All Bets Are Off: A Samantha True Novel

by Rose, Kristi

  “So you want me to prove she has a doggie door and Maurice is using it?” Easy peasy. One more notch for experience.

  “Yeah, and I want to know what she’s using to lure him there. And I want her to stop. So if you”— she scanned me quickly then jerked a finger to Precious —“or maybe your Amazon friend here instead, wants to be the heavy and rough up Long so that she stays away from Maurice, I’ll pay extra.”

  Extra of zero was what again? I glanced at Precious who was smiling.

  “I’d be happy to talk to her,” Precious said.

  Mrs. Wright shook her head. “Not talk.” She banged one fist into the palm of her hand. “Rough up. Long is smaller than me. You could really put the fear of Jesus in her. I tried. I waved my gun at her and she waved one back.”

  Before Precious and Mrs. Wright could get into it further, I intervened. “Give me ten minutes to get into position and then let Maurice out. We might be able to resolve this today.” I nodded for emphasis and grabbed Precious by the elbow to leave.

  We drove around the block and picked a house two down from Long’s purple one. Going around the side we were able to hide behind some shrubs that made a pseudo-fence. I laid on my belly and had a clear shot of Long’s back door and Maurice’s path from any angle. Sure enough, there was a doggie door. Maurice came dashing across the lawn and under some bushes to Long’s. I snapped shots of him butting open the doggie door with his head and going inside.

  Precious and I fist-bumped, and I sat up. “Except…how do I find out what the lure is?”

  Precious pursed her lips in thought. Then said, “You think you could sneak up to the doggie door and push it open? Maybe shove your camera in there and take some random shots?”

  Nothing about that idea sounded good. I took stock of the house. “All the windows have curtains so I can’t just peek in.”

  “Which is against the law anyway,” Precious said. “Last thing you need people to hear is that you’re a Peeping Tom.”

  “Unlike sticking my head in the doggie door. That’s not against the law or creepy whatsoever.”

  Precious huffed. “It’s not like you’ve come up with anything better.”

  “You either,” I shot back and jumped to my feet.

  “What are you going to do?” Precious said, coming to stand next to me.

  “I’m going to knock on the door and ask.” The idea was just as good as any and probably better.

  “You want me to stand behind you like the heavy Mrs. Wright wants? I kinda want to see if I can pull it off.” Precious narrowed her brows. “Does this look menacing?”

  “Not really,” I said. She was too pretty, too put together to look like a bully. “Maybe if you weren’t so clean cut, weren’t wearing a high-end pantsuit, or maybe if your hair wasn’t so…” I made my hands go out in wild waves aside my head to indicate curly. “Big.” Big hair just wasn’t scary in a menacing way. More like it was scary how much product she used to get her hair to be that big and stay that way.

  “Maybe I’ll go in like a classy secret agent.” Her eyes lit up. “I’ll go grab one of those guns from Mrs. Wright and can hold it like this.” She crossed her arms but made a gun hand and had it resting against her bicep. “That would scare her.”

  “Let’s save that for a backup plan. Maybe she doesn’t need to be scared.”

  Precious’s expression fell, clearly disappointed. “You’re a party pooper.”

  “Remember, we’re also supposed to be looking to see if I’m being followed.”

  “Oh, good point,” she said, scanning the area.

  The plan was to approach Long’s house from the front. Like normal people. She answered my knock seconds after I rapped on the door.

  “What,” she said. She was the same height and age as Mrs. Wright with the same hairstyle only Mrs. Wright looked to be from Italian descent and Mrs.Long was Asian.

  “My name is Samantha True. I’m a private investigator.” I dug into my backpack and pulled out one of Carson’s business cards and handed it to her.

  “This has your name written over another’s,” she said with a thick Asian accent and frown.

  “Yes, I was out so I borrowed one of his. Anyway, I was hired by Mrs. Wright—”

  “That woman crazy,” she said.

  I continued, “To find out why Maurice, her cat, continues to come to your house. You wouldn’t want to share that reason, would you?” I hoped my expression looked pleading enough.

  “Who’s the person on this card?” She waved my business card in the air.

