by Beverly Long
They might just pull this off. He grabbed up his items and went into the bathroom to change. When he came out, Jules was already back in the living room with Trey.
She looked...amazing. The dress fit her like it had been made for her, and the blond wig altered her appearance so significantly that had he not expected it, even he might have been momentarily fooled.
Trey was smiling at him, looking amused. “She cleans up well,” he said.
Indeed. He would speak if his mouth didn’t feel as if it was stuffed with cotton.
“Put your hat on,” she said.
He did, pulling the brim low on his forehead.
“Wow. You look totally different,” Jules said.
That was the plan.
“I put sensible shoes on,” she said, pointing to her feet. “You know, in case we have to run. They don’t really go with the dress.”
They were black wedges, with just a small heel. “Don’t worry,” he said honestly. “In that dress, nobody is going to be looking at your feet.”
She blushed, her cheeks turning almost as red as her outfit.
The air buzzed with tension.
Trey cleared his throat. “Well, kids, what’s the plan?”
Royce picked up his cell phone. “Charity mentioned to Jules that it was a ten-minute cab ride back to the hotel from the bar. At two in the morning. She also said that she was drinking Guinness, so we’re focusing on Irish bars or pubs. I’ve plotted four Irish bars that are approximately the right distance.”
“Will I be a little overdressed?” Jules asked.
“Anywhere but in Vegas,” Trey said. “Here, the flashier the better. The strip is filled with designer merchandise and buyers flaunt it. Think of it as hiding in plain sight. You’re dressed to get attention so nobody gives you a second thought.”
Trey was right and he was wrong. Jules could wear a brown paper bag and she’d still grab a man’s attention. But she quite frankly didn’t look anything like a consummate CEO.
His cell phone dinged and he looked at the incoming text. He read it twice. Looked up. “It’s Mannis,” he said. “They were able to get plates off the black 2015 Lexus but they belong to a 2011 Grand Prix that was parked on a residential street about ten miles from here. So that’s not too helpful. And he has been to Bobby Boyd’s apartment. The loser was there. Alone. And Mannis believed him when he said he didn’t know or care where Charity was.”
“If the men were driving a car with fake plates, that has to prove that they were up to no good,” Jules said.
“I don’t think Mannis was doubting that they were bad guys. I think he simply isn’t convinced that Charity was taken against her will.”
“I know she was,” Jules said. “On the tape, it’s clear to me that she starts to grab for her bag that’s under her chair but then she stops, as if she rethinks the action. I think she wanted it found, wanted somebody to know that she’d left without her stuff.”
“Or,” Trey said, “she didn’t think she was going to be gone for long, so perhaps no reason to take it.”
Royce appreciated the fact that Jules didn’t try to immediately rebuke Trey’s statement. She simply nodded, as if she accepted that there were other plausible explanations.
“I guess we won’t know for sure,” she said, “until we find her. We should go.”
Trey put his hand on the door, to open it for them. “Have fun,” he said. He looked at Royce. “Be safe.”
“No worries,” Royce said. He turned to Jules. “I got a hankering for bangers and mash, darlin’,” he said, his voice deeper and the Texas twang much heavier.
* * *
She was grateful for her sensible shoes as they quickly went down fourteen flights of stairs and out the side exit. Royce led the way to the hotel parking lot, where he seemed to easily find the brand-new Ford F-150 pickup truck that Trey had left for them. It was a shiny red.
Just what a flashy cowboy with too much money might drive. They were definitely hiding in plain sight.
“Where to?” she asked as they got belted in.
He pulled out his phone and handed it to her. “These are the most logical places,” he said. “We’ll start at the first one.”
“Have you been to any of these before?”
“Yeah, two of the four. The one we’re headed to now has some decent food if you feel up to eating.”
She should eat. It seemed like forever since she’d had lunch with Charity. “I’ll get something.”
“Once we’re inside,” he said, “you should limit your talking as much as possible. Hair, makeup and clothes are easy disguises. It’s much harder to change your voice, both the general tone and speech patterns.”
“You did a pretty good job back there in the hotel.”
“I’ve had more practice,” he said. “If you need to use my name for any reason, call me Tex. What do you want me to call you?”
“Chambri,” she said.
He frowned at her.
“It will be easy to remember. It was my nickname in college.”
He smiled. “I don’t think I ever heard this story.”
Probably not. “I was seventeen when I started college. I went to my first party and when somebody asked me what I wanted to drink, I said champagne. It was what I remembered my mother drinking. Well, you can imagine how that went. They combined champagne with Cambridge and from that day on, I was Chambri.”
“Did they have champagne at the party?”
She could tell he was amused. “Beer in red cups that cost five dollars.”
“Well, tonight, you can have a beer in a glass for ten bucks,” he said.
“Lovely.”
They were silent the rest of the ride. When he pulled into the lot, she looked at the clock. “Fifteen minutes.”
