I couldn’t wait until six Friday.
Dog interviews over, the room clearing, I logged into Facebook.
“Where to?” Vree asked.
“Ivories.” I had to wrap my arms around her waist to take a baby step. “The piano bar in the casino.”
“Do you need me to stay with you?”
“No, Vree. I’ve got this. Go upstairs and take care of the dogs.”
In sunglasses the size of bread plates, my updo on its way down, I hung the horse foot around my neck by the gold chain as I limped into Ivories fist over fist along a brass handrail. Candy Smucker was alone at the bar nursing a big blue drink. She’d freshened up since her mugshot. She was wearing a loose tank top above tight ripped jeans. There was more rip than jean. She came up from her drink and looked at me. “You’re in worse shape than I am.” She slid off the barstool. “You need a hand?”
I needed a foot. Two of them.
“I love your outfit.” She helped me limp along. “Where’d you get your boots?” She helped me onto a barstool. “They’re hot.”
“You can have them.”
“For real?”
“If you can help me take them off, you can have them.”
“What size are they?” she asked.
“Six and a half.”
“I wear a six on one foot and a seven on the other,” she said. “One of my hands is bigger than the other one too.”
She displayed.
I made what I hoped was an appropriate noise.
I landed my Clydesdale clutch on the bar.
Candy’s mouth dropped open. “Where’d you get that? It’s the most beautiful purse I’ve ever seen in my life.” She reached out and stroked the horse hair. “I want one so bad.” She picked it up and clacked it on the bar. “Here horsey, horsey!” More clacking. “Where’d you get it?”
“I can’t remember.”
“Say, you want a drink?” Then, twenty decibels louder, “Hey! Bar boy! Bring me and my friend a drink! Get your ass out here!” She turned to me. “He tried to run me off when I got here. I had to tip him big. Money talks and bullshit walks, you know.”
I nodded. I knew.
Ivories didn’t officially open until five. The bar was dark, the pianos silent, and the candles on the cocktail tables cold. A male head popped through a cracked door behind the bar. I turned so he wouldn’t think he knew me as Candy ordered a round of Flaming Volcanos, which I’d never heard of. Then she sat at my feet and worked down the rows of hook and eye closures on both boots. A woman worth a billion dollars sat on the floor of a bar to help a total stranger whose feet hurt. When she pulled the second boot off, I thanked her. And meant every word of it.
“Thank you too.” She stood. “I needed some company.”
“Bad day?”
“Woke up in jail.” She tossed her new boots. “That always makes for a bad day.”
“Sorry.”
She waved it off. “It was a nice jail,” she said. “I’ve been in way worser.”
“You’re Candy, right?”
She slapped the bar. “How’d you know?”
“We’re Facebook friends.”
“Get out!”
I nodded.
“You from Atlanta?”
“No,” I said. “But I’m looking for someone who is.”
“His name ain’t Cleave, is it?”
I shook my head no, then reached in the horse hoof for my phone. I found a photograph of Brutus and Butch Sebastian. “I’m looking for these men.”
She zoomed in and out. She picked my phone up and angled it for better light. “Yeah, I know them.”
“I need to find them.”
“I wouldn’t go looking for these two. They’re bad news. What do you want with them?”
“Child support.”
Candy nodded gravely. “Which one?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Get out! You don’t know which one? You go, girl!” She punched me in the arm. My rubber dress took the blow.
“You wouldn’t know where they are, would you?”
“Nope.”
I studied my white rubber lap as the bartender placed big blue frozen drinks in front of us. When the coast was clear, I looked up and asked Candy how she knew Brutus and Butch Sebastian.
“This one—” she stabbed my phone “—was supposed to be my dog-sitter, and this other one—” stab stab “—was supposed to be my bodyguard. Do you see a bodyguard?” Her arms flailed. “Is there anybody guarding this body? No!”
I waited. She drank.
“Me and Cleave—” she paused to explain “—Cleave’s my husband.”
I nodded.
“We hired them to come with us sight unseed. Then I told Cleave, ‘Cleave, we need to meet them for real,’ because anybody with a nose ring can be a bodyguard, but not just anybody can be a dog-sitter. You know what I mean?”
