Life is Better Brunette

by Diane Bator

  "Stupid cat." Came a reply from outside the door.

  Gilda knew the voice didn't belong to Shawn O'Reilly. It sounded more like either Kane or Adam. Nancy didn't seem aware of that, but Aislin shot Gilda a worried glance. Gilda shook her head. They resumed the slow process of lowering Gary step by step to the back alley.

  "Hurry," Shawn squawked from below.

  Nancy huffed. "Relax. They're moving as fast as they can. Gary's an old man. He'll probably die before he gets to the bottom of the stairs."

  "Shut up," Aislin growled.

  Nancy snorted. "Just keep moving, and keep your mouth shut."

  As Gilda moved from one stair to the next, she realized there was something in Gary's jacket pocket that was bruising her hip. Something small and cylindrical like a cigar, but harder. Had he smuggled a syringe from the hospital? She prayed she could wiggle it out and into her hand and that it was full of something powerful enough to bring down Nancy Vines.

  Aislin frowned. "What the…?"

  Gilda glared. "Just keep moving."

  Nancy snorted. "David? I don't hear that car running. You'd better get things ready. We'll need to make a fast getaway. These people have stalled long enough."

  This time there was no answer.

  Gilda stepped down onto the second step from the bottom and froze as several shadows moved on the ground in front of the doorway. She hoped someone had reached Shawn and already incapacitated him as quickly and quietly as possible. With her hand still cuffed to Gary's, she reached for his jacket pocket and nudged the cylindrical object toward the opening.

  "What are you doing?" Aislin whispered.

  Nancy bellowed once more. "David? Where are you? Come and get these guys out of my way. They're slowing us down. Maybe we'll just shove them all in the trunk then take them out to the middle of nowhere."

  Gilda met Aislin's gaze, then looked to Gary's pocket several times and hoped she'd catch on. After a few seconds, Aislin reached across Gary's abdomen and grabbed something out of his pocket. She opened her hand slowly to reveal a needle filled with fluid.

  "What are you to up to down there?" Nancy growled. "Keep moving. I can't wait to get out of this dump."

  "Have you got him?" Aislin asked.

  She gave a small nod. "Give me a sec."

  "David?" Nancy called again. "Answer me."

  Once they were through the outer door, the odds of Shawn tossing them into the trunk increased greatly. Gilda wasn't about to expect that help had arrived for them. For all she knew, Adam and Randy were out there to help him subdue them.

  She glanced back to see where Nancy's gun was pointed, relieved to see she'd lowered the weapon to her side. If Aislin was ever going to have a chance to inject her, it was now or never.

  Gilda ducked enough for Gary's full weight to be on her. "Now!"

  Aislin ducked under Gary's arm. Nancy's loud scream filled the stairwell as Gilda dragged Gary down the last step and out into daylight. Just as they cleared the doorway, a shot rang out and echoed against the concrete. Gilda pulled Gary a few more feet away until someone grabbed him and took his full weight off her.

  Then a second shot rang out.

  "What the hell have you done now?" Gary groaned then collapsed against someone in a dark suit jacket.

  "Gary! No!" She screamed when two strong arms encircled her, and she fought with every ounce of energy she had left. Tears poured down her cheeks as someone took the handcuff off her wrist and pulled her away from Gary's limp body.

  "It's okay." Mick cradled her against his chest. "Gilda, calm down. You need to breathe."

  She met his gaze then sobbed even harder. "You came."

  He held her tight. "Of course. Kane and I circled the block and ran into Shawn in the alley. Fabio and Thayer were right behind us."

  Gilda wiped her face with her sleeve and looked around them. "Where's Nancy? Please tell me she didn't hurt Aislin."

  "The police took care of her," he said. "They got Shawn too."

  Thayer had one of Shawn's arms pinned behind his back. He placed a hand on Shawn's head and pushed him into the back of a police cruiser.

  "He didn't want to do anything bad." Gilda frowned. "She forced him. She was his mother, and she was trying to take over Gary's business. It used to belong to her father, Malcolm Vines."

