Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 63, No. 11 & 12, November/December 2018

Mistress of the Mickey Finn by Elaine Viets

“She cleaned me out. She took everything — even my towels.” Will Drickens’s nasal whine echoed off the marble floor in his Fort Lauderdale beach house.

The thirty-something hedge-funder pleaded for help with sad, puppy-dog eyes — at least, he tried to look sad. Private eye Helen Hawthorne saw a hound with skin tanned and oiled like a Coach bag. Will wore enough flashy designer labels to stock a mall. Phil Sagemont, Helen’s husband and partner, had trouble hiding his contempt for their new client.

When the trio made their introductions in the empty foyer, Will had slyly checked out Helen’s long legs and curves. She was glad they were safely upholstered in a sleek black Armani pantsuit. Phil, dressed in Florida formal — tan pants, navy polo, and boat shoes — got a dismissive glance from Drickens. Helen saw her husband’s eyes drift to Will’s bald spot. She knew Phil was proud of his thick, silvery hair, which he wore in a ponytail.

The two forty-something private eyes followed their unhappy client into his bare living room, painted a fashionable gray. “Look at this room! Not a thing in it.” Will’s reedy voice bounced off the hurricane windows and marble floors.

Big as a hotel ballroom, the living room had a dazzling view of the white sand beach and azure water.

“We get the point,” Phil said. “You could have just told us.” Helen gave her husband a quick nudge. Coronado Investigations needed the business.

Will’s whine drilled through the soothing sounds of the surf. “But it has more impact if you see it. My entire art gallery is gone! Look!”

They followed him down an interior hallway lined with hooks.

“What kind of art did you have?” Helen asked.

“The best. Six LeRoy Neimans. My favorite was Playboy — that’s a Playboy bunny. I also had Sinatra, Elvis; Four Jockeys, Surfer, and Sailboat. Great investments: Neiman’s dead, so he’s not making any more.”

He opened the door to a chamber big enough to stage a Broadway musical. “She stole my Vividus bed.”

“Your what?” Phil said.

“It’s probably the most expensive bed in the world,” Helen said. “It’s made from things like cashmere, silk, and lamb’s wool.”

“Sixty thousand bucks,” Will said. “Worth every penny.”

“I’d like to see that,” Phil said.

“So would I,” Will said, trying — and failing — to sound wistful. “I’m staying at the Ritz until my new furniture is delivered, and the bed isn’t the same. It’s been eight months now. The police aren’t taking me seriously. They took a report and fingerprinted my house — you can see the print powder everywhere — but I heard them snickering at me.”

“I can imagine,” Phil said.

Helen glared at him, but their clueless client had no idea Phil was subtly mocking him.

“Find any prints?” Helen asked.

“Nothing. She not only cleaned me out, she cleaned every surface in the place — even the handle on the toilet.”

They followed Will across the vast, mirrored room that reflected the ocean.

“At least she left the mirrors on the walls,” Phil said.

“And my copper tub,” Will said, leading them into the master bath. He patted the gleaming stand-alone bathtub that looked like a giant planter. “It’s an Archeo.” The name dropped with a loud thud and echoed off the tall glass windows.

“Most expensive bathtub in the world,” Helen said, partly for Phil’s benefit, but also to soothe their client. “Nearly seventy thousand dollars. I saw one in a decorating magazine.”

“You appreciate the finer things.” Will smiled for the first time. “So did Donna Simon.”

Helen leaned against the wall and Phil perched on the edge of the copper tub. “Tell us about this Donna,” he said.

“I thought she was the one,” Will said, as he sat on the other end of the copper tub. “I wanted to marry her. She was the perfect woman: long brown beauty-queen hair, legs up to her shoulders, and amazing...” He sketched two melon-sized shapes in the air.

“Brains?” Helen said.

“Yes, she was smart too,” Will said. “We were interested in the same things.”

Money, Helen thought.

“She asked me lots of questions about my art and furniture. Donna helped herself to my rugs, including my Mohtashem carpet — that cost ninety-five thousand bucks.”

Donna appreciated his finer things, all right, Helen thought. She’d spent her time with Will taking inventory.

Phil was tired of the furniture catalogue. “How did you meet this Donna?”

“I stopped by the Perfect Manhattan on Las Olas. Just for some conversation.”

Right, Helen thought. Conversation. The two words heard most often in that bar were “How much?” and the customers weren’t asking the price of the drinks. The Perfect Manhattan was known for “handcrafted cocktails” for the no-holds-barred singles set. Stunning supermodel bartenders displayed their implants as they “built” twenty-dollar manhattans and whispered, “Would you like a cherry?” with a suggestive wink and a giggle, straight out of an old-school men’s magazine. The servers — all women — were expensively enhanced and barely covered.

“Donna was sitting at the bar in a black dress and pink heels. She told me they were Manolo Blahniks. Sexy as hell — little tiny roses all over and straps halfway up her legs.”

