He leaned in and said, “Mia, come around. I want you to meet my boss.”
Fascinated, Pilar watched as the young woman slid out of the car, adjusted the pearly-white Stetson she was wearing, and walked around the front of the car. She stepped up onto the curb, a huge smile on her face. Pilar took it in all at once, the Stetson, the beautiful smile, the perfect teeth, the wealth of gorgeous hair. The designer jacket, the long legs encased in black tights with a miniskirt and, of course, the cowboy boots. She felt a flash of envy and sadness all at the same time. She would kill to be this young woman, even without the trust fund. When the woman moved closer, she caught the wink of light from her earrings. Three carats each at least. Hidden by her hair. Understated. As were her nails. French manicure. Pilar was aware of her own bloodred talons, which suddenly looked tacky to her eye.
“How nice to finally meet you, Ms. Sanders. Toby has told me so much about you. Not to worry. It was all very flattering.”
“Then you have the upper hand on me, Miss Grande. I just found out about you. I don’t want you stealing my prize dancer away from me now, you hear?” Pilar teased in a light voice.
Mia smiled, her teeth glistening on this gloomy day. “It won’t happen. My little sweetie here is very loyal.”
Pilar worked her tongue over her own veneers and felt cheated. “I am so glad to meet you. I would have been terribly offended if my prize here, meaning Toby, didn’t see fit to introduce us. I try to be a stand-in mother to the boys. Sometimes it works, and sometimes it doesn’t. This time, it did. I’m sorry, but I have to cut this short. I have a meeting I need to get to, and I’m already running late. I’ll see you tonight, Toby. Please don’t be late. Again, nice meeting you, Mia.”
Her body ramrod straight in her Jimmy Choo shoes, which couldn’t hold a candle to Mia’s cowboy boots, Pilar walked away to the parking lot and her four-door Mercedes sedan. Suddenly, she hated the high-end, family-looking car. Compared to the candy apple–red Ferrari, the Mercedes was a Volkswagen Beetle. Right now, right this minute, all she wanted was a pair of cowboy boots. For a moment, she was tempted to call a cab so as not to be seen in this drab black vehicle, but in the end she opened the door and climbed behind the wheel. She sat for five minutes as she let her thoughts go from Toby and Mia to the text that had come through earlier from Carlie Fisher, the club’s business manager. She wondered if Carlie had sent the same message to Gabe. Evidently not, or Gabe would have called her by now.
What did it all mean?
* * *
Jack clicked the remote, and the room turned silent. Everyone looked at everyone else in disbelief. “Charles, did you know about all of that?” Jack said, pointing to the overhead screen.
“Not really. I knew they were working on it from the day Maggie, Ted, Espinosa, and Dennis left to start the series. I guess being as smart as the two of them are, they knew this would be the outcome, and they went at it. The truth is, Fergus and I have seen very little of our lovely ladies, and they did not see fit to confide in us. I just didn’t . . . I had no idea they’d accomplished all of what we just saw. Having said that, I couldn’t be more proud of them. Ask yourself, who do you know who could have gotten all of that done in a month? The government would appoint committees, hold meetings to look into things, and there would be more meetings while everyone responsible is vetted, and on and on the list would go. Myra and Annie dived in and made it happen. They made it happen! Someone should give them a medal.”
“I second that,” Fergus said heartily. “What I wasn’t expecting to see was Lizzie Fox and Cosmo Cricket there at the end, handing over that good-sized check from all the casino owners in Las Vegas. They’re already on their way to the airport, because Cosmo is in charge of setting up a veterans’ clinic in Vegas. It’s like he said. If you want something done right, do it yourself, and that’s exactly what he’s doing, and he has the clout to pull it off, just like Annie and Myra did. Before you know it, every single veteran will be smiling, along with their families. I especially liked the part where Myra said they set up a fund for the families who are in dire straits. Food, clothing, housing, whatever they need, it’s theirs for the taking. Our girls did good. They went at it like it was a mission and brought it front and center. There will be no more sweeping things under the rug, and people will be held accountable. Count on it.”
