Double Whammy (A Davis Way Crime Caper) (35 page)

Or so she said.

She hadn’t come to Vegas for a family reunion, she’d come to Vegas for a makeover party.

The Bianca Sanders who burst through the double doors had Steven Tyler’s mouth on her. I swear, it was as if someone had taken a bicycle-tire pump to the woman’s smackers. Her engorged lips were snarled so far away from everything else on her face, we could see all of her gums. Her lips entered the room a full minute before she did, and as she began her tirade, spitting venom with every word, it soon became obvious that in addition to the lips (as if that weren’t enough) her facial features were completely frozen. She kept the same icy mask on her face for every word, be they “fluffy baby bunnies” or “I will slit your throat in your sleep.”

Under the weather? The woman looked like she’d been tossed under a train.

“I’ve seen her this way before,” No Hair said from behind his hand. “She’ll go back to normal in a week or so.”

In the end, Bianca very reluctantly agreed to return to Biloxi within twenty-four hours to face trumped-up felony charges that would be dismissed as soon as they were read, but the formalities were necessary for my release. No one doubted how little she thought of the program.

The room fell completely silent in her wake: jaws were slack, heads shook, liquor flowed freely.

One of the Grand Palace Vegas attorneys turned to Bradley. “I wonder if that’s where your girl is,” he said. “At a doctor’s office, having her facial features rearranged.”

It wasn’t a bad idea, and we were out of good ideas, so police details woke plastic surgeons all around town with Natalie’s photograph, but the next morning as I was boarding the plane to return to prison in Mississippi, they hadn’t scared her up.

Natalie Middleton was gone.

*    *    *

There are worse ways to travel, but still, five hours in the Casimiro jet with two U.S. Marshals—one mine and one Bianca’s—was unsettling for me and the end of the world for her.

Salvatore Casimiro offered me the ride, not giving his science-experiment of a daughter a choice. I certainly had another choice—Con Air—but I’d have to wait in a Vegas jail cell for days, if not weeks, to catch one of those chartered flights, then zigzag across the country in an air bus with felons being assigned and reassigned. Mississippi was adamant: Go to jail. Go directly to jail. Do not pass GO. Do not collect $200. And, no, you aren’t in the custody of your attorney any longer, in fact, we have a few choice words for him, too.

Bianca washed down two Xanex with vodka, then retreated to the in-flight bedroom for the duration of the trip, her escort dozing at the door. I slept most of the way, too. When I woke, I panicked about going back to jail and I missed Bradley Cole.

It took more than thirty hours to process me at the prison. If Bianca Sanders had been the least bit cooperative it might have only taken three. As it turns out, Bianca was supposed to spend most of her first forty-eight post-op hours on her back, so the fresh toxins in her face wouldn’t run amok. So every hour, on the hour, proceedings came to a complete stop while Bianca stretched out and a masseuse shuttled over from the Bellissimo manipulated her face. She whined, to everyone within earshot, she had no intention of ever shooting a gun again, because the aftermath of red tape was unbearable, the locale deplorable.

By the time I was finally released, Bradley had returned to Biloxi. He was waiting for me in the lobby. He stood, he put an arm around me, then led me out of a correctional institution for the second time since we’d met.

“Did you drive by, Bradley?”

“He’s not there, Davis.”

“Can you take me there?”

“Davis, honey,” Bradley stopped me in the dark parking lot. “He’s not there. I asked the limo drivers if they’d seen him, and they haven’t. In more than two weeks.”

My heart hurt. I looked up and memorized every line of sweet Bradley’s face. “Could you take me there anyway?”

“Why, Davis?”

“I need some sleep!”

“Then let’s take you home,” he said.

“I can’t go to Pine Apple, Bradley. I can’t cross a state line until this mess if over.”

“Davis,” he said. “Your lease isn’t up for another two months.”

*    *    *

Richard Sanders returned to the Bellissimo with much fanfare. It was a new day. On his arm, his wife. Neither No Hair nor I said a word. A large part of our job was to look the other way. Bianca Casimiro Sanders summoned me her first morning back in Biloxi. She picked a really bad time to call.

