega Millions lottery ticket purchased less than a mile from their mobile home ten months earlier.

  Good grief.

  I couldn’t help myself; I took a quick look.

  And there they were with a big check. And their yellow-eyed dog.

  Princess.

  * * *

  I didn’t see or hear Fantasy until she was standing beside me tapping her watch. I was too busy being appalled by the wealth of information, both personal and financial, in front of me.

  “Are you on Facebook?” Fantasy asked. “What are you doing? Watching someone decorate meatloaf? We have to be next door in two minutes.”

  I tilted the screen.

  It was a closeup of Princess Smucker, yellow eye blazing, crooked teeth bared. Candy had captioned it, GARD DOG!

  “You found her owners?”

  I clicked Candy Smucker’s profile picture.

  Fantasy said, “She’s the naked dancer. That’s the woman who was dancing on a craps table in red panties. She’s one of the schmucks. Her husband is the other.”

  We scrolled. And found everything. By everything, I meant every single thing. Candy Smucker documented her life, her whole life, in images and narrative, on social media—every thought that passed through her brain, every bite of food she consumed, every move she made, and every penny she spent. Candy’s video library was endless, and all the same show—Princess, guarding a bag of Cheetos, a Cadillac CT6, or the husband, Cleavon. Candy pointed, said, “Guard!” then laughed hysterically as wild-eyed Princess got her warrior on. Candy’s last post was ten minutes earlier from the high-stakes room of the casino, where she’d taken a selfie with a five-hundred-dollar Ole Jalapenos Hot and Spicy slot machine. The caption she wrote above her pouting face was, This slots took my 70 thou $$$s. I’m fixin to get Cleave to shoot it. JK! Our guns R N the room!

  We scrolled through Candy’s life quickly, but came to a screeching halt at a post from two weeks earlier, when Candy made a worldwide web appeal to her five thousand plus followers for a bodyguard-slash-dog-sitter to accompany them to the Bellissimo Resort and Casino. We R takin big $$$s to the casinos and we need somebody to go with us to watch it and take care of Miss Priss. I pay GOOD. The applications for temporary employment in the comments below the job-offer post went on and on and on. It looked as if half of Facebook’s two billion subscribers wanted to accompany Cleavon and Candy Smucker to the Bellissimo and watch their $$$s. It had been shared to other Facebook walls more than sixteen hundred times. At the very end of the feed, for all the world to see, Candy struck a deal with the brothers Sebastian, Butch and Brutus. I clicked on Brutus Sebastian’s name. Facebook took me to his personal page.

  I knew him.

  He was one of the missing housekeepers.

  His brother Butch was the other.

  Those men weren’t housekeepers.

  They were bodyguards-slash-dog-sitters.

  Did Cleave and Candy Smucker send them to my home to check up on their dog? On me? Were the Smuckers that paranoid? And what kind of bodyguards intercepted internal work orders and impersonated housekeepers? Were they former CIA operatives?

  Bradley was right. Our world was too dangerous to raise children in.

  I let those men in my home.

  Then I sent them to Fantasy’s.

  Where they met Bootsy Howard.

  If I hadn’t had Bootsy’s phone, I’d have called her and said, “Have your way with the fake housekeepers, Boots. When you’re finished with them, send them my way.”

  We scrolled to see the employment contract, including time, place, and salary details—anything and everything the world might want to know—posted above a picture we hadn’t seen yet. It was Princess, gnawing her purple leg, sporting her new Harry Winston dog collar. Candy’s comment accompanying the shot was, Aint Miss Prisss new necklace cute? It otta be. I paid 2 milion $$$s for it.

  I looked at Fantasy.

  “What, Davis?”

  “Princess had that collar on when she got here.”

  “She did not.”

  “She did.”

  We ran.

  * * *

  Princess’s collar wasn’t in her red duffel bag or anywhere else in the small guest bedroom. And we tossed it good.

  “Is there any chance Vree put it back on her? Could she be wearing it?”

  “I don’t know, Fantasy. I try not to look at her.” I was halfway under one of the twin beds. “The last time I remember seeing it was when I took it off her. And that was in here.”

  “How did you not know it was a Harry Winston?” Fantasy was stripping the other twin bed.

  “How could I have known it was? What dog in the world wears a Harry Winston collar?” I crawled to the closet on my hands and knees, checking every square inch of carpet on the way.

  “Well, it’s not here.” Fantasy had the first ruined Pop N’ Play flipped over. Banging it. “And who drops off a dog wearing a two-million-dollar collar with total strangers?”

  “Crazy rich people,” I said. “That’s who.”

  “Schmucks,” she said.

  We ran back to the living room. Vree and Harley were still asleep. Princess was busy with Madeleine Albright.

  No collar.

  “Vree.” Fantasy snapped her fingers in her face. “Nap’s over. Get up.”

  Vree startled. “What?” She sat straight up. “Gooch? Is that you? Bubbs? Where am I? Are we on fire?”

