Complicity in Heels (6 page)

“Chip and Wally. The three are virtually inseparable.”

They walked past a pay phone near the main parking lot then continued for about a hundred yards before coming to a stop at a large ranch-style building. Ms. Daniel unlocked the main door. “Here we are.”

“Is this place new?” Nikki gazed at the sizable structure for a moment. “I don’t remember it from any of my previous visits.”

“It’s somewhat new, about three years old now.”

Ms. Daniel cut on the lights and motioned for Nikki to enter the building. “This is the main lounge and game room area.”

Nikki looked around. There was an air hockey table, several sofas and lounge chairs, an electronic shooting basketball game, and two billiards tables.

“And school? What about school?” Nikki inquired. She was aware that her brother’s special education program had ended when he turned twenty-four, a decade ago. Marty now required continuous living-skills instruction.

“He enjoys the independent living skills curriculum taught here. Loves to mop floors, despises doing laundry, and is still a bit confused about the iron and how it works.”

Nikki chuckled. She recalled the number of shirts Marty had destroyed over the years while holding the appliance too long against the fabric. Even when he was supervised, his inability to correctly judge time had disastrous consequences.

The pediatric behavioral health specialist, assigned to the family early on, had explained that Marty suffered from Down syndrome. With an intellectual disability that was in the mild to moderate range, he wasn’t expected to progress at the same rate as Nikki. Over time, the intellectual and emotional gap between the two siblings widened, creating a situation in which the younger child, Nikki, eventually became her brother’s caregiver. She resented this prognosis from the beginning—always having to explain to others his genetic disorder, working extra hard so as not to appear to be taking her own abilities for granted, and never having enough time to engage her own personal pursuits and hobbies. Down syndrome had become a centerpiece in her family. It wasn’t until Nikki was an adult that she realized Marty had added a special dimension to her life. It was the realization that you accommodate other people not by going out your way but by realizing “the norm” is a midpoint, not a requirement.

The women moved on, walking through the lounge, past the dining area, and toward the laundry room. Next to the wash area were the communal restroom and showers. Ms. Daniel made a left there and continued down the residential wing until she reached Marty’s room.

Stepping inside, she flipped on the light switch. Nikki gasped in amazement. A giant wallpaper mural poster of Cam Newton above the bed came to life. The Carolina Panther quarterback appeared to be leaping over one of his own lineman while dodging two Arizona Cardinal defensive backs. The walls were painted a cross between gray and beige, and a Panther team rug extended from beneath the bed toward the door. The room had a cozy, welcoming feel and was far from drab.
This is so Marty
, Nikki thought. “I love what you’ve done with the place,” she commented.

Ms. Daniel beamed with pride. “Thank you, we try to personalize each residents room according to their preferences.”

A strong aroma evoked a sense of familiarity. Nikki inhaled to try to determine the scent. “Is that—”

“Bubble gum?” Ms. Daniel answered, anticipating the question. “Yes, it is. Actually, it’s bubble-gum fragrance oil. Keeps the room smelling fresh and the residents calm. We have several versions, from apple pie to vanilla wafer. Different residents prefer different scents. Believe it or not, it actually helps suppress appetite too, much to the approval of our staff dietician.”

Ms. Daniel moved toward the bed; Nikki followed. The mental health worker pointed out the blue-and-black Carolina Panthers team comforter with matching sheets and pillow: a Christmas gift to Marty from the facility staff, she explained.

Nikki lowered her head. “I…umm…” she stuttered. “I sent letters. Did…”

Ms. Daniel leaned over, set her radio on the nightstand, and opened the top drawer. She removed two bundled stacks of letters. “Whenever I worked the night shift, I read one of your letters to Marty before he turned in for the night.”

She handed Nikki one of the stacks of correspondence.

Nikki let out a sigh of relief. “Thank you,” she said. She thumbed through the letters quickly. On all the envelopes, the prison’s return address had been blotted out with black ink. She showed a few of the envelopes to Ms. Daniel.

