Double Whammy (A Davis Way Crime Caper) (2 page)

Six weeks, sixteen interviews, and I had yet to be asked the first question that came close to anything secure.

The last two interviews had been with two mammoth men: a shiny bald one who looked like Mr. Clean, and another one with the largest, brightest teeth I’d ever seen in my life. Natalie Middleton introduced them to me as if I hadn’t already seen them following me around; I’d spotted one, the other, or both giants every time I’d been here. They’d jumped on elevators with me, the bald one had been at the shooting range, and the one with the teeth had actually followed me home once. I played along. Nice to meet you, large total strangers.

Those interviews had started out pleasantly enough, if being alone in a witness-interrogation room for hours on end with men the size of economy cars is one’s idea of pleasant, but as the clock ticked, the mood worsened. (Mine.) I got the distinct feeling that neither of these guys wanted me to have this job. They tried to trip me up at every turn.

The one with the teeth wore exceptionally nice man clothes. Always tip-to-toe monochromatic: all black, all gray, all navy. The one with no hair wore strange ties. So far I’d seen Tabasco hot sauce, Forrest Gump, and the Tasmanian Devil tied around his neck. Neither big man was unattractive, but menacing, because there was just so much of them.

The two giants had drilled me on subjects far from security. My waitressing skills, or rather my lack thereof, had been heavily discussed. How did I feel about gambling? (I felt like you shouldn’t do it with other people’s money.) Would I care to explain that? (No, thank you.) How did I feel about hundreds of pounds of dirty linens? (Opposed.) How about scrubbing shower stalls? (Again, opposed.) Did I know or had I ever known or had I ever seen photographs of someone named Bianca? (No. Isn’t that a breath mint?) How many times had I been married? (None of your business.) Could I type? (How many fingers are we talking about?) Had I always been a redhead? (I’m not one of those pale, freckled, flaming-carroty redheads with pastel eyes and no eyelashes. I tan easily, my hair is a coppery-caramel color, and my eyes are the same color, but darker.) Had I ever been convicted of or committed a felony? (Which one? Convicted or committed?) Either. Both. (There’s a big difference.) Let’s hear it. (I would like to use a Lifeline.) Did I have culinary skills? (Could I cook Pop Tarts? Yes. Do I know what to do with a dead chicken? No.) Had I ever held a customer-service position? (Not specifically. More no than yes. Okay, no.) The hairless one asked me if I could operate an industrial vacuum cleaner. I didn’t know such an animal existed.

Now here I was at my final interview, with the top of the food chain, and any second now, I expected him to ask how much experience I had hula dancing or performing tree surgery, because he didn’t know what he was interviewing me for any more than I knew what I was applying for.

“It’s a new position, Davis, and a highly classified one. If I knew exactly what you’d be doing on a day-to-day basis,” Mr. Sanders said, “I’d tell you.”

Finally, some bottom line.

“You’ll be working undercover throughout the casino and hotel, and if you want to know more than that,” he said, “you’ll have to agree to the terms.”

“Are you offering me the job, Mr. Sanders?”

“Do you
want
the job, Davis?”

I’m not so sure I
wanted
it. I’m very sure I
needed
it. “The terms,” I said, “what are they?”

“In a word? Discretion.” He steepled his fingers, then used them as a pointer. “Your job is to be discreet.”

“And?”

“Use discretion,” he said.

Use discretion while I’m being discreet. Got it.

“Don’t talk to anyone on or off this property about your job,” he said. “And don’t reveal your identity under any circumstances.”

“When do I start?”

“How soon can you start?”

“I’m good to go, Mr. Sanders. You say when.”

“Today’s as good a time as any.” His hand went for the phone. “You can start right now.”

My eyebrows shot up. I didn’t mean this minute. I was thinking Monday. Or the Monday after that.

“Do you need time to think about it?” His hand hovered over the phone. “Because the iron is hot now.”

Wait a minute. No one had said a word about
ironing
.

“Davis? Do you need a little time?”

Yes. “No.”

“Good,” he smiled. “Welcome to the Bellissimo.”

And with that, I was well on my way to prison.

TWO

Natalie Middleton’s office was adjacent to, and just as nice as, Mr. Sanders’. She had the Junior Suite. His smelled like cinnamon; hers smelled like roses.

