Evie Ever After

CHAPTER SIX

THE CHAMELEON CLUB WAS LOCATED in Atlantic City’s Inlet. Only not in the newly renovated section. And though it was situated on the boardwalk, it faced the bay instead of the ocean and was a goodly distance from the casinos and souvenir tourist traps. Let’s just say I wouldn’t walk around this area after dark. Even during the day, I held my purse close and watched for muggers and drunks. No wonder Nic and Jayne had flipped when I told them I’d been hired to sing full-time in this, well—calling a spade a spade—dive.

Arch veered into the pothole-ridden parking lot and I had visions of car thieves lurking in the abandoned building a block down. “Isn’t there a nearby garage or a secret place like the Bat Cave where you can park this thing?”

“No.”

“What if we come out and all of the tires are gone?”

“I’ll buy new ones.”

“What if the car is gone?”

“Jazzman’s fine.”

“I wasn’t talking about Beckett.”

“But you’re thinking aboot him, yeah?”

I didn’t bother to lie. Arch would know. “Aren’t you?”

“Aye.”

He didn’t elaborate. I didn’t press. He’d tried calling Beckett twice since receiving the news of Mad Dog’s death. Both calls had rolled to voice mail.

On the ride over my imagination had soared. Arch had no information other than Frank Turner had been found dead this morning in his home, the seeming victim of a burglary. So I’d filled in the blanks, creating two or three different scenarios. Surely Beckett hadn’t killed the man and if he did, it must have been in self-defense only why then would he cover it up? Only maybe he didn’t cover it up. Maybe the cops were mistaken. Or maybe it was a straight up burglary and the thieves—not Beckett—killed Mad Dog. Yeah. That was it. Only I kept going, relaying the plot of a classic caper flick, to which Arch responded, “This is real life, not a movie, yeah?”

Which was his way of telling me to stuff a sock in it.

I’d clammed up after that, until now that is. “Wait,” I said as he helped me out of his spiffy car. “I have to get out of this costume.” Even though Arch had cranked up the air, I was soaked to the skin and itchy. Unfortunately, I tend to break out in a rash when I’m nervous or anxious, although it’s usually confined to my neck and chest. This was a full body itch so I guess that meant I was ultranervous about Beckett.

Arch tugged down the back zipper. I shimmied out of the gorilla suit, sighing when a breeze hit my sweaty skin.

He peered at me over the rim of his sunglasses. “Now that’s sexy.”

He was looking at my chest.

I glanced down, not getting a straight on view like him, but I could imagine. Initially, I’d been wearing layers, only I knew I’d be hot in the ape suit, so I’d peeled off the long-sleeved T-shirt, leaving my pale pink tank top. It was soaked and so was my sheer bra. I met his appreciative gaze. “So can you see my…you know.”

“Nipples?” He quirked his first grin in several minutes then reached into his backseat and produced a denim jacket.

“Thanks.” I didn’t care that it was too big for me. Through twists of fate it seemed someone, somewhere was always getting a peek at my boobs. So far everyone on the team except…No, wait. Everyone on the team had seen my boobs. I didn’t want to think about it.

Arch lit up a cigarette and I marveled for the zillionth time how I could possibly find the nasty habit sexy. I guess it’s because it accentuated his bad-boy persona. It also stunk up the air and blackened his lungs. Lungs I cared about more and more, along with every other organ and limb of the man’s hunky body.

“You should really think about giving those things up.”

“Noted.”

“And?”

“Thinking aboot it.”

I rolled my eyes. Conversation with Arch wasn’t always easy. But I wasn’t daunted. After all, I’d been married to a man who spoke in circles for a living. As an agent, Michael had to appease both artist and buyer which often led to embellishing, twisting, and spinning his words. Sometimes the best approach was to leave off and come back to the subject later. In some ways, Michael had been a valuable training ground for Arch. Weird, but true.

We fell into mutual silence—Arch smoking, me scratching—as we made our way up the wooden steps and onto the boardwalk. Waves lapped at the shore. The sun beamed in a clear blue sky. A beautiful spring day, except for the cloud of doom I imagined hovering over the club.

Arch snuffed his Marlboro then steered me through the front door. As my eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, I flashed on the disappointment I’d experienced the first time I’d entered this run-down building. I’d expected a super spy facility, not a dingy bar that looked like it hadn’t been modernized since the 1950s. It even had a beat-up cigarette machine and a jukebox. The pictures on the faded walls featured singers and musicians from days gone by. The only artists I recognized were Miles Davis and Billie Holiday. Then again, unlike Beckett, I wasn’t a big fan of jazz. You can imagine my shock when I was told it’s the only kind of music he allows in this joint. I sing pop, rock, country, disco and R and B. I do not sing jazz.