I knew what she meant.
“They got to our place, and our dog throwed a fit. She tore into them the minute she laid her eye on them. She got one of them in the face. The one with the beard.”
“That’s terrifying.” And I meant it. “What’d you do?”
“We got her a hotel room.”
“Ah.”
“Last night, we got to missing her. We went upstairs to the dog hotel and couldn’t find her.”
That wasn’t the dog hotel, Candy.
“Then Cleave got in a little fight with a slot machine.”
I would call what Cleve got into with the Wheel more of a big fight.
“That’s when we went to jail.”
“Ah.”
“It’ll be okay,” she said. “We got eleventeen hundred lawyers.”
You’re going to need all eleventeen hundred.
“Have you seen them since?”
“Seen who?” she asked.
I gave my phone a nod.
“Since when?” she asked.
“Since you met them in Atlanta.”
“They’re here,” she said. “Me and Cleave ran into them the other day. I saw them getting into the elevator with a old lady and a black dog. I said, ‘Hey, you two! Where you been?’ They acted like they didn’t even know us, then they were gone. I said, ‘Cleave, that was them, right?’ Then Cleave said, ‘Hell if I know.’” She paused for a sip of Flaming Volcano. “We had tequila for breakfast that day.”
“What day was that?”
“The day we had tequila for breakfast.”
I was nowhere. The only solid lead I had from Candy placed the fake housekeepers Sebastian with Doris Harrington and Harley in an elevator the day she had tequila for breakfast.
“Those two are the reason Cleave got so worked up last night.”
“Really?”
“Them and he got on the whiskey. When Cleave gets on the whiskey, watch out.”
Duly noted.
“Here.” She reached into her purse and returned with a cardkey. “Take this. Like a trade for the boots. Go get their asses.”
“What is it?”
“It’s the key to their hotel room. But watch out. They trashed it. It stinks.”
“Why do you have their room key?”
“They came with us,” she said. “It was our constellation prize to them since our dog drew blood. We don’t want anybody suing us, you know?”
Too late.
“We already had their reservations,” she said. “So we said, ‘Y’all come on.’”
Now I knew why the brothers Sebastian were here, but I still didn’t know why the Smuckers were mad at them.
“And them acting like they didn’t even know us.”
I could think of worse offenses.
“Then last night, a casino woman tracked us down to tell u
s our room stinks so bad the maids won’t go in it. Cleave said, ‘What the hell? We haven’t even been in our room.’ Then she told him we’d charged our room bill up too high. And Cleave said, ‘What the hell? You ever heard of cash, lady? I pay cash.’ Then she said, ‘No, I’m talking about room charges, mister. High charges.’ Cleave said, ‘What the hell? How high?’ She said, ‘High, high through the roof.’ Then Cleave said, “What the hell? Prove it, lady.” She had a paper a mile long with room charges for their room.” She stabbed my phone.
Those were worse offenses.
“Cleave went up there to give them a piece of his mind.”
“I don’t blame him,” I said.
“He took his sledgehammer with him.”
(Who packs a sledgehammer?)
“Did he find them?”
“Nope. He fell asleep in the elevator. When he woke up he forgot he was looking for them. ’Course he was on the whiskey.” She pushed the room key closer. “You give it a try. You got a sledgehammer?”
I shook my head.
“Take a tire iron. Takes longer, works just as good. When you’re done with them, tell them Cleave and Candy said we don’t appreciate them running up those high charges and stinking up their hotel room.” Then she reached back in her purse and whipped out her phone. In one smooth move, she slung an arm around my shoulders, pressed her cheek against mine, and snapped a picture. “What’s your name? I’m gonna tag you.”
“Bianca Sanders,” the bartender, who came out of nowhere, supplied.
“Spell that,” Candy said. “I can’t spell worth a shit.”
* * *
I found something the rubber dress was good for.
Blocking death fumes.
I found Doris Harrington’s body in Butch and Brutus Sebastian’s Bellissimo guest room. I didn’t find the brothers Sebastian or Princess’s collar.