“Per Mrs. Ruiz’s instruction,” Ms. Daniel explained. “The staff here has always maintained that you’ve been away on business. To acknowledge otherwise would create an unnecessary stressor in Marty’s life. As you probably know, stressors have the potential to trigger challenging behavior in persons with Down syndrome.”

Nikki completely understood the reasoning and didn’t press the issue any further. She wandered over to the dresser. Numerous photos lined the inside perimeter of the mirror.

“Pictures from various outings,” Ms. Daniel commented.

Nikki took a closer look. There was a snapshot of Marty at Bank of America Stadium with a smiling Cam Newton, another of him with several professional cheerleaders, and one with him and two men she presumed were Chip and Wally. She skipped over more pictures to the opposite side of the mirror: Marty eating pizza with Ms. Daniel, Marty opening Christmas gifts, and Marty with their late mother, Nancy, at the hospital several months before her death six years ago.

Another photo grabbed Nikki’s attention. She reached up and removed it.
Where have all the years gone?
she wondered.
One minute you’re a happy young adult in a nuclear family, and the next, you’re a convicted felon, estranged from your family and friends.

“What is it?” Ms. Daniel asked.

Nikki ignored the question, drawing the photo closer to herself. “It’s one of the last times my family was all together, fall of 2000.”

Ms. Daniel moved alongside Nikki to get a better look at the image: the entire Frank family was standing on the porch of their Southern-style two-story home.

“There’s Dad in his dress blues,” Nikki pointed out. “Mom, healthy and happy. I love that conservative evening gown she wore to the marine corps ball that year. She looks so elegant. Marty, of course, is holding the pumpkin, and there’s me, standing next to him.”

Ms. Daniel smiled.

Nikki looked over at her. “Good times, before it all fell apart. A year later, Dad was killed in Afghanistan. Eight months after that, my mother’s cancer was diagnosed. When her health insurance coverage ran out, she was forced to sell her home to pay for more aggressive forms of treatment. It was hell.”

The corners of Ms. Daniel’s lips turned downward. “I’m sorry to hear that,” she said, lowering her eyes.

Nikki placed the picture back in the crevice of the mirror. “I can’t believe he still has this.”

“Why do you say that?”

She smiled. “Seems kinda of silly now, but I wanted to take this photo to show my sorority sisters the type of gown I had in mind for our annual ball. Marty wouldn’t part with it, though—his OCD was in full effect, even after I assured him that I’d bring it right back. He wouldn’t budge. We fought for two days, and during each encounter, he threw a massive tantrum. Finally, I just had another print made.”

Ms. Daniel nodded. “Not to get into specifics, but I know what you mean. I’ve experienced that behavior with him on many occasions: consistent obsessive-compulsive disorder. It’s a comorbidity to his Down syndrome. When Marty fixates on something, especially something given directly to him, there’s no such thing as a return, regardless of the situation. In his mind, it’s his, plain and simple.”

Nikki smiled slightly. “Isn’t that the truth?”

The handheld radio on the nightstand crackled; Nikki recognized Mrs. Ruiz’s voice. “Ms. Daniel, come in. Over.”

She grabbed the radio and pushed the “transmit” button. “Ms. Daniel here. Go ahead.”

“Dispatch just called. The residents of C dorm are on their way back from training. Please escort Ms. Frank back to the main office.”

“Understood. Out.”

“Training?” Nikki said. “What kind of training?”

“Special Olympics,” Ms. Daniel replied. “Twice a year, summer and winter games.”

“What does Marty do?”

Ms. Daniel moved back toward the bedroom door. “Soccer during the summer games and floorball in the winter.”

A look of confusion draped across Nikki’s face, making her eyebrows dip toward each other. “Floorball?”

“Think indoor hockey for five, plus a goalie.”

“And his positions?” Nikki asked.

“Center in floorball,” Ms. Daniel said, cutting off the lights. “And designated team shooter in soccer.”

Nikki smiled. “That’s so great.”

Ms. Daniel motioned that she was ready to leave.

“Oh,” Nikki said, removing the business section from her newspaper. “Do you have a pen I can borrow?”

“We really should be leaving now,” Ms. Daniel said.

