DOUBLE MINT (4 page)

“Why would she do that?”

“She’s looking for something.”

“And you know this how?”

“Because I can smell her.”

Nor did my husband believe me.

“Davis, I swear I don’t smell a thing.”

“How can you
not
smell it? It’s her. I smell
her
.”

“Do you want me to have cameras installed?” Bradley asked. “I will. Say the word.”

No. No cameras inside. We’re newlyweds, for goodness sake.

I stepped out of my inner circle. “Erika? Do you smell flowers in here? Magnolias?”

Nose in the air, sniff sniff. “I smell Mr. Clean and Lemon Pledge.”

Erika Cleaning Woman is scared to death of this place. She runs in once a week with
a leaf blower, blasts off the top layer of étouffée dust, then runs out screaming.
She refuses to be here alone, so now we have Erika Cleaning Woman and Erika Cleaning
Woman’s Sister, Tonette. Tonette asked me if I’d considered having the residence exorcised.
She knew a priest.

And this is where we live.

Apparently, with a cat.

I’ve slept with animals before (I was married to the same ape twice before Bradley,
a long story I don’t want to tell), but never with a four-legged furry animal. Bradley
and I fell into bed on Sunday night and the damn cat hopped up and settled in between
us like it was supposed to be there. I tried shooing it off and it bowed up and hissed
at me with glow-in-the-dark eyes, sending me scrambling up the headboard. Bradley
reached for the cat and calmed it down until it purred, then it settled at his feet
after trying its best to shred my duvet cover into ribbons with its needle claws.
We turned to each other in the dark. In addition to the distant gurgling noise from
the kitchen, I could hear the cat, who I think might be asthmatic, trying to breathe
through its smashed nose.

“Now do you believe me, Bradley?”

“I always believe you, Davis.” He traced a line down my nose with his finger, something
I’d been watching him do to the cat. “I totally believe in you, Davis.”

“About Magnolia.”

He rolled onto his back. The cat rolled onto its back.

“Davis, honey, if the platinum were here, we’d have found it by now.”

“Bradley, honey, that’s why she keeps breaking in. She’s the one who stole the platinum,
she stashed it here, and she keeps coming back to get it, a load at a time.”

“I find that so hard to believe.”

“I find it hard to believe we have a cat in the bed.”

Four

On a normal workday, Bradley hit his desk while it was still dark out, five or so.
I usually slept in till seven. Sometimes noon. Monday morning, promising to be anything
but normal, found me up and out of the bed at the ungodly hour of six, Bradley long
gone, the shower almost dry, and I could barely smell his sandalwood soap. I wondered
if he’d slept at all.

On the long list of things I love about being married to him, it starts every day
with coffee. He sets up the coffee pot for me before he leaves, so when I stumble
to it, all I have to do is push the “brew” button. I stumbled to it, but stopped short,
because there was a dead fish in the kitchen. I slapped my hand over my nose and mouth.
Beside the coffee pot was a bowl of gray fish mush. With yellow flecks. Cat food.

I’d forgotten all about the cat.

I picked up the bowl with a dishtowel, lest I accidentally make contact with its contents,
and from behind me the cat had a fit, screeching and wailing, mad because I’d touched
its food. I dropped the bowl to the floor. “Here, cat! Here!”

This was no way to start my day.

Not even five minutes from sleep, I turned back to the coffee pot and the cat was
in my face. I let out a yelp. The cat moves at the speed of light. It arched up and
tried to slap me with a right hook, followed by an uppercut, claws extended. I danced
out of its way, but it continued to howl.

“What, cat? What?”

The food smelled hideous, overpowering the smell of the coffee, and the cat wouldn’t
shut up, drowning out my favorite morning sound, that of the coffee brewing.

“What do you
want
, cat?”

It raced back and forth across the island, alternating between crying and lunging
at me. I picked up the nasty food and put it back where I’d found it. The cat sat
down on my kitchen counter (where’s the Clorox?), looked down its smashed nose at
the food without touching it, hopped off the island, found its former spot on the
rug, and was asleep in three seconds. The coffee was almost ready; the cat’s eyes
were closed. I inched a hand in the direction of the nasty cat food to move it away
from my coffee pot, and the cat, who could see through its closed eyelids, reared
up and threatened me.

“Are you kidding me, cat?”

Just to make sure, I inched my hand toward the bowl again, and the cat showed me its
teeth. Had it come to this? Feeding a cat on the kitchen countertop? I’d find Holder
Darby today. To. Day. It might not be her cat, but she’d know whose it was or could
at least resume custody of it.

“You don’t mind if I get myself a cup of coffee, do you, cat? Is that okay with you?”

It swished its tail.

