“What’s the shape?” Lou says.
I repeat the question to Phyllis and she stammers out it’s a rectangle, and people stick it into the side of their computers.
“Into the USB port?” Lou asks.
I ask Phyllis. She nods.
“Yes,” I tell Lou. “It fits into the USB port.”
“She’s talking about a flash drive,” Lou says. “Also known as a memory stick, finger stick, pen drive, disk-on- key, jump drive—”
“Got it,” I say. “Thanks.”
It takes a minute, but I eventually get Phyllis to explain that the master device resembles the metal tip of a flash drive, except that it’s ceramic, and half the size.
“And is it silver?” I ask.
“Wh-White.”
“Where is it?”
“I-I don’t have it.”
“Is it in this office?”
“N-No. I sw-swear.”
She’s trembling, and seems very small and frail. Much smaller than the clothes in her closet would indicate. Maybe it’s because she’s curled up in a fetal position. She’s crying, and her mascara is running and her mouth is bleeding, and her hair’s a coffee-colored mess.
“Your hair’s not orange,” I say.
“Wh-what?”
“You dyed your sweet spot orange?” I say.
She gives me a confused look. “My wh-what?”
“I was trying not to be vulgar. Your bush. You dyed it orange? Intentionally?”
She follows my gaze and modestly covers her lap with her hands.
“Have you given it to someone?”
“Excuse me?”
“The device.”
Phyllis nods.
“Who?”
“Mrs. Peters.”
I pause. “Lucky’s wife?”
She nods.
“No shit?”
She shakes her head.
Before I kill her I say, “I don’t mean to embarrass you, but I promised my friend I’d ask you something.”
7.
“The initials LP were shaved out of her bush,” I say to Callie.
“Did you verify that personally?”
“No. I trusted her.”
“Is she in heaven now?”
“With Saint Peter you mean? Instead of Lucky Peters?”
“Hard to think of Lucky Peters as a saint.”
“What else do you know about him?”
“He’s seeking investors.”
“For what?”
“He wants to build a sports book facility. Vegas Moon, he calls it.”
“Vegas Moon?”
“Biggest Sports Book under the Sun. That’s his slogan.”
