Thornton helped Dugan place her suitcase and carry-on luggage in the trunk and then opened the rear passenger-side door, permitting Missy to enter. Once she was comfortably seated, Thornton shut the door and returned to her seat next to the driver. As the car pulled away from the curb, Thornton turned around toward Dugan.
“Our driver this morning is Special Agent Brent Albertson. We both work for Special Agent Ron Bishop, whom I believe you know. I’ll be accompanying you to Pittsburgh today and will be with you throughout this operation.”
Albertson headed the sedan toward Terminal B at LaGuardia Airport while Thornton continued to brief Dugan. “We have a 7:50 AM flight to Pittsburgh, where a car will pick us up as soon as we reach the curb outside the terminal. This gives us plenty of time to get to our safe house, have some lunch, and rest. Around 3 PM, the makeup artists will come to help us prepare for the evening. This includes applying a full-sized water-soluble, color ‘Wheel of Fortune’ tattoo, in color, to your back and a full-size, water-soluble tattoo of the serpent to your upper right arm, the same tattoos Davis sported.”
“Get outta here!”
“Oh yes, you wouldn’t believe the things our graphic wizards from Quantico can do.”
Dugan shook her head. “This is unbelievable.”
Thornton continued. “They’ll be followed by a hairdresser. We’ll have a light dinner together in the safe house, after which we’ll get into our cocktail dresses. Around 8:30 tonight our dates, two of the hottest-looking, well-tanned agents the Bureau could find on the West Coast, will pick us up in a white stretch limousine and take us to Adorante’s nightclub. It’s the ‘in’ place for the mob in Pittsburgh. Believe me, it won’t take long for word to get back to Lupinacci that Nicole Davis is back in town. By the way, if you’re concerned about your safety, don’t be. In addition to our dates, there will be four other FBI agents on the floor with us . . . two servers and two busboys, all packing. Adorante’s management doesn’t have a clue. We’re all over that place like flies on shit!”
Dugan laughed to herself. These are my kind of people!
“Any questions, Missy?”
“What about identification? I know they’re not going to ‘card’ me, but I sure would feel better carrying something like a fake driver’s license just in case someone gets a little too nosy and makes like they need convincing.”
“Good point, which is why we had these made up for you.”
Thornton handed Dugan a fake Pennsylvania driver’s license containing Lundquist’s photo and personal information, including Lundquist’s old address in Columbia. Also provided were a fake credit card with Davis’s name on it as well as fake cards for health insurance, a supermarket, and a national drugstore chain, all made to look used.
“So, what’s the game plan, Grace?”
“Easy. Have a good time.”
Missy laughed. “It doesn’t get any better than that, does it? And on the US taxpayer’s tab, too.”
“Oh, yeah, this job is just one party after another. Brent would agree with that.”
Albertson nodded as he made a right turn onto a major thoroughfare heading toward the airport. “Absolutely.”
“Anyway, Missy, we’re to pretend we’re drinking and getting a little tipsy. In reality, just sip the high-priced champagne our dates order. We’ll need to stay sharp. Dance, laugh, be a little loud. As for you in particular, drop a few words now and then on the dance floor about how great it is to be back at Adorante’s . . . how the last time you were there it was with Tommie Lupinacci and what a great guy he is. Your date will ask the gal roving around the floor with a camera to take a picture of you alone. He’ll tell her it’s for him to remember the evening by. It’s important to get the tattoo of the serpent on your arm in the picture. Leave that picture on the table when we depart.”
“But what if the photographer takes other pictures of us . . . say, pictures of my date and me or of you and yours? Wouldn’t we want to minimize the photographic evidence of our having been there?”
“Don’t worry, it won’t happen. Believe me, if anyone shows up at a table in a place like that with a camera and starts shooting pictures without being asked, men throw their hands in front of their faces and yell for their lawyers.”
“And the surveillance cameras on the ceiling?”
Thornton laughed. “The last thing management wants are pictures of their patrons stored for the viewing pleasure of the local constabulary. There may be the appearance of a surveillance system in the nightclub, but I guarandamntee you it isn’t recording a thing. It’s probably not even working.”
