TWELVE
Not trusting our radios, we contacted No Hair and Fantasy by phone, mine, because Bradley’s was kaput. We had to wait for them to end the calls they were on—Fantasy with Weather One’s corporate office, asking them to pull the plug on Chip Chapman, and No Hair still on the phone with the Gaming Commission in Jackson, Mississippi, gathering information about the real gaming agents in hopes of helping us locate them. Ten locked-up-in-the-casino minutes crawled by before we had Fantasy and No Hair on speaker mode, and from behind the closed door of the control room on Disaster, they had us on speaker too.
Bradley didn’t break it to them gently. “We found the cash carts in the casino, they’ve been emptied, and we’ve been locked in the casino.” His words were met with silence. “Fantasy, I need you to go to my office, reset the lockdown code, and let us out.”
“Where did you say your laptop was?” Sandy asked me.
“I wish I knew. My laptop and my gun were stolen yesterday when Fantasy and I were dropping slot machines.”
“You have a firearm floating around?”
“No,” I said. “My gun showed up. My computer’s still in the wind, but we found my gun.”
“Where?”
“In the hydrangea bushes beside the fountain where we found the dead fake gaming agents.”
She tried to shake the information into her head. “Someone wants to connect their deaths to you? And whoever has your computer locked us in here?” she asked.
So it would seem. Not only that, they either had enough access to Bradley’s phone to retrieve the new lockdown code we’d assigned the day before or knew how to navigate our system well enough to override it.
“Okay.” Fantasy’s voice came through the phone we were gathered around. “I’ll go to your office, Bradley, and you can walk me through it, but it’s going to take me a minute to get there.”
“Why’s that?” he asked.
“Bianca is impatiently waiting on me.”
“Bianca Sanders?” Sandy asked. “She’s in residence?”
I sighed.
“Do you have any more bad news, Davis?”
“I have some.” Emergency looked up from his phone. “The outer bands of rain are here.”
Sandy’s hand flew to her shoulder as her radio blared. “Take cover,” her shoulders said. “Chief’s orders. Wherever you are, stay there and bunker down.”
“One more thing.” Fantasy was still on the phone. “Danielle still hasn’t turned up.”
“Who’s Danielle?” Sandy asked.
Bradley and I said, “Don’t ask.”
* * *
We were all armed, but still we stayed in pairs.
After answering the same questions we’d already answered three times about our first casualty—did we know who he was, did we know who shot him, and did anyone speak to him before he died—Bradley walked Emergency to the fake officer crime scene. Sandy and I toured the main aisle, looking, but not touching, the cash carts.
“You don’t have a fingerprint kit on you, do you?” I asked.
“In the trunk of my car,” she said, “which we can’t get to. But good idea. Print these carts.”
“How can we print them without a kit?”
Sandy shrugged.
I held up a finger. I speed dialed my mother-in-law. “Anne.” I tried to sound chipper. “How are you? Where are you?”
“How’s my son?”
I rolled my eyes. Bradley was an only child, raised by his widowed mother in East Texas. He was her world until Bex and Quinn were born. I was, and would always be, the Alabama divorcee who forced her son’s hand in marriage (I did not), and the surrogate who delivered her granddaughters. What Anne needed, I told Bradley all the time, was another man in her life. One of her very own. “He’s fine, Anne.”
“Tell my son our babies are fine.” (And by “our babies” she meant hers and Bradley’s.) “We’re almost to Pine Apple, and I haven’t taken my eyes off the backs of their precious little heads the entire trip.”
Those were my babies too.
“Anne, can I speak to FEMA?”
“Do you mean Laverne?”
They were on a first name basis. A possibility floated through my mind that had nothing to do with hurricanes, escaping the casino, dead people, finding the hurricane heisters, or recovering money.
“Laverne, would you mind speaking to my son’s wife?”
Who had a name, thank you, Anne.