“Cage sandals,” said Helen, who knew her shoes. “They cost twenty-two hundred dollars.”

“For one pair?” Phil said.

“Donna appreciates the best,” Will said. “I asked if I could buy her a drink, and the next thing I knew we were talking. She was easy to talk to.”

Your mother should have named you Mark, Helen thought. You were the easy one.

“We were drinking manhattans — they really were perfect — and Donna had the softest, sweetest voice,” Will said. “Like music. I was about to order another round of manhattans when suddenly the room went wavy and started spinning. I grabbed the bar top. Donna looked alarmed. ‘Are you okay?’ she asked.

“‘Just a little dizzy,’ I said. ‘I haven’t had dinner.’ She smiled at me, and I felt like I was going to slide off the barstool. Donna took my arm.

“‘Whoa,’ she said. ‘You look a bit pale. You need food. How about if I drive you home and we’ll get you something to eat?’ I nodded and thought my head would roll off my neck. She was a take-charge woman, and I liked being pampered by someone so beautiful.

“I gave her the claim check for my Beemer and tried to give her cash to pay the bill, but Donna wouldn’t take it. She paid for the drinks and helped me outside. The valet had parked my ride out front. They only do that for the hottest cars. She tipped the valet a fifty and drove me home. She used her own money too.”

“Of course she did,” Helen said. That small investment bought a big return.

“I don’t remember how she got me in the house and into bed, but I woke up the next morning and she was beside me. My head was pounding, but she was so beautiful I barely noticed the pain. She was wearing a black bra and panties and my white Thomas Pink shirt. Nothing’s sexier than a woman in a man’s shirt the next morning, don’t you think?”

Will’s whine softened as he described Donna. “She was an angel. She brought me Advil and spring water, then hot coffee. She made toast and honey with her own hands.”

“Talented,” Phil said. He looked wide eyed and innocent at Helen, daring her to say something.

Will shifted on his copper perch and continued, “When I felt well enough to sit up, she asked me if I’d like some real food, and then she cooked a tremendous breakfast — fresh-squeezed orange juice, eggs, bacon, ham, and sausages, and a loaf of toast dripping butter. I didn’t realize how hungry I was until she brought in the breakfast tray. I ate everything, and said how good it was. She laughed and made me more eggs and toast and I ate that too.”

“What did she eat?” Phil asked.

“Almost nothing. A small glass of juice and a cup of black coffee. She made me drink more water, and she was so pretty I couldn’t resist. I drank two big glasses, and that made her laugh. She had the cutest laugh, a sexy little giggle. Then she said, ‘Now that you’re well hydrated, is there anything else you’re... hungry for?’”

Helen studied the pattern on the mosaic tile floor and prayed he wouldn’t give the details.

“Let me tell you, what she could do with those—”

Mercifully, Phil interrupted Will’s recital. “We get the idea.”

“All I can say is she was amazing. Afterward, we showered together.” He nodded at the hydra-headed Swedish shower, “and had some more fun. Then we slept.”

Thank heaven, Helen thought.

“We woke up later that afternoon and walked on the beach, hand in hand.”

“What did she do for clothes?” Phil asked.

“She wore my shirt and her underwear and went barefoot. I wore my swimsuit, and we looked like we’d been swimming. It was a mild afternoon, and we kept walking until we were alone. Then she kissed me and said it was a magic kiss.”

It was, Helen thought. It made all your furniture disappear.

“She said she was hungry and wanted to go to dinner, but she’d have to wear the same dress she’d worn last night. I asked if she knew of any shops open this late, and she did.”

Surprise! Helen thought.

“Donna had superb taste. She knew where to buy the red-carpet brands. We dressed for dinner and drove up to West Palm Beach for a couple of four-hundred-dollar martinis.”

“How can a martini cost four hundred bucks?” Phil asked.

“It’s made with dry vermouth and Stoli Elit vodka,” Will said, “but the price includes the crystal glass and the olive pick with a diamond.”

“A real diamond?” Phil asked.

“Only a tenth of a carat, but the pick is custom-made. Donna wanted a set of four, and those drinks went down smooth, let me tell you. We had a couple of small plates at the restaurant, but Donna said we should have dinner, so I wouldn’t get dizzy again.

“Back in Fort Lauderdale, I took her to the most expensive restaurant on Las Olas. Donna was so beautiful, the waiters kept making excuses to come to our table. She didn’t have coffee and juice that night. She ordered caviar, Kobe beef, and a chocolate dessert covered with real gold.”

“She ate gold?” Phil asked.

“That’s what it’s for,” Will said, as if everyone had the Midas munchies. “I like a woman with an appetite. After coffee and dessert, she said she was hungry again, and smiled at me, and I knew what she really wanted had nothing to do with food. We rushed home and gave that Vividus a real workout.

