High Stakes

by Fern Michaels

  “Show me,” Ted said. Espinosa started flipping through his iPad until he found what he was looking for. Maggie leaned forward to stare at the pictures. Ted shook his head. “I don’t think we ever came across him before, at least not that I remember.”

  “I don’t, either, but there’s something about him I can’t put my finger on right this minute. Ted, do you remember that reporter friend of yours who used to work for the LA Times? The guy who’s in Miami now? Send him some of these pictures and see if he recognizes him. Miami is full of Cubans, and he looks to me like he might be one of them. Maybe this guy will remember him or something. I hate when this happens. It’s going to make me crazy until I figure it out.”

  While Maggie stewed and fretted, and Ted and Espinosa sent off texts and pictures, Jack looked over at Charles. “Are we on for tonight, or do we give it another day before we hit the Supper Club to see Toby dance? We never did nail that down.”

  “Tomorrow. Too much is up in the air right now. Fergus and I were just discussing the matter. And, like it or not, you boys will have to go in disguise. Additionally, Avery just informed me he heard from his operatives that Toby’s boss is in a bit of a tizzy. The female operative assigned to her has been tailing her all morning. Something must have gone awry, because Ms. Sanders called her husband to meet her at Supper Club One, and they left shortly after he arrived. The operative said it looked like Ms. Sanders was crying. Her husband followed her home, and they are both there as we speak. She said that while Ms. Sanders was sitting in the car, she was either sending or receiving text messages. We won’t know what that is all about unless we can get her cell phone or Abner can figure out a way to hack into it. Toby would have to give him her cell-phone number before he can act on it.”

  “Maybe we could do a pretend mugging when she gets to the club tonight. We’ve done that a time or two before, and it worked. No reason to think it won’t work again if we play our cards right,” Dennis said. “We take her money, upload everything on the phone to Abner, then ditch her bag in the parking lot. If the money and credit cards are gone, she’ll think it’s just a run-of-the-mill snatch and grab. She won’t care about the money or cards, but she will care about the phone. She probably won’t even report it to the police. What do you think?”

  “I think it’s doable. It’s possible Ms. Sanders has more than one phone that she uses for different things—the guys, the business, her home and husband. This, I’m thinking, would be a sure bet,” Snowden said. “I’ll set it up. Nice thinking, kid.”

  Dennis beamed his pleasure at the compliment.

  “Do we think she got spooked somehow?” Ted called over his shoulder.

  “I think it’s a good bet, and if she did, you can bet she picked up some bad vibes from Toby,” Charles said. “Where does this leave us? And where is Toby?”

  Cyrus was the one who responded to the question by getting up and racing to the alley door.

  “There’s your answer,” Jack said, grinning.

  Cyrus led the small parade to the conference room, then took his place under the table, at Jack’s feet. He’d done his job and even gotten a treat from the jittery guy he’d just escorted into the conference room.

  Toby backed up, bumping into Mia, who stumbled, then caught herself as the gang bombarded them.

  “Talk to us.”

  “What happened?”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Say something.”

  Toby cleared his throat as he looked around. His gaze settled on Dennis, whom he considered his only friend in the room. “Well, Pilar met Mia. I don’t know all that much about women, I admit it, but I thought she looked envious. Pilar, that is. She was pleasant enough, however. The meeting at the Dog and Duck went off as scheduled. Mia’s ‘friends’ were there and were introduced to Pilar. She spent a good bit of time texting at the beginning. She did her best to play the mothering boss, but I thought it fell flat. I think she has trust issues. Where I’m concerned. I have nothing concrete to base that on, just my gut feeling. I did get a sense that something was off somehow. Oh, she said she was calling a special meeting this evening, before the first show. And she also told me not to bring Mia. The meeting is just for the dancers.

  “She did seem a little excited over that, now that I think about it. Maybe excited is the wrong word. Maybe nervous would be a better choice. Like I said, the whole thing was just off somehow. She’s never done that before. Pilar is very rigid in everything. As long as I’ve known her, she’s never been a spontaneous or serendipitous kind of person. She operates on a schedule and does not deviate from it. If you piss her off, you don’t dance that night, and the perks disappear for a week or so. To keep that from happening, everyone toes the line.”

