Vegas Moon dc-7 Read online

  “Maybe I will.”

  He sighs. “I don’t know the dimensions of your sex toy or the controller device. I don’t even know if there is a controller device. Why don’t you take the thing apart and see?”

  “I’ve got sort of a germ thing if I don’t know the person.”

  “Can I go back to bed now?”

  I hang up. Five minutes later, the Pocket Rocket is in pieces on Phyllis’s bathroom counter. I’m not sure what I’m looking for, but there doesn’t seem to be anything on the counter that could liquefy my brains. After three attempts, I give up trying to put it back together. I take the pieces back to her pajama drawer and toss them in. Then I go to Phyllis’s computer, call Lou Kelly, and give him access to Phyllis’s computer so his geeks can make a remote copy of everything that’s on it. That done, I tell Lou to run an exhaustive search on Jim “Lucky” Peters. Then I remove the hard drive and put it on the kitchen counter so I won’t forget to take it with me in the morning.

  After inspecting Phyllis’s house and garage from top to bottom, I check her refrigerator and pantry for something to cook. She’s poorly stocked, but I find some Kalamata olive halves, walnuts, bow tie pasta, and parmesan cheese. While the salted water for the pasta heats up, I stir-fry the olives and walnuts in olive oil, grind some pepper into it, and let it simmer on low. When the water reaches a boil, I pour in the pasta, stir it, then put a lid on the pan and remove it from the heat for 11 minutes, like the package says. Then I drain it, put it back in the pan, and stir in the olive mixture, and grate some parmesan cheese over it.

  I could have done something fancier, but this hit the spot, and anyway, I’ve got an early day tomorrow.

  Just before falling asleep in Phyllis’s bed, I think about everything I’ve seen and found in her house. And that gives me an idea. I don’t know why this seems like a good idea, but something in my head tells me what I’m about to do could come in handy.

  I get up and remove a single condom from Phyllis’s condom drawer, and put it in the little box with the cufflinks she planned to give Lucky. Then I re-wrap the present, and put it on the kitchen counter next to the hard drive.

  5.

  Monday morning, seven-thirty.

  I’ve been at PhySpa, Phyllis’s day spa and plastic surgery center for more than two hours, but couldn’t find the device. I’m disappointed Phyllis hasn’t arrived yet. I hear someone unlock the front door, so I sneak out the back and head for the nearest coffee shop. I don’t know who entered, but it wasn’t Phyllis, because her name is on the only parking space behind the building, and she would have used that entrance.

  After a coffee and bathroom stop, it’s eight a.m., and I’m surprised to see several cars parked in front of PhySpa. When I enter the waiting room, the receptionist asks if she can help me.

  The sign on the front desk tells me her name.

  “Hi Shelby.”

  “Hello,” she says, brightly.

  I lean in close and say, “I wonder if I could speak to Dr. Willis for a quick minute about something personal.”

  She frowns. He doesn’t look like a salesman, Shelby’s thinking. But she’s not sure.

  “Your name, please?”

  “Connor Payne.”

  “I’ll check.”

  When she does, something in Shelby’s facial expression gives me the distinct impression Phyllis Willis is less than thrilled I’m in her lobby. Shelby says, “Yes, certainly,” and places the phone carefully in its cradle before saying, “I’m sorry, Mr. Payne, but Dr. Willis is in the middle of a procedure.”

  I smile sweetly and say, “Shelby.”

  “Yes sir?”

  “Call her again. Tell her if she’s not out here in two minutes, I’m coming for her.”

  She looks like she’s about to say something, but changes her mind and repeats my message to Phyllis. I wait a minute, then feel a buzzing in my brain that tells me someone in the office—probably Phyllis—is trying to enter the kill code. The buzzing hurts ten times worse than the one I felt on Saturday night.

  Son of a bitch!

  I grab both sides of my head and stagger backward.

  Shelby jumps to her feet. “Sir! Are you okay?”

