Snakebit

by Linsey Lanier

  Her stomach tightened.

  Not exactly the same, she reminded herself. Clarence’s tattoo was a medical symbol. Baptiste’s snake design looked vicious. It was obviously for intimidation. Miranda wasn’t intimidated by it. She was stunned. She had to force herself not to stare at it as she thought again about what Parker had said about the psychic connection between twins.

  Beside her, she felt Parker tense, though he never took his gaze from the game. He knew Baptiste had found them.

  Just before Duval reached the table, she made her escape, as they’d planned.

  “I think I’ll go powder my nose,” she giggled to no one in particular, and headed off toward the bar.

  Baptiste didn’t even notice her as he zeroed in on Parker. Exactly what they wanted. But her heart pounded as she heard them introduce themselves to each other.

  “Lloyd Johnson,” Parker said in his low Southern tone, shaking Duval’s hand.

  “Baptiste Duval, the owner of this establishment.”

  The sound of his voice made Miranda’s skin crawl. It was so like his brother’s, and yet with an evil overtone.

  “Welcome to Golden Dreams,” he said to Parker. “I hope you are having a good time.”

  The voices melted into crowd chatter and clangs as she scooted down a row of slot machines to hide her trail. She had to hurry. The plan was to get back down here as fast as possible.

  Quickly she checked out Wesson at the bar. Her cohort was laughing and joking with two of Baptiste’s men, the ones Eileen had described to them last night.

  The husky dark-haired dude named Danilo stood on Wesson’s left. The even bigger muscle-bound dude named Gregor was on her right. Just as Eileen had said, Gregor had an orange phoenix tattooed over his face and bald head. A wing encircled one eye, and the tail ran down the back of his neck. As bizarre as it was creepy, it reminded Miranda of the Ukrainian they’d run into on their last case. According to Eileen, Gregor was also from the Ukraine.

  Both men were eyeing Wesson hungrily, but she was holding her own, looking like a party girl out for a good time. Not that much of a stretch for Wesson, but still Miranda had to admit the woman was good at undercover work.

  She’d note that in her report, she decided as she wove her way through the tables and down an aisle.

  At last she reached the red-carpeted staircase. At the foot of it, she took a moment to scan the crowd one last time. Baptiste was still at the craps table with Parker. Wesson was still at the bar with his men. Nobody was paying any attention to her at all.

  It was time to move. She put her foot on the first step and up she went.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  No one saw her.

  The sound of her footsteps on the stairs was muted by the raucous mirth and merrymaking down below. It didn’t take her long to reach the second deck, where the rooms used for Baptiste’s other business were.

  Miraculously no one was in the hall. She decided to race for the next staircase and take the stairs two at a time.

  On the upper deck, again no one was in sight. Following Eileen’s instructions, Miranda counted three doors down. She hadn’t needed to. It was the only door made of carved oak with a golden handle.

  Swiftly she moved to the door, turned the handle, and stepped inside.

  The place was dark except for a light over a glass case on a credenza on the far wall. She felt for a light switch on a nearby lamp, turned it on.

  Empty. No one waiting for her here. She let out a breath and looked around.

  The place was just as Eileen described. Expensive, richly carved furniture. The carpet on the floor was the color of blood. Convenient if you were in the habit of killing people here. A tall bookshelf stood a few feet from her. Engravings and prints of snakes hung on the walls. One was a black-and-white photo of a snake coiled into a knot. Creepy. Another was a young woman with a boa constrictor slithering around her naked body. Even creepier. The shelves were filled with books on the creatures. Snakes of the Eastern US. Pictures and Facts about Snakes. Encyclopedia of Snakes. The Lore of Serpents.

  She forced herself to look across the room.

  There was another bookcase, and beside it as Eileen had told her, stood an ornate credenza with a white plastic-and-glass case atop it. It was similar to the enclosures she’d seen in the zoo a few days ago.

  The light she’d seen before she’d found the switch illuminated its contents, and she caught a glimpse of the fat Eastern Diamondback coiled up inside the case.

