Michael turned away from his computer screen to look at the display on his cell phone. Jake was calling. It had only been twenty-four hours since he’d won his motion for expedited discovery, but he was already hard at work preparing for his deposition of Vicky Driscoll. At Michael’s request, Jake had driven over to the Pussy Cat Palace to take exterior pictures of the property and make discreet inquiries on his behalf.
“Find any new dirt on Driscoll?” Michael asked.
“Plenty of dirt’s being turned up here, but I don’t think it’s the kind you were hoping for. Were you aware that the Pussy Cat Palace was shut down for remodeling?”
“I was not,” Michael said. He didn’t like the sound of what he was hearing. “When did this happen?”
“From what I’ve been able to gather, the club’s been closed for almost two weeks.”
Michael doubted that was a coincidence. He’d been so absorbed in his work that all he’d been thinking about was getting the chance to put Driscoll on the hot seat.
“What’s going on there now?” Michael asked.
“There is a small crew inside the building doing some demolition. I asked to talk to the foreman, but there wasn’t one around. The crew working the site are Spanish-speaking day laborers, and they weren’t inclined to talk to this gringo.”
“Is there signage posted with a construction firm or contact number?”
“Negative. There’s only a piece of cardboard with the scrawled message, Closed for Remodeling.”
Michael got up from his seat and started pacing. “Were you able to get inside to see what’s going on?”
“That wasn’t a problem. I walked in, and when no one challenged me I took pictures, which I’ll be sending to you after our call. They’ve gutted walls and torn down drywall. The place is full of drop cloths, pails and trays, and industrial-sized containers of paint and paint thinner.”
“I need you to do me another favor,” Michael said, then made his request.
“I’m on it,” Jake said.
Michael started making calls. His first was to the Pussy Cat Palace. After ten rings, he hung up. The strip club’s telephone number was still operational, but no message had been left alerting clients to the ongoing remodel.
His next call was to BB Wolf, but Michael was told by the receptionist that the lawyer was out of the office. He left a callback number. Maybe the lawyer had a reasonable explanation for what his client was up to.
As promised, Jake sent him pictures of the construction site. As he studied them, Michael kept wondering about the timing of the remodel. He thought about calling Deke and getting his take on the situation, but decided to wait on how matters developed.
An hour later, Jake called back. “You were right about your suspicions.”
Michael had hoped he’d be wrong. He had asked Jake to go on a scouting expedition to the Emerald Hideaway.
“There are no longer any H2B workers at the hotel,” Jake said. “I talked to one maid who told me she was a recent hire. She said that starting two weeks ago, lots of temps were brought in to work. Since then, some workers have been offered permanent jobs, including her.”
“Which means the old employees aren’t returning. Which also means they’re probably back in Ukraine.”
“That’s my take on it.”
“Dammit. Driscoll jettisoned all her H2B workers and all our potential witnesses. I never saw this coming.”
“It’s not like you could have anticipated it.”
“And yet I should have.”
* * *
Vicky was enjoying being out in her Mercedes CLS coupe. She was feeling like her old self. How did that American saying go? Oh, yes, if life gives you lemons, you make lemonade.
A spa day was just what she needed. It had been too long since she had pampered herself. She would start with a massage, then have a body wrap. After that she’d exfoliate with a salt scrub, followed by a manipedi. Her hair appointment wasn’t until midafternoon, which would leave plenty of time for tea and cucumber sandwiches.
No, not tea, she thought. I’ll have a lemonade instead.
Everything had worked out as planned. Now that her workers were back in Ukraine, a great burden had been lifted from her. Peter Stone had made it easy for her to be rid of them. They had left with plenty of money in their pockets, far more than they would have earned otherwise. There certainly had been no complaints from them.
Or from her. She was doing quite well by this new arrangement. Stone had decided the easiest thing to do was throw money at the problems to have them go away. He had even come up with the idea of remodeling the club. Better yet, he had agreed to pay for the work so as to allow her time to find new employees. The Pussy Cat Palace had always been a dump, but a very profitable dump. When the construction was done, it would look like a high-class club.
Stone could certainly afford the payouts. Vicky had done some research on him. It seemed he had become quite wealthy in the aftermath of America’s Middle Eastern wars. His profiteering hadn’t resulted just from the deploying of his mercenary army. The persistent rumor was that a not insubstantial portion of twelve billion dollars in cash, pal-lets of shrink-wrapped hundred-dollar bills, which the American government had sent over to help with Iraq’s reconstruction, had fallen into Darkpool hands. Stone had greatly prospered from their spoils of war.
A lack of American governmental oversight had also allowed Vicky to get rich, but not nearly as rich as Stone had grown from his private military contracting. Of course, she hadn’t had billions of dollars fall off of some truck right into her lap. But she wasn’t complaining. Things had turned out just fine for her in the end.
There was still the lawyer to deal with, but Vicky had been assured there was little to worry about on that end, especially now that her workers had returned to Ukraine. Mr. Wolf had told her that it was likely he would be able to settle the case before she was even questioned by that lawyer who was suing her. The idea of a settlement was fine with her, especially as she wouldn’t have to pay—how did the Americans say it?—a thin dime.
Her benefactor Peter Stone would pay.
Karma, she thought, is a beautiful boomerang. It was now rewarding her with lots of his money. And whether Stone knew it or not, there were more debts he would yet pay. Sucking him dry was now something to look forward to.
The sudden jolt to her car threw Vicky forward. She hit her brakes, looked in her rearview mirror, and saw the cause of the collision. An old woman with huge glasses was driving a hulking old Cadillac, a car much too big for her. The crone’s head could barely be seen over the dashboard.
“Bitch,” Vicky cursed.
Florida was said to have more elderly drivers than anywhere else in the world, and Vicky was of the opinion that most of them should have had their licenses taken away long ago. Why the hell did these antiques still insist upon driving?
Vicky signaled to the right. Luckily for her, it was a quiet stretch of road. The old bitch responded in kind, moving to the side in what appeared to be slow motion, like a turtle. It would take forever for the old lady to get out of her car.
An impatient Vicky muttered, “Shit.” Unlike grandma, she didn’t have time to waste. And she wasn’t going to let this fossil ruin her spa day. Maybe luck was with her and her bumper had gone unscathed.
Vicky got out of her car, slamming her door in fury. Scowling, she walked to the back. Seeing the damage made Vicky throw up her arms. There was a dent to her rear bumper, as well as a broken taillight. From behind her, Vicky heard a window being lowered. She expected the woman to start profusely apologizing. That’s not what she got.
In a raspy voice, the old buzzard said, “You shouldn’t have slowed down.”
What the hell? The crazy old bitch was trying to blame her for the accident. Vicky stomped toward the Cadillac. If she had her way, the old lady would never drive again. The cops would get an earful. She’d tell them to take her in for reckless driving. Maybe they’d even strip search grandma. That would serve her right.
Vicky opened her mouth to lay into her, but then noticed something odd. The old woman didn’t look quite right. She was hunched down in her seat and wasn’t nearly as small as she had appeared in the rearview mirror. In fact, she looked positively imposing. That probably had something to do with the gun she was holding in her hand.
Too late, Vicky noticed something else. The old woman wasn’t a woman. She was a man in a white wig.
“Don’t move,” he said, his voice deep and threatening.
Vicky held her hands up as if complying, but then turned and started running toward her car. She didn’t get far. The driver wasn’t alone. A hidden passenger jumped out of the car and sprinted after Vicky. He tackled her from behind, then began dragging her back to the Cadillac.
No one saw Vicky disappear; no one heard her screams.