MONDAY NIGHT
Grissom leaned on the rail around the lower deck of the Potomac Princess and toyed with the gold band on his finger. The evening was clear, but there was a noticeable breeze coming off the water here at the landing near 13th Street, and after sunset, it would be downright chilly. He glanced around the other passengers of the paddlewheel boat, wondering how many of them were checked into the various staterooms available onboard.
For a brief moment Grissom indulged in the thought of having Miss Chocolate waiting for him on one of the snug berth beds, perhaps in black stockings and a mood of smoldering impatience; at that luscious image, a spasm of lust flashed through his entire frame and he gripped the rail tightly.
He allowed himself a few seconds of serious hatred for Miss Lollipop.
Then guilt and common sense returned, and Grissom sighed, looking out across the ruffled water. It didn't do to hold grudges, especially when point of fact the woman was right. Candy Shop policy was emphatic on the issues of non-fraternization, for a myriad of reasons, not the least of which were compromise, inefficiency and distraction.
And yet--a nagging voice at the back of Grissom's mind pointed out that all three of his missions so far with Miss Chocolate had been successful, with net gains of over a million dollars in private fees, hotline payouts and confiscated goods. Further, all three of Chip Harrington's ex-wives had covertly donated vehicles to the Shop, and word was that Macy MacDonald had liked the early rushes of the porn musical so much that she was finishing it with part of her own money.
They even had a mascot now, Grissom realized, although the credit for that probably lay with Gum Drop's inability to return the dog to his mother.
Yes, all in all, business AND profit had picked up since he'd teamed with Miss Chocolate, and despite what Shop policy stated, the bottom line for the partnership clearly came out in the black.
And THAT was a fact with which even Miss Lollipop couldn't argue.
Amused, Grissom idly wondered if he could get an accountant to draft a counterproposal to Shop policy, and as he pondered that he spotted Mrs. Willows striding onto the paddle wheeler, nervously clutching her purse. She looked sleek in her dark sunglasses and tailored cream suit, and at the same time, her body language broadcast her unease as clearly as a billboard. Grissom sighed and pushed himself away from the railing and thoughts of chocolate.
Showtime.
He picked up his briefcase and made a show of checking his watch. Slowly Grissom made his way along the promenade, moving around the people milling and admiring the scenery along the Potomac. The Tea Room was already filling up, and the maitre'd glided back and forth, directing waitresses and diners to various seats. When it was Grissom's turn, he managed a distracted blink at the other man.
"I have an appointment with Mrs. Willows," he announced in a distracted voice as he pushed up his thick, black framed glasses. The maitre'd looked at him, and Grissom pretended to search the room, pointing with his chin to where she sat. "There."
"Ah. If the gentleman will follow me then," came the request. Grissom did, toting along his briefcase and arriving at the table in time to catch Mrs. Willow's cautious gaze. He held out his hand to her and gave it a firm shake.
"Mrs. Willows? I'm Charles Bucket."
He sat opposite her at the tiny table and the maitre'd moved off. Mrs. Willows stared at him, her mouth twitching a little. "Pleased to meet you, Chuck. How are things at the factory?" came her amused question.
"Actually, I'm associated with the shop," Grissom countered smoothly, watching her expression shift from potential laughter to wariness again. She eyed him more closely now as he set his briefcase down and adjusted his cuffs, touching the little gold button links.
"I've seen you before," she announced. "I know I have, I just can't put my finger on it."
"You've seen me twice before, about six weeks ago," Grissom agreed in a low, pleasant voice. "I fumigated the Senator's townhouse, and later that evening, I attended your dinner party."
The light of recognition flared in her eyes and her mouth opened slightly. "Oh geez—the nerdy professor with the pregnant trophy wife!"
Looking slightly pained and pleased, Grissom gave a tiny nod. He turned as a waiter approached them. "I'm deferring to Mrs. Willow's preferences here—"
The waiter turned to look at her; unfazed, Catherine gathered up the menus. "We'll have coffee—that Sumatran blend, with sides of cream and sugar thanks, and carrot cake petit fours," she ordered smoothly. The waiter nodded, scribbling on his pad, then moved off. When he'd left, Grissom bent and fished in his briefcase, pulling out a manila file, handing it to Catherine.