“Sunday was a repeat of Saturday, except we didn’t waste time shopping. We spent most of the day in bed, then soaked in this tub—” He patted the shiny copper side and leered again. “—then back to bed. For lunch, we had stone crab claws delivered to the house and ate them on the terrace. I had the most beautiful Rausch outdoor furniture — twenty thousand bucks for the sectional sofa, chairs, and tables.

“After another interesting nap—” He waggled his eyebrows. “—Donna was hungry again, but she didn’t want to drive to Palm Beach. We had a quiet dinner on Las Olas at a restaurant that served her favorites: caviar, Kobe beef, and chocolate cake — this time without the gold leaf. She said thanks to the workout she got that day, she could afford the calories. That’s the only time she ever mentioned dieting. Women yammering about dieting bore the crap out of me.

“After dinner, we had brandy on my terrace overlooking the ocean. I wanted to pop the question, but she kissed away my words and said, ‘This silence is perfect. Let’s enjoy the moment.’ We stayed that way for the longest time, until she said, ‘I’ve always wanted a house by the beach.’ She gave a sweet sigh, and I told her to make herself at home while I was at work tomorrow.

“The next morning was like a honeymoon. She was up before me, and she made another huge breakfast. I wasn’t really interested in that much food, but she said I needed protein, then asked if I’d like to work it off Afterward, she promised to fix dinner and asked if I’d rather have steak or fish. I said, ‘Surprise me.’ I liked the idea that she’d be at home preparing something special.

“I went to work whistling. We’d spent an unforgettable weekend together. Donna’s name means ‘lady’ in Italian, and I was determined to make her my lady.

“At lunch, I walked downtown and looked at rings, trying to decide which one was perfect for her. I saw a beautiful rose-gold solitaire, but I wanted her to come with me to pick out her ring. After all, she’d be wearing it forever. I wanted to call her, but I didn’t have her phone number. I called my landline, but no one answered. I figured Donna was sunning herself by the pool. For the first time in ages, I left the office early. It was five o’clock when I got to my street, but before I could pull into my driveway, my neighbor Mrs. Gercher came running over and said, ‘Will! I didn’t know you were moving! I’ll be so sorry to lose you.’

“‘Move? I’m not moving,’ I said.

“‘But the pretty lady said you were. The movers were here all day and they took everything, even your doormats.’

“Mrs. Gercher is seventy-something and I figured she must be gaga. I nearly ran over her as I hit the gas and roared up to my house and ran inside... Donna was gone, and she’d taken everything. All I had were the clothes on my back.

“And here we are.” Will tried to look forlorn. He stood up and Helen and Phil followed him into the kitchen. “My house looks the same as it did eight months ago. The investigation is stalled.”

“You’ve lost some valuable art,” Helen said. “Is your insurance company investigating that loss?”

“My Neimans weren’t insured.” Will saw Helen’s surprise. “Do you know what hurricane insurance costs? I live in an evacuation zone. I have a safe room to stash my art collection if there’s a storm, and I didn’t want to pay extra for a rider for my art and other valuables. This is a good neighborhood. I didn’t think...”

“It would happen here,” Helen finished his sentence. She’d heard variations on that theme way too many times.

“Well, it doesn’t! Except to me.” Will sounded resentful that he’d been selected by an uncaring fate. “The police have done nothing. I think they’ve been paid off.”

“I doubt it,” Phil said. “Helen and I will study your report and try to find Donna and her gang.”

“Gang?”

“You don’t think she emptied your house alone, do you? She had accomplices. Any security video?”

“She stole the whole system.”

“Doesn’t your security company have backup storage?” Helen said.

“It wasn’t a monitored system,” Will said. “And before you ask, there’s nothing on the neighbors’ security videos either. Mrs. Gercher described the movers as ‘big and sweaty’ but had no other details.”

“Any photos of Donna?” Helen asked.

“She was camera shy. She didn’t like selfies. The police got two stills off the video at the Perfect Manhattan, but her long dark hair hid her face.”

“What about the restaurants where you had dinner?”

“By the time the police checked, those dates had been recorded over. They didn’t have the newer systems with cloud storage.”

“Any distinguishing marks?”

“She has a dark brown heart on her right shoulder. I guess you’d call it a blemish, but it sure was sexy.” Will sounded like he was still half in love with Donna.

“When we find Donna, do you want us to recover your lost property and turn her over to the police?” Phil asked.

Will’s face changed in an instant. Now it was red with fury. He squeezed his hands together until the knuckles were white. “That bitch made a fool out of me. I want her dead. I’d like to strangle her with my bare hands.”

“Be careful making statements like that,” Phil said. “We’ll try to find her and turn her over to the cops. Understand?”

Will nodded.

“We’ll look for your art and furniture, but I wouldn’t be too hopeful. I’m betting that’s long gone.”