“I know. Traffic is heavier now than at two in the morning.”
“How do we play this?” she asked.
“We’re on a date. We’ll scope out the place, looking for Charity or Lou. If we don’t see them, once we’ve had a drink and left the bartender a really good tip, I’ll ask if he or she knows Charity or Lou or has seen them recently.”
She pasted a bright smile on her face. “Let’s go, Tex.” She opened her door and got out. He was already around the vehicle. He slung a casual arm around her shoulder.
She was amazed. His whole persona had changed. It was more than the clothes. He walked differently and held his head differently. She was going to have to up her game.
She leaned into him and they entered the combination bar/restaurant. It was dark and noisy and the waitresses wore short black skirts, white shirts and little green hats. One breezed by them. “Two for dinner?” the young woman asked.
She simply nodded, remembering his advice not to talk too much. They were led to a corner booth and he surprised her when he slid in after her on the same side.
“Never have your back to the room, darlin’,” he whispered, his lips close to her ear.
“See if they have Guinness on their drink menu,” she said.
“It’s an Irish bar. I’m pretty sure they do.”
“If they don’t, we’re leaving.”
The server walked up to the table. “Evening. My name is Maddie. Can I start you out with a cocktail?”
“You have Guinness?” Royce asked, easily slipping into Tex’s persona.
“Of course.”
Royce settled back into the booth.
“Chardonnay, please,” she said. JC preferred a pinot noir but tonight she was Chambri and that woman drank white wine.
Regardless of color, the drink would likely do her good; her nerves were on edge. On the way to the bar, she’d been looking at her cell phone every five minutes, as if looking at it would make Charity call.
She had not been able to ignore the looks of sympathy Royce was sending in her direction.
“Great,” Maddie said. “Here’s some menus.” She walked away.
JC didn’t even open hers. How could she eat?
“How about a nice fillet?” Royce asked, “maybe with some mushrooms?”
“We don’t have time for that,” she said. “We need to get in, ask our questions and get out.”
He sighed. “Here’s the thing. It’s likely to be a long night. I’d prefer that you don’t fall over halfway through it. Can we compromise?”
She nodded.
“When Maddie comes back with the drinks, how about we order a Reuben sandwich? That should be pretty quick. Then I’ll ask her?”
He was true to his word. After the young woman set down their drinks, he ordered the sandwiches and said, “We’re looking for a couple friends of ours. Charity White and Louisa Goodall. I think they were here last night.”
Maddie shook her head. “I don’t think I know them,” she said.
Royce pulled out his cell phone and showed Maddie Lou’s picture. The waitress shook her head. He thumbed through to Charity’s photo and got the same response.
“You might want to talk to the bartender,” Maddie said. “He was here last night.”
She left the table. Royce leaned close. “Don’t move. Please.”
She nodded and watched him amble toward the bar. Saw the women in the room take notice of the flashy cowboy. He leaned across the bar in a familiar manner that was so at odds with his very formal behavior that it was shocking. She watched him talk to the bartender, show his pictures, and she knew by the body posture that it was a bust.
He came back to the table and sipped his beer. She had yet to touch her wine and she took a big drink, and coughed when the alcohol hit the back of her throat. “Careful,” he said. “Didn’t you learn anything at those college parties?”
She’d been way too focused on excelling to go to many parties. “Can you eat and drive?”
“What?”
“We should take our food to go. Save some time.”
He took one more sip of beer. “Fine. I’ll let the waitress know.”
Within five minutes, they were back in the truck, two foam containers on her lap. She opened one and handed him his sandwich.
“I’m really grateful that we didn’t go for the steak. Hell of a lot harder to eat on the move.”
She laughed. And it felt good. “This is a real shot in the dark, isn’t it?” she said, staring out her window.
“Yeah, maybe. But what’s the alternative?”
“Trey tried to distract me with poker.”
Royce took a bite of his sandwich, chewed. “He’s a better card player than me,” he said.
“He really cares about you,” she said. “He wasn’t all that friendly when he put two and two together and decided that I’d been the one to break your heart.”
“He wasn’t rude?” Royce asked, sounding upset.
“No. Protective.” She closed the lid on her sandwich. She really could not eat. “With good reason.”
“I told him that I had a handle on it.”
Now he was staring straight ahead. The lights from the oncoming cars were bouncing off the hard planes of his face.
Neither of them had a handle on it. She knew that. He knew it, too. “This afternoon was probably a mistake.”
He didn’t answer. Instead he looked at his GPS, where he’d programmed the next address, and quickly turned the corner. The buildings were less well-kept, the streets were narrower and the electric sign in the window said PEN.
“They need an O,” she said—somewhat inanely, she realized as soon as it was out of her mouth.
“They need more than that.”
She was sorry they had reached their destination. There was so much left unsaid. “When I said it was a mistake, I didn’t mean that I... I was sorry about what happened today,” she said.