“Don’t answer it!”

“I have to, Bradley. It’s the Bat phone!”

I stepped off the elevator onto the Elvis floor, and I was escorted to Mrs. Sanders. She wore full makeup, perfect hair, a purple silk robe, and matching purple stiletto heels at eight in the morning. At her feet were two furry rats. They may have been dogs, because I don’t think rats yip like that, and they both had purple silk bows on their heads that matched Bianca’s getup. The urgent matter she so rudely interrupted my morning for went like this: “You’ll need to stand in for me at events. Ribbon-cuttings and such. That’ll be all.”

Mr. Sanders hired a new secretary who was just that—a secretary. She answered the phone, made appointments and coffee, and ushered people in and out. When five o’clock rolled around, she punched out. She didn’t know what blood type Richard Sanders was and she never would.

I got a raise and an office. No Hair was promoted; he was my new boss, and we were looking for a third, and possibly fourth, addition to the team. I tracked down Fantasy Erb from my behind-bars days—not that many days ago, actually—and No Hair agreed to interview her. She was savvy, strong, she knew how to follow rules and when to show mercy. I wanted her in quickly because there was something fishy going on at Club Meridian, Bellissimo’s ridiculously popular (and ridiculously loud) nightclub, that involved the almost-naked dancers and I wanted no part of almost-naked dancing. In public, anyway.

Meanwhile, No Hair and I spent long days digging, pouring, and searching for clues as to Natalie’s whereabouts, but there were none to be found. It had been six days since she’d disappeared from the restroom in Primm, Nevada, and with each tick of the clock, the possibility of finding her diminished.

“She’s in Jamaica,” No Hair suggested. “Or St. Bart’s. We’ll never catch her.”

A bench warrant had been issued for the contents of Natalie’s condo in New Orleans, and we were digging through the whole bunch of nothing retrieved from there. No other warrants had been issued, because the last thing we wanted to do was scare her away. All of us held out the hope she’d stumble and we’d nail her.

I was hard at work when I felt No Hair staring at me, and not for the first time since we’d returned.

“What’s eating at you, Davis?” he asked.

I had nothing to lose by saying it out loud. “It’s George.”

“The cab driver?”

PMS, or PMDD, or INSANITY took over, because it turned out I did have something to lose by saying it aloud—hydration. I started crying and I couldn’t stop.

“Good Lord.” No Hair jumped up and began looking for something—a baseball bat, a tranquilizer gun, a box of Kleenex. “Get a grip, Davis.” He stood two feet away from me and awkwardly patted my back. “There, there, now. Come on and stop leaking. What’s the problem?” No Hair scanned the room, looking for backup, I imagine. “Has something happened to the old guy?”

“That’s just it, No Hair.” I used my sleeve. And then I used my other sleeve. “I think Natalie got to him. He’s
nowhere
! He’s disappeared!”

“I didn’t realize you two were so close.” Beads of sweat had popped out all over No Hair. He tugged on Albert Einstein, who was on his tie. You’d think after twenty-two years of marriage, the guy would have witnessed a female having a smallish meltdown. He stumbled around, then found a seat a comfortable distance from me. “He’s probably right outside, sleeping in his cab.”

“He is not,” I barely said it aloud. “I kept an eye out for him the entire time we were in Vegas, and I’ve checked the VIP entrance a dozen times a day since we’ve been back.” I launched into that kind of crying where it’s hard to catch your breath. “The only one as smart as her is him, No Hair! George probably figured it out days before we did and she
killed
him.” I took a deep shaky breath. “And that’s it for George! There’ll never be justice for his son’s death, and now there’ll never be justice for
his
!”

“You don’t know that,” No Hair said. “I’ll tell you what, Davis. I’ll help you look into it just as soon as this court stuff is over.”

I sniffed. “You promise?”

No Hair tried to crack a smile, and I recognized it as such because I’d seen him do it before, but the first few times I mistook it for food poisoning.

“So, how’s it going with you and the lawyer?” he cautiously changed the subject.

I mopped my tears, sat back, and sighed/smiled.

“See?” No Hair asked. “I told you.”