“What about the pawnshops?” Will asked.

“Too closely watched, and they wouldn’t have the furniture. My guess is everything in your house went on a container ship and it’s headed for a foreign country. Fort Lauderdale is a port city.”

“I’ll pay you a ten-thousand-dollar bonus if you find my stuff” Will said. He signed the paperwork on the granite kitchen island and used his cell phone to deposit the retainer in the Coronado Investigations’s bank account. Once the P.I. pair had the contract, they climbed into the Igloo, Helen’s white PT Cruiser, named for its frosty air-conditioning.

She pointed the Igloo toward Federal Highway US 1, the main artery through Fort Lauderdale. “What if Will is lying to us?” Helen asked.

“Why would he do that?” Phil asked.

“Because he lost more than half a million dollars,” Helen said, “the police haven’t found any of his things, and the insurance company hasn’t paid him a nickel. Our investigation would confirm his loss to the insurance company, and we’d look like fools if he started selling that stuff later.”

“It did seem weird he told us the price of everything he lost,” Phil said. “I’ll check online and see if he’s hurting for money. If he’s not, let’s watch him a couple of nights.”

Phil came back the next afternoon. “Will Drickens is rolling in dough,” he said. “Hell, he can dive into a swimming pool of cash, like Scrooge McDuck.”

“That means we’ll have to use your Jeep for surveillance,” Helen said. “My Igloo is too noticeable.”

“’Fraid so. Too bad the Jeep’s not air-conditioned.”

Watching Will was hot work. The first night he came home about eight o’clock. Phil and Helen sweated in the sultry south Florida evening. Helen felt like she’d been wrapped in hot compresses. Even more annoying, the mosquitoes stung her, but not Phil. The sweating, swatting, and surveillance went on for four nights. On Friday night, Will came home at eight and left about nine, dressed to, yes, the nines. Helen and Phil followed his Beemer to an industrial park off Powerline Road. Will parked at a garage, and Phil parked the Jeep behind a smelly Dumpster. They watched their client punch in a number code on a keypad, and the garage door slowly lifted.

“Look for his stolen goods,” Phil whispered.

When the door was fully open Helen whispered back, “Unless Donna took his socket wrenches, Will’s in the clear.” Inside was a red Ferrari and some tools on the walls. Will parked the Ferrari on the street and pulled the Beemer into the garage. “I’m surprised Will didn’t tell us the price of his other car,” Helen said.

“So much for that theory,” Phil said. “We’re back to square one.”

“If you ask me, that’s what Will gets for being gullible enough to pick up a hooker,” Helen said. “He should have used an escort service.”

“How do you know Donna is a hooker?”

“What else could she be?”

“A smart, pretty scammer out for a bigger score than a watch and a wallet.”

Helen considered Phil’s words. “Will said crooked cops are turning a blind eye to this crime.”

“Too easy,” Phil said. “If Donna and her crew are going after rich dudes like Will Drickens, the police are definitely being pressured to catch them. We’re a tourist town and the powers that be take threats to the city’s big business seriously.”

“Then why hasn’t Donna been caught?” Helen asked.

“I’m gonna use my head to find out,” Phil said. “First thing tomorrow, I’ll see someone who’ll know.”

“Our landlady, Margery?”

“My barber, Oscar. A man tells his barber things he’d never tell his wife. Want to come along?”

“I could use a manicure.”

The next morning, Phil made appointments for both of them. At eleven o’clock, he was weaving through the sun-crazed traffic toward the Galt Ocean Mile. The upscale condo canyon was a bit of New York transplanted on the beach. Oscar’s shop was light filled and cheerful. A round-faced, good-natured Turk with short dark hair and a warm smile, Oscar welcomed Phil and draped a styling cape over his shoulders.

“Just even it up a bit, Oscar, nothing drastic.”

While Oscar shaped Phil’s long, silvery hair with practiced snips, Helen presented her nails. The manicurist quickly divined her client’s mood: Helen didn’t want to talk. She deftly shaped Helen’s nails while Helen eavesdropped on Phil and Oscar.

“You get a wide range of clients, Oscar, locals and snowbirds,” Phil said. “Have you heard about anyone who picked up a hooker at a high-class bar? The lady drugged him, drove him home, spent the weekend with him, then she and her crew cleaned out his house.”

“I’ve heard some stories,” Oscar said. “But I don’t think these are hookers. Some women crooks like working in pairs now. One will pick up a single man in a high-priced bar. She’ll distract the guy while her partner slips something in his drink. Then, when the guy doesn’t feel so good, the woman is suddenly helpful. She and her partner get the woozy man home. One pays the bill, and then the two get the guy into his car. The one who picked him up drives his car to his house while her partner follows in her car.

“Inside his home, the women help him into bed. While the guy’s out cold, they take everything they can carry in a hurry — jewelry, silver, small pieces of art, TVs, electronics. They’re long gone when he wakes up and calls the police.”

