Our best guess was Mr. Clear Water and Tito had been roomies, back in the day before yesterday. Until the darkest hour of yesterday morning. Separate rooms, probably, in spite of D.B.’s homophobic musings. Way separate agenda for Sniperman… as it had turned out.
The thought of all his Machiavellian scheming preyed on me as the three of us rode up in Atelier’s streamlined elevator. Building management would have changed locks and canceled security keys by now. At the same time, I was confident a sniper might have other handy skills besides shooting people and breakfast nooks.
He could probably jack a key card with the best of them. Even months later, I couldn’t erase from my memory the Chirp, Click, Clunk that popped open our hotel room door for a killer last summer. I was doing an instant replay of this tune as we reached Lisa’s door.
I was trying to look delighted and impressed by the news she’d moved here. “On a whim, Allie. Took one look at the view and started packing my truckload of clothes. And the three matching dishes. And the pan.”
“Do you feel safe, Lisa? After—
“No worries, Allie. Security is airtight. Look. How cool is this?” She pressed her thumb into a pad on the door. “Touch ID!”
Her door’s latch reprised my most unfavorite three-note tune, in the key of clunk.
It was cool. It was amazing. It was—my stomach roiled—another excellent use for a dead man’s hands. Hiding Tito’s identity and stealing it in one fell swoop. Our sniper maybe could still get in up there. A man with the skills to make effective use of a penthouse view.
I had no intention of raining Tito’s missing thumbprint onto Lisa’s parade. The coverage of the discovery of his body had not included any grisly details. “Body of unknown man found near lagoon at Art Museum” was sensational enough to dominate this morning’s news. 16 needed Lisa to pry the juiciest scoops out of law enforcement for them. They’d realize that soon enough.
“What happens if somebody moves out, Lisa?”
She gave me an evil smile, “Well then. I guess you’d have to turn in your thumbs, Allie.” Wiggled hers at me. Pushed open the door. Nope. Lisa had definitely not heard about Tito’s hands. Just as well.
Lisa’s one-bedroom apartment on the fifteenth floor was both my dream and my nightmare. I followed her straight through the living space, which registered “Wow, trendy” on the HGTV of my mind, out into the gusty night, and onto her vertiginous balcony. Otis came with us, angling his body to protect Lisa and me from—drones, maybe. I didn’t comment. I was too busy taking it all in.
As noted, I am not a friend of high places. In spite of my unbridled desire to live to be ninety-nine and die in bed with Tom, whenever I get up high, a tiny voice whispers, “Go, ahead, Allie. Jump!” As a practical matter, I would never, but it was comforting to know that Otis could tackle like Mean Joe Greene. Or at least well enough to stop me from doing something I wouldn’t want to do anyway.
Add to my precarious state of mind the gobsmacker view. Otis was appreciative of this as well. “Holy fuckin’ spectacular.”
The downside of being able to see all of everything everywhere? All of everything everywhere can see you right back. An equal and opposite risk. Especially if the individual seeing you has a top-of-the-line gun with an expensive you-finder and knows how to use it. Against my better judgement, I’d peeked into my black and silver users’ manual before I threw it in the trash. 2000 yards is not unheard of. That’s a mile and change. A goodly chunk of change. Somebody is claiming “a success” at three. Dark and nasty might hide us tonight, and I was being paranoid, but—
“This is amazing, Lisa. And I’m freezing. Otis, we need to go.”
The inside of her apartment was as warm and cozy as four rooms perched on the edge of a cliff could be. It was stellar, but I didn’t think I could ever get to sleep here.
“Lock up, Lisa? You’re under the same roof as D.B. Harper.”
“He’s not scary, Allie. I can handle an idiot. I’m glad I didn’t know about—the other guys. Glad they were gone before I knew they were here.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Monday, March 5
I woke up Monday morning early. Tom was sleeping next to me, peaceful as I’d found him when I rushed upstairs last night with my thrilling plans for the rest of our evening. Dashed. The melancholy Chet Baker vibe must have knocked him out.
