“Where does she get the alarm codes, and how does she get past neighborhood or condo security?” Phil asked, as he slathered his burger with ketchup. Helen picked at her salmon with mango chutney.
“Ever been roofied? Donna usually gives the guy just enough so he tells her the codes. He’s not quite out, and they slip right past security: She and her mark look like just another lovey-dovey couple.”
“Catch her on the security videos at the bars?” Phil asked, then bit into his burger.
“Donna’s smart,” Broker said. “We think she has someone scope out the security cameras. She’s careful to turn her face away from the CCTV cameras and she uses her long hair to hide her face. Many security systems have blurry images, so it’s hard to see her clearly.”
“We’ve got a tip this Donna may be back in Fort Lauderdale this weekend,” Phil said, using Oscar’s information. “For the boat show.”
“Major money,” Broker said. Somehow, most of his burger had disappeared.
“Our informant thinks she’d most likely be at the White Lady Lounge.”
“Makes sense,” Broker said. “The last complaint about Donna was in Palm Beach County, so she’d be heading this way next. Don’t underestimate her, Phil.”
“That’s why I want to bring you in on this. If we find her, we want you to arrest her. Our client wants his art and furniture back, but I told him it was probably on a container ship.”
Broker shook his head. “Too risky. It would have to go through customs in another country.”
“Can’t be on a moving van,” Phil said. “Too many records: pick up, delivery, bill of lading.” He took a big bite of burger.
“Maybe a PODS company,” Broker said.
Phil finished chewing and said, “What’s that?” Helen snitched a french fry off his plate and went back to her heart-healthy salmon.
“You’ve seen them,” Broker said. “Big white containers. PODS is the name of a company, but it’s also short for permanent-on-demand storage. The customers rent a big truck-sized storage cubicle, pack their items in it, lock it with their own padlock.
“Nobody would give a white box truck a second look,” he said. “The GPS could locate it.”
“Helen, you’re awfully quiet,” Broker said. “What are you doing?”
“I’m backup, and I’ll ask our landlady, Margery Flax, to come with me. She’s worked with us before. Margery’s smart and thinks on her feet.”
“She’s old, isn’t she?”
“Don’t underestimate her,” Helen said. “Margery is strong and tough. We’ll both dress as tourists, and watch Donna and Phil in the White Lady. Once we catch her trying to spike Phil’s drink, we’ll get him out of there and call you.”
“Be careful, Helen,” Broker said. “Don’t let her drug Phil and get him into her car. She could take off and endanger him. Make sure she’s not packing pepper spray or a weapon. I wouldn’t want to be out cold and struggling to breathe in the confines of a car.”
“Hey, hey,” Phil said. “She’s not going to drug me. I’ll be watching her too.”
Broker ignored Phil and said to Helen, “If she drugs him, we’ll need blood tests. We can charge her with illegal administration of drugs, along with grand theft and possession. Text me at the first sign of trouble. And if you get Donna into your car, take her purse in case she’s got a weapon or tear gas.”
“Will do,” Helen said. “And I’ll text you where to meet us.”
“If you and Margery get her talking, remember, if there’s a probable cause arrest, any admissions she makes to you can be considered credible testimony.”
Helen and Broker exchanged text information. “I’ll be on alert after eight Saturday night,” he said, “unless I hear otherwise from you.” Phil paid the tab and they were outside in the merciless afternoon sun. Helen and Phil opened the door to their four-wheeled oven. The trip on Federal Highway toward downtown Fort Lauderdale was clogged with rush hour traffic.
“Broker was helpful,” Helen said. “How are you going to get an address that impresses Donna?”
“Easy. I’m staying at the Ritz,” Phil said.
Helen turned onto their street. The Coronado’s clean art moderne lines loomed over the treetops. The private eye pair had an unusual living arrangement: After they married two years ago, they kept their two small apartments at the Coronado. They slept together at night, but needed their private retreats. A third apartment, 2B, was their office.
Margery Flax, their landlady, was lounging in the shade of a poolside umbrella, a glass pitcher sweating on a nearby table.
She waved and said, “Join me for a nice, cold screwdriver.” Margery was seventy-six, and her wrinkles gave her face distinction. Their purple-loving landlady wore amethyst earrings, a gauzy lavender dress, and flowered flip-flops. She filled two plastic glasses with her special recipe, which Helen thought was eight parts gin to one part orange juice, then pushed a bowl of chips toward them.
“You two working on a case?” Margery asked. Helen and Phil told her about Will Drickens and the magical Donna who’d made everything he owned disappear.
“And you’re betting everything on Saturday night at the White Lady Lounge?” Margery asked.
“It’s worth a shot,” Phil said. “If we don’t find her then, we’ll keep trolling the local hot spots until we do.”
“Want to be my backup, Margery?” Helen asked. “I’ll dress as a tourist. Nobody notices them.”
“They see the pretty ones,” Margery said. “But nobody gives two tourists a second look, if one is an old lady like me.”
“You’re hired,” Helen said, and they toasted the deal.
Will, their client, was not nearly as enthusiastic, but Helen told him it was his only chance to get his art and furniture back. Finally, he said, “I suppose I could lend Phil something.”
Saturday morning, Helen and Phil met him in his Ritz-Carlton suite. Will didn’t bother to hide his distaste at Phil’s polo shirt, khaki shorts, and battered boat shoes.
“I could go like this, and be hip and disheveled,” Phil said.
“You’re not hip enough to get past the doorman,” Will said. “What time are you planning to go to the White Lady?”
“About eight,” Phil said. “Early for a club, but I don’t want to miss Donna.”
“Then you need to wear a suit,” Will said. “My Tom Ford would be best. Donna recognizes quality.”
“In clothes,” Phil said, and Helen gave him a wifely elbow in the ribs. “Tom Ford any relation to John?”
“No, but he is an award-winning film director and he has his own label. He did Daniel Craig’s suits for three movies. If Tom’s good enough for James Bond, he’s good enough for me.” Helen realized Will was not kidding.
“If I let you wear the suit Ford designed for Daniel Craig, you have to promise not to get it sweaty. It’s a sixty-five-hundred-dollar suit.”
Cha-chingl Helen thought. Will never misses a chance to mention the price.
“I suppose you’ll need shoes. And socks,” Will said.
“I’ve got socks,” Phil said. “Gold Toes.”
Will’s lip curled, then he said with a sigh, “I’ll have to lend you socks too. They’re seventy-five dollars. And jewelry. You should wear my Tag Heuer Carrera Calibre 16 stainless steel watch — that’s forty-six hundred.”
Helen asked for a detailed description of Donna: height, weight, dress size, hairstyle, and the exact location of that heart-shaped birthmark on her shoulder. “Right where it meets her collarbone,” Will said. Online, Helen found the designer dresses Will had bought during their weekend fling so she’d have a good idea of Donna’s style.
Phil left the Ritz with Will’s fourteen-thousand-dollar outfit carefully packed in a black leather suitcase. The parting seemed painful for Will. “Bring my suit back Sunday if you don’t catch her. I’ll have it dry-cleaned here.”