“What about the house cleaners?” Phil asked.

“That’s another variation,” Oscar said. “They travel in packs and make much bigger scores. Young women are taught to be cautious. Men don’t think about women preying on them.”

“How long has this been going on?” Phil asked.

“In this area? Since before I moved here. At least the mid eighties. There used to be a bar called — well, never mind the name, it’s long gone — but it was a hot spot for the gals to pick up guys wearing pricey watches and jewelry. A couple of years ago, it happened to one of my clients. His condo had no CCTV. She not only ripped him off, she took his car. The police fingerprinted the drink glasses, but I don’t recall they ever caught anyone. Why the questions? Did something happen to a client?”

“Yes. He met a woman at the Perfect Manhattan and she cleaned out his entire house. Took everything, even his bath towels. I can’t give you any details.”

“Let me guess,” Oscar said. “He was talking to her at the bar, then he felt sick and she helped him home. He didn’t remember much, but when he woke up they had a real honeymoon weekend. He went back to work on Monday, and gave her free run of the house.”

“You got it,” Phil said. “The gang brought in a truck and cleaned the place out. That was eight months ago and the police didn’t find a trace of them.”

“They won’t,” Oscar said. “The women left town that same day. They make a circuit of the high-priced beach towns. That’s a common European phenomenon. Gangs of beautiful women or handsome young men, often from Eastern Europe, move from one tourist site to another in France, Italy, Spain. A beautiful woman will spend the whole weekend with the mark.”

“What about security videos?” Phil asked.

“These women are very, very smart. They are careful to turn their faces to hide from the cameras. Many have long hair, and use it like a curtain. Most security systems have such blurry images, it’s hard to see the person. The police rarely get anywhere.”

“Why haven’t the police cracked down on these scammers?”

“These are the cream of the crooks,” Oscar said. “They can spot an undercover cop.”

“How?” Phil asked.

“Easy. These women have fine-tuned senses. They notice little things. The undercover cops trying to pass as rich guys buy their expensive suits at resale shops, so they’re a couple of years out of style. They have ‘cop eyes.’ They’re alert, watchful, not like someone having a drink at a bar.”

“What if I went undercover?” Phil said.

“You’d need different clothes,” Oscar said. “You look too... uh, casual.”

Helen hid a smile. That was a tactful summary of Phil’s style. She paid her manicurist and strolled over to Oscar’s chair, where he’d just removed Phil’s protective cape with a flourish.

“To attract that kind of lady,” Oscar said, brushing off Phil’s shoulders with a small whisk broom, “you’ll need an expensive watch, maybe a ring, the clothes that go with them, and a fast car. Those kinds of gals would turn up their pretty noses at your old black Jeep. Maybe you could rent a Ferrari or a Maserati and buy the clothes.”

“How much would the clothes cost?”

“Several thousand. And don’t forget the shoes. The shoes are definitely a giveaway.”

“You’re about the same size as our client, Phil,” Helen said. “Maybe he’d lend you something.”

“Good idea.” Phil brightened considerably. “When do you think the scammers will be back in the area, Oscar?”

“How long ago was your client hit?”

“About eight months ago,” Phil repeated.

“That’s about time for her and her gang to come back, but she won’t be at the Perfect Manhattan this time. Let’s see, what’s the local hot spot?” Oscar looked at the ceiling, as if the answer was written there. “I’d try the White Lady Lounge, the new place on the beach.”

“Cute,” Phil said. “Slang for coke and a cocktail.”

“You might want to go there this weekend,” Oscar said. “It’s the big boat show, and the high rollers will be in town. Many of them arrive on Friday, so Saturday night is best.”

“This is an elaborate trap, Oscar. What if she isn’t at the White Lady?”

“Trust me, she’ll be there this weekend.”

“Then I’ll be easy prey for a shady lady,” Phil said.

“Don’t go alone, Phil,” Oscar said. “You’ll need backup. That woman will slip you a mickey and you’ll never see it.”

“I’ll be there to watch him,” Helen said.

“You’ll need someone to keep the men away, pretty lady,” Oscar said. “In a place like the White Lady, you’ll attract your own crowd. You won’t be able to watch Phil.”

“I’ll bring a chaperone,” Helen said. “Do these women carry weapons?”

“I don’t know,” Oscar said.

Helen felt cold to her bones, and it wasn’t Oscar’s air-conditioning. Oscar wasn’t sure if there were weapons, but Phil could be definitely dead if his dreamy date got desperate.

Phil thanked Oscar and tipped him generously. Back in the Igloo, Helen blasted the air-conditioning and said, “Federal Highway?” Phil nodded.

“Phil, can we trust Oscar? Will Donna be there this weekend?”

“Yes. I don’t know how he knows, but Oscar is right. You’d be surprised the friends he has.”

