by John Locke
I look at him. “Don’t make me lose my patience.”
“Swear to God, that’s her name: Dr. Phyllis Willis.”
“And she works where?”
“Ropic Industries, Las Vegas.”
“What do they do?”
“I don’t know. Darwin set it up. I only know about the chip.”
“Is Dr. Willis in-house?”
“No. She’s a plastic surgeon.”
“In Vegas?”
“I think so. But wherever she is, I’m sure Lou Kelly’s guys can find her.”
“We didn’t have this conversation, Doc.”
“Of course not.”
I pause. “You should’ve told me.”
“I was trying to save a life. I’m sorry.”
I turn to leave. Doc Howard says, “Phyllis thinks your name is Connor Payne.”
“What?”
“That’s the name—”
I hold up my hand. “I remember. That’s good. I can use it to my advantage.”
He nods, relieved.
2.
Connor Payne is the name Darwin gave me when I came out of the coma. He went to a great deal of trouble to legally “kill” Creed and establish Connor Payne as a living, breathing person with a full history, including phony medical and dental records. When I decided to keep my original name, Darwin was furious at my lack of appreciation. Nevertheless, he kept the identity active on the chance I might need it someday.
It’s late afternoon.
I’m in Vegas, in the multi-million dollar high-rise condo Callie Carpenter shares with her life partner, Eva LeSage. Callie’s my top operative, and at the risk of sounding like a Hollywood script, she’s not only the deadliest woman I’ve ever met, but the most beautiful, as well. A natural blond, Callie boasts the entire package: flawless skin, piercing eyes, high cheekbones, dazzling smile, smokin’ hot body…and the most amazing mouth I’ve ever seen. Her lips…are stunning. Not enhanced, not thin, not pouty—Christ, I feel like a slow learner in a high school writing class trying to come up with words that do them justice. I mean, can I buy a friggin’ adjective that hasn’t been overused?
I’ll start over.
You know how some women look like moms, and some like teachers? And some look frigid, while others look bedtime? Well, Callie’s mouth looks like heaven. It’s an astonishing mouth, with lips so enticing they force your attention away from what is already a perfect woman.
Callie would never have to sell her body.
Men would pay to watch her apply lipstick.
Another great thing about Callie? She’s a good sport, always up for a kill.
When I tell her about the chip she says, “We really need to do something about Darwin.”
“It’ll eventually come to that,” I say.
We sit in silence awhile, thinking about killing Darwin. Then she says, “What about Phyllis?”
“I’m going to pay her a visit tonight.”
“At her place?”
I nod.
“You think she’s got the device?”
“No. But she’ll know who does. Meanwhile, it’s great having you on standby.”
Callie shrugs. “It’s something to do till the next assignment.”
“Speaking of which…”
She looks up. “Yeah?”
“Darwin met with Homeland last night, so the next assignment could come any minute.”
“Good.”
I raise an eyebrow.
She responds, “Too much domestic bliss wears me down over time.”
I smile. “Trouble in Paradise?”
She shrugs. “You know how it is, living full time with a woman. Not to mention she’s a trapeze artist, with aches and pains and the attitude you get with circus folk.”
I look at her a minute.
“Do you guys ever…”
“What?”
I move my hand in a swaying motion, like a trapeze. Then say, “You know…”
“What’re you, sixteen?” she says.
“Sometimes.”
We’re quiet a minute. Then I say, “Seriously, Callie, what’s happened?”
“What do you mean?”
“Last time I was here you were walking on air. I’d never seen you so happy.”
She stares at the window a moment, then stands and walks over to it and adjusts the blinds. Turns back to face me and says, “You know what I do all day?”
“I can only fantasize.”
“I do absolutely nothing. Nothing but wait for your calls. I mean, I get up early, Eva’s sleeping. I go for a run, or work out, or lay out by the pool, or go shopping, or get my hair and nails done, but nine times out of ten, I’m doing all those things alone.”
“Could be worse though, right?”
“I’m bored out of my fucking skull! We can’t go anywhere because Eva’s life is wrapped up in that God-forsaken show. She sleeps till noon, rehearses till six, performs till ten.”
“Doesn’t she ever get a day off?”
“Tuesdays. But she’s always recuperating from one thing or another. And lately, she’s supposedly been visiting her mother Tuesday nights.”
“You don’t believe her?”
She sighs. “You don’t want to hear all this bullshit, do you?”
“I do. You never talk about your personal life.”
“Shows you how desperate I’ve become.”
“You think she’s cheating?”
“I…no. But she’s distant. And last week when she went out, she took a bag.”
“She spent the night?”
“No. But she didn’t bring the bag back.”
“Maybe she gave it to her mother.”
“Maybe.”
I study her face. “What have you done?”
She shakes her head. “God, I can’t believe it’s come to this.”
“Tell me.”
“I put a tracking device on her car.”
“And if you find out she’s cheating?”
She sighs again. “I’ve given up my days and nights for this woman. I moved away from my home in Georgia. You know how much I loved living on the lake.”