At least I was reminded, once again, of how lucky I was to find this man next to me every morning. I made a few more plans to keep us in bed together from today until 2085, and gave his fabulous back my warmest, most alluring, gander.
Psychic Messaging: Out-of-order. He groaned and burrowed deeper into the covers.
Therefore, between seven forty-five a.m. and ten a.m. my day was bland. This lasted until 10:01 when two unexpected things happened in quick succession.
I might have predicted the first:
One of our guys—not Rick or Adam, the two with names I almost remembered—appeared at the front door with a stack of mail. I rifled through it. A thick, ugly Value-Pack, full of cheesy ads for which I had no need at this time, a handful of bills, which held no terror for me these days, and a letter for Otis.
Tito was dead, dammit. We were supposed to be done with sinister mail. But here it was. Addressed, in hand-written block letters, to Otis L. Johnson. Our address. No vellum. No fancy script. No way I didn’t know exactly who sent it.
I hollered “Otis!” in a tone and a decibel that brought him up from the cave, Tom down from upstairs, and an extra security dude in from the garage. Like magic. Not-Rick-or-Adam hadn’t made it back out the door yet, so he was still there too.
I’d already touched the envelope with my naked hand. As had the guy, and at least three postal workers, by my count. It was March, however; therefore, no doubt, there’d be heavy-duty gloves on a couple of those. In any case, it was from a person who’d proved himself quite competent at a significant number of things—He would not smear his prints on incriminating stuff. Or use it to poison us before he got what he wanted.
I held our third envelope out to Otis.
“It’s for you.”
Otis fished in his pocket for the gloves he now carried everywhere and unceremoniously opened his mail.
First of all, this style of envelope was available in packs of 50 or 100 at any Walgreens or Office Depot in town. Second, the stationery was torn from a nondescript pad, folded neatly over. My detective skills said, “This individual is no-frills-serious.” A thing I already knew.
The message bore out my theory. More block letters. Nothing fancy, Otis read it aloud.
“NO MORE GAMES, NOBODY DIES.”
Got it.
Another calling card, this one streamlined as a full metal jacket. Tito’s elaborate scheming, stripped down to strictly business. I wasn’t fooled for a minute. This guy wrote his messages in blood.
“I got to call this in. We’ll talk. Allie. Tom. Chill out for a minute.”
I had one question for Otis that wasn’t about people, us in particular, not playing games or dying.
“Otis, what does the L. stand for?”
He kept walking, “Allie, I’d have to kill you.”
“Otis. Take a number.”
* * *
The arrival of the note was not a major shock. An informal greeting from a stone-cold killer wasn’t a fraction as scary as having that killer shoot your glass roof off. We were seasoned graduates of the school of “What you don’t see is what you get.” Or “The suspense is killing you.” We could handle a note on cheap stationery.
I was congratulating myself on maintaining my—superficial, at least—composure.
However.
The second unexpected thing of the morning was a bombshell for which none of us was prepared.
When the doorbell rang again, I peeked out to see the former lady of the hous
e, a.k.a. The Merry Widow—standing on her former front steps. Snappy black coat. Matching umbrella. Big nasty frown. I needed all my hard-won self-possession not to scream.
Okay. I knew this person had been inspected at the gate. Plus, not long ago, we’d written her a check for 2.4 million dollars. Surely she wouldn’t kill me in front of witnesses. One of whom was armed. I opened the door.
“Mrs. Stone.”
“Ms. Harper.”
“Come in. And it’s Allie. Here. Let me take your coat.”
I tried to measure her minimal civility against Jay’s suspicions. He’d been very convincing. His facts were intriguing. I’d never liked her either.
I dispatched her coat and the umbrella, made note of how her trim figure was 100% encased in black. Mourning her wicked deed, no doubt. Her posture was commendable, if tense. She preceded me into her ex-living room. Seemed barely aware of how charming we’d made it.