Natalie was within a year, one way or the other, of my age. She was, as the first line of defense to the president of a place like this would be, Cover Girl pretty, and always impeccably dressed. Today she was wearing a dark suit, a creamy silk shirt peeked out from under the jacket, and a pair of spike-heeled black pumps at the end of her long bare legs. She wore very little makeup, and much of her medium-long medium-brown hair escaped a silver clasp at the nape of her neck. Designer eyeglasses completed her Sexy Librarian look.

“First, Davis, I want you to know that your new job was my idea.”

So she would know how the industrial vacuum cleaner came into play.

“Therefore it’s of utmost importance to me that you’re successful.”

She leaned heavily on the words “utmost,” “me,” and “successful.”

“Whatever you need, come to me first. When you have information, bring it here. If you have questions,” she said, “fire away. Night or day, day or night.”

“Start at the beginning,” I said, although I should’ve been more specific. I meant the beginning of my new job requirements and she started with the very first flash of light that shone on the dark mass of what would be Mother Earth.

She gave me the corporate orientation speech: state gaming laws, barge permits, net revenues, three movies filmed here, Hurricane Katrina, Cher. She told me about herself: single, graduate degree in marketing, Mr. Sanders’ personal assistant for seven years. She told me who I could speak to: Mr. Sanders, herself, Jeremy Coven (the bald one) and Paul Bergman (the one with the big teeth). Then she talked about the resident royals: Mr. Sanders (very complimentary), Mrs. Sanders (not so much), their son Thomas (typical teenager), and in all of that, the word
vacuum
didn’t come up.

“She’s a Casimiro.”

“Who is?” I asked.

“Mr. Sander’s wife.”

“What’s a Casimiro?”

She paused. “Really? You don’t know?”

I shrugged.

“Her family owns half the Las Vegas Strip.”

“Whoa.”

“Right. Avoid her at all costs,” Natalie advised. “It won’t be hard. When Mrs. Sanders is here, you won’t be.”

“Why is that?”

Natalie leaned back in her seat, pulled off her designer frames and dropped them in the middle of her desk. “She’s hardly ever here, Davis,” she dodged the question. “It won’t be that big a deal.”

Either I wasn’t asking the right questions, or she was deliberately passing out wrong answers. I wanted some go here, go there. Shoot this, shoot that. “Natalie?” I asked. “What is my job other than avoiding Mrs. Sanders?”

“You’re our new super-secret weapon.” She stood. “Come with me.”

I hopped up.

“Leave your things,” she said, “we’re not going far.”

I dropped my purse in the chair, then followed her across the room at a clip. Natalie, if the fancy machine on her credenza and the empty cups and saucers on every corner of her desk were any indication, consumed large amounts of high-test coffee; the girl was jacked up on caffeine. We were headed straight for a wall when she stopped so fast I all but ran into her.

“Get dressed.” She pushed and a seamlessly hidden door swung in. “Then we’ll talk more.”

The door closed quietly behind me of its own accord, and I was alone in a lounge of sorts, but a lounge as large as my bedroom at Pine Apple Luxury Living Condos. How convenient. It was library quiet and smelled like a rose garden. The room was barely lit and there were no windows, so it took a second for my eyes to adjust. When they did, I was met by more of the red/gold décor that was the theme throughout the Bellissimo. A plush red sofa was against the wall to my left, with a mammoth gilded mirror above it. Two gold wingback chairs were separated by an oblong side table on ornate pedestal legs opposite the sofa, with a wide aisle of thick gold carpet between. A stained-glass Tiffany lamp on the table emitted a dome-shaped glow, the only direct light in the room. This is exactly where you’d want to be if you were having a migraine. Or an affair.

A wide arched doorway between the two seating areas led to a traditional ladies powder-your-nose room where I found a change of clothes, a wig, contact lenses, and really cute boots.

Fifteen minutes later, fourteen of them poking myself in the eye, I stared at a stranger in the mirror. The stranger had thick, dark, shoulder-length hair and Martian green eyes. The jeans were pencil, designer, and a perfect fit. They were paired with a Christian Dior vanilla-colored cashmere pullover that floated. I could only have been identified by the tomato-red Tory Burch peep-toes I had on, which were mine. (Technically, they were my sister’s. I’d accidentally borrowed them.)