“This’ll only take a second.”

Ms. Daniel handed her a pen from a pocket in her blouse.

“Thank you.” Nikki glanced over the main article of the business section and circled the third word in each of the first three paragraphs of the story. When she finished, she handed the pen back to Ms. Daniel, tucked the business section under her arm, and disposed of rest of the newspaper in a nearby trash can. “Ready,” she announced.

“Follow me then.”

The two women left the room and made their way back up to the lounge, where they exited the dorm. They continued across the facility grounds until they reached the main parking lot.

Two yellow buses pulled onto the campus and drove by. Some of the residents waved in passing. Ms. Daniel waved back.

Nikki pointed to the nearby pay phone. “I didn’t make arrangements to be picked up. I’ll need to make a phone call.”

“Sure, not a problem. I’ve got to get back to work anyway. Duty calls.” Ms. Daniel extended her hand. “Nice meeting you.”

Nikki shook it. “Thanks so much for the tour.”

“You’re welcome. I look forward to working with you in the future.”

“Likewise.”

The two parted ways, and Nikki made her way over to the pay phone. She picked up the handset and placed a collect call.

“Abbott Software and Technologies,” a female voice announced after several rings.

Nikki pulled the business section of the paper out from underneath her arm and held it up.

“Agent 2294, day code, business section, August twenty-sixth, identification procedure.”

“Proceed,” the operator directed.

Nikki brought the paper into closer view to read the words circled earlier. “Starbucks, employment, private sector.”

“Confirmed. How may I assist you, Special Agent?”

“Set up a meet with Harlan Fisk as soon as possible, near the place where we must all say our final good-byes. There’s an abandoned warehouse half a mile from there. He’ll know exactly what I’m talking about.”

“Anything else?”

“Not at this time,” Nikki said, then hung up.

CHAPTER SIX

V
ictor swiped his key card through the reader then entered his suite at the Chateau Regency. A blonde, wearing a sleeveless blue dress with a deep V neck, sat waiting for him on the sofa.

“You’re late.”

“Tied up,” Victor replied. “Had to meet with my boss.”

“That’s gonna cost extra.”

“Which part, being late or tied up?”

“Both.”

Victor gave her a disgruntled look.
Figures.

“If you want to play,” Lacey reminded him, “you’ve got to pay—simple as that.”

Victor moved toward the sofa. “Bondage, as much as it intrigues me, isn’t my thing.”

“Fair enough,” Lacey said, glancing at her watch. “You have forty-five minutes left. Do you wish to continue to discuss my fees or get down to business?”

Victor smiled. “Business, of course.”

Lacey stood. “All right then. I was hoping you’d say that.”

Victor bit his lower lip.
Mmm, mmm, mmm.
The sight of her figure-hugging dress made it obvious that she exercised and dieted on a consistent basis.

Lacey circled around the cartel lieutenant and approached him from behind. She pressed her body up against his. The exquisite softness of her breasts made Victor groan.

“That’ll be fifteen hundred dollars,” she whispered into his ear.

Victor glanced over his shoulder for an explanation.

“I work on a strictly outcall basis; you should know that by now. It’s your responsibility to provide the place. So that’s and additional four hundred fifty dollars for the room, which my man provided unknowingly, plus an additional fifty for being late. My time is valuable.”

Victor removed one of the five-thousand-dollar stacks of cash from inside his jacket and counted off the correct number of bills.

Lacey was transfixed. “Damn.”

“Here,” Victor said, passing the cash to her. “Now, have all debts been settled?”

Lacey took the money and recounted it. “For now.”

“Good.” Victor watched as she placed the notes inside a wristlet on the coffee table.

When she finished, she undressed. Victor’s eyes widened at the shape and fullness of her breasts. Lacey’s midriff was ripped, accentuated by the presence of a shamrock navel ring. She grabbed Victor’s hand and led him to the back. He smiled, concentrating on the shifting of her delicious rear end as she walked.

“Now why don’t you make yourself a little more comfortable?” she said.

Victor removed his jacket, revealing the Galco shoulder holster beneath.

