Suspense/Intrigue
No Title # 7
By T
Aug 3, 2007, 13:41

"Sorry, mate.  I think keeping the tux is a smarter move."

Dalton quelled his rising impatience as Fozzie pulled the Blackthorne Town Car into the line of luxury cars and limousines heading up the hill into one of San Francisco's wealthiest neighborhoods.  Once they entered the driveway and neared the valet checkpoint, a red-liveried kid with spiked hair jogged toward them.

Dalton twisted the rearview mirror and straightened his bow tie.  "Whoever invented these monkey suits should be strangled with a cummerbund."

"You're the only bloke I know who'd rather hang out in some godforsaken jungle instead of enjoying caviar and champagne while women drool over you."

"I'm not after drooling women, Fozzie.  Rafael's still out there."

"Can you quit jonesing for that drug lord for one bloody night?  He's in Colombia.  We're here.  We'll get him next time.  Relax.  Enjoy a civilized assignment for a change.  We go in, do what Blackthorne sent us to do and have some fun."

Dalton would rather be up to his eyeballs in rattlesnakes than at a fundraising gala.  Gala.  Why not call the thing a party and be done with it.  "Right."

"Lose the scowl.  You know the drill.  Play nice."  Fozzie laughed.  "Think of it as another night of torture, and you'll get through it."  He caught Dalton's eyes with his own. "You do have the goods, right?"

Dalton slapped his pocket.  "Yes, sir."  He gave a fleeting nod to the young valet who opened the door as soon as Dalton unlocked it.

"Enjoy your evening, sirs," the valet said.  

Dalton paused at the base of the sweeping marble staircase and absorbed the imposing edifice Andrew Patterson, patron of the arts, called home.  In the perfectly manicured hedges, tiny lights flickered like the fireflies he remembered from Texas summers at his grandmother's.  At the top of the stairs, a pair of double doors stood open.  Classical music drifted down.  Two men in black trousers, white shirts, and red jackets greeted guests.

Too bad there was a metal detector at the door.  Kind of spoiled the image.

Fozzie adjusted his jacket and made a futile attempt to tame his unruly mop of brown hair.  "You heard the valet.  It's Saturday night.  I, for one, intend to take his advice and have a good time.  And find someone to have it with."

Dalton grunted.  He shot his cuffs and followed the flow of guests up the stairs.  "We look like the damn March of the Penguins."

"Ah, but elegant and well-hung penguins."

The two men smiled at the greeters, exchanged gold-edged invitations for dinner seating assignments, then passed easily through the metal detectors.  Engulfed by a fog of expensive perfumes, Dalton waved off a waiter offering flutes of champagne from a silver tray. 

The beginnings of a headache pinched the base of his neck.  He stopped and turned to his partner.  "Let's get it over with.  I'll go left, you go right."

Fozzie snagged a canapé from a buffet table.  "No worries, mate.  I've already spotted my target for some post-party R and R."

"Let me guess.  The woman in black."

"Not fair.  Even odds at a black-and-white ball."

Dalton scanned the crowd for Fozzie's likely target.  Red fingernails and lipstick on the women, red jackets on the wait staff, spattered the room with bits of relief from the endless sea of black and white.  "The redhead, right?"  Dalton motioned with his chin.

"You know my weakness."

"Yeah, well once in a while you might try to find one with an IQ bigger than her bra size."

Fozzie punched his arm.  Dalton grimaced and sidestepped.

"Sorry, mate.  Arm still sore?"

"Only when some idiot punches it."  He dodged another punch.  "I'll meet you on the west balcony in fifteen minutes."

Fozzie wrinkled his nose.  "With the smokers?  Don't you know secondhand smoke can kill you?"  His expression was dead serious.

Dalton rubbed his arm.  "As opposed to bullets, right?"

Fozzie joined the crowd.  Dalton moved in the opposite direction, searching for a glimpse of their host.  It didn't take long.  Andrew Patterson commanded an immediate presence.  He stood well under Dalton's six-two, but he projected the illusion of a much taller man.  His hair hung in brilliant black waves, with the exception of a pure white streak in front.  The ideal complement to his black-and-white affair.  Patterson whisked from group to group, a wide smile revealing perfect white teeth.  Only rarely did the smile reach his pale blue eyes. 

Although he considered tonight's assignment trivial, Dalton instinctively regarded the room as if it were any other covert assignment, noting entrances, exits, places affording cover.  A red-jacketed waiter offered a silver tray of canapés.  As Dalton reached for a sliver of toast topped with smoked salmon, he imagined one of Rafael's henchmen in the man's Hispanic features.  The waiter smiled, and the image disappeared.  Dalton chided himself for being so eager to get back in the field that he saw hostiles everywhere.  He popped the morsel into his mouth and continued his surveillance.