“I’ll never argue with that,” Jack said. “But we really need to get down to business here. Abner, what do you have for us?”
“There is no master list of employees per se. I’m trying to hack into their CPA’s records, but the guy has some pretty sophisticated firewalls. I need to see the roster of employees, because that will give us addresses and Social Security numbers so we can track them. That part won’t be a problem. I got into the Sanderses’ financial records, and they are robust. But everything is heavily mortgaged. Six months ago, the couple took as much equity as they could out of the clubs and the properties that house the dancers. That tells me they’re going to be walking away very soon. Several of the clubs are working at a deficit.”
“What’s their personal wealth?” Harry asked.
“Fourteen million, give or take. Judging by a quick glance, with their overhead at all the clubs, they could never make that kind of money legitimately. Even if Gabriel is a whiz in the stock market. The couple each take a half million in salary every year. The husband invests it. It’s a joint account. I haven’t found out yet where that is stashed. So you can probably add another four million to that total I just gave you. My guess is it is probably offshore somewhere. Don’t worry. I’ll find it, and if I can’t find it, my buddy Phil Needlemeyer will find it for sure.
“We don’t have anything yet on the background checks for the Sanderses. It’s like they were hatched out of an egg twenty-five years ago. That’s as far back as I can trace them with their given names. That leads me to believe they changed their names at that point in time. Avery hasn’t checked in yet. Maggie didn’t say if they were coming back or not. Does anyone know?” Fergus asked.
“Just got a text. They’re on the way. Ten minutes out,” Jack said.
“I have a text coming in from Bert,” Charles said. As he read the short message, he shrugged. “He said he hasn’t heard from the Sanderses as yet. My guess is they won’t want to appear too eager, and they might even want to negotiate to drive the price up.”
“How did Toby’s luncheon go? Anything coming in on that?” Harry asked as he popped a handful of seeds into his mouth.
“I just sent off a text to Avery, who should be on top of things. It’s possible Toby has been in touch with young Dennis. We should have news on that shortly. By the way, did you boys come to a decision in regard to going to the Supper Club in disguise tomorrow evening to see Toby perform?” Charles asked.
“We did not!” Harry snapped.
Cyrus, not liking the snap to Harry’s tone, stopped chewing his bone and let loose with a shrill bark. Translation, “Tone it down.”
Jack held up his hand for silence. “I don’t think we need to go disguised as women. I don’t care what Espinosa says. He cannot transform us to the point where we look like women. Why can’t we just go as who we are? A bunch of guys out for dinner and a show. Or we could pretend to be gay, if you think that would work better. It’s all a no-brainer.”
“We’ll have to take a vote on that, Jack. One way or another, you all have to go to the club. All the girls are busy, so you can’t go with dates. We’ll work on that. We still have some time,” Charles said.
Cyrus bolted upright and raced from the room, an indication that Maggie and the gang were here. Snowden, too, as he was the first one to walk into the conference room.
The intrepid reporters wore huge smiles as they took their seats at the conference table.
“Pulitzers all around, baby!” Ted shouted to be heard amid all the congratulatory shouts and pats on the back.
“Enough!” Charles roared. “You can rest on your laurels later.
We have a mission to plan and execute. Avery, you have the floor. Wait just a minute. Director Sparrow is sending me a coded text. He had a meeting at the White House, if you recall. It will take just a minute. Fergus, help me out here.”
The team sat quietly as they waited to see what earth-shattering news would be forthcoming from the director of the FBI.
“Gentlemen, Maggie. It would seem that the White House wants Director Sparrow and his agents to shut down Annie and Myra’s project for the veterans. He said the WH is saying Myra and Annie are giving the administration a bad name. He also said he managed to get hold of Lizzie and Cosmo just as they were ready to board their flight back home. They’re going to meet him at his office.”
Dennis West stood up, his hand clenched into a tight fist. He shook it fervently. “Then it’s war!”
