Board Stiff (An Elliott Lisbon Mystery) (19 page)

We waddled like ducks on a promenade, hunched low, following the courtyard wall. It was thick and imposing, made from heavy cobblestone. I stopped thirty feet or so from the driveway, just out of the glow of the carriage lamps.

I turned to Sid in the shadows and whispered, “Any ideas how to scale this wall?”

She grabbed my arm and stood. The top of the wall hit her shoulders. “It’s more like a brick hedge.” She placed her palms flat on brick tops and hopped. With a quick swing of her left leg, she straddled both sides. She reached down. “Take my hand.”

I gripped her right palm with my left and she pulled. I almost screamed. “Jesus, woman, you’re yanking my arm out of the socket.” I grasped onto several strands of ivy growing on the wall for balance. They were thick and strong, but I still managed to rip them clean off.

“Grab my leg, Tarzan,” she said. “But with the skirt, not just my skin.”

Clutching her leg with my other hand, I scrambled up the side. I conked my head into her hip, knocked her off balance, and we both landed in a lump on the other side. Thank God for boxwood bushes.

“Well, that was graceful,” Sid whispered.

“Don’t criticize my techniques. I’m still in training.” I snapped open the lid on a small hand-sani bottle from my pocket. I rubbed my palms nearly raw and pretended there was no dirt under my fingernails.

The beefcake out front took a step in our direction and we froze in place. He passed beneath a gaslight lamp. He looked even larger up close. So did his gun. After a few steps, he turned back to the front walk. 

We walked a slow wide circle around the perimeter, passing a small iron gate in the wall, before coming up to the side of the house. We crept up close to a picture window and peeked inside. An oak-paneled study with three men in dark suits. They looked expensive. Polished fabrics, silky ties. All three carried guns.

“I can’t believe you were right about the guns,” I whispered.

“If you didn’t believe me, why are we squatting in the azaleas?”

A low growl echoed to my right, toward the back of the house. A sharp bark followed, then faded.

“We should go,” Sid said. “There’s an alarm, I can see the pad. And this window has a shield sticker.”

“It could be a fake sticker. You can get them on eBay.”

“Well those aren’t fake.” She pointed through the glass at a very large flat screen monitor. Black and white images flicked on the screen. The outside steps. Flick. The driveway. Flick. The swimming pool. Flick.

I smashed myself against the house. “Oh shit, we gotta go.”

Sid scrunched below the window sill. “Good idea. Back the way we came.” The bushes shook as she crept along the side of the house.

“No, wait,” I blurted out and grabbed her hand. The poker game was a real lead, and I couldn’t afford to throw it away. “I have to get inside, Sid. I need information.”

“What information?”

“I don’t know,” I said and threw my hands up in desperation. “But come on, we’re already here, and this is my chance to get ahead of Ransom. No way he knows about this.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“There’d be cop cars out front, not sports cars.”

Another dog barked in the distance. Something rustled the pine straw beneath my feet, then scurried across my left flip-flop. I jumped back and slammed my heel into the house. “Son of a bitch,” I groaned through clenched teeth. 

“Probably just a lizard,” Sid said.

I limped out of the bushes. “Well, I’m not staying out here.”

“Fine. But let’s think about this. How do these guys get in? Invitation?”

I shook my head in the darkness. “Probably not. Nothing in writing. No texts or email. Too easy to go viral, land on the wrong device.”

“Okay. How about a password?”

“I like it,” I whispered. “But it could be anything. Open, sarsaparilla. Open, Saskatchewan. Open, saddle soap. Open, sesame.”

“Relax, Daffy Duck. I’ve got an idea.” She fluffed out her hair and unbuttoned the top button on her blouse, then the next one.

“What are you doing?”

“We need a password. Now I’m the password. Let’s go.”

We crept back the way we came, along the courtyard wall to the small iron gate. It wasn’t even latched. I opened it wide, then swung it closed with a bang so the guard wouldn’t see unexpected shadows and shoot us.

A short path led straight to the driveway. The bulldozer met us in front of the open front door. He made the gate sentinel look like a ballet dancer. His shiny white head was attached directly to his collarbone.