Although, I’d have to take a stab at it. When not in the field, Beckett expected me to perform here. A cover job of sorts. Just as this bar was a cover for Chameleon. Never mind that there wasn’t a stage and that the mini sound system had been appropriated by Tabasco. At least it was better than flipping burgers in the kitchen. Maybe.

I hugged myself, scratching at my itchy skin through the sleeves of the jacket as Arch and I bypassed vacant tables and targeted the bar. Business wasn’t exactly booming. Then again it was only one in the afternoon. I was pretty certain the two barflies buzzing over their draft beers were the same two geezers I’d seen in here during my last visit.

The bartender, an elderly dark-skinned gentleman with a fondness for vests and porkpie hats, was the team member who oversaw the club when Beckett was in the field. His name was Samuel Vine, but everyone called him Pops. He had a deep, soulful voice that seemed two sizes too big for his wiry body. Pops was also a man of few words. I didn’t know his background, but I’m thinking he and Beckett went way back. Unlike Arch, he didn’t hide his emotions. Clearly, he was rattled. Even so, he forced a smile and addressed me first.

“Welcome home, Twinkie.”

Unfortunately, everyone on the team, except Arch, had picked up on my unwanted moniker. Fortunately, I’d grown used to it. “Thanks, Pops.”

“Your ma and pa okay now?”

“Happily reunited. Thanks to…” I started to say Chameleon then remembered the barflies. “Friends.”

“Good. That’s good.” His gaze flicked to the man beside me. “Ace,” he said, gripping Arch’s hand.

Arch squeezed the man’s shoulder, smiled, and the old man relaxed a little. “Heard from Jazzman?” Arch asked.

Pops leaned in and lowered his voice. “All I know is he got hauled in by the AIA. Told me he’d be in touch later. That was—” he glanced at his Timex “—three hours ago.”

I scratched my neck, my chest.

“Others are in The Cave,” Pops said then moved back to his cronies.

Arch took my hand and pulled me aside. “Maybe you should wait here.”

“Why?”

“From the way you’re scratching, I’m not sure you can handle whatever’s going on, Sunshine.”

Of all the…“I can handle it!”

“Calm down,” Arch said with a glance to the patrons. All two of them.

“I can handle it,” I whispered through clenched teeth. “This isn’t a nervous rash. I’ve never broken out on my arms before. I think it’s a reaction to that monkey suit. The fur or whatever Fannie cleaned it with. I don’t know.”

“Right then. You should shower.”

“I will. As soon as I get home.”

“Now. Upstairs.”

“Beckett’s shower?”

“Aye.”

“Forget it.”

“He’s not there.”

“I don’t care.” No way, no how was I getting naked in Beckett’s apartment. I’d been there. Done that. Almost. Thanks to ODing on a combo of over the counter medication. “I’m fine. Really. Let’s go.”

He didn’t look or sound exasperated, but I’d wager I’d taxed his patience. “Fine,” he said then steered me to a storage room.

My pulse accelerated as we navigated the jam-packed room and pushed through a concealed door. A set of creaky stairs led to the basement. A low-wattage bulb illuminated a washer and dryer and a freezer. Workout equipment. Tools. Crates of liquor and soda. All perfectly normal. Well, except for the appliances. The avocado finish screamed early 70s. Hello, Brady Bunch. The old-as-dirt dryer was probably a fire hazard. The ancient wiring couldn’t be that safe, either. I immediately redirected my basement inferno thoughts.

I’d only been down here once before. But I knew Arch had to swing aside a wall clock to get to a security pad. Unlike Pops he didn’t ask me to turn away when he punched in the code. Which intimated trust. Which gave me a warm fuzzy feeling. If only it would heal the itching sensation driving me batty.

Just as I knew it would, a wall slid open revealing The Cave. The super spy facility I’d imagined only it was hidden behind shelves of canned pretzels and assorted nuts.

I don’t know why they called it The Cave. It didn’t look like a cave. It looked like a state-of-the-art recording studio. Acoustic tiles. Plush carpeting. Leather furniture. A console of visual and audio gadgets.

A techno-geek’s dream. Speaking of…

“I dug like you said, Ace, but I didn’t get much,” Woody said as we entered the room and the wall slid shut behind us.

The Kid, as everyone except me called him, was sitting alongside Tabasco at the console tapping away at one of three computers. The two men couldn’t look more opposite.

Woody had a pasty complexion, scraggly hair, and a sparse beard. Skinny as a rail, early twenties—a dead ringer for Scooby-Doo’s Shaggy. He’d had one girlfriend and he’d lost her. It didn’t help that he was a social train wreck.

Tabasco probably had a girlfriend or two in every state. Any woman who’d ever drooled over Antonio Banderas would drool over Jimmy Tabasco. Same sexy, Latin lover vibe. Plus, he was sweet.