“I’m not sorry, either,” he said.
But he wasn’t happy. “We should go inside,” she said.
“Yeah. Let’s go.”
Chapter 18
He wanted to pound something. And the kid behind the bar, who barely looked old enough to drink let alone to pour them for others, was a good enough target.
If he could get him to stop flirting with the two women at the end of the badly scratched wooden bar. This place was a dump. And the garland sagging from the ceiling tiles gave the place a morose feeling.
Royce scraped the bar stool against the wood floor as he moved it out of the way.
The young man gave him a look but finished his conversation with the two women. Finally, he sauntered over.
“What can I get you?” the young man asked.
“Guinness,” Royce said.
The bartender switched his gaze to Jules.
“Orange juice,” she said.
Royce pulled a fifty out of his pocket. The bartender brought their drinks and looked at the money. He picked it up, made change and left it on the bar.
Royce didn’t pick it up.
Took a sip of his beer.
Besides the two young ladies at the end of the bar, there was one man in the middle of the bar. Early forties. Shirt cuffs were starting to fray, as if the garment had been washed often. Brown shoes needed shining.
Royce watched the bartender get the guy another drink. Watched as the guy motioned the man close before speaking. The bartender snuck a quick look at the women then shook his head.
Royce caught the bartender’s eye.
“Need another?” he asked.
Royce shook his head. “We’re supposed to meet two of our friends here. Charity White and Louisa Goodall.”
The bartender shook his head.
Royce pulled his phone. Showed the pictures. Sensed that the man was looking just a second too long. Pushed the forty bucks and change in the bartender’s direction. The man stopped looking at the pictures and was now sneaking glances at the man in the brown shoes.
“I think they were here last night,” he said. “With him.”
Bingo.
Royce nodded his thanks, motioned for Jules to follow him and quickly moved toward Brown Shoes. “Hey,” he said, sliding onto the stool next to him. “I hear we have friends in common.”
The man turned, raised an eyebrow. “Who?”
“Louisa Goodall and Charity White.”
The man’s face was blank. Damn. Had the bartender been wrong?
Royce pulled his phone, showed it to the man. Immediately, his expression changed. “What did you say their names were?” he asked.
“Louisa Goodall and Charity White.”
“That’s not what they told me. But—” he shook his head in disgust “—given that they snuck out when I went to the john, after I’d bought them both several drinks, I’m not surprised that they didn’t use their real names.”
Royce decided to take a chance. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card. “My name is Royce Morgan from Wingman Security. These two women are not my friends but my client is interested in finding them.” No need to tell him that Jules was the client.
“Probably ’cause they screwed him, too,” Brown Shoes said.
“No doubt,” Royce murmured. “Did either one of them say anything that might give you a clue as to where they lived or worked?”
“The blonde said something to the dark-haired one about the old lady going to sleep at eight o’clock, that everybody at Everpark went to sleep at eight.”
“Everpark?” Royce repeated.
“It’s senior citizen housing,” Brown Shoes said. “North a couple miles, not too far off Interstate 15.”
Royce remembered h
e had heard of the place. Supposed to be pretty pricey. His partner Seth’s mother was living there and he was pretty confident that Seth was picking up the tab. Never complained about it but in the early days of starting the company, Seth had worked a second job as a bartender, and Royce was pretty confident that had been the reason why.
He made eye contact with Jules and nodded. He thought she got the message because she picked up her orange juice and drained it. She had to be running on fumes and he hoped the sugar jolt did the trick.
He pulled a fifty from his pocket and placed it on the bar. “For some of their drinks,” he said.
The man picked up the money. “Sure. No problem. They weren’t the worst way to spend a few hours, you know.”
Jules practically ran to the truck. He caught up and slid into the driver’s seat. He hated to disappoint her but he was going to have to give her the bad news. “This is good,” he said, “but I don’t think there’s much we can do with it tonight.”
“But...”
“It’s a retirement village. They’ll have a main office but they sure as heck aren’t going to be open tonight.”
“Can’t we just drive around, look...do something?” she finished up weakly.
“We’ll start early tomorrow,” he promised. “After we get some sleep. And who knows, maybe we’ll hear from her before that. Maybe she’ll be back at the hotel.”
“You don’t really think that,” she said.
He didn’t know what to think. “It’s okay to be hopeful,” he said.
She didn’t respond. He took his eyes off the traffic just long enough to give her a look. She was staring at him.
“Jules?” he asked.
“Sometimes hope makes it hurt worse in the end.”
Huh? “What are you talking about, Jules?”
Now she was looking straight ahead, into the dark night. “Never mind,” she said.
He wanted to push her, to demand an answer, but in his gut, he knew that she was hanging on by a thread. So he simply drove back to the Periwinkle and made sure the valet knew where he wanted the truck parked. They would resume their disguises tomorrow, just in case.