I offered coffee.
She waved me away. Strode right past me and straight up the graceful curve of the staircase with its custom bronze-embellished railings.
Alice Jane Smith Harper, go! You’re smarter, twenty years younger, and not dressed for a funeral. You can take her.
The moral support was welcome, even if I was the only one who could hear it.
I went up the steps two at a time and caught her as she swept into my dressing room. Without missing a beat, she walked over to the chaise, picked up Margo’s shawl with two nitpicking fingers, held it at arm’s length, and dropped it to the floor. Sat down, crossed her skinny legs, gazed up at me, and raised an eyebrow.
Red velvet and black dry-clean-only made an interesting contrast. She began stroking the lush upholstery with a possessive hand.
“Now. Is there something you’d like to say to me, Ms. Harper?”
One of the advantages of being in all kinds of danger, due to having a fatal dose of good luck and a subsequent oversupply of cash, is that it raises your kiss-my-ass-attitude to a professional level. I’d faced murderers, kidnappers, and a murdering kidnapper with a gun aimed at my heart. On two separate occasions. To be fair, only one of them pulled the trigger. I could deal with a woman in a posh black suit and sassy little black bootie boots.
Take her down, Alice Jane.
“Yes.” I allowed myself a moment to admire the extreme lack of fear in my voice. “As a matter of fact, there is something.” I leaned across my desk, snatched up the receiver of the vintage phone and held it up like a symbol of truth and justice. “I can call the guards in our security room. Or the Bratenahl Police Department. Or just holler out the window for the guy with the dog. You. Choose.”
Ha. You said holler. Do you think she knows that phone’s not hooked up?
Patricia Stone had come to deliver righteous intimidation and shaming. She’d mistaken her current situation for the high ground. There was nothing in her Junior-League-society-matron arsenal this morning to tackle the famous Allie-Harper-Lee-Ann-Smith-Bring-It-On.”
The high dudgeon drained off her, and her angry momentum left town—
Look out Allie, she’s thinking about making up.
Dang. Lee Ann was right.
Up closer, with her victory lap over, Patricia Stone appeared distraught. Under different circumstances, I might guess she was scared about something. She stood up, wavering on her teensy heels and folded.
Off-suit deuce and seven meet a Royal Flush.
Yee. Haw.
Okay. This was not about the chaise anymore. Chaise was leverage. Leverage backfired. Too bad.
“Let me see you out, Ms. Stone.”
And nail you for homicide.
“Wait. Allie. And please. It’s Patricia. I’ve got us off on the wrong—I’m—sorry about—this. I’ve been—not myself lately. I need your help. Could we sit back down? Talk? Just for a minute?”
“Sure, Patricia.” I pulled the desk chair out and offered it to her. Claimed my rightful place on the chaise.
Huh. Well, look who won that pissing contest.
At this delectably gratifying moment, Otis popped in, set the coffee service down on the desk, and left. He hadn’t heard Patricia’s rejection of coffee, or hadn’t cared. Or maybe he was taking an opportunity to check up on us. I needed coffee like nobody’s business. She appraised and dismissed it. Of Otis, she said, when he was barely out of earshot. “That one seems competent enough.”
“Pray you never have occasion to find out, Patricia.”
I was ready to toss her off the front steps without her damn umbrella. Now I was triply committed to nabbing her for the ruthless murder of her worthless spouse. I could put up with her for maybe another thirty seconds, but the clock was ticking.
“Why are you here?”
I searched her face for clues. She looked well-put-together in her black Armani or whatever, but not good. I estimated her at late forties. Early fifties, maybe. Haggard will pile years onto your face. Icing your spouse will do that for you too. Her skillfully faux, jet-black hair was skinned back tight and locked into a punishing bun that made my scalp ache to look at it. No softening for the tired shadows under her eyes, no quarter to the fine lines holding her mouth in check.
Guilt, I bet. All over her cramped-up face. That was it. But that still didn’t explain—
“Allie.” My name was a sour taste in her mouth. She stopped. Glared at me. Started again. “I need—”
Another hesitation.