Tabasco’s official role with Chameleon was dual: Transportation Specialist and Location Scout. But he was also pretty savvy with tech gear. Last night he’d worked alongside Woody in the high-tech surveillance van, spying on Mad Dog’s poker game. Since the players weren’t allowed to have guests, Arch (as the Baron of Broxley) had sent me back to our hotel, only I’d stopped the cab a block down and had backtracked, slipping inside the undercover van to view the sting over Woody’s and Tabasco’s shoulders. Being on the outside looking in wasn’t where I wanted to be, but it was better than being in the dark. Due to strategically hidden cameras, Tabasco, Woody, and I had a prime view of every player and their cards via multiple monitors. Due to transmitting and receiving body wires, we had full audio contact. Between Arch and Gina, who were both in the game, Mad Dog never stood a chance even with his luminous contact lenses and marked cards.

“The only reason CNN picked up the story,” said Tabasco, “is because Mad Dog was a former pro football player.”

“Otherwise we wouldn’t have learned the news so soon,” Woody said. “A burglary that resulted in homicide. Local news stuff.”

Just then Gina emerged from another room with a cup of coffee. Without a word she perched on the cushy leather sofa and thumbed through a stack of newspapers. She barely spared us a glance. I wasn’t surprised. She hated that I was sleeping with Arch. I hated that she’d slept with Arch (something I’d learned from my meddling ex-husband). Arch, who’d refused to apologize to me for past affairs (which when I thought about it logically was, well, logical) was nevertheless sensitive to my discomfort. Hence, he’d been treating Gina with cool indifference. I was starting to feel bad about that. Especially, when I put myself in her shoes. I could fully sympathize with the plight of the woman scorned.

“Hacked into the local law’s computer system,” said Woody. “The initial report looks routine, though sketchy. Cops must be frustrated as all get out. No physical evidence. No clue as to the identity of the assailant.”

“Yet,” Tabasco said.

“Pull up that report for me, Kid.” Arch moved to the console.

I scratched. I needed a distraction from the itching that was only getting worse. Eying the stack of newspapers, I sucked it up and sat down next to Gina. Not right next to her, but close enough to make her frown.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Looking for any mention of ‘Mad Dog.’ Doubt there’ll be one since most of these papers went to press last night, but it’s worth a look. Also keeping my eye trained for any blips about Senator Clark or Vincent Crowe. Anything at all.”

“Can I help?”

I thought I heard her sigh, only Gina wasn’t the sighing type. She reminded me of Nic—independent, cynical, worldly. She also resembled my friend in appearance, only her skin was paler and her eyes were brown. But she exuded the same sensuality. Had the same tall, slender but toned body. Except Nic was nice and Gina was mean. Okay. Maybe not mean. But definitely bitter. Again, I could relate.

She passed me the Philadelphia Inquirer without comment and I felt another twinge of guilt. Maybe if I tried harder we could strike some kind of truce. The tension I’d created between Arch and Beckett was bad enough.

Determined to fit in, I scanned the newspaper, every section, every page, every article. Meanwhile I listened to the men discuss the timeline and where they thought Beckett would have/should have been and what, if anything, could have gone wrong.

I didn’t point out that I had made similar conjectures just minutes ago in Arch’s car. I skimmed the paper and scratched, silently congratulating myself for thinking on their level.

Gina looked over her shoulder at Arch. “The Kid said you spoke with Jazzman this morning. How did he sound?”

“Tired.”

“What did he say?”

“Mission complete.”

“His part of the mission,” Gina said, “was to make Turner disappear.”

“Not literally!” I snapped. “He was just supposed to make him, you know, go away. Split the country. Change his identity and never mention the senator’s wife’s gambling problem or else—” I scratched my cheek “—something. He didn’t kill Mad Dog,” I grumbled while scratching my arms.

“Preaching to the choir, Sunshine. We’re all on Beckett’s side.” Arch sounded calm. No surprise there.

Tabasco sounded calm, but his attitude needed work. “I have a sinking feeling we’re going to be linked to Mad Dog’s death.”

“Agent Beckett did say he had a bad feeling about this case right off,” Woody added.

“I want to know why the AIA pulled him in,” Arch said, “and why he hasn’t returned our calls.”

“What’s with the red blotches on your face, Twinkie?”

I glanced up and saw Gina staring at me with—here’s a shocker—concern. I experienced a full body blush. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve been acting like a dog with fleas ever since you walked in,” Woody said.

I realized then that I was scratching like a loon. My arms. My neck and chest. My face. Yet there was no relief from the incessant itching that felt as though it had wiggled beneath my skin. I felt irritable and anxious, and okay, a little scared. “Stupid gorilla suit!”

“What?” Gina laughed but she still looked concerned.

Arch moved around and crouched in front of me just as I yanked off his jacket in order to scratch my bare arms.