  Fabio hobbled past, blood running down his pant leg. He knelt next to Gary, who lay prone on the asphalt while paramedics worked on him. "It's okay, Gilda. We know everything. Miss Claudia's apartment was bugged. We have Nancy on several recordings admitting everything."

  "Is he okay?" Her chin quivered. "He looked like he had a stroke. His head bobbed and he started to drool. I just wanted to get him out safely."

  Fabio glanced back and gave Gilda a single thumbs-up. "He's fine. They're going to take him back to the hospital and run some tests."

  "Okay." She nodded, clinging to Mick.

  Kane stood near the rear of the building, with blood smeared on one arm and a small, blonde woman wrapped in his arms. He stroked her hair and glanced toward Gilda and Mick.

  "Aislin." Gilda lunged out of Mick's arms and ran toward Kane. "Is she okay? Please tell me Nancy didn't shoot her."

  "Just a little." Aislin raised her tear-streaked face. "My mother shot me in the arm."

  Kane managed a small smile. "Well, there's one for a therapy session."

  "Not funny." Gilda tapped him with the back of her hand. She threw her arms around Aislin. "You were so brave. Thank you."

  Aislin laughed through her tears. "I wouldn't have known what to do if it weren't for you. I'm so glad you found that syringe in Gary's pocket. What was in it?"

  Gilda shrugged. "I have no idea. I guess we'll have to ask Gary or let the crime lab figure it out. You'd better let the paramedics check out your arm."

  "I'll take care of her." Kane draped one arm around Aislin and looked at Gilda. "You need to talk to the cops."

  She nodded and turned to Mick. "Where's Nancy?"

  Mick glanced to Kane and Aislin, then pointed to the stairwell.

  Nancy Vines lay face down at the bottom of the stairs. Blood seeped from the wound in the back of her head. No signs of breath moved her body.

  "She won't be bothering anyone again." Thayer placed a hand on Gilda's shoulder. "Fabio got a clean shot. Through and through."

  Gilda blew out her relief. "Thank goodness. I was so afraid when Aislin turned to jab her with that syringe that she'd kill us all. I'm so grateful you guys were all outside waiting."

  As Kane and Aislin joined Fabio near the ambulance, Gilda frowned. "Why is Fabio bleeding?"

  Thayer frowned. "He was near the doorway when all the action went down. Nancy's shot grazed Aislin's arm, went past Gary's head, and hit Fabio in the outer thigh. He'll probably need a few stitches."

  "Are you serious?" Gilda's eyes filled with tears. "I need to go to the hospital and make sure everyone's okay."

  Mick nodded. "I'll take you. Thayer's going to have a long day."

  "No kidding." Thayer nodded. "On the upside, maybe getting shot will convince Fabio it's time for him to retire. The man needs a rocking chair and some time to relax."

  Gilda smiled. "Just don't let him hear you say that."

  * * * * *

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  * * * * *

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Diane Bator is an avid hiker, yoga enthusiast, Reiki Master, wannabe runner, and martial artist, who loves to make a mess in the kitchen and putter in the garden. Moving across the country with three boys and a cat, then joining a writing group, was the catalyst for coming out of the creative closet and writing her first murder mystery series. Hard at work on her second series, she lives in Southern Ontario, Canada with her husband, three teenagers, and a cat who thinks he's a Husky.

 
; To learn more about Diane Bator, visit her online at: http://penspaintsandpaper.com

  * * * * *

  BOOKS BY DIANE BATOR

  Gilda Wright Mysteries:

  Can't Keep a Brunette Down

  Hardheaded Brunette

  "Brunettes Just Wanna Have Fun" (short story in the Killer Beach Reads collection)

  Life is Better Brunette

  * * * * *

  SNEAK PEEK

  of another humorous romantic mystery from Gemma Halliday Publishing

  DOUBLE DOWN

  by

  STEPHANIE CAFFREY

  CHAPTER ONE

  Unlike most days, I had an appointment with a potential client. And he was late.