  I checked my watch. We were already fifteen minutes late to our sheik meeting, which meant we were forty-five minutes from cage count. Time was slipping away. “Vree,” I said, “we have to go. We have a meeting. You need to wake up and find Princess’s collar.”

  “Her what?”

  “Her collar, Vree,” Fantasy said. “You know, her dog collar. The one that goes around her neck.”

  “The rhinestone collar?”

  “That’s the one.” And those weren’t rhinestones. I turned for the front door. “Find it, Vree. We have to find it. We’ll be back as soon as we can. I have my phone with me. Text me as soon as you have the collar in your hands.”

  “But where am I supposed to look? I mean, Davis, this is a big house.”

  “She’s only been in a few of the rooms,” I said. “Look everywhere she’s been. Please, Vree. This is important.”

  One minute later, huffing and puffing, I knocked on the Leno Suite door. Fantasy was tugging her blouse, fanning herself. “It’s a good thing this man can’t see,” she whispered. “Because you look like you’ve been diggi
ng ditches, Davis.”

  I smoothed my hair just as Hiriddhi Al Abbasov opened the door.

  It had to be him.

  His two-thousand-dollar Tom Ford sunglasses gave him away.

  Our mouths dropped open.

  He was baseball and apple pie. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t what I got. I pictured a man named Hiriddhi to be dark-skinned, wearing a thobe with a keffiyeh headdress. Not hardly. The man at the door could have been ripped off the pages of Southern GQ. He was in top-athlete shape, with chestnut hair, cut close, a five o’clock shadow on a sturdy jaw, and all that above jeans and a perfect white oxford shirt, starched sleeves rolled almost to his elbows.

  He offered a hand. Fantasy and I looked at each other. She pointed at me. I stabbed a finger back at her. Hiriddhi said, “Don’t fight over me.”

  No accent whatsoever.

  I reached out. He held my hand with both of his. “Do you have red hair?”

  “Almost,” I stammered.

  “And children. Daughters, perhaps.”

  “How—”

  “Ivory Snow Gentle Care,” he said. “Mothers of young sons use stronger detergents.” His thumb gently grazed my wedding band. “And someone loves you very much.”

  He dropped my hands and reached for Fantasy’s. He laughed. “You’re a tall drink of water. And of French Creole descent, with an Ivy League education.”

  Fantasy and I looked at each other, wide eyed.

  How perceptive was this man?

  We exchanged overly polite introductions for the next minute, and just when I was wondering if he’d ever ask us in, Fantasy said, “We’re ready to go over the surveillance video if you are, Your Excellency.”

  He casually leaned against the doorframe, knowing exactly where it was. “We don’t need to watch the footage, because you have Harley. Please return him,” Al Abbasov said. “I need his help.”

  My breath caught in my throat, certain the next words out of his mouth would be, “And I can smell Mrs. Harrington’s dead body on you two. Sit tight while I call the authorities.” But he didn’t. Instead he called out over his shoulder, “Rod? Will you accompany these ladies?” He didn’t say it loud enough for Rod, whoever he was, to hear it, and he didn’t give Rod, whoever he was, time to answer either. “On second thought,” he said, “I’ll accompany you.”

  Hiri didn’t trust us.

  Imagine that.

  FIFTEEN

  My skill level for lying through my teeth when the occasion called for it, like then, was expert. Any other time under those particular circumstances I’d have lied my head off. But I proceeded cautiously with this Harvard man who knew the brand of laundry detergent I used to wash Bex and Quinn’s clothes. I had a feeling it would do no good to lie. Had I been so inclined, the one on the tip of my tongue was that the Bellissimo was full of dogs, we’d been around dozens, and I had no idea who or where his dog was. Instead, I said, “Please don’t bother. I’ll bring Harley to you, Your Excellency.”

  “No need for the formality. Call me Hiri.” He hesitated, just a beat, engaging an internal sonar, before he took a step out the door. “After you.”

  “Not necessary, Your…Hiri,” Fantasy said. “Wait here. Davis, stay with him. I’ll get Harley. I’ll be back in two shakes.”

  I looked at my watch. Two shakes to return Harley to his rightful owner, but only three shakes until one of us had to report for cage duty. It took ten shakes to get there, unless one of us had wings. And if I had wings, right about then, I’d scoop up my daughters and fly to Nashville.

  “Am I keeping you, Mrs. Cole?”

  “Listen, Mr. Hiri.” I didn’t know if I should apologize to the man, then tell him the whole story of how we came across his big black dog, which I could never tell without exposing Bootsy for the killer witch she was, then he’d think I was crazy, and instead of stealing a million dollars from the Bellissimo or finding a fence who would front me a million for a Harry Winston dog collar I couldn’t find, I’d be in a straitjacket trying to explain it all to the good people at Gulf Oaks Psychiatric Hospital. Before I could decide what to say or how to say it, Hiri’s big black dog was between us, overjoyed to see everyone.

  In a smooth and practiced way, Hiri said, “Slow.”

  Harley quieted.

  Hiri said, “Sit.”

  Harley circled to Hiri’s left and sat.