“I do.”
“It’s not like I’m old, or ugly…”
“You’re the most beautiful woman on the planet Earth.”
“See?”
“If she’s cheating on you, she doesn’t deserve you.”
“That’s what I’m saying.”
“And if she’s not cheating?”
“Then I’m going to have a hell of a boring life.”
“Until the next time I call.”
“Until then.”
“It’s what you live for.”
“No. Waiting for Eva to get in the mood is what I live for.”
“Tell me what that’s like. When she’s in the mood.”
“Donovan?”
“Yeah?”
“I mean this in all honesty.”
“Go ahead.”
“If I were to start telling you about it, you’d cream your jeans before I got to the good part.”
I blink two, three times. Then say, “I love it when you talk dirty.”
“You should hear me with Eva.”
“Any chance of that happening?”
“No. You want a drink?”
“Maybe later. After my cold shower.”
She smiles.
“Eva must be a helluva woman,” I say, “especially in bed.”
“She’s a trapeze artist.”
“And that makes a big difference, right? I mean, all jokes aside?”
She smiles. “You can’t begin to comprehend.”
“You sure about that?”
“Positive.”
“How can you say that?”
“The fact you had to ask proves you have no point of reference from which to imagine it.”
3.
Phyllis Willis is thirty-eight years old and lives in a six-year-old, 4,600 square foot home on a small piece of Henderson real estate
, a few miles south-east of Vegas. The house is one-and-a-half stories, with three bedrooms and four baths. The two-car garage faces the street, and has an iron gate that closes to make a concrete courtyard. There’s not much yard to maintain, but her lawn service does a good job. Personally, I think $260.00 a week is too much to pay for what she’s getting. Then again, it’s less than a botox treatment.
The troubled economy has hit Phyllis’s neighborhood hard. One out of every three houses is vacant, including the one to her right, which gives me a clear path to entry. You get a good feel for these things over time, so I know before breaking in that her house is empty. I did a walk-through anyway, before going through her desk and filing cabinet, where I found all the details about her house I told you about. In case you care, it set her back a cool seven-fifty. I wonder why a woman with no kids or husband would want such a large house.
I glance at her desktop. There’s an art to piecing together a person’s life by going through their personal effects. The bills stacked neatly on the left of her desk pad, ballpoint on the right, tells me she’s right-handed. There’s a small hand sanitizer with an orange top, and a colorful foam coaster beside it that appears to have been painted by a child. To the untrained eye, this probably means nothing.
I call Callie. When she answers, I say, “I’m in her house, but Phyllis isn’t here.”
“So?”
“She’s having an affair with a Las Vegas gambler named Jim “Lucky” Peters. Ever hear of him?”
“Of course. He’s like the most famous gambler in the world.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Does he win a lot?”
“Are you kidding me? He wins a million dollars a week, if the press can be trusted. He’s got an army of weirdoes all over the country who phone in data to him twenty-four-seven.”
“What kind of weirdoes?”
“He claims he gets information from autistic savants, ball boys, drug dealers, steroid pushers, memorabilia salespeople, fitness trainers, hookers—you name it. And everyone in town, from the gamblers to the casinos to the mob—wants to know who these people are and how Lucky Peters analyzes their data to beat the spread.”
“Maybe we should find out.”
“Maybe we should. How do you know about the affair?”
“On her desktop there’s a hand sanitizer and a colorful foam coaster that appears to have been painted by a child.”
“Wow, you’re truly amazing!”
“I know. It’s called deductive reasoning.”
“Uh huh. So you opened her computer, read her emails, and found out about her affair.”
“Sounds so trivial when you put it that way. But yeah, lots of emails. Mostly sexual.”
“Read me one.”
“They’re not impressive.”
“Read one anyway. It’s so intrusive! Makes me feel like we’re doing something wrong.”
“Unlike breaking and entering.”
“You broke and entered. I’m just sitting here, living vicariously.”
I click open her email account. “Okay, this one from last week is from Lucky. It says, ‘I wish you’d come to Jamaica with me. I’d love to see you in a grass skirt.’ And she says, ‘they wear grass skirts in Hawaii, not Jamaica.’ They argue about that a bit, then he says, “We could hit that famous nude beach. I bet the natives have never seen an orange beaver before.’ And she says, ‘especially with your initials on it!’”
Callie says, “Okay, I’ve heard enough.”
“I tried to warn you.”
We’re silent a minute.
“I can’t get it out of my mind,” she says. “Orange beaver? His initials?”
“Me either.”
“She’s supposed to be a doctor.”
“I know.”
“I keep picturing it,” she says.
“Me too.”
“You think she put all three initials, or just the two?” Callie says. “And if it’s two, would it be JP or LP? And are the initials in hair? Or shaved out of it?”
“I’ll ask her, if I get the chance.”
“Please do,” Callie says.
“I also found a small gift-wrapped box on her kitchen counter.”
“Please tell me you opened it.”
“Of course.”
“Let me guess: a present for Lucky?”
“Cufflinks. An L and a P.”