“Okay, I’ll take your word for it. You were a bartender, Phil. What’s in a White Lady?”

“Ingredients no self-respecting bartender would put together,” Phil said. “It’s a foo-foo drink made with gin, Cointreau, lemon juice, and an egg white.”

“Yuck.”

“I liked Oscar’s idea that we look for Donna at the White Lady Saturday night. I thought of someone who might know more. Remember Broker Morgan?”

Helen smiled. The Peerless Point detective was known as “Broker” because his name was a reversal of Morgan Stanley. “How could I forget him? He helped us with that shoplifting case, but Will Drickens’s house isn’t in his town.”

“No, but Broker’s part of the county tourist protection task force, and all those little cities and burgs have countywide arrest powers. It’s almost lunchtime. I’ll see if he’d like to meet us for a sandwich, maybe at the Bonefish Grill.”

“You, at a fish place?”

“They make good burgers.” Phil punched in the detective’s number. “Broker, you free for lunch? Helen and I have something that might interest your task force. How about the Bonefish Grill on Federal just past Bayview?”

After a pause, Phil said, “Good. See you there in fifteen. I’ll get us a booth where we can talk. You want a burger, right?”

Helen and Phil headed for the Bonefish Grill, tucked in a strip shopping center. The restaurant was dark and cool inside, and they were seated in a big booth in a quiet corner. Their white-aproned server took the order for the three of them. Phil was happily drinking a beer and dunking warm bread in seasoned olive oil when Helen spotted Broker at the door. He was hard to miss: Broker was thirty-something, with thick dark hair, broad shoulders, expert tailoring, and those watchful cop’s eyes. He joined them, and took up most of the other booth. After their food was delivered, Phil told Broker about Will Drickens.

“That crew has been on our radar,” Broker said. “They travel up and down the Florida coast from Vero Beach to Miami. Donna — if that’s her real name — is good at slipping past condo security. We don’t even have any prints. She usually picks a Friday or Saturday night to drug her mark and take him home.”

“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.”

Back in the Igloo, Phil said to Helen, “Where did you get your clothes for tonight?”

“Goodwill,” Helen said. “My dress didn’t cost as much as your socks.”

At seven thirty, they met in the Coronado courtyard. Helen whistled when she saw Phil in his James Bond suit. The navy silk-and-wool blend had the patina of money, a soft, expensive glow. Phil’s long silver hair, pulled into a low ponytail, looked burnished. “You’re stunning,” she whispered.

“And you’re always beautiful,” he said, “but why are you sunburned?”

“So I’d look like a real tourist. I sat out by the pool this afternoon without sunscreen.” Helen had on a cute, rather garish red-flowered polyester sundress with white sandals, white earrings, and a white purse with a big red flower.

Margery joined them, wearing a purple pantsuit with Miami Rocks in rhinestones on the chest, plus sparkly purple earrings, and a light cloud of cigarette smoke. “Say one word about this pantsuit and you’re both dead. I’m only wearing this because I’m on the job.”

“You look perfect,” Phil said.

Margery snorted.

“For your part,” he added. “Stay in sight at the club, and Helen, don’t forget to scratch your right ear if you see Donna.”

Helen watched him drive off in his rented red Ferrari, then waited until Margery finished her Marlboro. “Are you armed?” Helen asked.

Margery patted her purple purse and nodded. “Let’s go.” Helen fired up the Igloo for the night’s adventure.

The White Lady was an Art Deco building on the beach. The white neon sign featured a glamorous white blonde in a thirties-style evening gown. Helen pulled up at the valet stand, and noticed Phil’s rented Ferrari parked out front. She knew her Igloo would be banished to the back lot.

Inside, the White Lady was an ice cave: The frosted glass bar was an ice floe, the crystal lights and clear glass tables shimmering sculptures, and the walls glittery white. The cocktail lounge was the last word in cool. A platinum blonde in a sequin gown like a snowdrift played soft jazz on a white piano.

Helen saw Phil sitting alone at the bar, his silver hair spotlighted by a crystal light, his navy suit and overcomplicated watch shouting, I’m ridiculously rich! The blonde bartender smiled and set a frosted long-stemmed martini glass in front of him.

Shaken, not stirred, thought Helen, and wished she were sitting beside her husband. The Tom Ford suit fit perfectly, making his shoulders broader and his waist narrower.

She and Margery took a tiny table in the shadows where they could watch Phil. They ordered their drinks from a bleached blonde. When she brought their white wine the server asked, “Where are you ladies from?” Helen knew their disguises had worked.

“Would you take our picture, please?” Margery asked, and handed the server her cell phone. She and Helen smiled and approved the second photo. Margery switched her phone from camera to video mode, and propped it on the white leather drink menu to video Phil at the bar.

Only a few tourists drank the signature White Lady. The other customers, who looked like they’d stepped out of a fashion shoot, downed martinis and sized up one another with restless, feral eyes.

