“He says they died of natural causes, Davis, and all he did was skin them.”
“Since when is buckshot a natural cause?”
“Why didn’t you drive Fantasy’s car?”
“Someone slashed her tires.”
“Days ago,” he said. “What’s she been doing she couldn’t call someone in transportation and get new tires?”
“What?”
“Davis,” No Hair said, “move on. Next subject.”
“They’re holding us on driving a stolen vehicle, reckless driving, criminal possession, carrying concealed without a permit, destruction of government property, and animal abuse.”
“What did you destroy?”
“An exit sign and a bunch of guard rail.”
“What’s the criminal possession?”
“A bunch of counterfeit money,” I said. “A bunch.” I took a peek around the corner. I had a huge audience, so I covered the mouthpiece of the phone, a desk phone, formerly Greg and Marcia Brady’s desk phone, with my hand. “You tell Baylor I’m going to kick his ass.”
“Davis,” No Hair said, “you’re in jail, and you’re not going to kick anyone’s ass. Why you’re calling me is what I want to know. I’m a five-hour drive away.”
“I tried Calinda. She didn’t answer.”
“That’s because she’s busy doing your job while you’re out rubbing Magnolia’s nose in it, and I swear, Davis,” I could hear him huffing and puffing, “if you don’t get your act together, I’m coming home and kicking your ass.”
Pfffffft. “This is all Baylor’s fault, No Hair. If he’d have swapped cars yesterday like I told him to, I wouldn’t be in jail.”
“I wish you could hear yourself.”
“Did you see Baylor when he was there? Do you know what happened?”
Nothing but static.
“No Hair?”
“We’re going to talk cars later, if that’s okay with you.”
Dammit. What had Eddie the Ass done with my car?
“Let’s slow down and talk about work for a second.”
“First, tell me how I’m supposed to get out of jail.”
“Call your husband.”
“I’m not calling him.”
“Call Fantasy’s husband. He has all kinds of Louisiana connections.”
Under the circumstances—she sat cross-legged on a cot behind me, her head resting on painted cinderblocks, her eyes closed, it was all very Zen—that probably wasn’t a great idea. “He’s out of town.”
“Right,” No Hair said. “I can’t keep up with her.”
“Get in line.”
I was in a front corner of the cell, lacing my fingers around the coils of the phone cord and trying to talk No Hair into busting us out. And he wanted to talk about work. Like I could work from jail.
“I heard back from the warden at Pollock, by the way. Christopher Hall didn’t break out of prison. He’s in the last stages of liver failure. Cirrhosis. It was a compassion release two weeks ago, so he could die on the outside.”
“First, I’m sorry to hear that. Next, they should have kept him in, because the first thing he did was rain hell on me by bringing counterfeit money to the Bellissimo.”
“I don’t know why he’d want to spend the last few days of his life pulling a con.”
“I don’t think it was a con, No Hair. I think it was a payout.”
“To whom?”
“Magnolia.”
“For what?”
“I haven’t gotten that far.”
“You might be right on the payout end of things,” No Hair said, “but you’re dead wrong about Magnolia. Christopher Hall has no reason to want Magnolia Thibodeaux in federal prison. Where you’re headed.”
(Pffffft.)
“He and Holder Darby were an item back in the day, No Hair.”
“I think I knew that.”
“So maybe he just wanted to be with her again before, you know, the end,” I said, “which is sweet. Until they told Magnolia my house was full of money and platinum.”
“I don’t believe for a second you could live there with a stash of cash right under your nose and not find it by now. The platinum was there, yes, but that doesn’t mean there’s millions of dollars there too.”
I turned to check on Fantasy, who was now stretched out on the cot like it was a fluffy day bed, singing to herself. An old song, an old Dionne Warwick song, about never falling in love again.
“Magnolia Thibodeaux sure thinks there is.”
“Here’s an idea, Davis. Get yourself out of jail, go home, and find it. Lock yourself in there and find the money you insist is there.”
“If Paragon doesn’t already have it,” I said. “My new theory is Paragon is behind everything. They’re the ones who nabbed Holder and Christopher with the bad liver.”
“When did you come up with that theory?”
“Just now.”
“And you think that why?”
“Because I no longer think Magnolia nabbed them.”
“And why would they bother kidnapping a special events coordinator and a dying convict?”
“Because Holder Darby and Christopher Hall know where the real money and platinum is.”
“Obviously they don’t, Davis.”
“What?”
“You found the platinum.”
No Hair had a bad habit of taking the wind out of my sails.
“Someone is behind all this, No Hair, and if it’s not Magnolia, it’s Paragon.”
The square base of the retro telephone was in the floor outside the jail cell. I only had the clunky receiver. A deputy walked up and tapped his watch, then leaned over to disconnect the call. “No! No! Please! Two more minutes!” He held up a finger. One more minute.
“Here we go again. Paragon is not behind this and Conner Hughes isn’t the bad guy. Have you even met him? He’s too boring to be a bad guy. He’s an honest man, Davis. Get that through your thick skull. You saved the day finding the platinum, you were right about Magnolia sneaking around looking for it, but you’re wrong about Paragon. I want you off that dead-end road. Conner Hughes is not a thief or a kidnapper, and if you ever manage to get out of jail, you should probably look for Holder Darby and Christopher Hall at a hospital. I don’t know what happened, but I strongly suspect it was related to his health, not our valued business partner.”