“Allie, my husband is planning to kill me, and I need—” She closed her eyes, pursed her lips against whatever she was about to say.
This gave me time to think, “What? What?”
“I would like to engage the services of your—agency. Your T&A.”
Laugh? Cry? Scream? How do you answer a cluster bomb?
“I’m sorry. Would you say that again?
“Are you mocking me?
“Not at all. Patricia. I was unprepared for your—request. I understood that your husband died in a tragic—”
“In a fucking kayaking accident? Steven? You’ve got to be kidding me. You met him, right, Allie? At least once or twice.”
Well. There was a turn of phrase. I could not even imagine Margo saying “fucking kayaking accident.”
“I did. Last fall. But I don’t recall—”
“That man would only drown in a—in a kayak if someone knocked him unconscious and roped him in there with a truckload of rocks to hold it down.”
“And that someone—with the—rope and the—rocks—and the, um, knocking out would not be you, I suppose.”
“What do you think?” She was squinting her eyes at me now. A parody of skepticism. I hadn’t noticed how black and shiny they were. Like insect eyes only not as human. Carpenter ant came to mind. I pictured creepy antennas waving. Needed to get grip here.
She ignored my expression.
“I know you talked to Jay. I knew you were lying to him about the chaise, even if he believed you. $300? Seriously. He’s not as smart or as cute as he thinks he is.”
Jay. You dog.
“Frankly, Patricia, I believe he’s both.”
She swiveled in her chair and looked down the hall. “Why is he listening?”
Damn. I was starting to fantasize about murdering her myself.
Mrs. Carpenter Ant. In the dressing room. With a—with an unopened bottle of Chardonnay. Are we having fun yet?
“He’s our bodyguard, Patricia,” I hissed through gritted teeth. “And carrying concealed. You might want to rethink—”
“You have a blind bodyguard? And he’s armed?”
My ears tuned in. Tom, moving confidently down the hall.
“No, ma’am.” Tom’s Atlanta drawl could resurface without warning, especially when was mad or about to laugh. In this case, it could be either. Or both.
“I’m the
T of the T&A.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
My dressing room was now officially overcrowded. Its Maximum Occupancy Limit was Two Persons. Four in a pinch, if two sat on the chaise, one at the desk, and one on the ornate stool of the antique dressing table. I was acutely aware I hadn’t gotten around to “mentioning to Tom” about the chaise. He sure enough knew now.
He and I were sharing the chaise but not in the way Lee Ann suggested the first time I saw it. He settled himself in beside me and murmured, “Is this a chaise longue? How was it not part of our guided tour? It’s a hell of a lot more interesting than your teeny-tiny fridge.”
“I was saving it,” I muttered back. “As a surprise.”
Sotto voce. “Well, I am surprised.”
“Why don’t we revisit this conversation after four or five hundred of us have gone home.”
“Gotcha.”
Otis returned after Tom arrived and therefore drew the short straw on seating. The dressing table’s stool was designed for someone with a less ample derrière than mine and was bordered with carved, gold-leaf curlicues. Cute but not comfortable. Definitely not for Otis. Understatement. I made Patricia trade places with him.
She was giving Tom the once-over. I wondered if she might be considering making a move on his blind hotness. Or plotting to drown him in “a fucking kayak.” Tom’s blindness could work in her favor, but he’d have full access to the scariness of her voice and the chilling pulse of her frantic aura. Her voice was cold and grating. Crow-like. She was not his auditory type.
Something—no, wait. Every single thing—about this morning was driving me to the edge of hysteria. Precipice of hysteria.
Otis had brought a plate of his killer muffins and put them on the desk within my reach. I did not say, “Otis makes killer muffins” as I often did when there wasn’t a putative killer in the room. Patricia, whom I was now calling ‘Patti” in my head for my private amusement, eyed him with new respect.
The Devil's Own Game Page 17