Ник Сайнт - Purrfectly Hidden. Purrfect Kill. Purrfect Boy Toy

“The value of her entire catalog will go through the roof. As it always does when an artist dies—especially a tragic death like this. Chickie’s oeuvre will be a hot property.”

Shannon held up her glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. “Here’s to Chickie Hay. May she rest in peace—and make us a fortune.”

“To a fortune,” he said, loving how cynical Shannon was. And of course she was right. This murder business would make them even richer than they already were. That, unfortunately, was the nature of the business they were in. Or, as in their case, fortunately.

He got up, moved over to the connecting door and held up his hand, poised to knock.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” said Shannon without turning.

“Oh? And why is that?”

“Young love, Laron. You remember what young love is like.”

He retracted his hand. Shannon was right. “Still, they need to be told,” he said.

“Later. Just let them rest. They’ll find out soon enough.”

“They should find out from me.”

“And why is that? The news is what it is.”

“Yeah, but I need to advise them on a media strategy before they touch their Insta.”

“Call the Mayor. That’s a better use of your time than bothering Charlie and Jamie.”

Chapter 5

Parked on one of Main Street’s side streets, a good view of the Hampton Cove Star through the windshield of their rental, Jerry Vale and Johnny Carew sat watching the fourth-floor balcony of Hampton Cove’s most prestigious and posh boutique hotel.

“Are you sure this is a good idea, Jer?” asked Johnny for the umpteenth time.

“Yeah, I’m sure, so stop whining, will you? My ears hurt from all your yapping.”

“We just got out of jail, Jer,” Johnny reminded his partner in crime. “And I don’t want to go back there so soon.”

“You won’t go back, Johnny,” Jerry growled. “This is a foolproof plan we’re working on here. You know what foolproof is? It means even a fool like you can’t mess it up.”

Johnny thought about this for a moment. “Are you saying I messed up the last plan?”

“You know you did. Who fired off that gun when he’d been told to be inconspicuous?”

“But you were under attack, Jer! I had to do something!”

“I was under attack from mice, Johnny. Mice! I was dealing with it, but the moment you fired that big cannon of yours, you ruined everything.”

They’d spent time in prison, until a nice judge had decided to let them out on bail, and now there they were, once again having decided to grant other, more prosperous members of society, the pleasure of carrying the burden of their livelihoods. This time Jerry had selected Laron Weskit and his client Charlie Dieber and Charlie’s girlfriend.

“Do you realize Laron Weskit is the youngest, most successful record executive in the country? And that Charlie Dieber is one of the hottest pop singers in the world? These people are loaded! And we’re simply going to take some of that load off their backs.”

“I know, but Jer,” said Johnny in the same whiny voice he’d employed ever since Jerry had told him about his plan to hit Laron and The Dieber. “They probably got security up the wazoo. So what if we get caught again? I don’t want to get caught again, Jer.”

“Listen carefully, cause I’m only going to repeat this once. Tonight the Mayor is organizing a party for Laron and The Dieber—Dieb is getting the keys to the city. So they’ll all be downstairs, partying and having a ball, while we’re upstairs, helping ourselves to their cash, jewelry, gold watches, and other precious little trinkets.”

Johnny rubbed his chin at the prospect. It was a sizable chin, too, in proportion with the rest of his anatomy. Jerry, who looked more like something a cat dragged out of a dumpster, was, after all, the brains of their little outfit, while Johnny was the brawn.

“And what about Weskit and The Dieber’s security people?”

“They’ll all be in the ballroom protecting their charges, which means they won’t bother us.”

“I don’t know, Jer,” said Johnny, shaking his head and showcasing an appalling lack of trust in his longtime companion.

“You don’t have to know, Johnny,” said Jerry. “I know, and that’s enough.”

Johnny nodded sheepishly. He knew he wasn’t blessed with a big brain, and usually relied on his partner to supply that much-needed brainpower to carve out their criminal career. But Johnny didn’t enjoy spending time in prison, and he was obviously loath to go back inside so soon after their last sojourn in the slammer.

“Just think about the diamonds, Johnny,” said Jer, taking out his phone and calling up an image of The Dieber’s girlfriend Jamie Borowiak, a nice big diamond necklace around her neck. He scrolled through the girl’s Instagram some more and tapped the diamond ring Jamie had gotten from her boyfriend. In the next picture, a stunning pair of earrings. Switching to Charlie Dieber’s Insta, there was a gorgeous gold watch on display and, finally, an entire collection of expensive-looking cufflinks on Weskit’s Instagram. Jerry tapped the picture. “See these? Worth a fortune. And he takes them everywhere he goes.”

“So nice of these stars to advertise their prized possessions on Instagram,” Johnny said. “That way we know what to look for, going in.” He might not like the prospect of venturing out into the line of fire again, but he did covet other people’s wealth as much as the next crook. Finally he said, “Let’s do this, Jer. When is this party?”

“Starts at nine, and goes on until after midnight, with speeches by the Mayor and the chairman of the local chamber of commerce and performances by Dieber and the girlfriend. Rumor has it there might even be some local talent infesting the stage. We hit the hotel at eleven, out by eleven thirty, tops. Plenty of time to become filthy rich.”

“Filthy rich,” Johnny repeated, his eyes sparkling. “I like filthy rich, Jer.”

“Get used to the prospect. Cause tonight’s the night. Nothing’s gonna stop us now!”

“Tonight’s the night,” Tex spoke into his phone as he sat back in his chair. But then the buzzer buzzed and he jerked up. He checked the small screen that showed an image of the waiting room. When he saw Mrs. Baumgartner stalk in, he couldn’t suppress a groan.

“Did you say something?” asked Denby Jennsen, his colleague over in Happy Bays.

“My receptionist took the day off again,” he explained. “So now I’m supposed to handle all the phones and organize the flow of traffic in my waiting room all by myself.”

“You really should start thinking about bringing in a professional receptionist, Tex,” said Denby, not for the first time. “They do wonders for your peace of mind. And your productivity. I’ve had Vicky for ten years and I wouldn’t know what to do without her.”

“I know, but how can I fire Vesta? She’s my wife’s mother. Marge will never forgive me.”

“I’m sure Marge will understand. And isn’t your mother-in-law like, a hundred years old by now?”

“Seventy-five, and she still thinks she’s hot stuff. She’s launching a solo career.”

Denby laughed. “A solo career! Doing what?”

“Well, singing, obviously. She wants to be the next Beyoncé.”

“Tell her to go ahead. Maybe she’ll be a hit and then you can finally hire a decent receptionist. You need one, Tex. You can’t go on like this.”

“I can, if only she’d come in for work every day.”

He disconnected after admonishing Denby to be there tonight or be square, but before he let in his next patient, he took a moment. Denby had a point. A professional receptionist-slash-secretary would be great. Then again, he didn’t pay Vesta all that much, what with her having room and board at the house and being family. She was more a glorified volunteer than an actual receptionist, and Tex had only given her the job because Marge wanted her mother to keep busy. To be around people. If he took that away from her, he’d deprive her of a big chunk of her social life. Plus, she probably wouldn’t take it well, which might lead to more tensions at home, something to avoid.