Double Strike (A Davis Way Crime Caper Book 3) Read Online Free

day, power was restored throughout the building, and the towel-clad guests were ushered back in. Local, cable, and even national news outlets recorded their reentry. The casino wouldn’t reopen until the Gaming Commission said so. The front desk was closed to arriving guests, but was very busy with guests checking out.
    “This is ridiculous,” a lady said. “My only vacation this year. And you people treat me like this?”
    “We’re very sorry for the inconvenience, ma’am.”
    This went on until vouchers were issued for future three-night stays, free slot-machine credits, buffets, and spa gift certificates.
    Complimentary pastry and coffee kiosks were set up like soup lines all over the lobby. Ambulance-chasing attorneys wove in and out of the crowd passing out business cards. The Mercedes Thomas Sanders confiscated and I shot the wheels off of had disappeared. At the casino entrance, a hundred hotel guests were pressed against the red ropes separating them from their blackjack tables and slot machines, chanting, “Let us in! Let us in!” Suits, hardhats, and badges tried to control the chaos. The whole place smelled like bacon because Plethora, the buffet adjacent to the casino, was trying to minimize the losses by cooking everything immediately.
    We convened in Mr. Sanders’s office—me, No Hair, Fantasy, and Mr. Sanders. Baylor had been placed on Thomas Sanders patrol.
    “Okay,” Mr. Sanders, not dressed for success, was behind his desk. “What happened?”
    No Hair had a cheat sheet from the hard-hat people. “We have one lightning rod for every ten feet of perimeter. They catch lightning strikes and send the charge down to a rod buried twelve feet in the ground, safely bypassing the building.” He flipped his cheat sheet over. “A cable conductor for one of the rods on the roof was cut, probably by a construction worker, allowing a strike to hit the building,” he folded the paper, “directly above your head, Richard.”
    Well, that’s terrifying. Even more terrifying, Thomas Sanders would tell his parents I tried to shoot him. I wondered where I’d work after I was fired. Maybe I’d just be demoted. Maybe they’d let me run a cash register in one of the gift shops.
    “We have no construction on the roof,” Mr. Sanders said.
    No Hair cleared his big throat and shuffled his big feet.
    Fantasy and I whistled and admired different lofty corners of Mr. Sanders’s office.
    Mr. Sanders threw down the pen he was holding. “Just tell me.”
    No Hair ripped off the Band-Aid. “Bianca’s having a small pool installed on the southwest corner of the roof.”
    “No, she’s not.”
    “I’m afraid she is.”
    Mr. Sanders held up both hands. Why ?
    “For the dogs.” No Hair said it to the floor.
    Every drop of blood drained from Mr. Sanders’s face. “Did you know about this, Jeremy?”
    “Not until fifteen minutes ago.”
    “Did either of you?”
    Fantasy and I pointed at each other. “She did.”
    Mr. Sanders turned to me for an explanation. I’d been at the Bellissimo longer, and was the mouthpiece. Mouthpiece, scapegoat, butt of everyone’s jokes.
    “I only know about it because Mrs. Sanders asked me to go over a few things with the construction workers.” Twice a day for two weeks now, I’ve had to dress up as Bianca, trek up there, and threaten the crew with their very lives if they didn’t get every single mosaic and topiary detail right.
    Three days ago she suggested I shoot the air conditioner man. (“You have a gun, right, David? Use it.”) He had the nerve to suggest she couldn’t “condition” the air without enclosing it. She had me suggest he find a way or die right then and there.
    Mr. Sanders closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “I suppose you all knew my son was going to drop in for an unscheduled visit, too?”
    We all shook our heads no. We did not.
    “My son shows up with no warning and my wife’s having a kiddie pool built for her dogs.” He looked up.