"What's this?"
"Camouflage. If anyone spots you and asks later what you were doing here, you've been consulting a lawyer about a property line dispute with your mother's house in Nevada," he countered. She shot him a brief look of admiration, taking the file and opening it.
"Smooth. I guess Heather wasn't kidding when she said she had connections."
"Doctor Marazek is exceptionally good at management," Grissom agreed with a twinge of annoyance. Catherine pretended to examine the file for a few seconds, then spoke under her breath.
"Okay, so who ARE you? And what exactly is the big plan here, because if you know anything at all about my situation, you probably also know we don't have a lot of time or security."
"I'm one of the people who does what needs to be done," Grissom told her simply. "As the nursery rhyme goes: 'For every evil under the sun, there is a remedy or there is none."
"If there be one, seek till you find it," Catherine picked up the thread, "If there be none then never mind it. Cute . . . but not very helpful."
Grissom sighed. "Fine. I'm a private agent. Right now, my job is to pick up whatever information I can about your father and get it back for evaluation and processing. My understanding was that you were going to assist me with this."
For a moment Catherine didn't speak, but Grissom realized it was simply because the waiter had returned with their order. Once the coffee was set before each of them, she drew in a breath.
"Yes, I'll help. What do you need?"
"Access," Grissom told her quietly. "Passwords, keys, phone numbers, connections, even the most fleeting or innocuous. I'd like to get into his professional office, his private office, his home office and his car. I want as much of his financial information as you can lay hands on, along with anything else you think is pertinent."
She was nodding, her hands moving to pour the cream into her cup even as she listened to him. "All right, that I can do. Got a name, secret agent man?"
"Grissom."
"Like the astronaut," came her little probe. He nodded, sipping his own coffee.
"No relation, actually. So as you can see, I think your mother has a solid case here . . . clearly the Hendersons are encroaching on that western side, and the assessor's measurements will bear that out," he finished while the waiter set down the petit fours. Blinking at the sudden change of conversation, Catherine nodded belatedly.
"Er, yeah."
When they were alone again, Grissom carefully slipped her a business card that read Charles Bucket, C.S, Associates followed by a phone and fax number. "You can get in touch with me here at any time. I suggest we find somewhere less public next time. For the moment, what can you tell me about your father's normal routine?"
Catherine sighed. "A lot. You might need a—"
But Grissom already had a notepad out, and was clicking the pen, poised to write even as he pushed his heavy glasses up along his nose with the other hand. Catherine arched an eyebrow at him. "—piece of paper," she finished. "Are you always so prepared?"
Grissom held her gaze for a second, and his voice was low. "I'm going up against Senator Braun . . . I'd rather be ready than dead, Mrs. Willows."
Grimly, Catherine nodded.
TUESDAY MORNING
Sara looked over at Sugar Daddy, who had an expression on his face that probably mirrored hers. They both looked at Miss Lollipop and waited for more. She nodded.
"I'm going to die tonight, yes, but it won't be fatal. At least, not this time. What I need are a few mourners and family for the funeral on Thursday, with at least one of you snooping around a bit to help make it realistic."
"I'm not sure I'm too crazy about the realistic part," Sugar Daddy muttered, eyeing her carefully. The three of them were strolling through the Candy Shop down under the Truman Tower building, heading for a conference room. Miss Lollipop sighed, ushering them inside. She closed the glass doors, picked up a remote from the polished mahogany table, and punched a button; instantly a projected image flashed up on a blank wall.
The man in the candid photo sat in a restaurant booth, concentrating on a stack of waffles. Miss Lollipop spoke up. "Lyle Tarkov. He looks rather good for a man who died two years ago. And this—" she pushed another button on the remote, "—is Theresa Cornejo, ecdysiast by trade, who passed away eight months ago. Both of them resurfaced recently." The woman on the screen was sunning herself next to a sparkling hotel pool.
"They look good, for the walking dead," Sara agreed cautiously. "What happened?"