  The buzzing stops. I shake my head.

  “Sir?”

  “I’m okay, thanks.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.”

  And I am, until—Shit!

  She’s doing it again!

  When the buzzing stops I take a few seconds to regain my equilibrium. Then I paralyze Shelby with a throat strike before killing her quickly. I kiss her forehead before lowering her carefully to the floor.

  I know what you’re thinking: Shelby would rather be alive than kissed by her killer. I agree. She doesn’t deserve this, and it sucks. But I’m under attack, and she controls the phones and can identify me.

  I lock the front door, then move through Phyllis’s office like clap through a whorehouse.

  I open one door after another. Most of the rooms are empty, but I manage to find and kill a spa attendant, a masseuse, and the face-down woman he’s working on. I didn’t catch any of their names. I don’t enjoy killing innocent people, but my situation is critical. I had hoped to meet with Phyllis in private, but she tried to kill me, instead. And might still accomplish it, since I don’t know how the device works. If I had the luxury of time, these people would still be alive.

  But when Phyllis made her move, I had to make mine.

  Within a minute, it’s just me and Phyllis, who I find cowering on the floor of her bathroom.

  She’d been on her cell phone.

  “Who were you talking to, Phyllis?”

  “N-No one,” she says.

  I slap the right side of her face with the palm of my hand, and then the left side with the back of my hand, hard enough to open a small gash on both corners of her mouth. The way the blood trickles out makes her mouth look like the Joker in Batman. Except she’s not smiling.

  I grab her cell phone and tap the button marked “Recent.” The name “Lucky” appears. I slip her phone into my pocket, figuring to check her caller list later.

  “Who’s Lucky?”

  “N-No one.”

  She sees me looking at the controller in her lap, the one that looks like a fancy wrist watch. The one she used to punch in the code a few minutes ago. The code she thought would kill me.

  “Looosy?” I say in my best Ricky Ricardo voice. “You’ve got some s’plainin’ to do!”

  6.

  “There’s some sort of device that can reprogram the chip in my brain,” I say.

  Phyllis’s face takes on a look of extreme sadness. She knows I’m a stone killer, and knows I’m aware she tried to kill me moments ago. She moves her lips, trying to form words. The effort makes her mouth look like that of a small bird, straining upward, waiting for its mother to drop a bit of worm down its throat.

  “Phyllis, I need you to focus. I’m not talking about the unit you used to try to kill me just now. I’m talking about a master device that can override these wrist units.”

  “Y-yes. There is one.”

  “And what does it look like?”

  “It’s v-very small.”

  “And what does it look like?”

  “Like the t-tip of a…” She pauses, trying to come up with a name. Gives up and says, “a computer memory thing.”

  I pull out my phone, press the button that speed dials Lou’s number.

  “I’ve got lots of stuff on the gambler,” Lou says. “But more to come. And we’re still digging through the doctor’s files from when you linked her computer to ours last night. You want what I’ve got so far?”

  “Not yet. I do have a question, though.”

  “Shoot.”

  “What’s a computer memory thing?”

  Lou pauses. “Is this a riddle?”

  “Not on purpose.”

  I need Lou’s help, but I don’t want him to know there’s a chip in my brai
n that can kill me. Lou and I are close, but since he tried to murder me recently, I’d prefer to keep a few secrets from him. I say, “I’m with a woman who’s trying to think of what you call the small tip of a computer memory thing.”

  “What’s the shape?” Lou says.

  I repeat the question to Phyllis and she stammers out it’s a rectangle, and people stick it into the side of their computers.

  “Into the USB port?” Lou asks.

  I ask Phyllis. She nods.

  “Yes,” I tell Lou. “It fits into the USB port.”

  “She’s talking about a flash drive,” Lou says. “Also known as a memory stick, finger stick, pen drive, disk-on-key, jump drive—”

  “Got it,” I say. “Thanks.”

  It takes a minute, but I eventually get Phyllis to explain that the master device resembles the metal tip of a flash drive, except that it’s ceramic, and half the size.