FEMA told me to find a full ashtray and a tablespoon. Not a difficult task in a casino. The ashtray, anyway. He said to scoop ashes from the ashtray into the spoon, blow them across any solid surface I wanted to dust for prints, reverse the camera of my phone, snap a picture and I’d have prints.
Why didn’t I think of that?
Ten minutes later, I smelled like a sports bar, had cigarette ashes in my hair, and six good sets of prints I ran through Biometrics on my phone. The first set were mine. The second set were Fantasy’s. The third set were Jug Dooley’s. The fourth set were Danielle Sparks’s. The fifth and sixth sets came back John Doe and John Doe. The accompanying photos were of the dead men who’d passed themselves off as gaming agents.
“Ask Bio for aliases,” Sandy said.
The first John Doe, the imposter gaming agent who’d been worried about his wife, his girlfriend, and where his next drink would come from was local, barely in the system, a small-time thug and even smaller-time actor. The second John Doe was from Jackson, Mississippi, and all over the system. I had four alarmingly disparate photos of our felonious imposter gaming agent and four different aliases. One I recognized, both the hair color and style, and the name.
“It’s this one,” I told Sandy. “He had three names. Carlos Ray Norris.”
Sandy rolled her eyes. “Carlos Ray Norris isn’t an imposter gaming agent.”
“He’s not?” I asked. “How do you know?”
“Carlos Ray Norris is Chuck Norris,” she said.
She had me.
“Delta Force? Karate? Bruce Lee? Walker, Texas Ranger?”
I sneezed cigarette ashes. “What?” Sneeze. “Walker Texas what?”
Sandy waved it off. “Before your time, but Carlos Ray Norris couldn’t possibly be that man’s name. It’s the name of an old actor. His big television hit was Walker, Texas Ranger.”
I took off running.
“Hey!” Sandy followed. “Where are we going?”
“To the Walker, Texas Ranger slot machines.”
“Why?”
I could hear everything on her duty belt clanging behind me.
“Because,” I ran past blackjack tables, “I think there’s a trapdoor under the Walker, Texas Ranger slot machines.”
“Where does it go?”
“It tunnels downstairs to the graveyard.”
“If you ask me—” clang, clang, clang “—you have enough of a graveyard upstairs.”
* * *
Standard slot machines weighed two hundred pounds, give or take, substantially less than Megatower slot machines like the irritating ones on Disaster. They sat on custom casino cabinetry to bring them up to eye level with the seated player, unlike Megatower machines, like the irritating ones on Disaster, that were all slot machine from the floor up. Bradley and Emergency moved three two-hundred-pound Walker, Texas Ranger machines from their custom cabinet to the floor before they took a two-minute break. Emergency stripped out of his jacket and was down to a camo t-shirt. “Why are we doing this again?”
Because Carlos Ray Norris had made way too big a deal of introducing himself the day before. Twice. Slowly. Succinctly. And louder than he’d needed to. He was telling someone—not us—where the trapdoor was. But I didn’t have to decide if Emergency needed that piece of the puzzle or not when my phone rang.
“Hey,” Fan
tasy said. “Not good news.”
Was there any other kind to be had on a Friday the thirteenth?
“Well, some good news,” she said.
Bradley said, “Go.”
“Why are you out of breath?” Fantasy asked. “What’s going on?”
“I’m moving slot machines, Fantasy.”
“Why?”
He rolled his eyes. “Can we talk about it later? Like never? If you’ll log on to my computer and get us out of here, I can stop moving them.”
“That’s the bad news.”
Emergency stepped away, shaking his head. Sandy raised her eyebrows at me. I shrugged—I had no idea.
“Someone shot your computer, Bradley.”
He scratched his head. “One more time?”
“Your office was broken into and someone with a large caliber gun, or a bomb, blew the tower to smithereens,” she said. “Your office is a mess and your hard drive is history.”
Everything stopped when we heard the first clap of thunder, through the casino walls and over all four radios. Emergency, increasingly antsy, realizing if Fantasy couldn’t reset the lockdown code and free us, leaving Walker, Texas Ranger as our only way out, began counting slot machines. There were seven left to be moved before we could lift the base cabinet beneath them and have access to the exit below.