  Hiri said, “Blow the ladies a kiss.”

  Harley raised a paw to his lips, then threw us a kiss.

  We were about to make our awkward exit when Hiri looked over the rims of his Tom Ford sunglasses, as if to look us in the eye, which he did. Back and forth, his dark eyes sought and somehow found ours. “I realize you need to go,” he said. “The adrenaline pouring from you both is remarkable. You’ve checked your watches five times that I know of. Obviously, you have a pressing responsibility elsewhere.” He settled his Tom Fords back on the bridge of his nose. “I’d like a little of your time after whatever it is you’re late for. I want to know the circumstances under which you came in possession of Harley and I want to know exactly what happened to Mrs. Harrington.”

  I did too.

  “One more thing. Your dog has canine atopic dermatitis. Thus the odor. Take her to the veterinarian.”

  Princess. Dermatitis, no collar, and not our dog.

  Fantasy sniffed the lapel of her jacket.

  * * *

  We took cage together.

  After a smallish argument.

  “I’ll do it,” I said.

  “No, Davis, I will.”

  “No, Fantasy, I will.”

  “Oh, no you won’t. I’m taking cage.”

  Already late, we stood at the elevator doors rocking, papering, and scissoring. Deadlocked three times in a row, we stepped into the elevator together. She didn’t want me to steal the money, and I didn’t want her to steal it. If we could find the collar, we wouldn’t even need to, but then we’d be stealing a collar.

  We fished our phones out of our pockets as the elevator doors closed.

  I started with Vree. “Have you found the collar?” “No, but—” “Keep looking.” I hung up on her and dialed Bradley, who said his eyes were better, but now he had a brick between them. “What?” I asked. “A brick between your eyes? What?” He said, “It feels like there’s a brick between my eyes, Davis.” Beside me, Fantasy whispered, “Allergies.” I flipped the phone upside down and whispered back to her, “Bradley has never had an allergy in his life.” She said, “He does now.” To Bradley I said, “Is there any chance it’s allergies?” He said, “I’ve never had an allergy in my life.” Then I called Pasta, an Italian restaurant on the mezzanine level, and ordered dinner—salad, spaghetti, and cheese bread. “For how many, Mrs. Cole?” I told her ten. (You never know.) Fantasy said, “How can you order spaghetti when your house smells like Little Italy already?” I told her because Bex and Quinn wouldn’t stop asking for Princess’s food. (“Bite, bite, bite.”) My last call was to July. I told her I was on cage duty until five, and asked her to take the girls home, where there’d be spaghetti. She said she’d bathe and pajama the girls, have them ready for spaghetti, and see me after cage.

  What would I do without July?

  Fantasy called her husband. She didn’t even have the chance to say hello. He started in on her before she could. After half a minute, she held the phone away from her head. I could hear Reggie through the small speaker. She put the phone back to her ear and interrupted, “Listen up, Reggie. I’ve been working myself stupid with this dog show while you’ve been watching layups and eating loaded potato skins at TGI Friday’s. I haven’t even been home. I stayed with Davis last night because my shift ended at midnight and Bradley’s out of town. No one stole your truck. I’m driving it because I had…car trouble. I did not delete your SEC spring football games, or throw away you
r toothpaste, and there’s nothing going on in the bonus room that I know of.” To me, she said, “He hung up on me.” Then, “He’s mad because the boys lost the game. I think he’s projecting his anger on me.” I said, “You’re probably right.” Then she called No Hair. “We’re on our way to take cage.” Poor Fantasy was yelled at by two men in a row. “No, we’re not joined at the hip, No Hair, stop calling us the Bobbsey Twins, and I don’t appreciate you suggesting neither of us can count high enough to take cage alone.” To me, she said, “He hung up on me.” Then, “He’s mad about the Smuckers. I think he’s projecting his anger on me.” I said, “You’re probably right.”

  When the elevator doors parted on the casino level, heads ducked, we fought the lobby crowd, then the casino crowd, until we reached the main cashier cage, where we had to wait for retina scans before the next set of elevator doors parted to take us to the vault. On the way down, Fantasy said, “Reggie asked about the bonus room.”

  “Asked what?”

  “If I’d taken an ax to the door.”

  “You didn’t, did you?”

  “What happened to the door, Davis? Did you tear it up getting the dead woman out?”

  “Not so much.”

  “She’s out, right, Davis?”

  “She’s out.”

  “What did Dr. Delirious say? How’d she meet her maker?”

  “He didn’t.” The doors opened to a security-scan booth. “She was gone.”

  Fantasy turned white. “She was what?”

  “Gone. No body.”

  Fantasy slapped the sides of the scan booth and gasped for air, which brought the cage guards running. One put a hand on his holster. The other raised an eyebrow at two of us showing up for cage, late, and obviously, Fantasy at least, shaken. It was a standoff, both sides waiting it out, until the guards decided they didn’t want to challenge Mrs. Cole. We stepped through the body scan and into the vault, then heard the clicks of vault imprisonment with relief. For the next forty minutes, we wouldn’t get any bad news.