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

“And those are the least of my problems. Who shot a gun in the lobby during the evacuation? Do any of you know anything about that?”
    “What?” (No Hair.)
    “What?” (Fantasy.)
    “ What ?” (Me.)
    “Several hundred guests are claiming shots were fired in the lobby.”
    “That can’t be true,” No Hair said. “What kind of idiot would shoot a gun during an evacuation?”
    At moments like these, I like to smooth my eyebrows.
    “Can someone look into it?”
    Smooth, smooth.
    “You look into it, Davis.”
    Smooth, smooth, smooth.
    “But first,” Mr. Sanders pushed back from his desk, “Davis, you and Fantasy get upstairs with Bianca, settle her down and see what she needs.”
    Settling Bianca down would take a baseball bat. And what she needed were stronger meds.
    “I have Newman waiting,” he said, “so you two get going.” He gave a nod to door number two, the door he wanted Fantasy and me to exit, so Newman could come in door number one. And not see us. Because we’re secret spies.
    Newman is Levi Newman, Casino Manager. He’s a new fixture at the Bellissimo, but certainly not new to casino gambling. He’s a Las Vegas transplant from the Montecito, where he’d been the casino manager for fourteen years. He moved here to be our casino manager, and brought his wild wild west ideas with him, including a huge event just days away, the Strike It Rich Sweepstakes. From what I could see, he worked twenty-five-hour days and didn’t have a life, spouse, pet, or concern past the Bellissimo property lines.
    “Davis.”
    “Yes, sir?”
    “Put some clothes on?”
      
    *     *     *
      
    Three months ago, Mr. Sanders’s private jet, a Gulfstream 650, left Biloxi without passengers. First stop, Cape Town, South Africa, to pick up Dr. Fenyang Itumeleng, the world’s top authority in facial fillers and lipostructure. Next stop, Buenos Aires, Argentina, to retrieve Dr. Adolfina Aguirre, renowned developer of the TAME (tool-assisted malor elevation) procedure. Last stop, Beverly Hills, California, where the party of pilots and doctors had Asian Fusion catered by Urasawa while they waited on the tarmac for Dr. Tootles Turney, inventor of the Tootles Lift, rejuvenation without downtime. Dr. Turney said she was late because she’d been tied up with Mel Gibson.
    After a week of consultation, it was determined that Bianca Sanders could dodge a facelift for at least five years if she’d give up cigarettes. She wasn’t the least bit concerned with her heart or lung function, never used the C word, and she couldn’t care less about anyone breathing her secondhand smoke. But once convinced she’d see a dramatic improvement in her skin tone and elasticity, plus avoid going under the knife for several more years, she quit. Cold turkey. And took it out on all of us.
    “Let me assure you, David,” Bianca had both me and Fantasy held captive, “the remodel of my living quarters will go quickly and smoothly. And I expect the two of you to see to it.”
    “It’s Davis,” I mumbled.
    She rattled off instructions: secure her jewelry, restock her collections—wardrobe, Rembrandts, cosmetics—and replace her half-million dollar solid rock crystal bathtub by her regularly scheduled bath time. Five o’clock.
    Fantasy was taking notes. “Who do we call about the bathtub, Mrs. Sanders?”
    She blinked twice. “It’s from the rainforest. Ecuador, I believe.”
    The Bellissimo Resort and Casino, a world-class five-star destination, is a big place. With more than seventeen hundred guest rooms, two hundred of those swanky suites, fifty of those extra-luxurious two-bedroom swanky suites, and two of those were ultra, über, over-the-top luxurious four-bedroom swanky suites, only occupied by Jay Leno and such. Which is where we were. The Sanders would be slumming it here. Here already had two swimming pools. One inside, one out. She could take her five o’clock bath in one of those. Maybe they should move here, give