TWENTY-ONE
Plethora delivered dinner at six. I ordered comfort food. Bex and Quinn were the only takers. At seven, it was “bath, bath, bath,” and at eight, I tucked the girls in, then sat on the rug between their little beds and read Corduroy, a story about a bear who’d lost his button. They only said, “again, again, again” three times before sleep found my tired babies. I kissed noses, turned down lights, turned up monitors, then went straight to the coffee pot, where I made a strong pot of coffee. I pulled three mugs from the shelf and waited. Just before the finished beep, I filled two of the mugs and walked them to my security detail at the elevator.
“Anything?” I passed out coffee.
“Nothing,” one said.
“Thank you,” the other said.
Rod J. Sebastian, last seen the night before leaving the emergency room in an orderly’s uniform, hadn’t surfaced yet. Not on the twenty-ninth floor, anyway. If and when he did, he wouldn’t get far. Back to the kitchen, I poured myself a cup of coffee. It was going to be another long night. The night before, I’d crossed to the dark side, joining the rank and file of cyberthieves. That night, I’d be digging through endless hours of Bellissimo surveillance to establish a timeline, and look for people, answers, and dog collars. While my coffee cooled enough to drink, I did something I’d been trying to do for hours: I called my husband.
“Hey, you,” I said.
He coughed.
“Bradley, you sound terrible.”
“I feel better than I sound. Guess what night it is?”
I was pretty sure it was Wednesday.
“Casino night.” He coughed. “It’s like being home, except everyone here knows what they’re doing. Can I call you back?” I said goodbye, he coughed it.
Next, I checked Greene Gully’s MD Anderson patient account and found a balance of more than eight hundred thousand dollars.
After that, I texted Urleen the Idiot. Bradley has a new symptom. He’s coughing.
Urleen texted back. Probably respiratory failure.
Why did I even bother? Does the medical examiner know the caregiver’s cause of death yet?
Urleen shot back, No, but she has a date. With yours truly.
I blew a raspberry. I don’t care, Urleen. What is she saying the woman on the table died of?
I told you hours ago. A broken heart.
Not a legitimate cause of death. What does the real doctor say, Urleen?
I will forgive you the rude implication, Davis, if for no other reason, I’m a gentleman. The lovely Dr. Gallman-Washburn hasn’t made a final determination yet. I’m in as big a hurry as you are. If you could see this woman in scrubs, you too would be anxious to see her out of scrubs.
I traded the phone for the computer.
Pulling surveillance up on all three monitors, I loaded Bootsy Howard’s mug on one, Butch and Brutus Sebastian’s driver’s license pictures on the next, and Rod J. Sebastian’s photo on the third screen. It was a good thing Doris Harrington’s body had been recovered, because I didn’t have a fourth screen.
Bootsy Howard pulled into the Bellissimo parking garage at four Saturday morning, beating Meredith and Bubbles here altogether, and Vree by four hours. I picked her up again when she marched in the Bellissimo through the west entrance, where she wandered to the VIP elevator and ran into Bradley, Bex, and Quinn. I watched until she gave the girls carnival suckers, then jumped all the way to Tuesday afternoon, as Vree pushed the wheelchair full of sleeping Bootsy through my front door after she was released from the hospital. I stayed with the camera on my door, using the video speed changer to fast forward to her exit, sometime the next morning. Sometime turned out to be 4:14. Everyone here was asleep when Bootsy sneaked out, dressed in full witch regalia. She looked right and left, particularly left, in the direction of Jay Leno’s—something caught her eye?—then stepped out of the camera’s range. Rather than taking the time for a new search from a different angle, I had surveillance look for any additional footage of Bootsy and found only one more shot of her entering the parking garage at 5:50 Wednesday morning. From my front door to the west entrance leading to the parking lot at that time of morning was a ten-minute crawl. I had no idea what she’d been doing all that time. I froze the screen. I couldn’t imagine she had the energy, after what she’d been through, to drive to Houston, but the only reason she’d have gone to the parking garage would have been to get in her car and go somewhere. My best guess was to Greene’s bedside.