  An earsplitting whistle shot through the air. Abner was calling for everyone’s attention. The room grew silent. Even Cyrus stopped munching on his chew bone to see if his help was required. Satisfied that his help wasn’t needed, he went back to his chew bone.

  “I have here on my screen, people, the names, addresses, and current information on the last seven Mr. Decembers! Drumroll, please!”

  “You want me to pull it out of you, Abner?” Harry growled.

  Ah . . . no, Harry. I’m good here. All seven of the dancers have gone on to the male modeling world. All are extremely successful. I’m printing out some of their latest photo shoots. A few are working in Manhattan, some in California. Two of them are currently doing an Armani photo shoot in Hawaii. Nice work if you can get it. They are making bookoo bucks. Actually, all of them are. Three of the seven got married. One guy has a newborn baby. Everything looks legit, from what I can see. I guess being Mr. December paved the way for them in their new careers.

  “One other thing. They all have college degrees, so that leads me to believe that Ms. Sanders recruited them all from various colleges. It says a lot that they finished and got their degrees while dancing. If my opinion counts, I’d say all of them are stand-up guys. It’s going to take me a little longer to access their financials. I’m not expecting anything other than robust accounts that they earned. Modeling, like dancing, is a hard job, even though we might not think so.”

  “I guess what you’re saying is none of the seven knew or had anything to do with the drug end of things that Ms. Sanders had going on,” Charles said.

  “That’s my opinion, Charles. Once you make Mr. December, there is no place left to go on the Supper Club circuit, so Ms. Sanders cut them loose. She might be the one who had contacts with the various designers and got them their jobs. It makes sense if you think about it. They’re all happy, with good jobs, contented in their lives. No blowback to Sanders in anyway. Smart lady, if you ask me,” Abner said.

  Dennis grinned as he looked over at Toby. “I wonder what designer she had planned for you, Toby. Did you know anything about this?”

  “I did not. I don’t think any of the others know, either. I told you, after being named Mr. December, the guy was never seen or heard from again.”

  “But if they’re famous models, wouldn’t someone have recognized them?” Maggie asked.

  The guys hooted. Ted poked Harry and asked him when he looked at a male model last. Harry scowled.

  “Guys don’t look at catalogs or advertisements,” Jack said. “That’s a girly thing.”

  Maggie grimaced, knowing that Jack was right. “Okay, okay. I’ll give you that one.”

  “Now what?” Dennis asked.

  “Now we wait for Toby’s meeting with Ms. Sanders this evening. After that is when we make a concrete plan. Will someone check with Bert to see if the Sanderses have been in touch?” Charles asked.

  “I’ll do it,” Fergus said.

  “Coffee anyone?” Jack asked as he headed out of the room to go to the kitchen, Cyrus following close behind him.

  Chapter Nine

  Two hours into the meeting in the conference room, Maggie bolted out of her chair, her clenched fists shooting in the air. “I got it! I know wher
e I’ve seen that guy! Ted, you know, too. Espinosa, help me out here! It wasn’t a picture shot with a camera. Think! Remember when we were in Los Angeles two years ago? Maybe two years and a few months. We went out there to do a story on that drug dealer they were making the movie about. We interviewed the star playing the part and had some real deep discussions on where they got all their intel, because it was so real. We logged hours and hours of face time. Remember how the actor, a newbie, thanked us profusely for all the publicity we gave him? Do you remember?” Maggie all but squealed.

  Maggie’s excitement was contagious. Ted hopped off his seat and started to pace the conference room. “Yeah, yeah. The thing was, no one could find any pictures of the guy, and a cop’s informant was the only one who actually ever saw him! Yeah! Yeah! Now I remember. Nice going, Maggie,” he said, high-fiving her.

  “And all they had to go on was a composite drawing. I have it here somewhere,” Espinosa said as he frantically thumbed through his file of pictures. “What’s the name? I can’t remember the name, but it was catchy as hell. Lots of tats, lots of piercings. Greasy-looking guy, the informant said, and he also said, according to the actor, that the guy smelled bad. Ripe was the word he used. I’m remembering, too.”