  “And is it silver?” I ask.

  “Wh-White.”

  “Where is it?”

  “I-I don’t have it.”

  “Is it in this office?”

  “N-No. I sw-swear.”

  She’s trembling, and seems very small and frail. Much smaller than the clothes in her closet would indicate. Maybe it’s because she’s curled up in a fetal position. She’s crying, and her mascara is running and her mouth is bleeding, and her hair’s a coffee-colored mess.

  “Your hair’s not orange,” I say.

  “Wh-what?”

  “You dyed your sweet spot orange?” I say.

  She gives me a confused look. “My wh-what?”

  “I was trying not to be vulgar. Your bush. You dyed it orange? Intentionally?”

  She follows my gaze and modestly covers her lap with her hands.

  “Have you given it to someone?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The device.”

  Phyllis nods.

  “Who?”

  “Mrs. Peters.”

  I pause. “Lucky’s wife?”

  She nods.

  “No shit?”

  She shakes her head.

  Before I kill her I say, “I don’t mean to embarrass you, but I promised my friend I’d ask you something.”

  7.

  “The initials LP were shaved out of her bush,” I say to Callie.

  “Did you verify that personally?”

  “No. I trusted her.”

  “Is she in heaven now?”

  “With Saint Peter you mean? Instead of Lucky Peters?”

  “Hard to think of Lucky Peters as a saint.”

  “What else do you know about him?”

  “He’s seeking investors.”

  “For what?”

  “He wants to build a sports book facility. Vegas Moon, he calls it.”

  “Vegas Moon?”

  “Biggest Sports Book under the Sun. That’s his slogan.”

  “Makes sense. About him owning a sports book.”

  “Casinos aren’t happy about it.”

  “I suppose not. You know anything about his wife?”

  “Nope. Just that she’s a young trophy. He keeps her out of the public eye, for the most part.”

  “What does he look like?”

  “Lucky? Yucky.”

  “Can you be more specific?”

  “Charles Manson in a Stetson.”

  “That’s a happy thought,” I say. Then add, “Are you still home?”

  “What do you need?”

  “A shower, and the suit I left there.”

  “Got a date?”

  “I’m hopeful.”

  “Anyone I know?”

  “Gwen.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Lucky’s wife.”

  “Does she know you’re coming?”

  “Not yet.”

  8.

  One of the great things about having unlimited financial and government resources is the ability to get what you need in a short period of time. Thirty minutes after telling Lou I need an off-the-books police car and a van with no windows in back, driven by a couple of trustworthy guys, they arrive at the parking area behind Callie’s condo. In the meantime, I drag Shelby out of the front office so no one will look through the glass door and see a dead receptionist. Then I dig the car keys out of her purse, locate her car, and drive it half-way to Callie’s. I jog the rest of the way, shower at Callie’s, and change into the suit I’d brought.

  My plan is to drive the cop car to Lucky’s house, park it near the front door, pose as a cop investigating a major breach of national security. I’ll tell Gwen that Phyllis has implicated her in the theft of stolen corporate property, namely the device. With any luck, I’ll scare her into giving it back. If she doesn’t, I’ll have to intensify the questioning. I tell the guys to follow me in the panel van and use it to block Lucky’s driveway after I enter.

  So that’s the plan.

  Unfortunately, when I get there, Lucky’s house is a fortress.

  Worse, it’s crawling with cops.

  I drive past his house, suddenly very aware I’m driving an unauthorized police car. I need to ditch it, and quickly. I call the guys in the van and tell them there’s been a change in plans and we’re heading to the airport. I’ll put the cop car in long term parking, and have the guys drive me back to Callie’s.

  I end the call and start another one.

  “What happened?” Callie says.

  I tell her. Then say, “Why would the cops be at Lucky’s house?”

  “You think they found Phyllis already?”

  “By now? Sure. But why would they race to Lucky’s house? Does everyone in town know about the affair?”