  Lie. Don’t lie. I wished I knew the right answer. “Er, well. He was my husband,” I mumbled.

  “Was?”

  “He’s dead,” Precious said.

  Mrs. Long tsked. “Men! My husband had the nerve to up and die last year. Leaving me alone to do this retirement by myself. I paint my house a happy color so I want to come home.” She gestured for us to follow her. “You come in. Come in. I show you what crazy lady’s cat is doing here.”

  Precious and I shared a look. Mrs. Long was lonely. When I made a sad face, Precious nodded. Her house was immaculate. And quiet. A MahJongg board was out on the table. One coffee cup was in the sink. Knick-knacks were everywhere.

  We followed Mrs. Long through the house to the kitchen. In a pet bed in the corner of the warm room was Maurice and another cat, a female, with eight little kitties nursing.

  “You see why he come. He come to his family.” Mrs. Long gestured to the litter.

  Precious and I cooed in unison. I snapped a few pictures.

  Long slapped me against the arm. “You cannot tell crazy lady. She take them away.”

  I gave the situation some thought. “What if I could talk with Mrs. Wright and explain the situation. That the mom kitty is yours, and you want to keep the babies. You do want to keep them, right?”

  Mrs. Long nodded. “They’re my family, too.”

  “I believe Mrs. Wright would love to know Maurice has babies. She might want to help you take care of them.”

  “She’ll want to take them,” Mrs. Long insisted.

  Precious laid a hand on Long’s shoulder. “Do you really want nine cats to care for? That’s a lot. They’ll be knocking stuff over. Having accidents.” Precious grimaced. “But maybe if Mrs. Wright took half and you kept half, you could raise them together. Mrs. Wright loves Maurice as much as you love…” She pointed to the orange and black Calico.

  “Moko.”

  Precious and I cooed again. “Moko, that’s so cute,” Precious said.

  “Mrs. Wright thinks you are trying to steal Maurice away,” I said.

  “And she’s scared,” Precious added.

  “Is it okay if I go and get her?” I asked.

  Mrs. Long hesitated then nodded.

  I opened the back door. Looking toward Mrs. Wright’s house I waved for her to come to join us. I met her in the backyard and showed her the nine reasons Maurice was so desperate to get out of the house. Over a game of Ma Jong, the two women worked out custody rights.

  Case closed. And what a high, feel-good moment it was.

  21

  Monday

  I arrived at the shooting range right on time. Sleep had been elusive. Maybe because I was jumpy at every sound coming from outside my bedroom door. Or maybe it was because I didn’t know where to hide the metal bar when I was home so I taped the thing to my back. I was scared to let it out of my sight so I slept with the stupid bar taped to my body, and I drove with the bar taped to my car. This was ridiculous.

  Getting the bar stuck to my back would have won me money on any of those home video shows. I made a bed of duct tape on my floor, sticky side up, the bar running down the center. Then I aligned myself so I could plop backward onto the tape, affixing it in place. And it worked. The first five minutes after I’d flopped back onto the tape and squirmed like a puppy on her back to get the tape to stick, I’d felt like a super genius. Like maybe I was getting the hang of this PI thing. Then I tr
ied to sit in bed and watch some TV only to have the tape pull my skin. The skin under the tape was hot and itchy. The skin around it was sweaty. So between fear and tape discomfort, I barely slept. Around four in the morning, I’d had enough and ripped off the tape, clutched the bar in my hand and fell into an exhaustive sleep that felt like five minutes before my alarm went off at seven.

  At the last possible minute, I put on yoga pants, a large Seahawks T-shirt, sketcher slip-ons, and pushed my hair out of my face with a headband. Where the tape had been on my skin was now a large patch of red welts that itched something fierce. I did remember to brush my teeth, thankfully.

  Leo was parked in his police SUV and hadn’t seen me pull up. I had a moment of pleasure when I startled him by tapping on the passenger window. He wasn’t in uniform. He wore dark-washed jeans and a long sleeve dark green T-shirt that showed off his darker skin and light eyes. The color suited him. The shirt did a nice job showcasing his bulky arm muscles and wide shoulders as the material hugged every contour of his body.

