Darynda Jones - First Grave on the Right

“Where are you ?” I asked back. Uncle Bob was so nosy.

“We need to get you prepped.”

“Prepped? For what? Did I agree to get prepped?” I didn’t remember agreeing to get prepped. I’d never even been to preparatory school.

Ubie exhaled loudly. It was funny. “The sting,” he said, his voice exasperated.

“Oh, right!” Forgot about that. “I just filed an injunction against the state. Can you get it pushed through ASAP? We don’t have much time.”

“Sure. I’ll call a judge I used to date.”

“Uncle Bob, we want the person you call to actually like you and want to do you a favor.”

“Oh, she liked me. Every inch.”

I paused midstride while a quiver of denial shuddered through me, then continued my walk to Misery. “Thanks, Uncle B, I owe you one.”

“One? Are you serious?”

“Um, are we keeping score? ’Cause if we’re keeping score—”

“Never mind. Just get your ass over here.”

After reviewing the plan ad nauseam with our two teams, one on the tech stuff and one on the exterior of the premises, I ran back to my apartment to get dressed for the part. I worked mostly on covering the bluish bruises I was still sporting from my most recent adventures. By the time I strolled on-scene, I looked like an oppressed librarian with sex kitten eyes and a pout that could make grown men cry.

Garrett stopped what he was doing and ogled me. I took it as a good sign, until he spoke. “You’re supposed to seduce him, not audit his taxes.”

Taking my cues from Elizabeth Ellery, I was wearing a red skirt suit with three-inch stilettos. Unlike Elizabeth, however, I had my hair pulled into a tight bun and wore glasses with thick plastic frames that screamed anal retentive.

“Swopes, are you even male?” When he frowned in confusion, I asked, “Have you never had a wet dream about a secretary or a librarian or a German schoolmistress?”

He glanced around guiltily, making sure no one was listening.

“Bingo,” I said in triumph, then strolled over to the surveillance van. Garrett followed, so I continued to rant. “Like Benny Price wouldn’t suspect a setup if some hooch off the street dressed to entice him and get him to confess to murdering four people. Hmmm. That’s a terrific idea. And if I were feeling slightly more suicidal today, we might have gone that direction. Look around you.” I waited for Garrett to notice the two women down the block, clearly strippers, strolling into the club. “Those chicks are more available to him than tap water. I, on the other hand,” I said, indicating my businesslike attire, “am not.”

We walked to the van parked half a block away from the club and knocked.

I turned to Garrett and whacked him on the head just as Uncle Bob opened the back doors. “Major in sociology, remember?”

He shrugged, semi-agreeing, when Uncle Bob took my hand and lifted me inside. Skirt suit and stilettos. Probably not the best clothes to wear to a stakeout. I was a little worried Garrett would try to give me a boost again by grabbing my ass. Then a little disappointed when he didn’t. A girl had to get her thrills somehow.

The van dipped when Garrett stepped inside.

“We still don’t have any news from Team Father Federico,” I said to Uncle Bob. “If they can’t find him, I don’t know what we’ll do.”

“We’ll have to worry about that later,” Ubie said. “For now, let’s get this on you.” He lifted a tiny mic from a padded box. “We got the smallest wire we could find.”

“Are you for real?” I asked, appalled. “A wire? The plan is for Angel to turn on that spiffy, high-dollar camera Price has set up behind his desk. We’ll get him on tape without him even knowing it. And more important, I’ll live through this.”

“Right, but we’ve got to have some kind of surveillance,” he argued. “How will we know if you’re in trouble?”

“If I’m in trouble, I’ll get you a message.” I looked over at Angel, who’d just stepped in. He was getting excited about the plan, I could tell. And he knew exactly what to do. “Do you honestly think Price won’t have his men frisk me once he finds out why I’m there?” I leaned into Uncle Bob. “Just because I see dead people doesn’t mean I want to be dead people.”

Twenty minutes later, I was stepping out of a room full of half-naked chicks and fairly decent music and into the surprisingly quiet office of Benny Price. Businessman. Father of two. Murderer.

“She’s not wired, boss,” one of his bouncers said, a tall and muscled blond at whom the strippers had batted their lashes as we walked past. He’d brought me into a shadowy hall that led to Price’s office before searching me, simultaneously providing me with a rush of indignation and a rather inappropriate thrill. “She does have a video camera, though.”

Benny Price, who was sitting behind a massive teak desk, turned out to be much more striking in person than his surveillance photos had led me to believe. But in all fairness, he hadn’t been prepared for those shots and didn’t know to pose. He had short black hair and a neatly trimmed mustache and goatee. Where I lost complete respect for him was with his tie and kerchief. The tie was magenta against a sleek black shirt and pin-striped vest, and the handkerchief peeking from the vest pocket was much closer to violet. That settled it. He had to go down.

“You wanted to see me, Ms. — ?”

“Mrs. … Magenta. Violet Magenta,” I said. While keeping a straight face.

The bodyguard stepped forward and placed the video camera he’d found in my handbag on Price’s desk. “She told me her name was Lois Lane.”

Sadly, I think he believed me.

Price stood and picked up the camera. His very stance was meant as a threat, meant to belittle and intimidate. I knew plenty of women his tactics would work on. I was not one of them.

I sat down opposite him as he opened the LCD monitor and played the video on the camera.

“My name is Donna Wilson,” I heard myself say from the other side. Well, not the other side …

“I have sent this video to ten people, including my lawyer, a coworker, and my pedicurist.” Pedicurist. I tried not to giggle. “If I do not call each and every one of these people by nine P.M. today, they will take the tape directly to the police. I have irrefutable proof locked in a safety deposit box that Benny Price, owner and operator of the Patty Cakes Strip Clubs, is trafficking children and selling them as slaves in foreign countries. One of the ten persons mentioned has the key to the box and will give it to the police if I do not return unharmed within the allotted time.”

Benny stood stunned for a moment before closing the monitor and handing my camera back to me. Since I seemed to have his complete attention, I started the act. Breathing heavy, I curled my fingers into my handbag — a gorgeous silk clutch Cookie let me borrow — and leveled a determined, and slightly naïve, stare on him.

Clearly, I would not win the Patty Cakes Club’s fave person of the year award. Though he hid it well, Price was angry. He forced himself to stay calm as he sat back behind his desk. “And what kind of proof do you have?” he asked, his voice like ice water.

I let my gaze dart to my purse then back up, hoping I wasn’t overdoing the nervous damsel-in-distress bit. I had to sell it, not cram it down his throat.

“I have a USB flash drive I obtained from my employer, a lawyer who was shot a couple of days ago. He said it had everything we would need to put Benny Price — you — behind bars.”

Price calmed then. The corners of his mouth twitched, and I knew he had the flash drive. Maybe he would be just stupid enough to …