“Lucky Peters!” Callie says.
“Think about it,” I say.
She’s quiet a few seconds, then says, “Ah! Clever! Lucky and Phyllis!”
“He could wear them and his wife would never know.”
“And is there a note?”
I smile. “There is.”
“Please read it with passion in your voice.”
“Your turn to get lucky!”
Callie laughs. “This is fun. Which tells you how sad my life is.”
“Glad I could cheer you up.”
“Is she cute?”
“Who, Phyllis? She’s average.” I think about it a few seconds, then say, “Above average.”
“You think she went to Jamaica with him?”
“No. She sent an email telling him she hopes he’s feeling better, and saying how awful to feel badly on vacation.”
“What else have you learned?”
“You really want to know?”
“My choices are yes, or watch Celebrity Apprentice.”
“Phyllis works all the time and she’s lonely.”
“Lonely? How do you know?”
“On her desktop there’s a hand sanitizer and—”
“Move along, Donovan. It’s getting old.”
“She has only a couple of photographs on display. One is with her sister, the other with her parents. No messages on her answering machine.”
“What’s on her walls?”
“Art, mostly silk-screen.”
“Of?”
“Faces.”
“Famous ones?”
“Sad ones.”
“You’re breaking my heart,” Callie says.
“What heart?”
“Good point. Don’t forget to check her closet.”
“Yes, Sensei.”
“Women love to hide things in their closets.”
“Right.”
“And also in their underwear drawer.”
“I’ll be sure to check that one carefully.”
“I’ve no doubt.”
I end the call, walk down the hallway, enter the master bedroom. Phyllis’s king-size platform bed sits low and has a single mattress on a wood base, with no box spring. The bed is unmade on the right side, which tells me she slept alone last night. On the night stand are two prescription bottles: a statin drug and sleeping pills. After checking the date, I dump them out on the nightstand and count nineteen of each. If she started taking them on the fill date, there should be twenty. It’s a fair assumption she’s not coming home tonight, which works for me, since I need a place to stay.
According to her website, Phyllis’s office opens at nine. I’ll sleep on the left side of her bed tonight, shower, get up early, and break into her office at dawn. That’ll give me time to search the place for anything that looks like a lethal, brain-melting device. Ideally, Phyllis will be the first to arrive, and we can settle this business without involving her staff.
In the nightstand drawer, behind a stack of People and US magazines, I find two boxes of condoms. One has been opened, and there are two packets missing, which tells me Lucky appears to have gotten lucky at least twice.
The bedroom also has a chest of drawers and a small sitting area that faces a stucco fireplace that’s never been used. The chest has five drawers, including a narrow one at the top, where she keeps her jewelry. I look through it and find nothing of significant value. I move from there to the bottom. The fifth drawer is pajamas, all bright colors, all cotton. Fourth drawer is socks in every size and color, and stockings. Third drawer is bras only. I coun
t an even dozen, in various colors. Five are Ibex, Body by Victoria, 34-B, padded. She’s also got a couple of jog bras in there.
Second drawer is filled with panties. I remove a few, and note they’re all medium. Most are basic, but one is downright obscene. It has a circular hole cut out of the crotch. With red lips around it! I toss them back in the drawer, then think, no one has this many panties. I move my hands through them until I feel something.
It’s my opinion that all women hide something special beneath their panties. But Dr. Phyllis Willis is hiding something lethal beneath hers.
4.
Phyllis keeps a single-action Smith and Wesson .22 automatic with three ten-round clips in her panty drawer, next to a small sex toy called a Pocket Rocket. I wouldn’t pin high hopes on killing an intruder with a .22, but she’s probably comfortable with the recoil and figures the sound would be enough to scare a guy away. Once he’s gone, she probably breaks out the Pocket Rocket to celebrate.
I look at it a moment, then flip the switch and feel it buzz in my hand. Noting briefly that the buzz is more pleasant than the one in my head, I think about where the device has been. I toss it back in the drawer, march into her bathroom, and thoroughly wash my hands before getting back to business.
The clothes hanging in Phyllis’s closet tell me she’s a size eight. She has an abundance of cocktail dresses and business suits, which makes sense for a plastic surgeon who has to attend fund raisers and cocktail parties and hobnob with the rich and famous. For the most part, her clothes, shoes and handbags are basic, tasteful, and functional, and I find nothing extravagant here. I check through the sweaters, the hat boxes and other items on her shelves. I stand there, looking around the closet, wondering if I’m missing anything. I think about the Pocket Rocket again, and call Doc Howard.
“What about a Pocket Rocket?”
“Donovan, check your watch.”
I do. “So?”
“So I’m in Virginia. Remember?”
“Well, I’ve never met Virginia. But if you’re in her, I’m sure she’s special.”
“Funny.”
“This controller thing you mentioned. Would it fit in a Pocket Rocket?”
“What’s a pocket rocket?”
“A woman’s vibrator. A sex toy.”
“Donovan, I’m an old man. Maybe you should just shoot me and get it over with.”