  “I wouldn’t think so.”

  “We’ll figure it out. Can I crash at your condo awhile?”

  “I’ll set an extra place at the table for lunch.”

  “You’re cooking?”

  “Yup.”

  “Wow, you are bored.”

  When I get there I learn Callie’s idea of cooking means chopping lettuce, hard-boiled eggs and assorted veggies for a salad.

  “Can you see if I have what you need to make a salad dressing?” she says.

  “Got extra virgin olive oil?”

  “Yup.”

  “Some sort of vinegar?”

  “Balsamic?”

  “Then we’re good.”

  Turns out her pantry is a treasure trove for a vinaigrette meister like me. I find shallots, garlic, honey, and an orange. Her spice cabinet yields mustard, sugar, salt, ground white pepper, celery seed. I mince a couple of shallots and a bit of garlic, grate a little orange peel, and blend these with the other ingredients, and set the mixture on the counter so the flavors can blend.

  “The oil and vinegar will separate before we eat the salad,” she says.

  “No they won’t.”

  “Ever heard the expression oil and vinegar don’t mix?”

  “I think you mean oil and water.”

  “That’s the lesser known expression, as any cook will tell you.”

  “You’re a cook now?”

  “Well, I didn’t run a bed and breakfast in Florida and hunt squirrels in the attic like that guy in the novel.”

  “Funny.”

  “But it doesn’t change things. The oil and vinegar will separate.”

  “I added some honey.”

  “So?”

  “It sustains the emulsion.”

  She cocks her head at me. “Do you ever listen to yourself talk?”

  “No. That’s your job.”

  She pulls the cover off the blender, pokes her index finger into the vinaigrette, licks it.

  “Fuck the salad,” she says.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I could make a meal out of this. Why’s it so good?”

  “Why wouldn’t it be?”

  Callie opens her silverware drawer, takes out a spoon, dips it in the mixture, puts the spoon in her mouth, swallows. Then licks the spoon.

  Se
es me staring at her mouth.

  “What?” she says.

  “Have you ever heard of a Pocket Rocket?”

  She gives me a curious look, then says, “You asshole!”

  “Huh?”

  “You were fantasizing about me. Again.”

  “What makes you think—”

  “Sexually.”

  “Well…”

  “It’s just a mouth, Donovan. Everyone’s got one.”

  “Not like yours.”

  She shakes her head. “Not gonna happen.”

  “Why not?”

  She smiles. “What difference does it make?”

  I shrug.

  She dips her spoon into the dressing again, puts it up to her mouth. But this time, before tasting it, she blocks her mouth from my view with her other hand. Then she winks.

  “You know I love you,” I say.

  “How could you not?”

  My cell phone starts vibrating.

  “I’ve made vinaigrette a dozen times,” she says.

  “So?”

  “It never turns out like this.”

  “The ratio of oil to vinegar is everything.”

  My phone vibrates again. I look at the caller ID.

  “Tell me,” Callie says.

  “Three parts oil to one part vinegar.”

  I answer the phone.

  It’s Carmine “The Chin” Porrello, telling me about a call he got from Lucky Peters, who’d been looking for a hit man. I thank him, ask if Lucky’s banging anyone besides his wife. Carmine doesn’t know her name off hand, but yeah, some plastic surgeon. He’s got photos.

  “Sex photos?”

  Callie arches an eyebrow at me.

  Carmine says, “Nah. Just the two of ’em together. Dinner shit. Nothin’ I can use. Not yet.”

  Then I call Lou and tell him to have his geek squad access Lucky’s medical records at the hospital in Kingston.

  “You want to hold while I get that for you?” Lou says.

  “It’s that easy?”

  “I should probably say no, and charge you extra. But yeah, it’s that easy.”

  I cover the mouthpiece and say to Callie, “You never answered me about the Pocket Rocket.”

  “Nor will I,” she says. “Ever.”

  I frown. “Why not?”