Helen watched her husband flirt with the bartender until a curly-haired brunette in ruffled peach lace teetered over on matching sky-high heels and sat next to him. Phil glanced at Helen. Her headshake was nearly imperceptible: Donna wouldn’t wear a cheap dress. Phil rudely turned away from poor Lacy, and she slid down a seat and started a conversation with an older man sporting a diamond pinkie ring.

Helen and Margery’s server was hovering at their table: They were drinking too slowly. Helen ordered Kobe beef sliders and Margery asked for truffled french fries to continue camping at their tiny table. Two more women approached Phil, a sleek redhead and another brunette. Phil caught Helen’s small signals and ignored the women until they went searching for better prospects.

Helen and Margery munched their fries as they watched the spectacle. “I agree with the food critic who said truffle oil on fries is an abomination,” Margery said. “A french fry should be appreciated for its greasy perfection.”

“Agreed,” Helen said. “And this slider has as much chance of being real Kobe beef as I do of winning Miss America.” The food criticism didn’t stop either woman from stuffing her face.

Helen watched another woman glide toward Phil. The sizzling blonde looked like a forties movie star, right down to the blood-red lipstick and the bombshell hair draped over one eye. She wore a slinky black off-the-shoulder Zac Posen dress and pink Manolo Blahnik cage sandals sprinkled with rosebuds.

Helen touched her right ear: Donna! Phil gave the dramatic blonde a warm hello. She sat down and gave him a siren’s smile.

“I thought Donna was a brunette,” Margery said.

“She’s had a good dye job. She wore those same shoes the night she went after our client, and that’s a dress Will bought her. See that small brown splotch on her shoulder? I think that’s the birthmark. Keep an eye on Phil. He looks like a coconut fell on his head.”

The bartender delivered a pair of martinis while Donna admired Phil’s overpriced watch. Helen felt a flash of rage. “He’s definitely enjoying his job,” she said through gritted teeth.

“He’s undercover,” Margery said, crunching the last fry. “And doing a good job of reeling her in.”

Helen signaled the server for their check while she watched the pair clink their frosted glasses and sip. Donna reached for Phil’s silvery ponytail, giving him a generous view of her cleavage.

“He’s taking in that mountain view like he’s never seen breasts before,” Helen said.

“He’s a red-blooded male,” Margery said. “I think she just slipped him a mickey. I’ve got it on my cell phone.”

Their server handed Helen a bill for $72.13, and Helen tried not to look surprised. She gave the woman a hundred-dollar bill and said, “Keep the change.” Instead of a brilliant white smile, the server said, “Just a moment, please.”

Phil and Donna chatted and flirted until Margery said, “Phil’s in trouble. Look. He’s holding onto the bar like he’s seasick. Time for us to move.”

Helen and Margery surged toward the door, but a large man in a white suit materialized — a bouncer. He was about the size of a box truck, but sturdier. In fact, he looked like he lifted them in his spare time.

Helen saw Donna signal the bartender for the check and leave four twenties on the bar top, while keeping one arm possessively around Phil’s shoulders. Whatever Donna had given Phil, it was fast-acting. His face was almost as white as his hair. Donna helped Phil off the bar stool, and kept her arm around him.

Helen was frightened. “We have to go, Margery,” she said. “Donna’s leaving with Phil.” The bouncer blocked her way. “Please, sir,” Helen said. “My aunt is sick.” Margery fell forward and landed on the man, grabbing his lapels.

“I’m sorry to hear that, ma’am,” he said, prying Margery’s hands off his suit. “I’ll call an ambulance.”

“No!” Helen said. “Aunt Margery has these fainting spells every so often. She just needs fresh air.”

“We’ll get her outside as soon as the server returns,” he said. “Now, if she’ll sit down a minute, the server will be right back.”

But she wasn’t right back. Their server went to the bar by way of Des Moines. Helen’s stomach twisted as she watched a definitely disabled Phil and a sprightly Donna leave the bar. There was no sign of their blonde server. Helen saw the bartender check their hundred-dollar bill with a special pen, and cursed herself for not bringing smaller bills. What was she thinking? She knew large bills were suspect, especially in tourist places. Her carelessness could cost Phil his life. Where was he? She couldn’t see her husband anywhere in the White Lady. Helen’s heart was thumping hard against her ribs.

Finally, the server got their change, and started back. But first she stopped at another table and chatted with a man wearing a toupee that looked like he had a flying squirrel on his head. Helen tried to lunge around the bouncer, but he held out an arm big as a bumper. “Just hold on, little lady,” he said.

Little lady? Helen was neither little nor a lady. She was afraid for Phil. He was gone.

“Ooooooh,” Margery moaned, like the ghost of Christmas past. “Please, sir, I just need to go outside.”

The other customers were starting to stare, and Mr. Box Truck looked uneasy. “Okay, there’s your server. Jennifer, was the bill okay?”