Bradley left a note at the coffee pot.
Wife. I’ll be in, around, or about the vault most of the day. First, another inventory
with the accountants. Baylor will be with me. I’ll be in the vault again this afternoon
for an inspection with Paragon. I need you to check in on the conference this morning,
make sure all is well, look into the Holder Darby business, and don’t forget dinner
tonight.

I’d like to forget dinner tonight.

* * *

The call came at seven seventeen. I was snapping on my watch.

“Are you the new Holder?”

No. “How can I help you?”

“This is Megan with Special Events. I work the front desk at the conferences. I just
checked everyone in for the welcome breakfast, and there might be something going
on here.”

“Such as?”

“I think someone’s missing.”

Someone
is
missing. Holder Darby. She should be taking this call. “Why do you think someone
is missing?”

“Because people are standing around waiting on one guy who’s not here.”

“These people standing around,” I asked, “have they asked you about this missing person?”

“No,” she said. “It’s just weird.”

“Weird?”

“Weird. I’ve been doing this for five years, and this is weird.”

According to the conference schedule, it was Monday morning roll call at the conference,
including a full-body scan (think airport screening booth) to gain admission to the
welcome breakfast (Overdraft Omelet Station and Fiscal Responsibility Fruit Bar) deep
in the top-secret banker chambers.

And according to Megan, there was one lone badge left on the registration table. I
could hardly see how it was weird or my problem.

“I’m sure whoever it is stayed up all night gambling.” I slipped into my jacket. “He’s
probably sleeping it off.”

“I don’t know.” She hit four octaves on the three words. “I can hear them. They’re
very upset this man isn’t here.”

(And I’m supposed to get upset too?) (Is this what Holder Darby did all day?) “Has
anyone called him?”

“They say he’s not answering.”

“Has anyone knocked on his door?” I stepped into my shoes.

“They say he’s not answering.”

“Who is
they
?”

“I don’t know their names. It’s the conference techs.”

“Techs? What kind of techs?”

“Slot techs.”

“Our slot techs? Let me talk to one of them.”

“They’re slot techs,” Megan said, “but not ours. These slot techs are with Paragon
Protection.”

Slot technicians installed and kept slot machines in working order. We have enough
slot techs for a baseball team. Paragon Protection, not in the casino business, shouldn’t
have even one. Why would Paragon Protection bring its own slot techs?

“How many techs are there?”

“Three,” Megan said. “And they’re mean.”

“Why do three mean techs need one guest?” Maybe this is weird.

“I really don’t know,” the girl said. “But I thought someone should.”

“I’m on my way,” I said. “I’ll check on the guest.”

She gave me the missing man’s room number, a big fat suite, then asked what she was
supposed to do with his badge. I told her (I don’t care) to lock it up. Behind the
scenes of the banking industry, much like behind the scenes of the casino industry,
is shrouded in secrecy, including, it would seem, a convention. The bankers didn’t
want would-be bank robbers sneaking in, drawing maps, jotting notes, and walking off
with their playbook, so they brought in a boatload of their own security (along with
their own slot technicians) and issued badges, all set up and approved by Holder Darby.
Who flew the coop.

The conference center, an escalator ride up from the east corner of the casino, starts
with a large reception area, and by large I mean football field, and through the conference
doors there are three dining rooms, a concert hall-slash-auditorium, an events hall,
and breakout meeting rooms to accommodate up to a thousand conference attendees. This
week’s conference, the one Holder Darby dumped on me, required an identification badge
to get anywhere past the reception area.

The badges contained microchips. Fourteen different photo IDs, an interview with your
third grade teacher, and a brain scan were required to get a badge, and if you lost
it, too bad. No mixing and mingling with the other bankers during keynote banquet
lunches, no playing in the conference tournament in the evenings, no Dionne Warwick
Friday night.

My job, as I understood it (I’ve had this convention job twenty minutes), was to make
several appearances a day in the reception area, ask if everyone enjoyed the Collateral
Chicken Cordon Bleu, and get upset about inoperable microphones and light bulbs. In
other words, once the conference began, Holder’s (my) job was one of hospitality.
My plan for today was to be hospitable for ten minutes, then locate Holder Darby and
four million dollars in platinum coins. I had no idea where Holder Darby might be,
but I knew where to start looking for the four million. That part would be easy.

My morning list just got one chore longer, because apparently I’m expected to wake
up conference guests and kick them to the weird conference. I will admit to being
mildly curious as to why Paragon Protection had its own slot techs, but that’s it,
mild curiosity. I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation, and as soon as I find Holder
Darby, I’ll get one. Then all I have to do is find four million in platinum.

One last glance in the mirror to make sure I barely recognized myself, and, success,
a total stranger stared back. At this point in my Super Secret Spy career, I’m a master
of disguise. I use a product called ColorMash, a temporary hair color spray that (comes
in sixteen brilliantly dimensional shades) smells good, washes out easily, and briefly
turns my hair a different color. Today my caramel red hair was vibrant chocolate and
my caramel brown eyes, via colored contacts, were china blue. I put myself through
this rigmarole because if I spy around looking like myself, I wouldn’t stay super
or secret very long.