  Ignoring it and her crawling skin, she hurried to the desk that sat just beyond it.

  It was fancy. Eileen had called it a prince’s desk. Carved edges and wooden inlays in maple and oak, with a big leather chair behind it that clearly said, “I’m the boss.” No shortage of ego here.

  There was no newspaper on the desk now. Everything had been cleared away and its polished surface was clean as a whistle.

  She hurried around the desk, bent down and found the drawers Eileen had described. Two narrow ones on the side, with a large one under it. The third drawer was where Eileen had discovered the ledger book. Eyes on the door, she reached for the handle and tugged.

  It didn’t open.

  She tugged again. Then she saw the keyhole in the corner.

  The drawer was locked.

  She pushed the chair aside and sat back on her heels. The drawer hadn’t been locked when Eileen read the book. She’d plainly said it wasn’t. What did that mean? Had Baptiste figured out someone had been in his secret hiding place? Eileen had thought because Beelzebub was only a foot or two away, no one would dare go near the desk, much less behind it. But maybe Baptiste usually kept it locked and had forgotten to that night for some reason. On the other hand—she hadn’t seen Eileen downstairs. Hadn’t she said she’d be working tonight?

  Chill bumps began slithering up Miranda’s spine.

  She shook them off. She knew what to do.

  Except she couldn’t. She put her hand to her forehead in disgust. With all the fussing and fretting over disguises, she hadn’t thought to bring her picks. She sat there, staring at the lock, wondering if she could get it open with one of her fake fingernails.

  Wait a minute.

  She lifted her hand and inched a finger under the wig Wesson had fairly cemented to her head. After a little finagling, she pulled out a hairpin. Not the best tool to use, but she could make it work.

  Eternally grateful to Parker for teaching her this skill, she pulled off the rubber tips and bent one of the ends with her teeth. Gently she eased it into the lock, worked it around, turned it.

  The lock opened.

  Almost there. Her heart pounding hard, she glanced back at the door and pulled the drawer open.

  And then her heart stopped.

  The drawer was completely empty. No book. Nothing.

  What the heck was going on?

  As she fought down panic, her mind raced. Had Baptiste figured out Eileen had been in here and read his book? If he had, he wasn’t going to let her get away with it. Eileen thought the crime lord had killed her friend. If that was so, he wouldn’t do any less to her.

  What to do? Maybe she should slip out the door, go back downstairs, collect Parker and Wesson, return to the hotel and figure out another plan. But she wasn’t the type to give up that easily.

  Wait. Maybe there was a safe somewhere in this office. That would be the place to keep a ledger book with your darkest secrets. Maybe Baptiste had just forgotten to lock the book away the other night. And she had a way to pick its lock.

  So where would that safe be? Behind one of those creepy pictures?

  As she scanned the room she heard a noise. A hissing sound she’d lately become all too familiar with. It was followed by a rattle.

  She gazed over at the case holding Beelzebub, and for the third time that night, her heart stopped. The snake was moving in his case, slithering over the wood chips that made his bed. But right there, peeking out from the hay was a patch of dark-colo
red leather.

  She got to her feet, moved over to the enclosure, and peered inside. Sure enough, it was right there. Right under a big fat coil of snaky body.

  Baptiste’s red ledger book.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Still playing his role on the floor of the noisy casino, once again Parker read the other players’ faces, calculated the odds and the house edge, and placed his bet. So far he had won three thousand and lost five of the amount he’d brought with him.

  Baptiste had stood at the end of the table near the dealer, watching every win and loss.

  Parker set his jaw and forced himself to remain calm under Baptiste’s unyielding stare. He placed another bet, this one intended to lose. The shooter to his right rolled.

  Snake eyes. A loss.

  The man took the dice again. He rolled. Five, the point. He rolled again. Seven. Another loss.

  Parker’s turn.