Chapter Eight
Pilar Sanders sat in her car, staring out at the blustery day. She’d never liked this time of year for some reason. Cold weather was her enemy. Cold weather dried out her skin, which was far from supple these days. Having to wear layers of clothes just made her look fat and dumpy. Her eyes narrowed as a gold-colored leaf tinged with orange fell on the windshield. It looked dry and brittle, just the way she felt. She flicked on the windshield wipers to chase it away, but it was stubborn and didn’t move. She pressed the button that squirted windshield fluid and watched the hated leaf sail off to nowhere. It did not make her feel one bit better. She wished for a moment that she could take wing and fly off like the leaf. It wasn’t going to happen. Her wishes never came true, for some strange reason.
Long, bloodred nails tapped the steering wheel. She felt out of sorts, antsy and shaky, knew she was capable of exploding in a sea of venom if she didn’t get herself under control. She looked down at her cell phone and sent off a text to her husband to meet her at Supper Club One ASAP. Before she could shove the phone into her designer handbag, which cost more than most people earned in a month, she heard the ping of an incoming text message. She blinked and bit down on her lower lip. Just the sight of his name sent shivers up and down her spine. She did not need this right now. She absolutely did not need this. She tried to frown, but the Botox kept her features frozen in place. She read the message twice and forwarded it to Gabe. She knew that if she didn’t respond to this particular text message, there would be hundreds to follow, which would become a blizzard and end up blowing up her phone. No one kept Zuma Delgado waiting. No one. Certainly not the likes of Pilar Sanders.
Zuma’s text read Are we on schedule? Confirm. We would like to double our Christmas order. I haven’t seen any advance publicity. Double up and do it now.
Pilar’s heartbeat quickened. Answer or not? Gabe would say to play along and tell her to move up their schedule. She closed her eyes in panic. All she could see behind her heavy lids was Zuma Delgado’s pockmarked face, his greasy hair, his beady, malevolent eyes, and his yellow teeth before her eyes snapped open. For one wild, greedy moment, she calculated what her cut of double would mean. Before she could change her mind, she tapped out two words and sent the text message on its way. No problem.
Pilar climbed out of the car. Her heart thumping, she locked it and raced toward the back door of the supper club. She stopped for a minute to look down at the three tabby cats bent on hitting the Dumpster, where the waitstaff threw out the leftover food. She liked cats and had left a standing order with the chefs that they were to feed them every night. As far as she knew, they had obeyed her instructions. The cats looked healthy and well fed. She bent down to pet them, and they purred their thanks. She wondered, and not for the first time, where they slept at night. Maybe she should have one of the staff fashion some sort of shelter for them.
Pilar straightened up and looked around at the empty parking lot. So much to think about. Gabe would know what to do. Right now, she couldn’t seem to think on her own. And she was in full panic mode. Which was scaring the hell out of her. Pilar Sanders did not panic. Pilar Sanders always had it all under control. Pilar Sanders never lost control; nor did she ever turn control over to anyone else. Especially the likes of Zuma Delgado. Bullshit!
In full panic mode, so light-headed, Pilar ran to the bar for a drink to calm down her nerves. She reached for a bottle of Crown Royal and gulped down the fiery liquid. Her throat burned and her eyes watered as she coughed and sputtered. She took a second hit and had to sit down on one of the bar stools, the bottle still clutched in her hand. She stared at herself in the mirror behind the bar. Who was that person staring back at her?
Pilar was about to take a third hit from the bottle when she looked up to see her husband standing over her. “That’s not the answer, Pilar.” He pried the liquor bottle from her hands.
“I know. I know. Oh, God, Gabe. What are we going to do? You know how he is. If I didn’t respond, he’d just keep texting all day long. I just said ‘No problem’ to buy some time. We have seven weeks to . . . to . . . Can we get out from under, Gabe? Tell me the truth. Can we?”
“Earlier this morning, I would have said no. But Carlie just told me about the Hong Kong offer. We might be able to squeak by if we play our cards right and get this show on the road. Stat. No screwing around this time. We need to be on the same page, and we need to be united. We’re not going to be able to sell the properties. That would be a dead giveaway. When we walk out, we walk out with what we have and leave it all behind. I warned you, Pilar. Why didn’t you listen to me?” Gabe said wearily as he took a seat next to his wife. He wished he knew if what he’d said was the truth or not. He was so tired of it all, he almost didn’t care. Almost.