At the fifteen-minute mark, he worked his way to the balcony on the west side of the mansion.

An elderly couple sat on a polished wooden bench, more intent on their cigarettes than each other.  Fozzie stood at the balcony's edge, gazing into the distance.  An infinitesimal shoulder twitch told Dalton his arrival had been noted.  He stepped beside Fozzie and rested his hands on the stone railing.  Below them, the city lights sparkled like the jewels in the room behind them.

"Great view, isn't it, love," Fozzie said.  He put his arm around Dalton's shoulders, leaned his head into his chest.  "I'm so glad we came."

Out of the corner of his eye, Dalton saw the couple stub their cigarettes into the sand-filled container and hasten inside through the open French doors. 

"It's okay, Fozz.  They're gone.  No need to kiss me."

"Thank God for that.  What did you find?"

"Nothing unexpected.  Blackthorne's floor plans are reliable.  Everything's happening on this floor.  I counted six guards dressed like the caterers, but they're more like traffic cops, keeping people where they belong.  Patterson obviously doesn't want his guests to feel like there could possibly be a security problem."

"Well, that's one thing in our favor," Fozzie said.

"Only thing bugging me is that the guard at the stairs let one of the waitresses go up with a tray.  Means someone's probably up there."

"Also means if we have a tray, we might get up there, too."

"Means scamming a red jacket."

"You're the pro scammer, mate.  Think we should try that route?  Kitchen access seems liberal and no guards in there."

"Only as a last resort."  Dalton cocked an eyebrow at his partner.  "You know—you don't look so hot."

Fozzie flashed a cockeyed grin in return.  He clutched his stomach.  "Yep.  Must have been a bad shrimp."

A fanfare blared from the house.  The background undercurrent of voices quieted. Dalton and Fozzie hovered in the doorway as people gravitated toward the center of the floor.  Andrew Patterson's voice resounded over the sound system.  "Ladies and gentlemen, if I may direct your attention to the far side of the ballroom, please."

Fozzie and Dalton exchanged glances.  Dalton nodded.  Without a word, they inched inside, staying close to the walls, skirting the outside of the crowd.  The lights dimmed, and a large screen descended from the ceiling.

Satisfied when he noticed Red Jacket from the stairs was focused on Patterson's speech, Dalton snaked his arm under Fozzie's.  "Show time."

Fozzie put his hand on Dalton's shoulder, and they staggered toward the stairs.

At the bottom step, Red Jacket put out his hand.  "Sorry.  The party is restricted to the first floor."

Fozzie lurched and groaned.  "Oh, man, I'm sick."  He clapped a hand over his mouth.  His shoulders heaved. 

Dalton put one foot on the first step.  "No way to the downstairs johns through the crowd.  Mr. Patterson won't appreciate a guest puking all over his floor."

The guard looked from Fozzie to Dalton, then shrugged.  "Top of the stairs on the left."

Dalton thanked the man as he hurried Fozzie upstairs.  Once out of sight, Dalton released his hold on his partner and found the bathroom.  He darted inside to turn on the water.  When he came out and closed the door behind him, Fozzie was down the hall, poised at what the floor plan indicated was Patterson's study.  Dalton joined him, and they slipped inside.

Dalton locked the door.  "I figure we've got until Patterson stops talking before the guard notices we haven't come back.  Let's hope Patterson's typical of the fundraising breed—give 'em a microphone and time loses all meaning."  He clicked on a small penlight.

Fozzie reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a pair of latex gloves.  Snapping his fingers into them, he muttered, "This wasn't the kind of glove I wanted to be wearing tonight.  Did you see the hooters on that redhead?"

"Shut up and get going.  You might salvage your date yet." 

Fozzie clicked on his own penlight and slid into the chair behind the desk while Dalton moved toward the file cabinets on the adjacent wall.

"Um … mate?" 

Dalton froze at Fozzie's whisper.  He jerked his head around. 

"The chair's warm.  I'm thinking we're not alone in here."

                                  ***

Miri Chambers huddled under the antique mahogany desk, her heart thudding against her ribs like a snare drum.  She'd barely managed to shut off the computer and grab her jump drive when she heard voices in the hall.  Something about a date.  God, with the kazillion bedrooms in this mansion, why would someone sneak in here for a quickie? 

She strained to follow what was happening.  The plush carpet muffled footsteps, but someone was definitely in the room.  The chair behind her moved away.  Why would they choose to sit here, when there was a perfectly good leather sofa?  Even though part of her brain said they knew she was here, she didn't move.  She prayed they'd go off in search of a bedroom, especially after discovering they weren't alone.

"You sure?" another voice whispered.