  I didn't do late, myself. I was the kind of girl who got to a meeting early and then drove around the neighborhood for five minutes, watching the clock the whole time, and then appeared at exactly two minutes after the appointed hour, a self-imposed mini delay designed to avoid making me appear too eager, as though I had nothing better to do than show up exactly on time. Which, of course, was the truth. But being actually late, to the tune of ten or fifteen or even twenty minutes, was a concept so foreign, so abhorrent, that I considered it a personal insult, even though I knew deep down people's tardiness had nothing to do with little old me. They were just slackers, plain and simple.

  Fifteen minutes. Of course, I had compounded the problem by obsessing about his lateness instead of actually doing anything productive in the meantime. But that's just how I was.

  A knock came at the door, and then I heard it open. I sprung up from my chair and greeted my tardy visitor in the shabby high-ceilinged room that passed for my office lobby.

  "Sorry I'm late," he huffed and puffed, a testament to the fact that my office was on the second floor, and he was overweight. "There was some kind of accident. The whole downtown is tied up."

  "No problem," I said, lying through my teeth. "I was just finishing up a report."

  He was still out of breath. "Dan Hartman," he breathed, holding out a sweaty palm.

  I gripped it gingerly, stifling an ewwwww. "Let's sit," I said, leading him into my office. I was afraid the guy was going to drop dead on me.

  Dan had a chubby face, bad skin, and the kind of beautiful wavy black hair you see in shampoo commercials, which made me wonder if God was playing a little joke by wasting that hair on a lardo like this. We made a little small talk, and then when his breathing had returned to its normal heavy wheeze, I got down to business.

  "So you're a professional gambler," I said.

  He winced. "I am a child of God, first. Second, a husband and father. Third, I coach my son's baseball team. Fourth, I'm a tenor in the choir. But yes, somewhere down on that list, I am a professional card player. It's not gambling, though," he said decidedly.

  Now it was my turn to wince. In more than a decade of living in Las Vegas, I had met my share of folks who believed the time they spent in casinos wasn't gambling. They had a system, or had received a message from an alien, or believed in something that meant they had an edge on the house. Everyone else was gambling, but not them. It had grown tiresome long ago. My skepticism must have shown on my face.

  Dan smiled. "I know that look. That's the look most of my family gives me when I explain it to them. Yeah, right, they're thinking. But I have evidence it works. You could check my bank account statements if you really want to."

  I shook my head. "No. I'm sorry. I don't doubt you at all. It's nothing more than counting cards, right?"

  He nodded. "Right. Blackjack is the only game in the casino where the past matters."

  I wasn't following. "The past?"

  Dan leaned forward in his seat, warming to the topic. "Yeah, the past. What I mean is, the cards that have already been played can tell you something about the cards that haven't been played yet. Get it?"

  "Kind of," I lied.

  "Let's say you're sitting there with six other people at your table, and every card dealt to the players is a five. What does that tell you?"

  "That they each have ten," I said.

  He chuckled. "Right. But what does it tell you about the cards that might be played next? What are the odds another five is going to come out of that shoe?"

  I leaned back in my chair, which creaked under my own rapidly increasing weight. "It means it's very unlikely another five would come out. Almost all the fives have been dealt already."

  Dan smiled. "Exactly. That's basically what we do."

  "Except you're not counting fives," I said. "You're probably more interested in aces."

  "Right. Aces and tens. Any ten or face card counts as ten. So if you keep track of how many have been played, you know the likelihood that another one will be played in the future. And that's how you make money."

  I nodded, semi-intrigued. I had heard of card counting before—who hadn't—but never really thought about how it worked.

  "So things are going well, but then…" I trailed off, leading him to the topic du jour.

  "Yes," he said, "that's why I'm here. We've been on a losing streak. That happens all the time because you can't avoid the fact that there's always some luck involved, even when the odds are in your favor."

  "But this time?" I prompted.

  He sighed. "Let me put it this way. Mathematically, the chances we would be running this badly for so long are about one in five hundred. I'm not saying it's impossible. I'm just saying it would be hard to be that unlucky."