Christopher Hall’s liver did put a whole new spin on things.
“You do know Paragon has three convicted criminals on the payroll, don’t you, No Hair?”
“Yes, Davis. I’m aware. And so does the Bellissimo.”
“Who?”
“YOU!”
He had me there.
“I’m getting ready to say something, Davis, and you listen up.”
(As if I hadn’t been listening.)
“If I hear you say Paragon Protection one more time, we’re going to have a more serious talk than this one. We’re going to have a come to Jesus talk.”
“I know for a fact their game is rigged, No Hair. They’ve already chosen the winners.”
“It’s their game, Davis, and as long as they keep it in that room and don’t violate the agreement they made with the Gaming Commission, I couldn’t care less.”
The deputy came back. I squeezed my eyes closed, cradled the phone receiver between my ear and shoulder, clasped my hands in prayer, and had my own come to Jesus talk. “If you’ll forgive me of all my sins, Lord, all of them…”
“What?” (No Hair.)
“Oh, holy night. Praise be thine name.”
“Who?” (No Hair.)
“Amen and amen.”
I peeked. The deputy was gone.
“DAVIS
!” (NO HAIR.)
“WHAT?” (ME.)
“Let’s wind this up,” he said. “You’re wearing me out.”
“When are you coming home, No Hair?”
“In two weeks,” he said. “Five minutes after the grand opening.”
“That’s too far away.”
“Did you tell Bianca she had menopause?”
“Uh, not in those words,” I said. And I’m missing her gyno appointment right now. “Are you going to call the governor and bust us out before Bradley finds out about this?”
“No,” he said. “I’m not. But Baylor is on his way.”
“What’s he going to do? Flirt us out of here?” I asked. “We need a presidential pardon, No Hair, or Michael Bublé. They’ve got a million pieces of evidence against us.”
“They’ve got nothing,” No Hair said. “Cop a plea to the car theft. Tell them you found it on the side of the road with the keys in it and knew nothing about the contents.”
“I would have gladly told them that an hour ago, No Hair, but there’s a small problem.” It was Eddie the Ass’s car. I’d never hear the end of it if I let Eddie go down on the counterfeit possession charges. He’d be in prison for the rest of his life. Not a bad place for him, but still, probably not the right thing to do.
“He never registered the car, Davis. And he paid cash for it to a drug dealer. Let St. Tammany keep the car and the counterfeit money. Chasing down the owner will give them something to do for the next six months. They can’t charge you or Eddie.”
A light at the end of this dark dark tunnel.
“Please tell me you’re not joking, No Hair.”
“A bondsman should be walking in the door any minute, and Baylor is on his way to pick you up.”
Good. When he gets here, I’m going to rip him to shreds over this car business. Then I’m going to find the absolute nastiest job in the three million square feet of Bellissimo property and give it to him. Permanently. While I hole up at my computer and nail Paragon. They have Mint Condition rigged for a reason, and I’m going to find the reason. I thought it best to keep it to myself until I found something concrete—I couldn’t tell Fantasy anyway, because she was asleep, napping away the infidelity—lest I be accused of harassing our Valued Business Partner again. I stretched out on my cot and stared at the cracks in the ceiling. Something was going down. I could feel it. I didn’t know what, but something.
* * *
Stepping off the elevator a free woman, I saw my new neighbors. In the seven hours I’d been gone on Wednesday, to New Orleans and to jail, Jay Leno’s place had been dehydrated, because there was a flurry of activity down the hall. I spotted Lover Boy Miles standing off from the group; he pretended he didn’t spot me. I probably should have shot him in the elevator that first day.
Not only was Jay’s place in working order, Bradley and I had a new chandelier, a normal chandelier, above our new front doors, normal front doors made of solid wood, and best of all we had a new doorbell, one I was sure didn’t sing about saints. I couldn’t get in the new front doors (and neither could Magnolia), so I rang the doorbell.
Ding. Dong.
It was a miracle.
Sears opened the door wearing Bellissimo coveralls.
“Hey, there.”
“How’s it going, Sears?”
“Pretty good.” Behind him, a piecemeal trail of canvas tarp covered the floor coming out of the secret door in the fleur-de-lis wallpaper and across half the foyer. New to the foyer, and hugging the east wall, were four metal mountains. “I’m breaking the machines down to the nuts and bolts, rolling the scrap out here, then packing it on pallets.” He pointed to the mountains. I had the world’s most beautiful foyer: a fake magnolia tree in a cast iron tub, an Igloo refrigerator, and now a scrap-metal junk display on pallets. “Mr. Cole wants to recycle all this. Say,” he said, “have you been back there?” He threw a thumb in the direction of the Bourbon Street Bank.
“No.”
“Huh.” He scratched his neck. “Pretty interesting.”
“Keep dismantling it, Sears. Everything you see. Bust it into a million pieces.”