Lacey grabbed the designer coat and placed it across a chair. “Third time this month. You know how to keep a gal busy.”

A devilish grin lit up Victor’s face. “When I find a good thing, I like to stick it.”

Lacey smiled. “Well, I thank you, but more important, my bank account thanks you.”

“You’re well worth it. Not like the others.”

“I know,” Lacey said.

She caressed Victor’s shoulders and neck then ran her hands down his chest next to the holster on his left side.

Victor savored the scent of her sweet perfume. “Mmm, you smell so good.”

“Vanille Aoud.”

“Mm-hmm.”

Lacey reached out and grabbed his Beretta. Victor jerked, seizing her hand. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Do you plan on doing me again while wearing this contraption?”

Victor shook his head.

“Okay, then relax.”

Victor released his grip. No one had ever touched his piece before. It was a personal rule, one he’d never violated, until now.

“Careful, I keep a round in the chamber,” he warned.

Lacey disengaged the holster’s retention strap and pulled the Beretta out.

“You sure you know how to handle that, cupcake?”

Lacey huffed in annoyance as she pointed the weapon to the side. “Safety off,” she announced, sweeping the lever up with her thumb. Seconds later, she reversed her action. “Safety on.”

“Impressive,” Victor commented. “Now put that thing away before somebody gets hurt.”

“Soldiers, cops, gun enthusiasts—they’re all the same. The only thing they love more than me is their guns. You could say I’ve picked up a thing or two.”

Victor cocked an eyebrow. “Like what?”

Lacey pointed the weapon back in his direction. “Does this make you nervous?”

“No,” he lied. The last person to point a loaded gun at him had forfeited not only his life but also the lives of his family.

“Good.” Lacey closed the distance between them, raised the Beretta to Victor’s head, and traced the barrel down his cheek and along his neck.

Victor closed his eyes and focused on the strange yet exhilarating sensations flowing through his body.
Keep on moving
, he thought.
Don’t stop.

Lacey continued to trace a path across his shoulder to the center of his chest. “Tell me a secret.”

“I…” He hesitated. “I wear silk underwear.”

Lacey laughed. “Darling, I already know that.”

Victor remained silent, unsure what to say next.

“Something else,” she prompted.

“I’m in the drug trade.”

She moved the Beretta in small circles against Victor’s chest. “That’s a start. Go on.”

“I’m thinking of leaving the business,” he admitted.

She gave him a puzzled look. “Why?”

“I’ve grown tired.”

“Honey, we’re all tired. No pass on that one. Try again.”

“The competitive nature of the business,” Victor replied. “It’s getting to me. Either you move up or get tossed aside like yesterday’s garbage. No middle ground. Somebody out there is always smarter, more violent, or better equipped than you. Seems like becoming a lieutenant is a lot easier than remaining one. There’s an endless supply of punks out there always looking to do you in. I’m on edge twenty-four seven.”

Lacey deliberately drew the weapon farther down, along Victor’s abs. “Good, but you can do better.”

Beads of sweat formed on his brow while he searched for something more to say.

Lacey pushed the safety into the “off” position. The audible click gained Victor’s attention. “Perhaps you need some incentive,” she said, stopping near his pelvis. “Now tell me a real secret.”

Victor took a deep breath. “I’ve been stealing money from my boss,” he divulged. “And I think he’s on to me.”

This was the first time Victor had said the words out loud. Confession never had felt so good. It was both raw and liberating. He was fully aroused now.

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Lacey praised him, taking notice of his erection.

The buxom blonde put the Beretta back on “safe” and set it on top of the nightstand. “Okay, I think you’re ready.”

“More than you know,” Victor said. He quickly got undressed and followed Lacey to the bed.

She took a seat near the edge of the mattress, set the alarm clock radio for the remaining time left, and leaned back. “Just so you know, time’s up when the alarm sounds.”

Victor shrugged. “Got it.”

“Good,” Lacey said, flinging her legs apart.

Victor grabbed her by the hips and pulled her closer to him. “You’re expensive yet effective.”

“Have to be,” she said matter-of-factly. “Repeat business is crucial.”