Onyx Webb 7

by Diandra Archer

  Clint’s smile faded. He hated when people made fun of his uniform. He felt stupid enough as it was without having to endure constant ridicule. If the job didn’t pay so well, he’d have quit for that reason alone.

  “I know! Let’s go to The Olde Pink House,” Mika said. “Lunch is on me.”

  3:44 P.M.

  One hour and thirty-eight minutes later—following two arugula salads, two Low Country She Crab soups, an eighty-five-dollar, ice-chilled seafood tower, and two slices of key lime pie—Mika and Clint got back in the limousine.

  “Where to now?” Clint asked.

  Mika searched her wallet and found a piece of paper with an address scribbled on it. “You know a place called Racks & Rims on Magazine Street?”

  “The car accessory place near the airport? Yeah, I know it,” Clint said glancing in the rearview mirror. “Pretty seedy area. Why—?”

  “Long story,” Mika said.

  6:03 P.M.

  “Seriously, how much longer is this going to take?” Mika asked.

  It wasn’t enough that she’d been forced to pay $3,000 in ransom money to get Declan’s precious first-edition copy of Ulysses back. The fence also insisted Mika personally drive out to the accessory shop, pay for the new set of gold-rimmed wheels, and sit there and watch as the wheels were installed.

  Assumedly, he was teaching Mika some kind of lesson.

  Once the job was done, the owner handed Mika a package wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. “Here. He told me to give you this.”

  “That better be the book,” Mika snapped.

  “It’s a book?” the man said. “Bobby jacked you up for three large over a book? Shit, I’m in the wrong business.”

  7:15 P.M.

  The limo dropped Mika at her house, and, though she would have given anything to climb right into bed, she had one more thing to do. Mika went upstairs and retrieved the box of Koda’s personal belongings—things she’d taken after she’d kicked Robyn out of the 55 West Penthouse in Orlando and cleaned out the place.

  Mika sold most everything over a month ago when she was desperate to scrape together some cash. Sofas, tables, chairs, computers, TVs, even the beds—Mika had sold it all. The only thing of any value she kept was the large abstract painting by “Onyx,” which was now hanging in her living room.

  Getting Koda’s personal items on eBay was considerably easier than she thought it would be. Writing the descriptions was the time-consuming part:

  Authentic Koda Mulvaney cuff links. Own a piece of the world’s sexiest man. Beautiful! .925 sterling silver. Engraved with Koda’s real initials (TWM). Starting bid: $50.

  It took a little over two hours to list all twenty-seven items. When she was done, Mika grabbed her cell phone and punched the main number for TMZ in Los Angeles. She knew better than to call Harvey’s private number.

  Harvey knew Mika’s voice all too well.

  10:15 P.M.

  Mika woke from a well-deserved hour-long nap. In just over thirteen hours, she’d been arrested, arraigned, righted her financial ship, had lunch, rescued Ulysses from the shredder, and framed Robyn for selling Koda’s things. One hell of a day for just about anyone.

  Mika felt light.

  Mika felt strong.

  Mika felt like dancing.

  Mika grabbed her cell phone and dialed. “This is your lucky night, Eastwood. Pick me up at my house at eleven, and ditch the uniform. Except the hat—definitely bring the hat.”

  SAVANNAH, GEORGIA

  NOVEMBER 6, 2010

  3:43 A.M.

  Stan Lee took a left off W. Park onto Drayton and drove past the fountain in Forsyth Park for the second time. Seeing where he’d taken the Cole girl gave him a tingle—a tingle that had pretty much disappeared once he’d reached the age of fifty. Then again, it might have been the blood pressure medications he was taking. Or it could have been the ketamine.

  Stan Lee shook his head in disgust at having allowed himself to get hooked on the damn drug again. Whatever. Right now he was on a mission and needed to stay in the present and focus on the task at hand.

  Stan Lee made a left on W. Gordon and then an immediate right on Bull. This would be his third and final time making the loop around Monterey Square, past the Mercer Williams House. That’s where the famous murder by antique dealer Jim Williams took place back in the ‘80s. You could even take a tour of the house if you wanted.