"In the beginning, Lyle had a little problem with owing money to Bruce Eiger. Quite a LOT of money apparently, but Bruce never had a chance to collect it because Lyle died of a heart attack and was buried out at Resurrection Gardens. Theresa Cornejo was on the potential witness list in the Mastrianno trial. She died before prosecutors could convince her to testify against Max Mastrianno, and she too, was buried at Resurrection Gardens."
"I'm sensing a pattern here," Sugar Daddy nodded. "An escape clause?"
Miss Lollipop smiled in her mysterious way. "So it seems. Whoever is running this private relocation program has access to several databases, since Lyle is no longer in CODIS or AIFIS or the Social Security system—at least, not the official databases."
"That's . . . scary," Sara murmured, blinking a little. Sugar Daddy looked at her and smiled.
"That people are coming back from the dead?"
"That we have our own, more secure databases than the FBI," Sara corrected him with a quick grin back. "But the reanimation is spooky too."
"It's troubling, to say the least. Tarkov was spotted by an old associate, Mr. X, who'd attended the funeral. When he confronted Tarkov, Mr. X was told he'd made a mistake. Fortunately, being a suspicious sort he managed these photos and a DNA sample from a stolen fork which he brought to us."
"Thus confirming that Tarkov was back," Sugar Daddy nodded. "And?"
Miss Lollipop looked perturbed as she paced under the projected image of Theresa Cornejo. "And Mr. X has disappeared."
Sara frowned. "Definitely not good."
"Definitely. Later in the month we received notice about the return of Ms Cornejo when she applied for a job at the Wiggle Room; our agent there sent her prints through our database for the routine background check and the results were flagged."
"The . . . Wiggle Room?" Sara asked dryly.
Miss Lollipop nodded. "One of our more profitable legitimate businesses. This IS Las Vegas, Miss Chocolate; when in Rome . . . "
"Yes, well getting back to the matter at hand," Sugar Daddy interjected smoothly, "We've got two people back from the dead . . . why worry about it?"
Miss Lollipop paced, her back very straight, the sway of her skirt almost a flounce. Almost. "Because both of the people who supposedly died were associated with unscrupulous people, and both had access to money or information. It's only a matter of time before this potentially profitable operation taken over by a bigger organization, and I for one do not want the Mafia or the Cartels or the Triad to gain any more power in Las Vegas. Too many deaths would alert the authorities and eventually compromise the various databases throughout the federal government."
No one spoke for a moment; the Sugar Daddy leaned back in his chair and sighed. "And you have no . . . interest in maybe taking over this enterprise yourself?" he asked lightly. Miss Lollipop turned her dangerous gaze on him, and for a moment Sara felt the undeniable flare of heat between the two. Startled, she blinked at this sudden insight.
Miss Lollipop folded her arms across her chest. "The thought DID occur to me, yes. I won't deny that being able to use it for beneficial purposes greatly appeals to me. We could help abuse victims begin new lives, give certain people a second chance—but ultimately it's simply too dangerous. Once the operation at Resurrection Gardens is shut down, perhaps we here at the Shop can consider a similar, smaller program in the future."
"Okay then," Sara interjected. "So how exactly did you get information on this place?"
"I spoke at length with Ms. Cornejo, who is currently enjoying a luxurious house arrest. The details are here—" Miss Lollipop handed each of them a flash drive, "—Study them today, please. Ms. Cornejo tells me that she'd been ordered NOT to return to Las Vegas, but apparently the wages for a skin artist are better here than in Atlantic City."
"Warmer too," Sugar Daddy murmured. "So let's get back to your death. You've already made arrangements?"
Miss Lollipop nodded. "Under the guise of Delores Morris, financial manager for Granger Investments, I've met with Mr. Pertonelli, the funeral director of Resurrection Gardens, and given him the appropriate password. He's heard at length about my embezzlement activities and my need to prudently vanish before my boss takes legal action."
"And you want me to be your boss?" Sugar Daddy smirked. Miss Lollipop shook her head.