Sid smiled. “Hello. We’re here for the poker game.”

He tilted his head and slowly swept his eyes down her body, from her silky brown hair to her shapely tan legs. She was impressive, I admit. If there was an Amazonian warrior Barbie who sold real estate, this is what she’d look like.

He whistled. “Sorry, doll, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

If he noticed the leaves in her hair, he didn’t mention it.

Okay. Time for a different tactic. I casually brushed the dirt from my blouse. “I’m Elliott Lisbon with the Ballantyne Foundation. I’d like to speak with Milo Hickey, please.”

“Not home.”

“With all these cars?” I looked over my shoulder, then waved my arm for dramatic effect.

“Sorry, ladies.” He started to close the door, but I slapped my palm on the raised wood surface to stop him.

He growled.

Okay. Time for a new different tactic. I knew there must be a password; I just didn’t know what it was.

“Sorry. Please wait one second, I’m having trouble remembering the password,” I said in a rush. What did Bebe say? A linebacker crab game? Well, this dude definitely fit that description. “Linebacker?”

His expression remained unchanged.

“Crab?”

Silence.

“I’m close, though, right?”

He didn’t react, but he didn’t slam the door either.

Wait, I thought. “Crabline?”

He hesitated, then stepped aside so we could pass. The foyer spilled into a beautiful living room with mustard yellow walls, arched windows, and polished walnut beams on the ceiling. Soft leather sofas faced a low mahogany table in the center.

“Definitely not a crack house,” I whispered to Sid. “You must be so disappointed.”

She nodded at the three security men in the hall, their backs to the flickering security screen in the study.

“This way, ladies,” the bulldozer said. He led us up a wide staircase to the second floor landing. He held his hand out to the archway on the left.

Vegas had nothing on this private poker room. Fifty-inch flat screens hung on the walls, tuned to separate sporting events. A black granite kitchen and bar consumed the right corner. A full buffet stretched from the bar to the back door wall. Bowls of fresh salads sat on one end, while the other held sandwich meats. Not the thin kind served on flimsy metal trays, either. This buffet boasted a carving station with rare roast beef and honey-glazed ham.

An iron chandelier lit the room with matching sconces on the wall. The room smelled very manly: scotch, musky cologne, and rosemary crusted beef. Five men sat at a regulation poker table to the left, all holding cards and facing a dealer. Three of the men were over sixty, and one was a skinny kid who didn’t look as if he’d reached the legal gambling age. Although that probably didn’t matter much at an illegal poker game. The last man was Milo Hickey. Looking as debonair as an aristocrat on vacation. He rose when we entered and two beefy bouncer types strode forward to block us at the door.

“She knew the password,” bulldozer said with a shrug.

I thrust out my hand. “Mr. Hickey, I’m Elliott Lisbon with the Ballantyne Foundation. This is my associate, Sigrid Bassi.”

He smiled and shook my hand. “Very nice to meet you. Please, call me Milo.”

He shook Sid’s hand and held on for an extra beat. “We’ve met before. At last year’s masquerade benefit for the hospital.”

She smiled up at him. “Really? I think I would’ve remembered you.”

“What can I do for you ladies? I’m sure you didn’t come to join the game.”

“Actually, Milo, you do have an empty seat,” Sid said. “Would you mind?”

“Not at all.” He raised his finger to the dealer, who nodded in return. “Five thousand dollar buy-in okay for you?”

I nearly choked, but Sid smiled like a kid at a carnival. “Absolutely.” She turned to the table. “Good evening, gentlemen. I’m Sid.”

“A drink, miss?” the young bar attendant asked her.

“Scotch, neat.”

“And for you, Ms. Lisbon?” Milo asked.

“Nothing, but please, it’s Elliott. Is there somewhere we can talk privately?”

He led me down the hall to a wood-paneled study. I spied a private bathroom through a tall door and asked to use the facilities. Five minutes later, we were sitting on a leather sofa facing a wide screen TV and a writing desk with a blank tablet on top.

“Is this the lounge?”

He laughed. “Actually, it is. Sometimes the players need to place a private phone call.”