Today, I dressed in what I thought the rat-fink deserter/missing-in-action Holder
Darby might wear to meet and greet conference guests, a power suit: navy blue pants
and blazer, no-nonsense white silk shirt, all Diane Von Furstenberg, and on my feet,
Kate Spade Yvonne patent pumps. Also new. And several inches of new, because I’m not
all that tall and eye contact is a large part of hospitality. I looked like a movie
star FBI agent. (Real FBI agents wear no makeup, cargo pants, sports bras, Reebok
SWAT boots, and bulletproof vests. Movie FBI agents wear Diane Von Furstenberg power
suits.) And I might as well have stayed in my pajamas for this, my first assignment
on the first day of what would be a week of dressing up as an FBI movie star and replacing
Collateral Chicken Cordon Bleu light bulbs, playing the role of Olivia Abbott, Temporary
Special Events Coordinator, because the guest in room twenty-six fifty was, as Megan
suspected, missing. In fact, he was gone. There was no guest in room twenty-six fifty.

Weird.

I eyed the closed bathroom door.

It was way too early for this.

I tiptoed over and tapped. “Housekeeping. Is anyone in there?”

From time to time, I think about getting a job at the mall. Or at Sonic, America’s
Drive-In. Or taking up golf. I love the clothes.

No way was I going into the bathroom alone. I reached in my spy bag and pulled out
my gun, gloves, and phone. I tucked the gun in the waistband of my Olivia Abbott pants,
pulled on the gloves, and poked on my phone.

“Hey, are you here yet?”

“I’m in the dungeon,” Fantasy said.

Our offices are three large rooms located in the underbelly of (Mother Earth) the
main building. As the crow flies, we’re a tenth of a mile directly beneath Style,
a women’s clothing store on the mezzanine, in 3B. B is for Basement.

“Grab a print kit and come to room twenty-six fifty.”

“What’s up?”

“The guest is gone.”

“How do you know?”

“Because he’s not here.”

“On my way.”

I’m not going in that bathroom alone.

It looked like he’d stepped out for a paper. Twelve hours ago. The bed had been turned
down, but not slept in. The dresser had a man pile: car keys, loose change, a small
folding knife, wallet, and his room key. The closet held a week’s worth of conference
clothes and a rolling suitcase large enough for four weeks’ worth of conference clothes.
The television was on. His leather slip-on shoes were beside the door.

The small dining table was set for one with a barely touched meal, highly congealed,
the chair pushed back from the table as if he’d just risen. A full glass of pink wine
sat to the right of his dinner plate. An acrylic white wine chiller held the rest
of the bottle, the ice long melted, everything room temp. His knife and fork were
resting neatly on his dinner plate. Something or someone had interrupted this man’s
dinner three bites in.

Fantasy knocked. Knuckle, knuckle, pause, knuckle, knuckle, bang—our secret knock.
I have a passkey that overrides the programming on every electronic door lock in the
building. I have one of the two all-access passkeys, Security has the other one locked
in a vault, and I guard mine like it’s a banker badge.

Fantasy doesn’t have a passkey and doesn’t want one. For one, she can get through
any door, anytime, anywhere. It’s her Superpower. For another, she says she has enough
to keep up with and doesn’t want anything else.

Fantasy, who is six feet tall, my best friend, my wingman and wheelman, looks like
Tyra Banks with blue eyes. And she has three boys, two dogs, and one husband who lose
all their stuff all the time. They count on her to keep up with everything. Her boys
are constantly calling to ask where their this and that are, and she always knows.
“You cut that shirt up to make a slingshot last week. It’s gone.” And, “Your hamster
has not been ratnapped. You took his cage to the laundry room Tuesday because you
said he needed a time out.” And, “No one is wearing your shoes. No one wants to be
in the same room with your shoes. You left them in the treehouse.” I guess keeping
up with a passkey would push her over the edge. So she learned how to get around without
one.

“Hey.” Her t-shirt said Bring It On. She took in the scene. “Yow. Where’d he go?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Have you looked in the bathroom?”

“I was waiting on you.”

“Davis,” she said. “You big chicken.”

“If he’s in there, Fantasy,” I don’t know why I was whispering, “he’s dead. Like Elvis.”

She pulled her gun from where she keeps it at the small of her back, marched over,
turned the knob, then announced herself. “Coming in! Cover it up!” She kicked the
door wide open.

This is why I called her. Honestly, she’s not afraid of anything. Not one single thing.
Not spiders, the flying monkeys in
The Wizard of Oz
, or men who may be naked and dead on the bathroom floor.

She poked her head in, then right back out. She stepped away, then swept out an arm.
“Take a look.”