“You didn’t tell me shit, No Hair.”

“I wish you’d watch your language, Davis. Do you talk like that in front of him?”

*    *    *

The first of what would be many hearings was set for Monday morning, eight sharp, all parties be present or be in contempt. The proceedings were closed so that the media might get as little information as possible, because wherever Natalie Middleton was, she was staying on top of things, of that we had no doubt. If just one reporter got a hold of her name, it’d be over.

The State would drop all charges against me after I proved myself innocent in a court of law. That meant Bianca Sanders on the stand, testifying on my behalf.

The media was starving for any crumb of news. To compensate for what they didn’t know, they filled the airways and information outlets with what they did know, which was amazingly little. The evening before, Bradley and I, having taken a break from watching the Wild Bill surveillance footage for the umpteenth time, were channel surfing, and breezed by a still of a high school yearbook photograph of me in my retro majorette finery. I grabbed for the remote to make it go away.

“No!” Bradley held it a mile out of my reach. “Let me see this!”

Agents from several government agencies had several things to discuss with Eddie Crawford, so naturally, he’d disappeared.

Fine by me.

Bianca Sanders told the authorities Edward was dead to her, and don’t bring up his name again in her presence, which forced the rest of us to do all the Eddie explaining, including what we knew of the Sanders’ Open Marriage policy.

“Do you have any idea where he might be?” a state gaming agent asked me.

“Pine Apple, Alabama,” I said.

He scribbled it down.

“No,” I said. “Two words. Pine. Apple.”

“You’re kidding, right? That’s hilarious. And what did you say your name was?”

*    *    *

We knew there’d be media coverage, but we had absolutely no idea there’d be a convention. Halfway down the courthouse steps and bunched in a semi-circle around the doors, reporters and cameras were twenty-deep.

“What the hell?” Bradley asked.

“I wish I had a hat,” I said.

“Bianca must be up there holding her own court.”

We couldn’t find an empty parking space for several blocks.

“Should we go in the back way?”

“No,” Bradley said. “Let’s see what’s going on.”

Bradley took two steps, then turned around to see me rooted to the sidewalk.

“Come on, Davis. You’ve got to do this.” He held his hand out. “Whatever they ask, just say no comment.”

I was afraid that as soon as one of them saw me we’d be trampled. A few at the back of the pack seemed to recognize me, but only glanced. No microphones were shoved my way.

Bradley and I shrugged.

“Maybe this will go easier than we thought,” he said.

“What in the world are they all looking at?”

Natalie Middleton, wearing the same clothes she’d been in eleven days ago, looked like she’d crawled to Biloxi on her hands and knees from Wild Bill’s Casino in Primm, Nevada. She was chained to the massive courthouse doors. She was so thoroughly chained that upon being discovered, a welding crew had been called. That idea was scrapped after they all but fried her leg, so a second crew had been called in, this one with chainsaws. It would seem that chainsaw crews didn’t move with anywhere near the efficiency that news crews did, because the only tools present were cameras.

The crowd, recognizing me, parted. Bradley and I stopped a few feet away.

Her left leg was tucked beneath her, propping her up. Her right arm, twisted behind her head, was chained to the bent leg pulley fashion, so if she moved one she risked injury to the other. She looked mighty uncomfortable. Her left arm was stretched above her head, chained to the brass handles of the massive courthouse doors, the opposite leg, the one that had a big red welding welt across her bare ankle, to a stone pillar.

She wasn’t going anywhere.

“Good God,” Bradley said.

Natalie and I shared a long, cold look.

There were so many things I wanted to say to her. I’d been rehearsing for days: while brushing my teeth, to the steering wheel of my Volkswagen, at three in the morning with Bradley. Yet I found I couldn’t. My mouth was wide open, but nothing would come out. The pathetic position she was in took my speech away.

They say every path has its puddle. Natalie Middleton had landed in hers face-first and she would drown in it. She knew it. She didn’t need to hear it from me.

I stepped away, shielded my eyes against the sun, and began searching the street.

He was standing at parade rest beside his cab.

My hands flew to my heart.

He saluted me, got in, and drove away.

About Gretchen Archer