“Or shower before going home?”

“Sometimes. There’s also a smoker’s lounge on the patio.”

“You have a lovely home,” I said. “Not quite what I expected.”

“And what did you expect?”

I felt my face flush. The words crack house and mob flashed in my mind. “Something less formal, I guess.”

He smiled. “I’m a formal man.”

He continued to smile while I racked my brain for a question. Nothing brilliant popped up, so I went with what I knew: generic party small talk. “May I ask what it is you do?”

He crossed his legs and rested his hands against his knee. He was also an elegant man. Sharp clothes, short black hair, smooth dark skin. “I’m the CEO of an asset management firm, Hickey Thompson Equities.”

“I’m surprised you’ve never approached Mr. Ballantyne. His asset portfolio is considerable.”

“Very interesting man, your Mr. Ballantyne. We met in London at a dinner for the ambassador. Now, are you interviewing me for the open seat on your board or is there something else I can help you with?”

“Would you mind answering some questions regarding Leo Hirschorn? I promise to be discreet with anything you tell me.”

“Certainly. As long as I don’t have any conflicts of interest.”

“What type of conflicts?”

He tipped his head. “I’ll let you know.”

“Actually, I saw you on Thursday with Bebe Hirschorn at the Tidewater Inn. She didn’t look too happy.”

“No, she wasn’t. I wanted to give her my condolences. She said Leo enjoyed the Saturday games. She thought maybe if he’d have gone to the game instead of the Ballantyne party, he’d be alive.”

“I suppose that’s true.”

“I’m afraid I stuck my foot in it, so to speak. I told her Leo stopped coming months ago. I thought she’d feel better not wondering a ‘what if’ scenario.”

“How’d that work out?”

“Not so well. Apparently Leo looked forward to the games, she said, never missed a single one.”

“Ouch. So Leo stopped playing?”

“At least with us. In a way, we missed him.”

I raised my brow. “Really?”

“It’s more fun to take money from a man like Leo,” Milo said. “He never stopped talking. Ever. Poker is a game of observation. Reading the table, not just your cards. Leo never shut up long enough to read anybody. Plus, his tell was like a loud speaker with a billboard kicker. Held a small red horseshoe in his hand when his cards sucked, and spun it around his index finger whenever he had three of a kind or better. It was like shooting fish in a barrel.”

“Did he ever mention a woman named Dee?”

He shook his head. “No Dee that I remember. But if I had to guess, I’d say he had a woman on the side.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Where else would he be on Saturday night?”

“Indeed,” I said. I couldn’t think of anything else, and I didn’t want to press my luck. The gunmen still patrolled the halls. “I’ll let you get back to your game. You’ll probably need a new password now.”

We stood and shook hands. He walked me back into the game room. Sid held cards in her right hand while she shuffled two stacks of chips with her left.

“How’s it going?” I asked Sid.

“Great, Elli,” she said. “You go on home, I could be awhile.”

“I’ll get her home safely,” Milo said.

I wasn’t sure. This may not have been a mob-owned crack house, but I still didn’t know these people. And I’m pretty sure more than half of them were armed.

Milo must have read the skepticism on my face. “See the gentleman on her left? He’s a circuit court judge,” he whispered. “And the man on the end?”

I looked at the round man with a receding hairline and Ben Franklin spectacles. He looked vaguely familiar.

“Retired deputy from the Summerton County Sheriff’s Department. Handled the murder of the New York couple on vacation three years ago, remember?”

I did remember. It was all over the news. The deputy personally arrested their son.

“She’ll be fine,” Milo said. “You have my word.”

Sid stayed in the game, so I said goodnight.

Milo nodded at the bulldozer. He escorted me to my car. And didn’t ask why I’d parked at the very end of the street.

“Good night, Ms. Lisbon. You drive careful.”

“Thank you,” I said.

Thoughts swirled in my head as I drove home. Looks like Leo really did have girlfriend. The little sneaker used the poker game as a cover while he diddled the mysterious Dee without detection. And his money management was just as sordid: bouncing checks
and
withdrawing large sums of cash. An interesting juxtaposition. So where was the money coming from and where was it going?