  “Lemme in.” I jiggled the handle.

  He pointed to the back where the criminals sat.

  I narrowed my eyes, and he unlocked the door.

  “Very funny,” I said, sliding into the passenger seat.

  “Didn’t wake up with a sense of humor today?” He eyed me up and down, pausing at my hair.

  I stifled a yawn. “Wanna trade lives? Then I get to tell the jokes.”

  “Did you eat?” He handed me a bag from Freshii, my favorite clean-eating restaurant. Every ingredient was pure, whatever that meant. I loved their breakfast burritos. Sometimes, though, they didn’t love me. The clean food liked to clean me out, if you get what I’m saying.

  But I was hungry, and the burrito was good. I pointed to a clear takeout cup half filled with a magenta-colored juice. “Is that their beet juice?” I made a face of disgust.

  “Yeah, it’s really good.”

  I side-eyed him because I’d had the juice, and it wasn’t good. It needed about a cup of sugar before the drink could be considered tasty. “Thanks for the food.” I took a hefty bite.

  “Yeah, well, I don’t want you shooting a gun on an empty stomach. All kinds of things can go wrong. I got you a coffee, too.” He handed me a medium to-go paper coffee cup. “There’s more cream and sugar in there than coffee, just how you like it.”

  I gave him a suspicious look. “How did you know that’s how I liked it?”

  “I’m a cop. I’m observant.”

  “You’re my hero,” I said as I whiffed the heavenly fragrance.

  He snorted. “Never thought I’d hear that.”

  “Never thought I’d say that. Probably because my caffeine levels are low and it’s affecting brain function.” I sipped the glorious drink, coming alive.

  “That I did expect to hear.” He chuckled. “So while I sit here and watch you spray food all over my car, why don’t you bring me up to speed.”

  I dusted bits of egg off my pants. “I do not spray food.” Maybe a little when I ate with such ravenous need as I was today.

  He gestured for me to go on.

  “Hold this.” I handed him my coffee then reached for the backpack. I told him about running into Lockett and how people kept asking if Carson left anything behind. I tapped the backpack. “This was sent to me right before he died. He sent it to my dad’s newspaper.”

  Leo arched a brow and waited for me to continue. I filled him in about finding the clue, and with dramatic flair, whipped the bar out from the center pocket.

  Leo handed back my coffee and took the bar. He studied it for a second then took out his phone. He typed in the first set of numbers. He showed me the screen.

  “A bank routing number?” I should slap myself upside the head. How many hours had I stared at the numbers, wondering what they meant? Too many.

  He tapped the second set of numbers. “I’m guessing that’s the account number at this bank.”

  It was the same bank where Carson kept the business account.

  He smirked. “You figured this out, right?”

  I rolled my eyes. “I’m tired. I would have figured it out sooner or later.” Probably later.

  “How did you pass the PI test again?” He smirked. “So it was hidden in the backpack and you think that’s what they’re looking for?”

  I nodded.

  “What are you going to do with this?” He tapped the bar against his knee.

  I shrugged. “Maybe a safe deposit box? I dunno. I can’t leave it with anyone because it puts them at risk.”

  Leo’s brow knitted briefly, then he said, “I have an idea. You leave both with me. I have a box in the cargo I can keep them in, and no one would be the wiser. After we finish here, we’ll drive down to the sporting goods store and get another backpack just like this one. You carry that one for a day or so and then leave it in your car, doors unlocked, and let them take it.”

  “Ohhh,” I said. “I like that plan.”

  “Maybe I should be the PI.” He gave me a pointed look. One I chose to ignore. “Time to go shoot.” He nodded to the range. It was an indoor jobby with several bays for shooting. Which was good considering many mornings in the PNW could be hazy or misty and were typically cooler. Trying to aim and shoot while cold would be good training, it was something I wanted to work up to.

  I balled up my garbage and tucked the bar back into the bag, which I wore with both straps over my shoulders. I’d brought Carson’s gun, and having that in the pack added to my edginess.

  Leo got us registered and hung up the targets. He then laid out a small pistol.