  He took the dice and turned them over in his hand. He glanced up and met Baptiste’s intent gaze. He had his attention. That was the goal. But his dark eyes unnerved him. They were so like his childhood friend’s, and yet not like them at all. Clarence’s were gentle and kind. These eyes were full of evil.

  And then he saw Baptiste’s gaze roam over toward the staircase.

  Me. Keep your eyes on me. Parker placed another large bet. Five thousand.

  He rolled. Eleven. A win.

  “Yo,” said the dealer as he stacked chips before him. “Roll again.”

  Parker added three thousand to the bet, a total of thirteen. Lucky number, he thought wryly.

  Once more Baptiste glanced toward the stairs.

  Parker’s jaw tightened. It was taking too long. Three rounds had passed since Miranda had excused herself and disappeared into the crowd. Not long after she had slipped up the staircase according to her plan. Since then there had been three tedious rounds with dozens of rolls. Plenty of time to get into Baptiste’s office, snatch the ledger book out of his desk, and return back down the staircase.

  Something was wrong.

  He dared to glance away from the table in the direction Baptiste was looking. From the corner of his eye he saw one of the men Detective Wesson had been distracting escape from her charms and amble toward the staircase.

  His gut went tight. He needed a better distraction.

  The cocktail waitress stopped at his side and delivered a second free mojito. She let him take the first glass, which he’d only sipped, laid a ten dollar bill on her tray, and took the drink.

  “Your turn to roll, Mr. Johnson,” Baptiste said in his lazy Cajun drawl.

  He’d been taking too much time. “Just wetting my lips, Baptiste.”

  And then he saw Baptiste slip a pair of dice to the dealer. The dealer slid them across to him.

  An idea formed his in mind. He lifted the glass in a toast and took a sip, letting the rum and mint roll over his tongue. The drink wasn’t to his taste, but it was part of the ruse.

  Parker set the drink under the rack, studied the table once more, and rolled the dice. They bounced off the far end of the table and came up two.

  “Snakebit,” Baptiste said, taking a step toward him.

  “Sir,” Parker said to him, slurring his speech as if inebriated, “I believe your dice are loaded.”

  “And I believe you’ve had enough.” Baptiste was at his side now. He took him by the collar.

  The woman beside him let out a little squeal and moved away.

  Parker pulled out of his grasp. “Unhand me, Duval. You’re upsetting your customers.” Again his speech was slurred, but this time he hadn’t done it on purpose.

  His mind flashed back to the hotel video of Clarence in the bar of the Hilton, the one taken ten years ago. The strange looking man who had sat down next to him. Clarence’s claim that he’d become drowsy and had to go back to his room and sleep it off.

  “You’re the one creating the disturbance. Now I’ll have to ask you to leave.” Duval turned Parker toward him and jammed a fist into his ribs.

  Parker doubled-over. Now the woman next to him let out a full yelp. She grabbed her own drink and hurried away.

  Parker inhaled, forced himself to recover. He brought his fist back and was about to give Duval the same treatment in return, when a large hand clamped around his arm.

  “That’s no way to repay your host’s kindness,” hissed a low foreign accent.

  Ukrainian. It was the tall man named Gregor. The one with the orange phoenix tattoo covering his face and head.

  “Since you can’t behave yourself, Mr. Johnson, we are forced to eject you.” Baptiste turned to his customers. “Do not be alarmed, ladies and gentlemen. Please, continue playing and enjoy another round of drinks on the house.”

  Unspiked ones, Parker thought darkly. He could lunge at Duval. Attack his weak points, fight off Gregor. But ten other men would be on him the next instant.

  The man at his side jerked him toward a door marked “Employees Only.” Parker tried to think, but his mind was cloudy, his vision blurred. What in the world was in that drink? Some date rape formulation, no doubt.

  But he wasn’t so far gone that he couldn’t wrap a foot around the big man’s shin and bring him down.

  Gregor took a step and stumbled, nearly falling over. Parker fought to release himself from his grasp, but the man held on. He caught himself on a slot machine, then slammed Parker into it.