“Because I’m greedy, Gabe. I admit it. I never thought . . . I just assumed . . . I’m sorry. I don’t know what else to say,” Pilar said tearfully. “I guess this is what you meant when you warned me my chickens would come home to roost. I’m scared, Gabe. Really scared.”
Gabe nodded as he patted his wife’s shoulder. “We’ll figure out something. I think we should go home and talk about this. We do not need to make the rounds today. Nothing ever changes. We need to get out in front of all of this and make some really hard decisions. You on board, honey?”
Pilar tried for a smile, but it was sickly at best. When was the last time Gabe had called her honey? She couldn’t remember.
Pilar nodded. “Let’s stop on the way and buy some flowers and maybe some food from that corner grocery. We need to christen our abode.” Her voice was so jittery, Pilar could hardly recognize it as her own.
Gabe nodded, but his expression clearly showed that it was way too late for flowers and cooking, but he was game. Pilar burst into tears again. Gabe was so shocked, he didn’t know what to do. The last time he’d seen his wife cry like this, she was ten years old, banging on the rusty trailer door for her mama to give her something to eat. But her mama was busy entertaining a gentleman friend, one of many that fine day. He’d run home to his own mama, and she had followed him back, scooped up Pilar, taken her to their trailer, fed her, and given her a bath. From that day on, as long as they were in Alabama, he had never let Pilar out of his sight.
“I know what you’re thinking, Gabe,” Pilar whispered. “You’re thinking about that day you found me banging on that rusty old trailer door. I can always tell when you’re thinking about that. It’s going to be okay, Gabe. You just said so, and you never lie to me.”
Gabe didn’t believe it for a minute, and he knew that Pilar didn’t believe her own words, either. The best he could come up with in the way of a response was, “Can you drive?”
Pilar nodded.
“I’ll meet you at home, then.”
* * *
Back at the BOLO Building, Abner’s fist shot in the air as he gave a whoop of success. “Cracked it, guys. I can now access all the information for all the dancers! Names, backgrounds, Social Security numbers, home addresses, not the ones where they are temporarily living while they work for the Supper Clubs. Just as a point of interest, the guys go under their legal names. No silly ma
de-up monikers for the ladies to soak up. Give me forty-five minutes, and I’ll be able to print it all out for you so you each have a copy.”
“Well, that should help speed things up,” Fergus said. “Where is young Toby right now? Shouldn’t he be here?” The questions were directed at Dennis, who simply shrugged.
“Isn’t he with Mia Grande?” Maggie asked. “By the way, how does Toby’s boss line things up for the Mr. December gig? Do they advertise, or is that just something they do every year, same old, same old except for the dancer who will be Mr. December?”
Espinosa raised his hand. “They advertise. They make announcements on Facebook. They tweet and do all that Instagram stuff. Word travels. They send out e-blasts to all the colleges in the area. It works for them. They have standing room only. That’s all according to the archives I’ve checked. They have it down to a science. They roll in, do their thing, and roll out as they do their good deeds along the way. Not a hint of anything out of the ordinary. Except maybe one thing.
“While I was checking all their press releases, the candid shots, the plaques given out in thanks, I noticed one guy in a lot of the same pictures. They don’t use bodyguards, so that’s out. The thing is, he shows up in different towns. He’s never front and center in any of the crowds, but maybe two rows back. He doesn’t look like the rest of the crowd, and that’s why I noticed him. He’s older, thuggish looking. Wears some heavy-looking gold chains, has a tattoo on his neck and a big old diamond in his left ear. Like I said, he stood out. The crowd is mostly young women and young, collegiate-looking guys. At awards events, the crowd is a mix of local politicians, town fathers, soccer moms, that kind of crowd. The guy I’m talking about stands out like a bull in a puppy mill.”
High Stakes Page 9