  Stan Lee had taken the tour. He wondered if there might be a tour of his house someday. Twenty dollars to see the house, and fifty dollars to ride a metal hospital cart down the tunnel to see the complete leg collection. In any case, Stan Lee knew that—like Jim Williams—he’d never see a dime of it.

  Finally, Mika Flagler’s house came into view. As before, the place was dark, not so much as a candle flicker. If Mika was there, she was definitely asleep.

  Stan Lee pulled the van to a stop around the corner and turned off the engine. It was quiet. Not a soul on the street.

  Just the way he wanted it.

  4:09 A.M.

  The glass cutter Stan Lee purchased from Walmart worked perfectly. The suction cup held the cut area of glass in place so it wouldn’t make noise falling to the floor. He reached in, unlocked the door, and entered.

  Shit, the gloves.

  Stan Lee dug out the gloves he’d brought and slid them on and wiped down the door knob.

  Okay, better.

  Stan Lee made his way through the darkness, careful to avoid doing something stupid like knocking over a chair. He eventually located the staircase and began the slow, careful climb to the second floor of the house.

  After the first few steps, Stan Lee was surprised to realize his heart was pounding, not from fear so much as excitement. He had no intention of taking Mika back to his house in Charleston—he was going to kill her here in her own bed.

  He wondered if this was how Katherine Keane felt, sneaking up the stairs of Judd Coker’s farm house. There was no doubt in Stan Lee’s mind the nun had intended to kill him that night, but she simply got lost in the dark. At least Stan Lee had the right house. The important thing now was to avoid doing something stupid and end up like the nun, blasted in the chest by a shotgun.

  Stan Lee approached the first door and slowly turned the knob in his gloved hand. He peeked in and saw the room was empty. Same for the second and third rooms. If Mika wasn’t in the fourth and final bedroom, she had to be on the third floor.

  Stan Lee didn’t have to bother opening the fourth door. It was open. And there she was, lying in bed. The covers entirely pulled up over her, warm and cozy.

  Out like a light.

  Stan Lee reached in his pocket and found the three-pound metal drilling hammer he’d bought the same time he’d purchased the gloves and glass cutter.

  Stan Lee took several long strides toward the bed and brought the hammer down hard on the back of Mika’s head, the sound of her skull crushing under the weight of the blow loud and ugly.

  How dare she not hire him for this year’s Restoring Savannah Foundation banquet? Stan Lee thought as he brought the hammer down a second time, and then a third and fourth, until there was nothing left of her above the shoulders.

  The hammer cost $15.87. The faux-leather fur-lined gloves, $22. The glass cutter, $36.22. Total investment: $74.09, tax included. Killing Mika Flagler?

  Priceless.

  Stan Lee stepped back and worked to catch his breath. Okay, better. What was the plan now? Oh, yes.

  Eat.

  Stan Lee dropped the bloody hammer on the carpet and went down to the kitchen to see if there was anything he could snack on. Except for a few sticks of butter and some dog food, he found the refrigerator empty. Damn it, he’d have to swing by an all-night McDonald’s, assuming he could find one.

  Maybe another hit of ketamine would help.

  4:22 A.M.

  Stan Lee was just about to leave when he decided to do a quick walk around the house to see if there was anything worth stealing.
Thirty seconds later, he turned on the light in the living room and spotted the painting.

  A large, intense abstract with multiple colors splashed on the canvas, it looked like the artist lost his or her mind and painted the piece in an intense act of pure frenzied emotion. Stan Lee had loved the art collection in Declan’s secret room, but this was the most stunning thing he’d ever laid eyes on.

  Then he saw the artist’s signature scrawled in the lower right-hand corner of the canvas…

  Onyx.

  Thank God he’d brought the van.

  4:34 A.M.