Moving to my second monitor, I cued VIP reception, and sped through Sunday morning check-ins and check-outs until I found Cleave, Candy, and Princess Smucker, changing the Bellissimo forever when they blasted through the VIP double doors. The main act was the Smuckers, all three, and the poor girl behind the desk trying to check them in, Lauren, who’d written No Hair the email about Princess. But it was the sideshow I was after, Butch and Brutus Sebastian, who’d arrived with the Smuckers. While Cleave and Candy argued, vehemently, with Lauren, the brothers Sebastian quietly and stealthily slipped around the corner. I had to change the camera feed to catch the brothers in quick conversation with their cousin Rod J. Sebastian, who’d obviously been awaiting their arrival. I wished I could read lips. Rod J. Sebastian passed them a blue keycard, turned on his heel and left. I don’t know how Rod J. acquired the blue keycard, unless he swiped it from a housekeeping supervisor’s cart, but it gave the brothers access to all areas janitorial. Minutes later, they accepted a guest-room keycard portfolio from the Smuckers. For the next fifteen minutes, I followed them at warp speed until they knocked on my front door hours later with a riding-lawn-mower sized floor cleaner, then slowed the feed to a crawl to watch them leave. Like I’d see a Harry Winston collar dangling from one of their pockets. No such luck. It was just after noon Sunday, when they should have been doing what I’d paid them two hundred dollars each to do, which was drive a Bellissimo truck to Fantasy’s bonus room and retrieve Bootsy, but instead, they took a left. To Jay Leno’s. Their cousin Rod answered the door, where
I watched a hushed exchange ensue, most likely including “daughters” and “Ivory Snow” and “there’s a dog in there that looks like a weasel and smells like death warmed over,” but no sight of, or passing of, the diamond collar. Eventually, after checking over his shoulder, cousin Rod pulled them in, and none too gently. Not having footage of the suite’s interior, I had to wait until they exited four minutes later, with Doris Harrington and Harley in tow. She was being manhandled by the bearded Sebastian, and Harley dragged on a leash by the nose-ringed Sebastian. It was terrifying to watch; they’d been in my home just minutes earlier. I lost their party in the elevator, then picked them up eighteen minutes later, turning left onto Beach Boulevard in the Bellissimo truck, on their way to Fantasy’s. A chill ran through me as I realized I was watching the very end of Doris Harrington’s life. Back at the Bellissimo, I had to assume, having cleared the Leno suite of his minor obstacles, Doris and Harley, Rod J. Sebastian incapacitated his major obstacle, Hiriddhi Al Abbasov, in the indoor pool. I didn’t find Butch and Brutus Sebastian’s images on Bellissimo surveillance again until hours later, when they made use of the very laundry cart Vree and I left on the loading dock when we’d rolled knocked-out Bootsy Howard to Fantasy’s Volvo. The brothers Sebastian used the same laundry cart to transport Doris Harrington’s lifeless body to their hotel room, which was registered to the Smuckers, leaving the body there for Cleave and Candy to explain, which, given the controversy already swirling the Smuckers, would have been difficult at best. I fast forwarded to the last recorded surveillance sighting of Butch and Brutus, which was dark and early Wednesday morning leaving via the west entrance. I froze the feed.
Saving the best for last, I pulled up cousin Rod’s activities to track him carefully and specifically. There would be no fast-forwarding. I wanted to see his every step, first to last. I poured a second cup of coffee at ten o’clock, then settled in to watch, from his wing-tipped shoe first touching Bellissimo ground when he arrived by limo Saturday morning, through check in, picking him up exiting the twenty-ninth floor elevator at the back of the sheik entourage. I continued to watch his meanderings throughout the grounds and casino on Saturday afternoon, including the passing of an iPad to a little boy in the lobby impatiently waiting for his parents to check out. Fantasy’s iPad. It was never in her car. We’d tracked a kid in the backseat playing zombie games for days, thinking we were tracking Bootsy Howard. I fell asleep at my desk somewhere between Rod J.’s Saturday night and my wee hours of Thursday morning. My phone woke me at four. My third cup of coffee was full and cold, and all three computer monitors rolled screen savers. The text message was from Meredith. Davis, I’m on my way to the hospital. They called a code on Greene. He isn’t going to make it until tomorrow for the scheduled procedure. It’s now. Bootsy is here. She rode a Trailways bus. Pray.
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