“I guessed you at a six,” Natalie said when I’d worked up enough nerve to leave the red and gold retreat, a boot in each hand.

“Six and a half,” I apologized.

“Now we know.”

“I can try to get into them,” I offered, because they were gorgeous and I could take a little pain in exchange for the mid-calf chocolate-brown leather.

“I’m a six.” She gave me a wink. “I’ll find something to do with them. Take a seat,” she waved, “and relax a little.”

I hadn’t moved my head; I’d never worn anyone else’s hair on it. I had plenty of my own and it was pressing against my scalp like socks stuffed into a hat that was already too small.

“You look great.”

I looked like someone else, which was, I suppose, the point.

She passed me a fat stack of paper, as thick as the Montgomery Yellow Pages. “Sign here, here, and here.”

I signed there, there, and there.

She whisked the phone book away and replaced it with a gorgeous brown-leather Marc Jacobs messenger. “Your room keys are in here, a little cash to get you going, a new cell phone, and ID.”

I had no idea what I’d just signed, but the wardrobe and accessories for my new job were great.

“You’re already checked into your room and everything you’ll need for the next few days is there.”

And still, I sat on the edge of the chair.

“Right.” Natalie clapped her hands together. “As our in-house investigator, Davis, your first assignment is to play video poker.”

In-house what? I thought this was a security job. And how might one go about investigating video games? Or for that matter, securing them?

“Double Whammy Deuces Wild. Progressives.” She stood and walked around her desk. “Double Whammy Deuces Wild,” she said again. “Got that? Go right through the middle of the casino, then take a left. You can’t miss them.” She waited to speak again until she was sure she had my undivided attention. “Play it, learn it, come back and tell me how it’s won.”

Is that all?

“Good luck, Davis.”

I swallowed hard.

“I hope you win!”

THREE

Bellissimo guest room 20027 was, like the rest of this place, Five Star. It was a showroom of luxuries and amenities, including a full ocean view, Jumbotron flat screen, and great big bed with at least a foot of air between it and the thick gold carpet. The linens on the bed were stark white, with gold pillow accents everywhere and a giant red duvet folded across the foot. Five Star and Fancy.

Natalie Middleton, I could see, had gone to a lot of trouble on my behalf. The armoire contained at least five days’ worth of clothes, all my size, ranging in style from a pair of J Brand jeans to a bright blue-silk cocktail dress with a swooping jeweled neckline that I was tempted to put on right then. In the drawers I found Ralph Lauren silk pajamas, an extra-large Bellissimo T-shirt, two Calvin Klein bras, a demi and a push-up, both 32C, perfect, a rainbow of Hanky Pankys, and three additional cashmere sweaters. It would seem that Bellissimo In-House Investigators dressed to kill, and that might be the saving grace of this “security” job. Well, the expensive clothes and the gorgeous hotel room. Well, the expensive clothes, the gorgeous hotel room, and the paycheck. But in-house investigator? Police officer-to-investigator is the same as executive chef-to-fry cook.

All this time, I’d been applying for a security position, not an investigator position. You can’t spend ten minutes in law enforcement, even in a place as small as Pine Apple, much less the years I had in blues, without hating the words
private investigator
. An in-house is nothing but a private who stays put. Their cousins are mall cops and third-shift parking lot attendants. Investigative services are a thing of the past, back when you couldn’t find people in two seconds flat through social networking. Facebook and Twitter are good for two things: hooking up with people you never got to sleep with in college, and skip tracing. It takes one Follow and two Tweets to locate a skip. Ditto insurance fraud with current electronics: Hack into the boyfriend’s cell phone and browse the photo album. He’s taken fourteen pictures of Miss Bad Back snowboarding. Busted.

These days, PIs do absolutely nothing but take photos of cheating spouses. Adulterers are generally smart enough to keep it off the World Wide Web, and it still takes hard evidence to get your fair share in divorce court, especially when the stakes are high. (I know all this first-hand.) I seriously doubted the Bellissimo hiring me had anything to do with cheating spouses; they didn’t take me on so I could run around the casino taking Polaroids of adulterous clients, when they had better surveillance than NASA.