“What’s your good news, Fantasy?” Bradley asked.
“I found Davis’s laptop.”
“That’s not good news, Fantasy,” Bradley said, “that’s great news. Log on and we’ll walk you through the code reset.”
“Well,” she said, “more bad news. It’s been shot too.”
Someone took a gun to my laptop? Why would they do that? “Where’d you find it?” I asked.
“In the jumble of electronics on Disaster the housekeeping Storm gathered yesterday,” she said.
Emergency scratched his head.
Bradley’s phone was dead, his computer disabled, so someone had used my laptop to lock us in the casino, then turned around and incapacitated it, hiding it in plain sight. That someone had access to Disaster. That someone was on Disaster.
Bradley and I shared a look, thankful our children and our mothers were long gone.
“Anything else?” I asked.
“Two things,” Fantasy said. “Surveillance shows the legitimate gaming agents arriving yesterday, parking on the fourth level of our garage, then entering through the west doors.”
“Is that the parking garage entrance?” Sandy whispered.
I nodded.
“I sent Baylor down to pop the trunk,” Fantasy said, “and all he got was wet. The agents weren’t in the car and it’s already raining sideways inside the garage.”
“Did Baylor and July get married?” Sandy whispered.
“I honestly don’t know,” I whispered back. “I haven’t had time to ask.”
“Is he wearing a wedding ring?”
“I haven’t had time to look.”
“What’s the other thing, Fantasy?” Bradley asked.
“Weather One’s corporate office said their ratings are breaking all records. People are filling bars all over America having Kevin parties, there’s a Chip Chapman drinking game trending all over social media, the women from Michigan now have their own fierce following, and they want Weather One on the air.”
Great.
The four of us eyed the cabinet under the Walker, Texas Ranger slot machines: our only escape.
“Think we could handle one of these?” Sandy flexed her muscles.
“No.” Bradley rocked a dark slot machine back and forth until it was far enough over the edge of the cabinet for Emergency to get a good grip.
Dark slot machine.
Every slot machine in the casino was dark because the casino was on lockdown and they had no power, but they weren’t unplugged. I stepped left and checked between rows of The Finer Reels of Life slot machines—all plugged in. I stepped right and checked between rows of Rainbow Riches slot machines. The same. I got Bradley’s attention. I pointed to the snaking power cord behind a Walker, Texas Ranger he’d already relocated.
His eyes narrowed, he studied the Walker, Texas Ranger he was manhandling, all the way to the loose power cord, then tipped his head back.
And to think I’d just told his mother he was fine.
We weren’t fine.
“What?” Sandy grabbed my arm.
“They were already unplugged,” I whispered. “Someone has already been in or out of the trapdoor. Someone could be down there now.”
Waiting on us.
And that was how the casino was breached the day before when Fantasy and I were dropping. We closed the casino at five that morning, it was empty by eight. Fantasy and I started the drop at nine. In that hour, Carlos Ray Norris and his fake officer partner used the trapdoor to get to the dungeon. Who else was in the dungeon at the same time? Eddie the Idiot. And Danielle. And Jug Dooley.
“Hello to the alls?”
Emergency’s head whipped around and Sandy dropped into a weaver stance, ready to shoot our two-way radios.
“Is terrible to the weathers. Filet, who is my person, is making the rains days lunches.”
I looked at my watch. It was, indeed, inching toward lunches.
“Filet no likes the garlics, Filet’s fingers smellses shew-shew becauses of the garlics, but Filet presses the garlics anyways and makeses the beautiful lasagnas with secret sauces for lunches for all hards workers.”
“Who in the world is that?” Sandy asked.
“The chef.” My stomach growled. “He’s on the Storm team.”