  “And to keep the record straight, it wasn’t a movie. It was a documentary,” Ted said.

  “I don’t remember anything about that,” Jack said.

  “Nor do I,” Charles said.

  “It was a big deal in California, but not so much here on the East Coast. And the guy is still on the loose, as far as I know. I haven’t heard anything lately. Nothing has crossed the wires at the paper that I know of,” Ted said.

  “Contact your friend in Miami right now, the one you said worked at the LA Times back when all this was going down. Espinosa, what’s the holdup on that artist’s sketch?” Maggie barked.

  “Okay, okay. I got it! I’m uploading it to all of you now. The guy’s name is Zuma Delgado,” Espinosa said gleefully.

  “Scary-looking dude,” Dennis said as he stared down at the artist’s sketch. “I bet he looks ten times worse in person. You have to wonder how the Sanderses got involved with someone like that.”

  Toby shivered as he stared down at the sketch on Dennis’s phone. “I never saw him before, and I sure hope I never find myself in his company.”

  Fergus stepped around the table and said, “Incoming text from Bert. No response yet from the Sanderses. That’s it. He didn’t write anything else.”

  “I don’t know too much about Gabe Sanders, but I do know that Pilar never does anything unless she checks it out thoroughly. She’s probably weighing every possibility with her husband right now. She won’t let too much time go by without a response, for fear she might miss out on something. She’ll get back to your guy before the end of the day, our time, would be my guess. I say this because if Pilar is spooked, she’s going to want to act on the situation. That’s probably why she headed home with her husband. She’s plotting and scheming right now. I can almost guarantee it,” Toby said.

  Right then, everyone started talking at once. Ted signaled that he was going someplace a little quieter. He mouthed the words “Miami reporter” to indicate that was who was on the phone with him. Maggie was up and off her chair like she was shot from a cannon, then followed Ted out of the room.

  Sensing something that might or might not be to his liking, Cyrus reared up and raced after the two reporters, hoping there was a treat somewhere along the way.

  In the kitchen Maggie started to multitask, something she was very good at. She poured herself more coffee and handed out two treats to Cyrus, all the while listening to Ted talking to his colleague in Miami. She liked what she was seeing as far as facial expressions went, because, for the most part, all Ted was contributing to the conversation was a “Yes,” a “Don’t know,” a “Maybe,” and a few uh-huhs along the way.

  The minute Ted powered down, Maggie was on him like white on rice. “Spit it out!”

  Ted walked over to the coffee machine. Before he could reach for a cup, Maggie spun him around.

  “I’ll pour the coffee. Talk. Do not leave anything out.” Equal parts menace and authority rang in Maggie’s voice.

  “He’s flying here later today. I told him he could stay at the Post’s apartment. He’s willing to share what he has for a three-way byline. I said okay. He said he’s been dogging this Zuma guy for almost three years. He called him a snake charmer. Said Miami Vice had a whole task force on his ass, but the guy is slippery. He also said he floats between Miami and Los Angeles, which bears out the Mr. December deal the Sanderses have going on. He said that was the main reason he took the job at the Miami Herald when he left LA. He is determined to get this guy.

  “You heard my end of the conversation, so you know I didn’t tell him anything I shouldn’t have. John Zacharius is his name, but everyone calls him Zack, and he is a top-notch reporter. He’s right up there with me and you, Maggie, and you know I don’t hand out compliments like that unless they are deserved. Zack will play square with us, so we have to agree to do the same thing. I know how you want to get right up there in everyone’s face. That won’t work with Zack. We share and share alike. Now’s the time to say yay or nay.”

  “I get it, Ted. You have my word. Share and share alike. Triple byline. In alphabetical order. Robinson, Spritzer, and Zacharius. We’re good here, pal. Go on back to the conference room. I’m going to clean this coffeemaker and brew some fresh coffee.”

  Cyrus looked first at Ted, then Maggie, trying to decide whom he should stay with. His decision was made when Maggie reached over to the treat jar.