“You got it.”
“And not a word to anyone.” He zipped his lips. I hiked my spy bag a little higher on my shoulder. “By any chance, would you like a big cooler?”
He eyed the Igloo refrigerator. “Sure.”
“Have you seen the cat?”
“Not so much,” he said, “but your lady doctor is here.”
I’d missed Bianca’s gyno appointment. By a mile. “Where is she?”
Sears pointed in the general direction of Who Dat Hooters.
* * *
Dr. Paisley Caden, board certified doctor of obstetrics and gynecology, had offices on Prytania Street in New Orleans that made Jay Leno’s place look like subsidized housing, but she mostly worked out of her six-room suite at the Hotel Monteleone on Royal Street in the French Quarter.
She had one of the rooms set up for brain transplants. Very medical. Very discreet. Her patients were rich, famous, and paid her a fortune to cover up their Big Easy indiscretions before they went home to their husbands in LA, DC, and HC. (Hot Coffee. It’s in Mississippi. A real place, a hundred miles from Biloxi, just northwest of Hattiesburg.) Paisley is five feet tall, of Chinese lineage, but having been adopted by a Louisiana husband and wife cardiology team when she was three months old, was an All-American Girl. Proof? I found her with her Jimmy Choos propped up on my grave marker coffee table, eating popcorn, and watching the Bravo Channel. I plopped down beside her.
“Do you watch this show?” she asked.
“Never. I don’t know who these people are.”
She passed the popcorn, her eyes glued to the big screen. “Fascinating,” she said. “I can’t figure out what they’re famous for, other than their decadent lifestyles and willingness to let cameras follow them into the bathroom.”
“How long have you been waiting on me?”
“Four episodes,” she said. “I’m trying to figure out who their vagineer is.”
“That,” I said, “is gross. Is that what you call yourself?”
“I call myself a genius,” she said. “You should see my portfolio. I’m up seventeen percent in this ridiculously depressed economy.” She ate popcorn. “Where have you been?”
“Jail.”
“That sucks.”
She took a slurp of something red. “What is that?”
“A cranberry smoothie. It’s very good for your girl parts.”
“Good to know.”
“And great with a shot of vodka.”
“Better to know,” I said. “Did you meet Sears?”
“Your new handyman? Yes. And I met your cat.”
“Not my cat, Paisley.”
“You do know the cat needs to be checked for toxoplasmosis before you get pregnant, right?”
“You can remind me of that if I ever see my husband again.”
Five minutes of junk TV and popcorn later, she asked, “How’s Baylor?”
Paisley was several years older than Baylor, but looked several years younger. She, along with the rest of the female population, wasn’t immune to his dimple, and the two had been friends with benefits since the day Baylor drove to New Orleans to hand deliver a lock of Bianca’s hair. Bianca wanted Paisley to report back on her iron level and gum health based on the fair-hair sample. Bianca demanded Baylor wait on the results, which apparently took three days. Paisley tossed the hair, and her clothes, charged Bianca ten thousand dollars for the all’s well report on her gums, then examined Baylor for three days.
“He’s okay,” I said. “He’ll never change.”
“I hope not.” Her whisper eyebrows danced.
“I’m not talking about his lo
oks, Paisley. I give him a simple job, he screws it all the way up, then I ask him to do the near impossible and he saves the day. I wish he had some middle ground.”
“Oh, he has fantastic middle ground, Davis.” She opened her mouth to tell me all about it and I raised my hand in a stop sign. Don’t need to know.
“Where is he?” she asked.
“I sent him on an errand.”
“But he’s around?”
“He’d better be.”
She picked her phone up from her lap and her thumbs flew as she shot out a text message. Most probably to Baylor. The popcorn bowl was nothing but a layer of brown kernels when Paisley asked, “So what’s going on with Bianca?”
I let my head rest on the back of the magnolia sofa and stared at the gilded ceiling. “Hot flashes and weight gain.”
“Oh, shit.”
“You have no idea.”
“Has anyone given her the good news?”
“Her Johns Hopkins team,” I said, “and me.”
“You’re lucky you’re still alive.”
“Tell me about it.”
Paisley shook the popcorn bowl, which sounded like rocks in a tin can when factoring in Who Dat Hooters acoustics, just as the cat snuck up behind us. The sudden noise scared it out of its fur. It shot straight up and hooked a paw on one of the fake balconies, then began singing its cat scream song.
“God, that cat is ugly, Davis.”
Oddly enough, I was a little offended.
I walked to the balcony and stood under the cat. “Come on, Cat.” It weighed its options, found only me, then dropped into and ran its claws down my sleeves before it shot off. I rubbed my arms.
“Speaking of ugly,” Paisley said, “have you seen your kitchen?”
Between Magnolia and jail, I’d forgotten all about the kitchen. Which reminded me. I told Paisley I’d be right back, then stepped into the kitchen and retrieved Bianca’s Valentino calendar.
I heard a low hum from the refrigerator. I opened one of the four doors, placed my hand on a shelf, and felt the cold. Another miracle. The kitchen was a war zone, but still a miracle to have lived without a working refrigerator for nine months and then have one.
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