“Please, join the party, Dennis.” Preston pumped Murphy’s hand and pulled him toward the table.
“Don’t mind if I do.” Murphy placed two hundred dollars on the table.
Jackie slid up beside Sam. “Hey, Enise, aren’t you about due for a break?” Jackie pulled on the bangs of her short, curly wig.
“You are a lifesaver,” Sam whispered, struggling to get her heels back on. Turning to the men, Sam said, “Monique is taking over. Behave yourselves now.”
“Little warm in here, boys.” Jackie unbuttoned her jacket and tossed it on a chair. With that one motion, Jackie turned the temperature in the room up another twenty degrees. Talking ceased, heads turned from the bar and sofa. Jackie’s cream-colored halter top revealed the largest breasts these men had probably ever seen, except in a centerfold.
Slowly, she tugged on the gold chain around her neck and withdrew a two-inch long gold pendant from her massive caramel-colored cleavage. The pendant was in the shape of a man, like a miniature Oscar statue, if you looked close. But from where the men sat, it looked more like a miniature replica of the male organ.
Jackie flashed her Whitney Houston smile revealing full lips over gleaming white teeth. She kissed the pendant and said, “My good luck piece.” With deliberation, she slipped the pendant head first back down her cleavage, using one long talon to tuck it slow and deep.
The banker’s bifocals slid down the bridge of his nose while the somber-faced attorney dribbled a scotch and water down his chin. Preston gripped the back of Murphy’s chair. The doughboy’s jaw slacked. The cigar the size of a tree trunk hung precariously from his lower lip until the weight alone sent it careening down onto the green felt table.
“Let’s not burn the table, Sugar.” Jackie grabbed a towel from under the table, set the cigar in the ashtray, and rubbed the ashes off the felt, taking her time while her massive breasts swayed heavily from side to side. No one noticed that Sam had left. No one cared. That was the plan.
Chapter 2
Guests sat at circular tables placed randomly in the ballroom. Some stood near the buffet table snatching bits of patE9 and caviar or grabbing glasses of champagne from the trays offered by roving waiters.
Wandering through the crowded ballroom, Jake Mitchell and Frank Travis studied the artwork lining the walls, the heavy burgundy drapes framing the windows, and the marble floor glistening under crystal chandeliers. Preston had hired Jake as a security guard for the reception. Jake had asked Frank to tag along.
“They could fit ten precincts in this place,” Frank said, his deep, soft-spoken voice resembling a television evangelist’s pulpit tone.
“I doubt he loses any sleep worrying about where his next meal is coming from,” Jake said. He eyed the guests in their expensive dresses, tuxes, jewelry. The women gave him more than a passing glance back and tried to give Frank their empty glasses as if he were the butler.
“See. Bring a black man to a party and they immediately want you to clean up,” Frank quipped. “And this is the best I could do on a Saturday night?”
“What the hell does Preston have here? A harem? I’ve seen very few men.”
Frank studied the portraits hanging like a family tree. “What’s the story on Preston?”
“From what I’ve heard, old man Byron was the CEO of a rather lucrative import/export company. Byron was going to be the next Howard Hughes. But a boating accident brought those plans to a screeching halt.”
“Wife, too?”
Jake nodded, adding, “And there were no other living relatives.”
They made their way into the foyer with its cathedral-type ceiling painted with a scene of plump, winged angels. The staircase was wide and winding.
Frank struggled with the top button on his shirt. “I would have never agreed to this if I had known I’d have to wear a tux. I haven’t been in one of these since my wedding.”
“It becomes you, Frank. You look like one of the Four Tops.”
They stepped outside the front entrance for a breath of fresh air. A valet had just pulled up in a black Lexus. Two guests were making an early departure.
The night air was cool for June and dew was already forming on the grass. They watched the tail lights as the Lexus headed down the long driveway.
Jake lit a cigarette. Behind the glow of the match, his thick eyebrows furrowed. The soft wind riffled through his short hair revealing a two-inch long scar near the scalp.
Twisting the cap off a bottle of spring water, Frank said, “I thought you gave those up.”
Jake blew the smoke out slowly. “I love giving them up so much, I do it every day. Besides, I only have two cigarettes a day.”
Jake peered past Frank’s shoulder, watching the security guard inside the door. A man of about thirty in blue jeans and a sportscoat was slipping something to the guard, who then nodded for him to pass.
“Hold it,” Jake said through the screen door, motioning for both the guard and the guest to step outside.
“He’s okay. I checked him out.” The guard’s uniform was strained around his midsection.
Jake flipped open the guest’s sportscoat to reveal a camera. “Give him his money back,” he said to the guard. Reluctantly, the guard handed the folded money back to the reporter.
“First Amendment rights,” the reporter muttered under his breath as he walked away.
“By invitation only,” Jake yelled at the reporter’s back.
“You’ve got eyes like a hawk,” Frank said.
“Who else did you let buy themselves in?” Jake asked the guard.
“Nobody. He’s the only one.”
“He better be. Or this is the last security job you’ll ever work.”
Sam inched her way into the study on the second floor. She had been in Preston’s house one other time when he had conducted a secret meeting with local politicians. She had posed as a bartender but spent most of her time snooping. The study had two entrances. One from the hallway, and the other from the master bedroom. Sam had entered from the master bedroom.
Moving past a wall of bookcases, Sam peered around the corner toward the conference table and bar. Just as she had hoped, she was alone. Self-conscious, she pulled on the short white skirt Jackie had forced her to wear. All night she had felt a draft in places not normally exposed to air in public.
She unscrewed the mouthpiece on Preston’s desk phone and pressed a tiny receiver inside with the tip of a pen. She stood back from the desk and scanned the bookcases, the credenza against the side wall, the pictures on the wall.
“Okay,” she said aloud, “where would I put a safe?” To the left of the mahogany desk hung a large picture of Byron Hilliard. Sam smiled. Feeling the edges, she peered around the side and pulled gently. The picture swung away from the wall on a hinge, revealing a wall safe.
“Just like in the movies.”
Thin white gloves protected the surfaces she touched from fingerprints. The digital sensor did its magic and in seconds Sam was pulling out papers and placing them on the desk. Preston also had cash, all one-hundred-dollar bills banded in three separate bundles.
Along with the money and papers were a brown envelope with the word Capetti across the front, a large book that looked like an accounting ledger, and a smaller envelope with A.M. printed on it. She zeroed in on the small envelope, pulling out the contents. Smiling and breathing a sigh of relief, she quickly fanned through the pictures to make sure these were the ones. Satisfied, she shoved the pictures into her purse and inserted replacement pictures in the envelope. She quickly took pictures of the items from the safe.
When she gave the safe one last check, a gleaming object caught her attention. She reached in and picked up a lapel pin, about an inch-and-a-half wide, three-quarters-of-an-inch high. It was heavy for its size, gold or gold- plated, and shaped like a lightning bolt.
She caught a faint whiff of something unfamiliar, an odor that was musty, indistinguishable. She wrapped her
