Evie Ever After. Beth Ciotta
Pops leaned in and lowered his voice. “All I know is he got hauled in by the AIA. Told me he’d be in touch later. That was—” he glanced at his Timex “—three hours ago.”
I scratched my neck, my chest.
“Others are in The Cave,” Pops said then moved back to his cronies.
Arch took my hand and pulled me aside. “Maybe you should wait here.”
“Why?”
“From the way you’re scratching, I’m not sure you can handle whatever’s going on, Sunshine.”
Of all the…“I can handle it!”
“Calm down,” Arch said with a glance to the patrons. All two of them.
“I can handle it,” I whispered through clenched teeth. “This isn’t a nervous rash. I’ve never broken out on my arms before. I think it’s a reaction to that monkey suit. The fur or whatever Fannie cleaned it with. I don’t know.”
“Right then. You should shower.”
“I will. As soon as I get home.”
“Now. Upstairs.”
“Beckett’s shower?”
“Aye.”
“Forget it.”
“He’s not there.”
“I don’t care.” No way, no how was I getting naked in Beckett’s apartment. I’d been there. Done that. Almost. Thanks to ODing on a combo of over the counter medication. “I’m fine. Really. Let’s go.”
He didn’t look or sound exasperated, but I’d wager I’d taxed his patience. “Fine,” he said then steered me to a storage room.
My pulse accelerated as we navigated the jam-packed room and pushed through a concealed door. A set of creaky stairs led to the basement. A low-wattage bulb illuminated a washer and dryer and a freezer. Workout equipment. Tools. Crates of liquor and soda. All perfectly normal. Well, except for the appliances. The avocado finish screamed early 70s. Hello, Brady Bunch. The old-as-dirt dryer was probably a fire hazard. The ancient wiring couldn’t be that safe, either. I immediately redirected my basement inferno thoughts.
I’d only been down here once before. But I knew Arch had to swing aside a wall clock to get to a security pad. Unlike Pops he didn’t ask me to turn away when he punched in the code. Which intimated trust. Which gave me a warm fuzzy feeling. If only it would heal the itching sensation driving me batty.
Just as I knew it would, a wall slid open revealing The Cave. The super spy facility I’d imagined only it was hidden behind shelves of canned pretzels and assorted nuts.
I don’t know why they called it The Cave. It didn’t look like a cave. It looked like a state-of-the-art recording studio. Acoustic tiles. Plush carpeting. Leather furniture. A console of visual and audio gadgets.
A techno-geek’s dream. Speaking of…
“I dug like you said, Ace, but I didn’t get much,” Woody said as we entered the room and the wall slid shut behind us.
The Kid, as everyone except me called him, was sitting alongside Tabasco at the console tapping away at one of three computers. The two men couldn’t look more opposite.
Woody had a pasty complexion, scraggly hair, and a sparse beard. Skinny as a rail, early twenties—a dead ringer for Scooby-Doo’s Shaggy. He’d had one girlfriend and he’d lost her. It didn’t help that he was a social train wreck.
Tabasco probably had a girlfriend or two in every state. Any woman who’d ever drooled over Antonio Banderas would drool over Jimmy Tabasco. Same sexy, Latin lover vibe. Plus, he was sweet.
Tabasco’s official role with Chameleon was dual: Transportation Specialist and Location Scout. But he was also pretty savvy with tech gear. Last night he’d worked alongside Woody in the high-tech surveillance van, spying on Mad Dog’s poker game. Since the players weren’t allowed to have guests, Arch (as the Baron of Broxley) had sent me back to our hotel, only I’d stopped the cab a block down and had backtracked, slipping inside the undercover van to view the sting over Woody’s and Tabasco’s shoulders. Being on the outside looking in wasn’t where I wanted to be, but it was better than being in the dark. Due to strategically hidden cameras, Tabasco, Woody, and I had a prime view of every player and their cards via multiple monitors. Due to transmitting and receiving body wires, we had full audio contact. Between Arch and Gina, who were both in the game, Mad Dog never stood a chance even with his luminous contact lenses and marked cards.
“The only reason CNN picked up the story,” said Tabasco, “is because Mad Dog was a former pro football player.”
“Otherwise we wouldn’t have learned the news so soon,” Woody said. “A burglary that resulted in homicide. Local news stuff.”
Just then Gina emerged from another room with a cup of coffee. Without a word she perched on the cushy leather sofa and thumbed through a stack of newspapers. She barely spared us a glance. I wasn’t surprised. She hated that I was sleeping with Arch. I hated that she’d slept with Arch (something I’d learned from my meddling ex-husband). Arch, who’d refused to apologize to me for past affairs (which when I thought about it logically was, well, logical) was nevertheless sensitive to my discomfort. Hence, he’d been treating Gina with cool indifference. I was starting to feel bad about that. Especially, when I put myself in her shoes. I could fully sympathize with the plight of the woman scorned.
“Hacked into the local law’s computer system,” said Woody. “The initial report looks routine, though sketchy. Cops must be frustrated as all get out. No physical evidence. No clue as to the identity of the assailant.”
“Yet,” Tabasco said.
“Pull up that report for me, Kid.” Arch moved to the console.
I scratched. I needed a distraction from the itching that was only getting worse. Eying the stack of newspapers, I sucked it up and sat down next to Gina. Not right next to her, but close enough to make her frown.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Looking for any mention of ‘Mad Dog.’ Doubt there’ll be one since most of these papers went to press last night, but it’s worth a look. Also keeping my eye trained for any blips about Senator Clark or Vincent Crowe. Anything at all.”
“Can I help?”
I thought I heard her sigh, only Gina wasn’t the sighing type. She reminded me of Nic—independent, cynical, worldly. She also resembled my friend in appearance, only her skin was paler and her eyes were brown. But she exuded the same sensuality. Had the same tall, slender but toned body. Except Nic was nice and Gina was mean. Okay. Maybe not mean. But definitely bitter. Again, I could relate.
She passed me the Philadelphia Inquirer without comment and I felt another twinge of guilt. Maybe if I tried harder we could strike some kind of truce. The tension I’d created between Arch and Beckett was bad enough.
Determined to fit in, I scanned the newspaper, every section, every page, every article. Meanwhile I listened to the men discuss the timeline and where they thought Beckett would have/should have been and what, if anything, could have gone wrong.
I didn’t point out that I had made similar conjectures just minutes ago in Arch’s car. I skimmed the paper and scratched, silently congratulating myself for thinking on their level.
Gina looked over her shoulder at Arch. “The Kid said you spoke with Jazzman this morning. How did he sound?”
“Tired.”
“What did he say?”
“Mission complete.”
“His part of the mission,” Gina said, “was to make Turner disappear.”
“Not literally!” I snapped. “He