  Taking the painting down without damaging it was the hard part, especially with gloves on—but Stan Lee wasn’t taking any chances. After that, it was simply a matter of carrying the canvas outside and putting it in the back of the van. Fortunately, sunrise wasn’t for another two hours, and the streets were still quiet.

  Stan Lee went back inside to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything. He’d read an article once that every criminal believed they’d thought of everything but still managed to leave ten pieces of evidence behind. As far as Stan Lee was concerned, anyone who left ten pieces of evidence behind was stupid, stupid, stupid.

  Stan Lee ran through his mental checklist, and everything looked good to him. He’d left the hammer on the bedroom floor. He’d dropped the glass cutter in the trash can, and he planned to take the gloves off once he was outside and drop them in the bushes. This way, if he got pulled over, none of the damning evidence would be on him or in the van.

  God, he was hungry still.

  Wait, what about the pantry? All houses had a pantry somewhere, right? It was worth a try, even if all he found was a box of crackers.

  Stan Lee glanced around the kitchen and saw two doors, one to the right and one to the left. Six of one, a half dozen of the other, he thought as he went to the door on the left and turned the knob.

  Stan Lee did not have time to think, let alone brace himself, as a gigantic gray dog came at him—knocking him backward and onto the floor. He tried to push himself away, but the dog was too fast and much too powerful.

  Stan Lee kicked the dog hard, and the massive beast yelped. He kicked at the dog again, but this time the dog was ready and chomped down on Stan Lee’s exposed ankle, sinking its big white canines into his prosthetic.

  Stan Lee used his arms to push himself backward on the floor as the dog pulled on his leg—ripping the prosthetic free. Stan Lee stood and watched the dog swing the prosthetic back and forth, as if the massive beast had caught a wild animal and was trying to shake it to death.

  A moment later, Stan Lee slipped out the door.

  10:22 A.M.

  Mika’s skull was pounding so hard it felt like someone hit her in the head with a hammer. What had she done? Then she remembered: she’d gone clubbing with the limo driver.

  Mika opened her eyes and found herself naked, lying in a pool of her own vomit next to the toilet in the master bathroom. How many clubs had they gone to? She pulled herself to her feet and staggered to the sink. She opened the medicine cabinet and shook three Advil from a bottle, turned on the faucet, downed the pills from water in her cupped hand, and splashed some of the cold water on her face.

  Mika steeled herself—then looked in the mirror.

  Dear God.

  Her eyes were bloodshot. Her hair was tangled and matted. Her lipstick and mascara were smeared so badly she looked like a raccoon who’d gotten trapped in a garbage can and had to fight its way out for its very survival.

  Mika closed her eyes and tried to piece together the previous evening’s events, starting with the limo’s arrival at eleven. She knew they’d gone to Millennial Madness, a dance club just out of town on East Oglethorpe. Then, after that…

  Nothing.

  Well, almost nothing.

  Mika did have a vague memory of being naked, wearing nothing but the limo driver’s cap, and riding him like Jessica Alba rode the mechanical bull in Sin City. What was his name? Cliff? Cleeve? Oh yeah. Clint.

  Mika turned and walked to the doorway and saw Clint’s black cap on the floor. Then she looked up and saw the form of a body curled up under the covers. He must have been a good lay for her to let him stay over—that or she was too drunk to even notice.

  “Okay, sugarplum,” Mika said, walking to the bed and pulling the covers back. “Time to rise and—”

  The scream that came from Mika’s mouth was so loud and piercing she was pretty sure all of Monterey Square must have heard it.

  Mika staggered backward away from the bed and sprinted down the hallway toward the staircase in a complete panic, knowing she needed to call the police but having no way to explain what happened. Getting rid of the body herself and cleaning the place up was out of the question.

  Wasn’t it?

  “Don’t even think about,” Mika said aloud as she raced down the stairs and entered the kitchen.

  And then she saw Tiny.

  He was laying in the middle of the kitchen happily gnawing on a prosthetic leg.

