Miles purchased the pre-made cookie cake in a busy mall in Indianapolis two days ago. It’ll be slightly stale, but the kids won’t notice. They also won’t notice the miniscule amount of ricin poison Miles dusted over the top of the filling. It was a bitch getting the top layer of cookie off the cake and back on again, and it didn’t turn out quite as pretty as it was when purchased, but again, the kids won’t care.
Miles hopes the pretty redhead mom with the pale pink bra samples the cookie cake.
8
Donovan Creed.
I’VE ONLY BEEN in Vegas a few weeks, but I’ve already made an investment. I purchased a plastic surgery center and day spa I plan to open when the police release the building to me. They’re still investigating a mass murder that took place on the premises. I’ll start fresh with a whole new staff headed by Dr. Eamon Petrovsky, the world’s greatest plastic surgeon. Dr. Petrovsky (I call him Dr. P.) headed the team of surgeons that gave me the new face I’m wearing.
Earlier today I called Dr. P. and told him to pack some clothes for our trip.
“What trip?” he said.
“We’re flying to Louisville, Kentucky.”
“Why?”
“What do you care? Until our license is granted, you’re unemployed.”
I told him I’d swing by his place at three and give him a ride to the private airfield. Then I went for a run, worked out in Callie’s gym a half hour, then took a shower. After packing an overnight bag, I found the women glued to the TV in the den.
“What’s happened?” I ask.
“Remember Mindy Renee Whittaker?” Callie says.
I think a minute. “The kid who got kidnapped years ago?”
Callie nods.
“What about her?”
“She’s been in witness relo. But someone just blew her cover!”
“What kind of asshole would do that?”
“They’re not saying. But ten to one it’s her husband.”
“She’s married? How’s that possible? She’s just a kid.”
“Time flies. Believe it or not, she’s twenty-four now.”
I scoot onto the couch next to Maybe and watch the drama unfold. It’s so weird, calling my daughter Maybe, but it’s something I need to get used to.
The photo they’re showing of Dani Ripper’s a good one, designed to build ratings.
She’s hot.
9
“WHY ARE WE flying to Louisville?” Dr. P. asks.
We’re at his place. I’m carrying his luggage.
“Where’s your medical bag?”
“You didn’t mention bringing it.”
“I shouldn’t have to! You’re a doctor! What if I get shot or something?”
“Relax, Donovan. It’s only a matter of retrieving it from the den.”
He leaves to fetch it.
An hour later we’re airborne, thanks to Bob Koltech, who owns and operates a fleet of six jets. Bob and I have a great relationship. In return for giving me instant service and personally flying me wherever I wish to go, no questions asked, I pay Bob twice his normal fees.
Dr. P. says, “Did you hear they found Mindy Renee?”
“She’s Dani Ripper now. It’s all over the news.”
Indeed, it’s a compelling story. Even Callie’s hooked. One network promised around-the-clock coverage as the story develops, so Callie and the others are having a Dani party tonight, complete with pizza and cheese bread! Such fare is no big deal for me, but these ladies are extremely calorie conscious.
At ten forty-five local time we land at General Aviation, near Standiford Field in Louisville. Bob has a limo waiting for us, and within twenty minutes Dr. P. and I are strolling through the lobby of the Seelbach Hotel.
We check in, grab a drink together, and go to our respective rooms. While getting comfortable I turn on the TV to catch the latest on Dani Ripper.
Like Callie said, Mindy Renee Whittaker’s all grown up now. At twenty-four, she’s blossomed into one of the prettiest women I’ve ever seen, assuming the photos are authentic. They say she’s a private investigator, working out of Cincinnati. Changed her name to Dani Ripper nine years ago.
Dani Ripper? As in Jack the Ripper? Odd name for a girl to make up.
But I like it.
And I like her.
I find myself wondering if a gorgeous private eye like Dani Ripper might be interested in working with me. I fire up my laptop to see what the internet says about her.
More photos.
Stunning. Not as sexy as Gwen, but prettier.
Not as beautiful as Callie, but close.
And there’s this: she’s married.
That’s her husband on TV, holding a press conference in front of their house.
Ben Davis. But Dani goes by Ripper, not Davis. I wonder why.
I also wonder why Dani’s not with Ben at the press conference. Then I think about it and decide she’s probably inside, hiding. Ben says she’s staying at a friend’s house, but that’s probably untrue.
If she is staying with a friend, that’s a hell of a lucky friend!
I listen a few minutes, and…wait. Is he actually trying to pitch a book deal? I wonder if maybe Dani and her husband wrote a book and then leaked the story themselves.
Clever.
I like the fact she’s married. Means she likes men.
I catch myself, and laugh.
What is it about men? Why do we always visualize ourselves dating or sleeping with the woman we’re thinking about at any given minute?
I laugh again, forced to admit that’s what I was thinking just now. About how Dani, like Callie, is breathtakingly beautiful, and how I’d give anything to have sex with Callie, but Callie prefers women, which takes me out of the game. And I was thinking how Dani Ripper’s as close to Callie as a man is likely to find on this earth, and that led me to think, well, Dani’s married, so she likes men, which means I have a chance!
I might be more insane than Rachel.
But now that I’m all worked up, a powerful urge comes over me. There are two or three women I could call to satisfy that urge, and one is local. But for some reason I can’t explain, only one woman will do on this particular night.
Miranda Rodriguez.
Miranda’s a grad student at NYU, working toward her master’s in counseling psychology. Smart, witty, pretty, she’s the whole package.
“Donovan!” she squeals. “I was just thinking about you!”
“Still angry I canceled the Chicago trip yesterday?”
She laughs. “Don’t be silly! That wasn’t your fault. Your daughter surprised you with a visit. That’s a wonderful thing!”
“True. So why were you thinking about me just now?”
She laughs again, harder.
I love Miranda’s laugh. Can’t describe it except to say it reminds me of the tinkling of piano keys and a waterfall.
I know, I know.
“Spill it, Miranda. You won’t hurt my feelings.”
“Well…I’ve got a tuition payment coming up.”
Right. So of course she was thinking about me. You see, Miranda’s fucking her way through college. Tuition and living expenses being what they are in NYC, it’s either earn the money or take out a school loan for three hundred grand.
“When can we get together?” I say.
“Name it, handsome,” she says, and I feel her warmth coming through the phone.
“Tonight?” I say, knowing she’ll say it’s too late.
“Can you arrange a private jet?”
“I can.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously!”
“Omigod!” She squeals. “I’m so excited!”
I look at my watch.
Eleven twenty-two.
If Bob Koltech picks her up, we’ll lose three hours. One for him and the co-pilot to drive to the airport and get the jet ready, and two to fly to Teterboro Airport. Then two hours back, and another thirty minutes before Miranda can get to my hotel.