Dugan nodded.
“You’re a little nervous, aren’t you?” asked Thornton, sympathetically.
Dugan smiled weakly. “Yes,” she responded softly, “perhaps more than a little.”
“Don’t worry, we’ll be right there with you, at the table, on the dance floor. Nothing is going to happen except what we want to happen. You’d have to pay big bucks on Broadway to see the kind of show we’re going to put on!”
Dugan, now visibly more at ease, relaxed in her seat.
“That photo of you,” continued Thornton, “won’t remain on the table long. My guess is a copy will be in Lupinacci’s hands, most likely via cell phone, within a few minutes of our departure. When he sees it, and especially when he spies the tattoo of the serpent on your right arm, he’ll be convinced it’s Davis. At that point he’ll probably go crazy trying to figure out how ‘you’ survived a shot into the back of ‘your’ head at point-blank range. If my guess is correct, he’ll conclude the man he sent to kill ‘you’ double-crossed him. I’d give anything to be a fly on the wall when that happens.
“So, is everything clear, Missy?”
“One-hundred percent, Grace.”
“Good. Moving on, around 11 PM, our dates will get into an argument. It’s going to look rough, but it’s all simulated. I’m sure they’ve already scripted what they’re going to do and say. It should be quite entertaining. If they don’t forcibly eject us, management will ask us to leave. There is no way, no way, anyone in the place will have missed seeing you by that time. Make a big show as you walk out . . . give the men in the nightclub something to remember Nicole Davis by and the women something to gossip about. This is poor Nicole’s last hurrah. She’ll never be seen again, of that you can be sure.”
“I can do that,” said Dugan, smiling as she remembered how she exited the branch of the Brooklyn Bank and Trust Company after emptying Lundquist’s safe deposit box.
“You and your date will come back to the safe house in the limo, which will be waiting outside. My date and I will take a cab back. After staying the night, you and I will return to LaGuardia on the 6:15 AM flight Sunday morning. Albertson will pick us up, and we’ll get you home as quickly as possible.”
“This should be a blast, Grace. I can’t wait for the four of us to hit Adorante’s.”
Fifty-eight
The flight to Pittsburgh landed five minutes early. Thornton was on the phone with the local field office as soon as the audio tones sounded in the cabin, letting the passengers know they were free to remove their luggage from the overhead bins and prepare to deplane. “We just landed. It should take ten minutes or so to collect our luggage. After that, we’ll come right out.”
She ended the conversation and turned to Dugan. “Our ride will be waiting out front.”
Surprisingly, the women’s bags were among the first off the plane. Grabbing them, Thornton and Dugan made their way outside, where Thornton, spotting a black sedan with heavily tinted windows, raised her hand. The driver, having been told to expect two women, recognized the one who had hailed him. Pulling to the curb where the women were standing, he opened his passenger-side window. “Well, I’ll be, if it isn’t that red-hot firecracker from the New York Field Office,” he laughed. “I do declare.”
“Theo Jackson! Gosh it’s good to see you. Pop the trunk for us, will ya?”
Special Agent Th
eodore Jackson, an African-American assigned to the Pittsburgh Field Office, obliged. He had been with the Bureau for 28 years and during that time had worked more than a few cases with agents from the New York Field Office. To Thornton it appeared Jackson had put on a few pounds since she had last seen him. His voice seemed huskier as well, the unfortunate side-effect of a smoking habit he had always promised to quit but never did. But he still had that quick mind and easy laugh, which endeared him to all who knew him. And given his closure rate, no one dared underestimate his investigative skills, something many a felon learned all too late when they attempted to outsmart the man some women in the office called their ‘Teddy Bear’.
Thornton and Dugan climbed into the back seat of the sedan. Thornton did the introductions. “Special Agent Theo Jackson, meet NYPD’s Principal Information Technology Specialist Missy Dugan. She’s forgotten more than Bill Gates ever knew. Missy, this is Theo. He’s the man who single-handedly keeps the Pittsburgh Field Office running.”