  My mind made the logical leap. "So you're thinking someone's stealing from you? Someone on your team?"

  Dan pursed his lips. "Unfortunately, yes, that's what I think. Or, at least, what I want to find out. That's where you come in."

  I nodded, turning it over in my mind. "Let's back up a minute, though. How come you work in teams? Why not just play by yourself, and then you won't have to worry about this kind of thing?"

  He leaned back in his chair. "Sometimes we do that. But if you have a team, you can exaggerate your advantages. If I'm sitting there all by myself betting ten bucks a hand, and then all of a sudden I start betting five hundred a hand, they're going to kick me out of there. It doesn't make any sense, so they will figure I've been running the count. They're not idiots. So if you're by yourself, you can only change your bets a little bit, or they'll get wise."

  "How often does that happen?" I asked. "Are they that sensitive?"

  "Hell yeah. They watch that stuff like hawks. I could tell you some stories, believe me," he said, chuckling. "But the point is, if you have a team, you get up from the table when the table gets hot. Then your teammate, who for all the casino knows is a complete stranger, sits down and starts making the big bets. It's much less suspicious that way."

  I nodded, beginning to appreciate the scheme. "I guess that makes sense. And you can make a living at this?"

  He smiled. "A good living. At least, I could." His face had gotten somber.

  I turned it over in my mind for a few seconds. "Well, I can try to help you. What I'd start with is basic surveillance. The point would be to follow the members and see how they're actually doing. I assume they make reports to you about their winnings and losses?"

  "Exactly," he said. "That's the weird thing. It's not just one of them on a losing streak. It's three or four of them. If it were just one of them, then I'd know that one was the thief."

  I knew I was going to help Dan, but I was having trouble coming up with how I would go about it. Before I could blurt out a question, he anticipated it.

  "Before you do any surveillance, though, I had a crazy idea." His eyes were twinkling.

  I tried to hide my natural recoil response, but I don't think it worked. As an exotic dancer, I had spent half my life fending off fat men's "crazy ideas." "Okay…?" I said hesitantly.

  "Join the team," he said matter-of-factly. "We'll train you up. It's not that hard. You just need to be good with numbers and be able to handle pressure. Then you'll be on the inside."

  I laughed out
loud. "You want me to be a card counter? I can barely even remember that red means stop and green means go."

  "You're too modest, Raven. I read the stories in the paper. That's why I'm here. You're one of the best in the business."

  I smiled. In only a few months working as a private investigator, I had lucked into a few high-profile jobs, and the exposure from those had led to a steady stream of new business. At least until the last week, which had been unusually quiet. "What those stories don't report is how much luck has to do with it."

  "So we have something in common," he said, chuckling. "Worth a shot, though, no?"

  I shrugged. It wasn't like I had anything else to do. "All right. Maybe this will even be fun."

  "That's the spirit," he said, beaming. His legs creaked as he stood up, and he winced as he gripped the desk.

  "I'm too young for this," he muttered half apologetically.

  "My knees crack every time I stand up," I said, trying to sound sympathetic. I pulled out some paperwork and had him sign a retainer agreement, and then I showed him out.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Dan and I had agreed to meet up again two days later. He'd emailed me with a list of websites to visit as part of a crash course in card counting. As he'd explained, the theory was really quite simple. If you could keep track of how many tens and aces remained in the deck, you could determine whether the deck was favorable or unfavorable to the player. Most of the time, it would be unfavorable. After all, the rules were made by the casinos themselves. But occasionally the deck had a lot of tens in it, which they called a positive count, and those were considered "bust cards" for the dealer. That's when you bet big and tried to beat the house.

  It turned out that there were a number of methods to keep track of the card count. In the old days, when casinos used a single deck of cards at each table, it was easy. But most casinos now used six or eight decks, and some of the high-end places even used a card shuffling machine to create a kind of endless deck. Because each deal of the cards came from a "new" deck, it didn't make sense to count cards at those places, so we would have to stick to the more traditional casinos on and off the Strip. But when they used eight decks, the methods for keeping track of so many cards were more complicated than anything I'd ever done.