  “That’s a Sig Sauer P238. It’s the right size for you. Accuracy comes not only from practice but being comfortable with the gun. We’ll start there.” He tapped the small weapon.

  I pulled out Carson’s Beretta case. “I did some practice with this.”

  Leo nodded and set that gun out, too.

  Being at a range made me nervous, mostly because of how much power to wreak havoc was in one room. Leo ran down instructions then clapped earmuffs over my ears and protective eyewear on my face. He handed me the Sig. I positioned myself like Carson had taught me and got an approving nod from Leo. I sighted the target then squeezed the trigger as I let out a breath. When the magazine was empty, I placed the gun on the ledge in front of me.

  Leo studied the target with lips pursed. “Were you aiming at the target?”

  “Center mass,” I said, repeating the term I’d heard used before. Leo pulled the target in.

  “Well, you hit it if center mass is the space under the criminal’s right armpit.” He pointed to one hole that had hit the outline of the man.

  “It’s this gun,” I said and tapped the little pistol. “I don’t like it. I want to try this.” I pointed to the 9mm. The Sig was lighter than the Beretta, and maybe I needed more weight. Leo put a new target out then instructed me to prepare the Beretta.

  I did, but struggled to rack the slide without getting my fingers pinched.

  Leo groaned. “You still have that stun gun I gave you? You need to have that on you at all times.”

  “Yes, I still have it. Can I shoot now?” I asked with irritation.

  Leo tossed both hands in the air. “Just aim for the target. Anywhere near the target would be good,” he said as he took a step back.

  Like I did with the Sig, I sighted, relaxed my shoulders, and while I slowly let out my breath, I squeezed the trigger. Whereas the Sig went pop, pop, pop the Beretta went band, bang, bang and had more of a recoil. But I managed it. When the magazine was empty, I put it on the ledge and stepped back.

  Leo stared at the target, squinting. Confusion was on his face. Yeah, I’d sucked with the little gun so I was hoping I did better with this one. He pulled in the target and pointed to several holes on the target’s chest.

  “You’re pulling slightly to the right,” Leo said, “but I’m impressed.”

  I beamed at him. “Imagine what I could do if I got a
full night’s sleep?”

  He shook his head, a small smile tilting his mouth up to one side. “Easy, trigger finger. You’re not an expert marksman yet. Let’s work on the slide some and your aim, and then we’ll get out of here. I have an idea of what you really need to practice.”

  We stayed another hour and a half, and by the time we left, I was more comfortable with the gun than I had been twenty-four hours ago.

  Afterward, Leo took me to laser tag where I spent the first twenty minutes laughing hysterically as I tried to run on the trampoline floor and escape being tagged. By the end of our forty minutes, I was able to get some shots in while hiding behind objects or in a kneeling position. I laughed the entire time.

  Our last stop was a sporting goods store.

  “Let’s just hope if you have to use your gun, the target stays remarkably still,” Leo said as he handed me the new backpack he’d just purchased. I handed over the clue and Carson’s bag.

  “Or that I don’t have to chase him across a trampoline floor,” I said with a happy grin.

  “That, too,” he said and fist-bumped me.

  22

  Tuesday

  The following day I pulled an early morning shift at Ralph’s. Lason seemed moody and was difficult to engage in conversation. After work, I followed up with Shannon. Sean was coming home every night. Which meant I couldn’t get the money shot. I called the casino and asked to speak with Kim Mugg and was told she was on the floor working. Sean had two million minus taxes, and no one but the casino employees knew. Soon, they would be releasing his name to the press as was their custom. What was Sean planning? Was Kimmie in on it? Was he home because she had to work? I didn’t for one second believe he’d changed his ways. I was in limbo until Sean decided to make a move.

  I made plans to meet with Precious at her office at the end of her workday. I’d balanced my account and figured I was going to be short some funds come the end of the next month. And I couldn’t count on double-ohs. Precious said I could do more work for her, and I’d be a perfect personal assistant to run errands for some crazy-busy loaded person. Afterward, we were going to yoga. I grabbed a late lunch in downtown Vancouver at one of the food trucks. One last splurge before I went hard-core ramen noodles.