2 Double Dip Read Online Free PDF

likely candidate to have skidded along the top of Bianca’s foot before finding a home. We turned up a sixth round that had whizzed through the doorway and into the office, hitting one of Bianca’s dogs between the eyes. Actually, it hit an oil portrait of the dogs, not a real dog.
    We didn’t find the seventh round, or Peyton, the assistant.
    Here’s hoping they’re not together.
    We’d gone over the surveillance footage a dozen times before we came up here. Peyton Reynolds had not left the thirtieth floor unless she’d jumped off the roof and after two hours of searching high and low, we decided she was not in the Sanders’ residence either. We looked absolutely everywhere.
    Where was Peyton Reynolds?
    I pulled my phone out of my double-knit pant pocket. “No Hair. We found seven spent casings, but only six rounds, and the assistant isn’t here.”
    “Holy, holy hell,” he said. “I’m on my way.”
    He called in extra security and a nurse, then gave us permission to have Bianca transferred to her own living quarters.
    Fantasy and I staggered to our cars.
    “Good luck in the slot tournament tomorrow, Davis.”
    “Good luck finding Peyton.”

    *     *     *

    When I finally stepped inside my own front door it was after two a.m. I draped a hanging bag full of slot-contest clothes across the sofa, then used the walls to hold me up as I stumbled to the kitchen. There was a note in the middle of the table.
    Davis, We’re on our way to Corporate. Last minute, couldn’t be helped. I tried to call you ten times. X, B.
    Not Love, B , not XOXO, B , just X, B . I don’t know if X was for a hug or a kiss. Either way, I could have used a little more. I crumpled the note and bounced it off the refrigerator. Corporate was the Grand Palace, Las Vegas. We was Bradley and Mary Ha Ha. I checked my phone. I had seven missed calls from X, B , and that made me feel a little better. I felt my way to the bedroom, turned in the general direction of the bed, fell on it, still in my fish clothes, and slept until the doorbell rang.
    A large man waved a pink sheet of paper in my face. My eyes focused just enough to see the logo: 777 MOVERS.
    “Twenty-two hundred Beach Boulevard? Cole? Unit three-oh-seven?”
    “We can’t move today,” I said. “I’m running in a slot-machine race.”
    “My grandmother plays slot tournaments,” one of the three men said.
    “Tell her I said good luck.” I closed the door, started a pot of coffee, and stepped in the shower. Thank goodness the movers had woken me up. The slot thing started in an hour.

    *     *     *

    I showered, got gussied up, sprayed my hair medium-spice brown, poked contact lenses into my eyes until they were medium blue, poured a cup of coffee, then checked my phone. Nothing from Bradley. There was a message from No Hair letting me know that Peyton Reynolds was still nowhere to be found. He said that he and Fantasy would be hot on her trail today and when I wasn’t in the slot tournament tracking down the little old lady who lived in a church, I’d better be on the thirtieth floor getting information out of Bianca. Stay in touch. Acknowledge receipt of these pointed instructions.
    No Way was I calling No Hair. It was entirely too early.
    I sat down at the kitchen table with my coffee and the folder of marching orders, then fired up my laptop to cram for the slot-machine test. The Bellissimo website told me there were three types of tournaments. The first, in a category all by itself, was the official kickoff to Slot Tournament Season, the mother of all Bellissimo slot events, and it was right around the corner. Only high, high rollers played in this one, limited to fifty invited guests—an intimate slot gathering with fantastic odds and fantastic-er prizes. I didn’t need or want to know about that production, so I concentrated on the others. They fell into two categories: free and not free, regular and irregular, no big deal and big deal.
    The free