“Also with the lasagnas are the antipastos saladses, very beautiful, very most virgin of the oilses, very most delicates of the mozzarellas cheeses, fresh with the black olives fats as Filet’s eyeballs. And Filet, who is my persons, has the very fats eyeballs. Stinkies my fingers, fatses my eyeballs. For the desserts—”
“Oh, dear Lord,” Emergency said.
“—Filet no knows how to say—”
“That man doesn’t know how to say anything,” Sandy said.
“—the delicates bakeded Italian cakes with the creamses and mascarpones cheeses and cocoas sprinkleses on the layerses of fresh bakeded ladytoeses—”
“He means ladyfingers,” Sandy said. “Tiramisu.”
“—and for weathers mens and very drunk girls, Filet, who is my person, makeses the Italians Ices with very much extras espressos. And no red wines for weathers manses or drunk girlses. Too much drunskes, and Filet—”
“Who is his person,” Sandy and Emergency said.
“—so tired of the drunkses girls asking Filets for the barbeque and the cold slawses. Filet—”
“Who is his person,” we all said.
“—is chef. Chefses no cook the barbeque and cold slawses for weather menses and drunks girlses—”
“Who are these drunk girlses he’s talking about?” Sandy asked.
Bradley and I said, “Don’t ask.”
“—but good newses, because hard workers bringed Filet the choppeded trees.”
Bradley tilted his head in my direction. Where was Filet going with this?
“—so Filet, who is my person, takes choppeded trees outsides—”
“He must mean the dead tree limbs,” I said. “How is Filet getting in and out of the building?”
“—to buildses fire pits, and tonights, after bad rains stops, Filet—”
“Who is his person,” we all said.
“—will roastes the beautiful fat pig.”
I felt the blood drain from my face.
“That is all. Lasagnas ready for the hour. Be to unlucky floors for delicious lasagnases in the hour. Remember to washes filthy hands.”
“We have to get out.” I tried to wrap
my arms around a Walker, Texas Ranger. “If for no other reason, we have to save the pig.”
“What pig?” Sandy asked.
Fifteen hard minutes later, all ten slot machines were in the floor. We were ready to lift the huge cabinet, tunnel down to the casino graveyard, then make our way to the security loading dock door. From there, if we didn’t drown, we’d circle the building, find a way in, save a pig, have lasagna, and ride out the storm.
We didn’t know what we’d find under the cabinet, so we took points. Bradley was on one corner, Emergency on the opposite corner; they were ready to tip the cabinet. Sandy and I were, weapons drawn, on the other two corners.
Bradley counted us down. “Three, two—”
Danielle Sparks was under the cabinet.
THIRTEEN
Hands and feet securely bound and staked to the carpet, wild-eyed and struggling, Danielle was stretched out over the trapdoor.
I kept my gun on her; Sandy loosened the gag around her mouth.
Danielle gasped for air. “Where am I? Who are you people? Please let me sit up. Why are you pointing guns at me?”
“Danielle,” I said. “Don’t even.”
Sandy freed her feet.
“Oh, thank you.” Danielle smiled sweetly while rolling her stiff neck and stretching her legs.
“Don’t untie her hands,” I said. “Danielle, get up. You’re coming with us.”
“I don’t know who you are, who Danielle is, or how I got here, but for sure, I need a doctor—”
“Save your breath,” I said. “No one believes a word of it.”
“Her head looks pretty bad,” Sandy said. “What happened?”
I locked eyes with my husband when thunder struck. It struck so thoroughly, and with such force, it put a stop to the Danielle nonsense, because there was no talking over it. I felt it, through concrete ceilings, floors, and walls, from the crown of my head to the tips of my toes. It wouldn’t stop, continuing uninterrupted for at least two full minutes, during which I forced breath in and out of my lungs. We were speechless and paralyzed for a full minute even after the thunder reduced to rumbling aftershocks. Four of us went pale with anxiety over what felt like, or soon would be, the storm making landfall, on our land, while our newest casino hostage, Danielle, didn’t seem to notice or care. She was working her handholds. So she could weasel away from us. Again.
Double Agent Page 13