“Charmed, Missy,” he said, looking up into the rear-view mirror.
“Likewise, Theo.”
“So, to what do we owe the honor of having two such beautiful women in our fair city this weekend?” he asked, winking.
“Come on, Theo, you already know the answer to that question. But just for shits and grins, we’re here to play with a few people’s minds.” Two can play this game, she thought. “It’s really too bad, you know—”
“What’s that?” he asked.
“That you aren’t going to be part of tonight’s little caper. We could have had some fun together.”
“And just who do you think is going to be your limo driver tonight, young lady?” he asked, laughing so hard he started to cough.
“I figured as much,” said Thornton, shaking her head.
It took thirty minutes to reach the safe house, an old brownstone located within the city proper. After Jackson pulled to the curb, he got out and opened the trunk. The women removed their suitcases and headed toward the building in front of them.
“See you tonight, Theo. And thanks for the lift,” yelled Thornton over her shoulder.
The women took their bags and headed up the brownstone’s stairs, where a woman stood waiting. Special Agent Brenda Marshall introduced herself and grabbed Dugan’s suitcase. The three women then ascended the stairs to a large bedroom at the end of the second-floor hallway.
“Welcome to our safe house,” said Marshall. “This will be your room, ladies. There’s a large bathroom with two sinks and dual hair dryers behind that door, and twin beds and night tables in this room, as you can see. Two makeup vanities with special soft lighting are on the far wall near the windows. If you don’t see something you need, holler. I can have it here within an hour, usually less. But I oversaw the stocking of this room myself, and believe me, I think I knew not only what you would want, but what you would need.”
Thornton and Dugan looked around. “Looks good to me,” said Thornton.
Dugan nodded. “Just like being back in college, though a bit classier, that’s for sure.”
Marshall continued. “Okay, great. So you already know the game plan. Let’s go down to the dining room and have lunch. Then you can take a nap. The makeup artists who will apply Missy’s tattoos will arrive at 3 PM, so we’ll have to be ready for them. Once they’re finished, we’ll get your makeup and hair done—I understand yours won’t be much of a problem, Missy—before having a light dinner. That’ll still give us plenty of time to get you into your cocktail dresses and do any last minute touchup to your makeup and hair. Your limo, with your dates, will arrive at 8:30. Any questions?”
“I’m good,” said Thornton.
“Me, too,” said Dugan. “Let’s eat.”
Fifty-nine
The afternoon went much as Agent Thornton said it would. Two agents from the Bureau’s lab in Quantico appeared at the front door shortly before 3 PM and were ushered into the upstairs bedroom. They applied two tattoos to Dugan’s body, one of the ‘Wheel of Fortune’ tarot card to her back and the second, a serpent, to her upper right arm. “These are quite durable,” remarked one of the agents, as he completed the application of the serpent. “They’ve been pretreated to ensure they won’t dissolve if you sweat or get ‘em wet tonight. But don’t worry. A couple of days from now, after you’ve taken a few showers, you won’t even see them.”
“Shucks, and I so wanted to keep them,” said Dugan, hugging a towel to her bosom and smiling.
“Just give these a good hour to dry,” continued the second agent, as the two packed their kits and headed for the door.
No sooner had they left when a woman entered with a makeup kit. “Hi. Why don’t we get started? Who wants to go first?”
“Missy, why don’t you go ahead? I’ve got some things I want to go through with Brenda.”
The makeup artist sat Dugan down in front of one of the vanities, put a band around her forehead to keep her hair back, and proceeded to apply makeup to Dugan’s face using the pictures of Katlyn Lundquist, aka Nicole Davis, that Dugan had brought with her as a guide. That effort took the better part of an hour, given the transformation that was needed. When the woman was finished, she tied Dugan’s hair up in preparation for positioning the blond wig Missy had brought with her.
The two women looked in the mirror, then at the photos of Lundquist. “Wow, I think that would fool even her own mother,” said Dugan. “You are the best!”
“Thanks,” said the woman, laughing. “Be sure to tell my boss.”