  Parker was about to turn and deliver a jab with his free hand when Baptiste thrust something into his side. The barrel of a handgun.

  “I wouldn’t do that, Mr. Parker.”

  Raising his hands Parker chuckled at him as if still intoxicated. “Whoa, now. That’s not my name. You must have me mistaken for someone else.”

  “Of course it’s your name.” Baptiste reached up and tore off his mustache. “I’ve read about you in the papers. I knew who you were the moment I saw you come in. My people tell me you and your associates have been looking for me all over town.”

  The people who had mistaken Clarence’s photo for Duval had reported back to him. Snakebit, indeed.

  Parker fought to keep his cool demeanor. “Actually we were looking for your mother.”

  “But it is me you found. Now let’s go.”

  They didn’t take him outside. Gregor jerked him through a door, down a narrow hall, and through another opening that led to a metal staircase. They forced him down the stairs, their shoes clattering with each step. If his mind were clear, he could remember one of his better martial arts moves. But at the moment he couldn’t think of a single one. All he wanted to do was sleep. This was how Clarence must have felt the night his brother killed his wife.

  They reached the bottom of the stairs and Parker realized they were in the engine room. A twisted mass of black-and-red pipes and wheels filled the space around them. The hum of machinery sang in his ears. The boat wasn’t sailed. The machinery was for air conditioning, heating and so forth. Still, there might be a tool lying around. A rod of some sort.

  Before Parker could locate one, Gregor shoved him down another hall to an area near a set of mounted fans. There was a stainless steel door with rounded edges. Gregor opened it.

  Inside was a narrow space with no windows or furnishings. A utility closet of some sort.

  “You won’t get away with this, Duval,” Parker said. “The police are onto you. It’s only a matter of time until they find your mother’s body.”

  Baptiste laughed. A wicked laugh that sounded like it came from the pit of hell. But perhaps that was the heat of the pipes surrounding them.

  “Find my mother’s body? That, Mr. Parker, is impossible. Now.” He pointed the gun toward the door. You will stay here while I take care of your wife, Miranda Steele.”

  Pain stabbed at Parker’s gut as if he had swallow a Bowie knife.

  He knew her name. Duval knew her name. Of course, he did. He’d read about her in the papers, too. Why had he ever let any reporter near her?

  “Oh, a
nd her pretty friend, too. I assume she works for your Agency? Too bad that career will be cut short.

  Rage flamed inside him. “Don’t you dare touch her. Don’t you dare touch either of them.”

  Baptiste laughed again, his eyes dancing with absurd pleasure. “Oh, I’m not the one who’ll be doing the touching.”

  What did that mean? If Duval let his men at Miranda or Wesson, he’d kill them all one by one. Suddenly his Aikido came back to him.

  In a lightning move, he grabbed Duval’s wrist, twisted the gun away from his torso, and kicked out at Gregor.

  Duval stumbled and the gun clattered to the cement floor. Parker lunged for it. Just before his hands touched the weapon, Gregor’s arm went around his neck, he yanked him off balance and tossed him into the room. Parker’s head would have hit the wall if he hadn’t pivoted at the last minute. His shoulder slammed into the sheetrock instead, nearly taking his breath.

  He slid to the floor as the door shut and locked behind him.

  “Enjoy the rest of your visit, Mr. Parker,” Duval called out.

  And then Parker heard the sound of their footsteps hurrying away.

  His mind still cloudy, he looked around for something to wedge the door open. There wasn’t much in this room. Ductwork, pipes and wires. Another fan for cooling.

  He had to get out of here. Duval was going after Miranda. What was he going to do to her? And then he remembered the snake in Baptiste’s office and what he had done to Charmaine Boudreaux.

  His blood ran cold. And yet he wanted to sleep.

  His heart was beating too fast, pumping Duval’s concoction through his system. He closed his eyes, took several deep breathes and forced himself to calm down. And then his mind cleared. Of course. He had the answer all along. A good detective never leaves home without his picks. He lifted his shirt and removed the set taped to his waist.