"I need you to be my husband. And I need you, Miss Chocolate, to be my sister. That would give both of you a reason to visit Resurrection Garden. I believe my viewing is going to be on Thursday, since I've conveniently written out all my funeral arrangements and left them on file. I plan to commit suicide by insulin overdose—Mr. Pertonelli assures me that will mean a minimal investigation and no autopsy—and them I'll be laid out for viewing, and later taken away for cremation."
Sugar Daddy winced, his big hands coming up to rest on the table. He looked at the two women, his gaze coming back to linger on Miss Lollipop. "I gotta tell you Heather, I don't like it, not one damned bit. There's a hell of a lot of risk you're taking with this one."
"I understand your concern Jim, but I won't ask anyone else to die on the job." She managed a brief, beautiful smile. "That's my privilege."
Sara nodded, and no one spoke again for a long moment. Then Miss Lollipop gave a little sigh of dismissal.
As the three of them left the conference room, Miss Lollipop spoke softly to Sara, "A moment, please?"
Sensing what was coming, Sara obediently followed Miss Lollipop back in and looked at her as they stood together inside the door. The other woman kept her gaze level.
"I simply wanted to say that you've done an exceptional job with your last three missions, and should be on vacation by now. I appreciate your willingness to participate in this one with me."
"That's okay," Sara replied gently. "You made a good point about needing to shut down that pipeline."
"Yes," Miss Lollipop nodded. "We need to move quickly on this one. I also wanted to let you know also that from now on you'll be working with Jelly Bean instead of Mr. Peppermint."
Sara frowned. "May I ask why?"
"Shop security policy—" Miss Lollipop replied blithely. "Very routine. So after we're done with Resurrection Gardens I'd like you to take a vacation. Henry is our in-house travel agent, and he'd be happy to book you on a trip anywhere you'd like to go."
"Um, wow. Thanks," Sara managed, a little startled at this largess. Miss Lollipop smiled and moved past her.
"You've more than earned it, Sara. I hear there are some fabulous sales in Paris this time of year—"
Sara waited for a moment, a smile frozen on her face, and fought her tiny shiver.
00oo00oo00
TUESDAY AFTERNOON
Senator Sam Braun looked at the woman standing in the living room and shook his head in disappointment. "Damn it Sofia, I ask you to do this ONE thing; a very simple thing and you screw up."
"I'm telling you Sam, she's got help. I've been keeping an eye on your daughter off and on for nearly three years now, and this is the first time she's ever given me the slip," Sofia Curtis grumbled. Sam Braun blinked at her and picked up his glass of scotch once more.
"She's a little skittish right now," Sam agreed, frowning. "I think it might be time to see if we can get her back to her old ways. We do that, and I can put her in private rehab with the full sympathy of the voters."
"Not coke," Sofia warned, pacing a bit. "Pain relievers maybe. The demographics are kinder to prescription addiction."
Sam nodded. "Good thinking. So we get her going on Oxycontin or Vicodin and let her run a while. A non-fatal traffic accident maybe and I can have a nice little statement to the press about needing some privacy to deal with this personal tragedy. We could put a decent spin on it by election time."
Sofia nodded. "Doable, certainly. It might be nice if you spent some PR time on drug rehab prior to it all. My people tracked her on American Airlines through JFK, but she hasn't shown up at the townhouse yet. Think she might have checked into the Four Seasons?"
The senator nodded. "Most likely. She's avoiding me, and that gives me a bad feeling."
The blonde woman nodded slowly. "She's not stupid, Sam. The question I have to ask is—have you been behaving yourself?"
Sam scowled. "That is a dangerous question, Ms. Curtis."
She held his gaze. "And that's the answer I was afraid of. Let's not kid ourselves, senator; I'm not paid to like you or your vices, I'm here to make sure you stay in office. So I ask again: have you been behaving yourself?"
The smile crossing Sam Braun's face was mild and grandfatherly; nevertheless, seeing it, Sofia felt her skin crawl.
"Now Sofia . . . a man has to have a vice or two, don't you know? Besides, they'll never connect me to any of it . . . I've been promised that."
"Sam—" Sofia muttered, her eyes narrowing. The senator lifted his glass to her in a mock toast.
"All taken care of, honey. Now, don't you have a flight to catch? I hear my daughter's in pain and needs some decent medicine."