They talked for a few minutes until Thornton appeared and sat in front of the vanity. The makeup artist, working from guidance provided by the agent, rapidly did the woman’s makeup much as she would have done it herself, bringing out highlights that complemented not only her green eyes but her flaming red hair as well. The entire process took only 30 minutes.
When the makeup artist left, Dugan and Thornton looked at each other and smiled. “It’s fun getting ready for a girls’ night on the town,” Thornton said.
“And the best part is, we don’t have to pay for it,” replied Dugan.
The women donned terrycloth bathrobes and sat in their room waiting for the hair stylist. When she finally appeared, she worked with Dugan first, putting her blonde wig in place and ensuring that every hair was ‘just so’. Looking in the mirror, the results were astounding. Thornton did a double-take. “Missy, if Lundquist had a twin, it’d be you. A little frightening, isn’t it?”
The hair stylist, who held a security clearance and was under contract to the Bureau, next turned her attention to Thornton, whose luxurious head of silky smooth red hair fell well below her shoulders. The results were no less spectacular than those achieved with Dugan’s hair. Even the hair stylist, standing back with her hands on her hips, appeared exceptionally pleased.
“Thanks so much,” said Agent Marshall, as she walked into the room. “You really have outdone yourself this time, Fran.” She handed the woman a generous tip. “Let me walk you to the door.”
“Well,” said Thornton, “guess there’s nothing to do now but catch a light meal, dress, and get ready for our dates.”
Dinner went fast—it was more of a light snack than a dinner—and by 6:30 PM, the women were back in their room and getting into their cocktail dresses. Thornton put on an emerald green, long-sleeved beaded dress with sexy sheer chiffon cut-outs at the waist and back. “Just a little something I picked up in New York the day before we left,” she remarked as Dugan zipped her up.
“Here’s what I brought,” said Dugan. It was a short, sequin-covered, navy blue cocktail dress featuring a playful, plunging neckline. The short skirt had a touch of mesh peeking out at the hemline for an added touch of femininity.
“That should keep the guys focused on your ‘girls’,” quipped Thornton. “Have you ever noticed how they never look in our eyes when they talk to us?”
“That’s because they’re always thinking with their small heads,” shot back Du
gan.
While not the worst ‘girl talk’ ever heard, the discussion appeared headed in that direction, lending credence to what Martelli’s father had always told him. “Louis, Women—especially teenage girls—are life’s true pornographers.”
According to Louis Martelli, in the 1950s his father, Pietro Martelli, worked part-time as a janitor in the old Avon Theater that used to stand on 9th Street between 4th and 5th Avenues in Park Slope. In those days neighborhood theaters ran a double feature, several cartoons, a serial segment, and a newsreel, all for what today would be called a pittance. He told his son that what the girls used to write and draw on the mirrors over the sinks in the lavatories with their lipsticks would make Hugh Hefner blush. Louis Martelli never forgot that.
“I absolutely love those shoes you’re wearing, Missy,” said Thornton as she worked a diamond stud earring into her left ear. “Wherever did you get them?”
“Oh, these? I borrowed them from my friend Nephertarie Roumain. She works for the city.”
“Well, you must take me with you the next time you go shopping. They look absolutely fabulous on you!”
The time was nearing 8 PM. Thornton walked to where her small sequined purse lay and opening it, pulled out a Ruger LCP pistol. She checked the magazine, and then tucked the weapon back in its place. “You never know when you’ll need a friend.”
Dugan rolled her eyes and took a deep breath. “I hope it doesn’t come to that, Grace.”
“Your dates are here,” Marshall cried from downstairs.
“It’s show time, Missy,” said Thornton. The women headed down to meet their dates.
As they walked down the stairs, Dugan whispered to Thornton, “I think I’ve died and gone to Heaven.”
Standing before them were two of the most handsome men either woman apparently ever had seen. Dugan later would tell a friend that both men put Adonis to shame. For now, Dugan’s and Thornton’s open mouths told the tale.
Wheel of Fortune (Detective Louis Martelli, NYPD, Mystery/Thriller Series Book 6) Page 16