Even in a whisper, there was no mistaking the gender of the second voice.  Male, just like the first.  Miri closed her eyes and magnified her prayers tenfold.  She did not want to think about what might go on while she pretended to be invisible.

Blood drummed in her ears, keeping her from understanding the whispers.  She sensed the approach of a second set of footsteps.  Too late, she realized that when she'd ducked for cover, she'd gone in headfirst, which meant that right now, her butt was going to be the first thing anyone saw if they looked under the desk.  She squished herself into as tiny a package as she could, cursing the short skirt the caterer demanded its female staff wear.  At the moment, she wasn't really displaying her greatest asset.

Oh, God, a warm hand touched that asset.  She twitched.

"Well, what do we have here?  You want to come on out, darlin'?"  The voice was deep, warm, and decidedly Texan.

"Stop.  Please.  I won't say anything.  I'll stay right here and you can go find a bedroom, and I'll count to ten, or a hundred, or a thousand, before I come out, so I won't know who you are.  Please?" 

The hand withdrew.  "What do you think?" the Texan said.  "Do you think a bedroom's a good idea?"

Miri thought he was trying not to laugh.

"Might be interesting, but you're not my type, mate," the other man said.  "Maybe whoever's under here is more to my liking.  Come on out."

That voice was definitely Aussie, and definitely meant business. 

"Okay," Miri said.  "Please turn off your flashlights."  She slid the tiny jump drive with the computer files she'd copied into her bra.  The beams of light disappeared, leaving the green readout on the desk clock the only illumination in the room. 

Her brain kicked into gear now that the initial panic left.  Whoever these guys were, they had no business in here either, or they'd have turned the room lights on.  Maybe they'd be willing to deal.  Footsteps shuffled on the thick carpet, and she thought she heard the door open and close.  Had they left? 

She scooted back from her hiding place, trying to keep her skirt over her hips.  Once she cleared the desk, she scrambled to her feet.  The glow from the clock cast the room in shadows.  Tugging her jacket back into place, Miri mustered as much dignity as she could and faced the shadowed man perched on the edge of the desk.  He was peeking under the covers of the plates on the tray she'd brought up.  She glanced around the room.  There was no sign of the second man.

"What do you think you're doing in here?" she said.  "The upstairs is off limits to guests." 

"My friend wasn't feeling well.  The guard let us up."

So, Texas was in the room.  Aussie must have left.  "Yeah, and if you expect me to believe that, I've got a winning Internet lottery ticket.  Where's your friend now?"

"In the john, being sick.  I'm sure he'll return shortly."

A resounding burst of applause came from below, followed by the opening strains of Mozart's Marriage of Figaro.

Miri moved toward the door.  "I have to go.  They'll be serving dinner now." 

Texas blocked her path.  "Not so fast, little lady.  What are you doing here?"

She planted her feet and put her hands on her hips.  "Delivering food to Mr. Patterson's aunt."

"Oh, now who's got the lottery ticket?  I suppose dear auntie hangs around under desks?"

"Please.  Just let me get downstairs.  I won't say anything about you being up here."  She sidestepped and he grabbed her shoulders.  He was tall, broad and smelled like sandalwood.  She struggled, but he held her at bay.  She went limp in his grasp, put her arms around his waist and he relaxed his grip.  With a quick jerk and a brisk heel to his instep, she wriggled away and dashed for the door.

Head high, she strode through the hall.  Peering down the stairs, she noticed the guard wasn't at his post.  She trotted down and meandered through the guests into the chaos of the kitchen.  With everyone scrambling to get dinner plates to the tables, nobody would notice if she was on her way in or out.  She worked her way through the lines of wait staff and out a side door into a storage closet.

She locked the door and bent over, hands on her thighs and took several deep breaths.  She had what she came for and those two men no longer concerned her.  It had been dark.  Although the green clock display gave off enough light to navigate through the room, everything was shadowed.  From her brief encounter with Texas, she was certain he'd be dressed like every other man here—in a tuxedo.  She'd never pick him out in the crowd.  Unless, of course, he opened his mouth, and that slow, honey-rich drawl flowed out.  Or he stood close enough for a whiff of his delicious sandalwood scent.

Time for part two.  She stripped off the caterer's uniform and changed into the black ball gown she'd hung in the closet when she arrived.  She yanked off the short black wig and fluffed out her light brunette hair so it cascaded to her shoulders.  From her evening bag, she retrieved her makeup kit and mimicked the society look, although she felt more like a clown than a woman when she was done.  A spritz of perfume, and Miri took comfort knowing Texas wouldn't be able to recognize her, either.

She slipped the treasures she'd retrieved into the beaded purse and snapped it shut.  After exchanging her sensible waitress shoes for high-heeled sandals, she took one more deep breath, fixed a smile to her face and stepped out to join the party.