Double Strike (A Davis Way Crime Caper Book 3) by Gretchen Archer Page B

circumstances should Little Sanders have the codes to get in and out of our offices. When I left him safe and secure on the sofa two Pop Tarts ago, I left him in a fortress he couldn’t exit. I know I certainly didn’t give him the code to get out, or back in, for that matter, or for elevator access, also supposedly secure, and I know neither No Hair nor Fantasy had passed out passcodes either. That only left Baylor. Then I remembered what a sneaky little shit Little Sanders is. Maybe I’d let Baylor have three seconds to defend himself before I killed him. Just in case.
    Our offices had never been breached, until now.
    Did the Jennings kid get a good look at me when I threw open the door? Did the hooker? If they did, did it matter, since Quinn wouldn’t recognize me in the casino, because he wouldn’t be in the casino? And the hooker wasn’t in much of a position to point fingers. Where and how did they get weed? How much dirt were Little Sanders and I going to have on each other before this was over? How long was I going to stay locked up in here contemplating my disastrous future? Wasn’t it about time for these two boys to go back to school?
    #Furious
      
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    @STRIKE_TEAM Countdown till GO—3 days. #StrikeItRich
      
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    “So you’re in her good graces.”
    “I think.”
    It was two in the morning. Fantasy and I were parked across the street from Elspeth Raiffe’s apartment on Cedar Lane Road. Watching. Waiting. On, so far, nothing.
    “Honestly, Fantasy,” I said, “it’s simple. Take good pictures, write clever little captions, make slide shows, put it to music, find a kid who can put it all together, then blast it out to everyone.” I trained my thermal-imaging monocular on Elspie’s bedroom again, and again, she was still passed out in the bed. Sawing logs. (#Jealous) She hadn’t moved a muscle since we’d arrived at midnight. “Every time I did it today, she texted me little cartoons of fireworks, party hats, and smiley faces wearing sunglasses. So I think I’m good.”
    “It’s the new way to communicate,” Fantasy said. “We’re going to have to get onboard.”
    “I’m already overboard.”
    “It is irritating,” she said. “The phone dinging every three minutes.”
    “Tomorrow, she wants me to stop bothering Strike employees and start bothering Strike players.”
    “I don’t want to be you tomorrow.” She stretched her long legs. “I want to be me tomorrow.” Fantasy had to show up for Bellissimo Barre in just a few short hours, but after that, she got to go home and sleep all day. Her reward for accompanying me tonight. I didn’t get a reward for accompanying her.
    “It’s all set up on something called sweet hoot,” I said. “All the little movies of Strike hors d’oeuvres, those chairs, and Baylor’s boots? All done.”
    “Brilliant.” Fantasy’s head popped up. “Yo. Car.”
    A dirty white Ford Fusion pulled in and parked in front of Hashtag’s ground-level apartment.
    “Why would someone drive that car if they didn’t have to?”
    “Go get yourself a new car, girl,” I said to the shadowy figure. “You look like you work for the government.”
    The woman climbed out and slung a large bag over her shoulder. She paused to beep the car door locks, then walked at a pace and posture suggesting she’d been on a road crew for three shifts.
    “They’re roommates.” Fantasy said as the girl worked the lock on the door to Elspie’s apartment.
    “Maybe.”
    We jumped a little when Elspie’s bedside lamp lit. Her fuzzy red image crossed the room to meet the other fuzzy red image in the front room.
    “Should we be watching this?”
    “If you can’t handle it,” I said, “don’t look. And don’t discriminate.”
    “Are you really talking to a black woman about discrimination, Davis?”
    It never crossed my mind that anyone would discriminate against Fantasy. Ever.
    “If you want to talk to someone about