2 Sisters Detective Agency(16)

“Dad let you do that?” I sighed. “Jesus.”

“People don’t let me do things, Rhonda,” Baby said. “I just do them.”

I found a set of car keys on the windowsill. My father’s car had to be out there in the lot somewhere. “So do you think Ashton was abducted?”

“Probably,” she said. “But that’s not the point. You can’t eavesdrop on me and my friends.”

“Baby, the abduction is the point,” I said. “I know you’re mortified to be around me. I get that. You’ve made it perfectly clear. But you saw how obvious his body language was, didn’t you? I mean, he was clearly telling the truth to you out there in the hall but lying when he was in here.”

“I guess,” she said as she took out her phone and lay back down on the couch with a huff. “I don’t know about body language. But he had drag marks on the backs of his shoes. Fresh ones. There was still dirt on them. So I guess he was probably abducted.”

“Really?” I was genuinely impressed. “You saw drag marks?”

“Yeah, right here.” She lifted a foot and touched the back of her heel without taking her eyes off her phone. “I saw that once on one of Dad’s cases. I was looking at the crime-scene photos of some chick who got raped and killed in the woods up at Big Bear. Dad showed me the drag marks on her shoes like someone had dragged her unconscious body across gravel or concrete. You don’t get marks like that if you’re fighting and kicking.”

“I can’t believe Dad let you look at crime-scene photos,” I said, fiddling with the car keys.

“You are so not listening to me.” Baby turned her body to face the back of the couch. “I don’t need anyone to let me do things.”

I pointed the key fob at the window and clicked it. None of the cars in the lot flashed their lights. I hit the button again, looked around. Nothing. I clicked and clicked, until something behind me clicked in response under the desk. I turned and knelt, pressing the button on the key fob and listening for the responding click beneath the worn blue carpet.

I pulled up a corner of carpet that was curled against the bottom of the desk. Beneath it was a badly fitted wooden hatch set into the floor. The key fob disguised as a car key was clicking the lock on the hatch open and shut.

“Like Milan,” Baby was saying from the couch, out of sight. “I’m going. You can tell yourself whatever you want about letting me. But I’m getting on that plane.”

I opened the floor hatch to reveal a space filled almost entirely with a black duffel bag. I unzipped the bag.

Cash. Stacks of cash, in mixed denominations, bound with elastic bands. I pushed experimentally against the stacks of money, feeling for depth and density. A quick estimation told me there were millions of dollars here. It was more money than I’d ever seen anywhere in my entire life.

It was bad news. The mere sight raised the hairs on the back of my neck.

“In fact, we should go,” Baby said. I heard her roll off the couch. “I’ve got to pack.”

“Yeah,” I said, zipping the bag closed. “Let’s go. I’ll meet you at the car.”





Chapter 19



Vera arrived late. She always did. She liked to keep them waiting, give them an opportunity to talk about her. The more people talked about you while you weren’t around, the more mythical you became. The more powerful.

She threw the keys to her convertible at the Soho House valet and wore her sunglasses all the way up the elegant white stairs to the restaurant, right to the table, so they wouldn’t be able to tell whether or not she was pissed off at having been called to a meeting. Her crew were all watching her as she sat down. The tension was so palpable, a group of people at the next table—which included Jennifer Aniston and her manager—looked over too.

The twins, Sean and Penny, were slumped in their chairs, looking bored as usual. Ashton looked puny, dwarfed by Benzo beside him, whose sinewy muscles were barely contained in Hugo Boss. The waitress saw Vera and turned midstride so abruptly she almost tripped. Vera had once scalded a waiter here with her bowl of soup for ignoring her, so now the staff always attended to her promptly.

No one spoke. The waitress came, and Vera said, “Coffee, black,” without looking up. She pushed her sunglasses up into her blond ringlets.

“You can explain,” she finally said to Ashton.

Ashton sagged with relief. “There’s not much more to add about what happened other than what I said in my text,” Ashton began. “Guy grabbed me right outside the Playhouse. He let me go in some shithole off the 405 near Mulholland. I wouldn’t have escaped if it hadn’t been for the cops driving by. He was gonna kill me.”

“And why do you think this has something to do with our game?” Penny asked, idly perusing the menu.

“He knew who I was,” Ashton said. “He knew my name. He was, like, angry. Really pissed. He was talking about what children deserve…”

“What do you mean, what children deserve?” Benzo snorted.

“I don’t know! He was, like, ‘Don’t you know who I am? Don’t you know what children deserve?’ Something like that. I can’t remember exactly. I was freaking out.”

“Children.” Penny rolled her eyes. She looked over at Jennifer Aniston’s table, where a pair of publicists, or whoever the hell they were, were still ogling them. “What are you assholes staring at?”