  NEW YORK, NEW YORK

  NOVEMBER 15, 2010

  The last thing Olympia Fudge wanted to do at that moment was hop on an airplane. She much preferred taping her show with an in-studio guest as opposed to going on location. But the on-location broadcasts got 30 percent higher ratings, and ratings were the name of the game. Nathaniel had taught her that.

  Olympia asked to do fewer on-location shoots, but the request fell on deaf ears. So she decided to lie, claiming to have developed a sudden fear of flying. She even went so far as to produce a fake doctor’s prescription for medication to treat her aerophobia—not realizing that aerophobia was the fear of drafts and fresh air.

  It didn’t matter—aerophobia, aviophobia, acrophobia—the answer was no. She had to fly. Or take a bus or the train.

  Olympia slid her carry-on in the overhead luggage compartment of the American Airlines flight from La Guardia bound for Santa Fe, New Mexico, and settled into the cramped coach seat. If Nathaniel were still there, they’d be up in first class drinking martinis and wiping their hands with a hot, wet towel.

  Nathaniel was a good negotiator because he knew his value. Olympia was a wimp. Worse than being a wimp; however, Olympia knew she was a fraud.

  The concept of The Fudge Factor was for Olympia—as a skeptical non-believer—to debunk the idea that ghosts were real. In essence, to play the role she used to play, only now without Nathaniel as her polar opposite. But performing her role was getting harder and harder.

  Because now she knew ghosts were real.

  Not only had Olympia watched Nathaniel cower in the corner of the room at The Open Arms Orphanage—being beaten by a stick swinging in mid-air by some invisible ghost entity—she was also now being haunted by Nathaniel himself. As such, delivering her trademark line, “This is Olympia Fudge, and I’m just keepin’ it real!” was becoming almost impossible to do. Yet in eleven hours Olympia would be standing in the famously haunted lobby of the La Fonda hotel in Santa Fe, New Mexico, and saying it again.

  She was a first-class fraud with a coach ticket.

  SANTA FE, NEW MEXICO

  “The year was 1857,” Olympia said, taking a step toward the camera. “A gambler, whose name has been lost to history, ran from the doors of this hotel chased by an angry mob—let’s face it, is there any other kind? And, as the story goes, the gambler didn’t run fast enough. One rope, one tree, and one dead gambler later, the La Fonda joined the exclusive ranks of the most haunted hotels in America.”

  Olympia took another step forward and looked into the camera. “To this day, guests at this storied inn claim they’ve seen the shadow of a man swinging from a tree out in the courtyard. Is it true? Does the ghost of an unlucky gambler haunt the La Fonda? Well, over the next hour we’re going to find out because this is The Fudge Factor. And I’m Olympia Fudge—just trying to keep it real.”

  Olympia held her position, looking directly into the camera until the light turned from green to red and t
he director yelled, “Okay, we’re clear. Three minutes, folks. Three minutes!”

  “Where’s my cigarette?” Olympia said. “Come on now. I’ve got three minutes to smoke and—”

  A young girl ran up with a lit cigarette and stuck it between Olympia’s lips. She took a deep drag and then exhaled the smoke directly into the girl’s face.

  “Sorry, Ms. Fudge,” the girl said nervously. “It won’t happen again.”

  “I’m sorry, too, sweetie,” Olympia said. “I guess I’m just a bit on edge.”

  Olympia took another drag from the cigarette, held it out for the girl, and the girl took it back.

  “You see any ghosts?” Olympia asked.

  “Honestly?” the girl said. “Yes, I did.”

  Olympia shook her head. It looked like she was in for a long night.

  The long night Olympia feared didn’t materialize, and the broadcast went off without a hitch.

  Olympia said goodnight to the crew and made a beeline for the bar. She hung her purse on a hook near her knees beneath the countertop, climbed on a stool, and ordered a Cadillac Margarita with no salt on the rim. According to her doctor, salt caused water retention, and the seats in coach were tight enough as it was.

  Five minutes later, Olympia signaled for another drink.

  “I’ll have the same and put them on my tab,” the man called.