  As she handed over the treat, Maggie said, “I have a bad feeling about this, Cyrus. It’s right between my shoulder blades.” Maggie dropped to her haunches to eyeball her four-legged friend. “I hate drug dealers. I don’t just hate them. I really hate them. It pains me to say this, it truly does, but I think the Vigilantes would be better equipped to handle this guy. They show no mercy. Guys, now, guys are different. Do you agree?”

  Cyrus tilted his head to the side and barked twice.

  “Hmmm. Guess that means you are undecided. I guess I can understand that, since you belong to Jack. Bear in mind, Cyrus, Jack is married to Nikki, and we both know how that works.” Cyrus hung his head. Maggie laughed and handed out another treat. “Go ahead back to the conference room. I’m so glad you can’t talk, because I sure wouldn’t want you to tell the guys I am fully capable of doing whatever has to be done to that scumbag once we catch him. And we will catch him. Trust me on that.”

  Maggie laughed again when she saw the fur on Cyrus’s neck stand straight up. She kept on laughing as she cleaned the giant Bunn coffeemaker. She wiped down all the spilled water and proceeded to refill the machine. Enough caffeine to get all of them through the next few hours.

  Maggie’s thoughts transferred themselves to Pilar Sanders as she tried to figure out what the woman’s next move would be. This was the part of a mission she liked best, settling in to figure out what made the other person tick. What are you doing right now, Pilar Sanders? Right this very second. Are you plotting and scheming? Of course you are. That’s your MO. Well, guess what, Pilar Sanders? I know how to do that, too. Actually, I’m rather good at it. You are toast, lady!

  * * *

  What Pilar Sanders was doing at that precise moment would have surprised Maggie, had she known. For the first time in too many years to remember, Pilar was attempting to make French toast, using lots of cinnamon so the kitchen would smell, for Gabe’s approval. Never mind that Gabe wouldn’t eat the mess she was making, because he’d seen the dust in the frying pan his wife was using. He seriously doubted she’d eat the concoction, either. He was in no mood to give her an A for effort. Not even for the colorful blooms sitting on the table in the breakfast nook.

  Too much, too little, too late.

  “You aren’t going to eat this, are you?” Pilar said, pointing to the frying pan. She’d done
something wrong; the bottom of the pan looked greasy and dark brown. She swiped at the tears rolling down her cheeks with the sleeve of her designer sweater. The sight of the slimy mucus revolted her. She ripped off the sweater and flung it across the room. Then she took the frying pan, doused it and the contents under cold water, then tossed the lot into the trash bag under the sink.

  Gabe blinked, then blinked again. He knew he was supposed to say something. Possibly something comforting, but he just didn’t feel like it. Or maybe his wife thought he should take her in his arms and hug her, telling her things would be all right. Well, he absolutely did not feel like doing that, either. Simply because he didn’t believe it. He knew they were almost to the end of the road. They weren’t there yet. Yet was the operative word for the moment. But only because hope springs eternal, was his thought.

  Gabe gave a moment’s thought to going to the bedroom they shared to get her a sweater or robe, but instead he plucked a colorful daisy from the less-than-attractive flower arrangement Pilar had picked up on the way home. He wondered if she would remember how, when they were kids, they used to pluck the tiny petals and say, “He loves me. He loves me not.” It always came out that they loved each other.

  Pilar stared at the flower. She wasn’t thinking about peeling off the petals the way she had when she was a child. She was thinking about the word double, which Zuma Delgado had mentioned. Double. Double was too much money to just . . . walk away. Double was a big score. More than they could ever imagine. Double was security. How could she walk away from something like that? She needed to think about that. Really think. She whirled around and mumbled something about a migraine coming on. She ran from the room and locked herself in the bathroom.

  Under normal circumstances, and these were far from normal circumstances, Gabe would have gone after his wife and tried to comfort her. Not this time. Instead, he sat down at the table in the breakfast nook and stared at the flowers. With nothing else to do, he pulled out a bright purple Shasta daisy and proceeded to pull off the petals. “She loves me. She loves me not. She loves me. She loves me not,” he mumbled over and over. With one last petal to go, Gabe felt his eyes start to burn. “She loves me not.”