“No problem,” she said, smiling.

“Keep the change,” Helen said again, and the server’s smile widened. Helen’s sickly aunt made an amazing recovery. Margery and Helen sprinted for the door like it was the last lap of the Olympics. Outside, Helen handed her ticket and a fifty to the valet and said, “My aunt’s not feeling well. I need my car quickly, please.” The Igloo arrived so fast, Helen thought it had been teleported.

Helen produced another fifty and held it out to the valet. “The red Ferrari that just left, was it driven by a man or a woman?”

“A very hot blonde,” the valet said, reaching for the fifty. Helen snapped it back. “Which way did they go on A1A, right or left?”

“Left,” the valet said.

“Thanks,” Helen said, and handed him the bill.

“The Ritz Carlton is down that way,” Helen told Margery. “That’s where Phil said he was staying.”

“Can we catch them?”

“In this heavy traffic?” Helen said. “I doubt if they’ve gone more than a block or two.”

A1A, the ocean drive, was covered with cars. Drunk tourists wandered into the street. Drunk kids drove rental cars. And a frightened Helen tried to find Phil in his Ferrari.

“Easy,” Margery said, pointing to a motorcycle cop by a beer joint. “Police are everywhere. If you have an accident you’ll never save him. Mind if I smoke?”

“Yes!” Helen shouted, then took a deep breath. Shouting at Margery wouldn’t help. “I’m sorry, Margery. Would you please get my cell out of my purse and text Broker. He’s the cop who’s helping us with this. Tell him there’s been a change of plans, but Phil’s okay.”

“So far,” Margery said, reaching for Helen’s purse with the big fat flower.

Those two words were an ice pick in Helen’s stomach. She whipped the Igloo around a bronze rental Chevy and narrowly missed two college kids who saluted her with middle fingers.

“Helen!” Margery said. “Be careful. I’m texting him now.”

“I see the Ferrari!” Helen said. “Up there, past that black Lexus. Donna’s in the left lane, so she can turn into the Ritz. I’m going to force her into the dead-end alley.”

“Aren’t you afraid you’ll hit her?” Margery asked.

“The last thing Donna wants is the police.” Helen gunned the Igloo’s pathetic engine, and swerved around a gray Dodge convertible.

“You’re lucky that carful of tourists was looking at the ocean,” Margery said.

Now Helen was next to the Ferrari. She could see Phil slumped against the passenger window, his face milk-white. He wasn’t talking or moving. Her heart banged against her ribs. She had to save him.

A solid line of cars was in front of them, and the Dumpster alley was to their left. The Cadillac in front of Helen moved forward, so did the Mercedes in front of the Ferrari.

“Hold on, Margery,” Helen said. “I’m going to cut her off.”

She jerked the Igloo sharply to the left. Donna looked over, wrenched the Ferrari’s wheel, and wound up in the alley. She pulled up a car length. Helen followed, trapping her in the dead-end alley.

“Are you drunk?” Donna shouted. “You almost hit me! Move your car!”

Margery produced a canister of pepper spray from her purse, jumped out, and pointed it at Donna’s while she gripped Donna’s arm. “Can it. I videoed you at the bar drugging Phil. I’m packing pepper spray and I don’t want to hear your lies.” She held the canister inches from Donna’s eyes. “As soon as Helen makes sure Phil is okay, we’re going to have a discussion.”

Helen opened the passenger door, and Phil nearly fell out. “Feeling dizzy?” she asked him. He managed a nod. “Can’t feel my legs,” he mumbled, and she helped him out of the car. He was moving. He was talking. He was alive.

Margery kept her grip on Donna. Helen felt a stab of fear as Phil’s head lolled on his shoulders, but he seemed to be breathing okay. She seat-belted him into the Igloo’s front seat, then went to help Margery.

“Get out,” Margery said, her grip on Donna’s arm tight enough to bruise. “You’re going for a ride.” As Donna climbed out, Helen swiped Donna’s black satin evening bag. She and Margery pushed Donna into the back seat of the Igloo and slammed the back door. Margery got into the back seat on the other side, and kept the pepper spray aimed at Donna’s eyes.

Donna started to say something, but Margery cut her off. The alley smelled like rotten food, and the tall buildings shut off the view of the starlight and silver ocean.

Helen pulled out her pepper spray and opened the back door just enough to squeeze in next to Donna, who tried to scoot away. Margery and her pepper spray stopped her.

“Where’s Will Drickens’s furniture?” Helen asked.

“I don’t know,” Donna said. Helen thought it was a good sign that she didn’t say “what furniture?” Donna was trembling, and up close, her dark eyes were hard and blank. She looked like a beautiful adding machine.

Margery moved the canister of pepper spray closer to Donna’s eyes. Her captive tried frantically to look away, but Helen had her spray next to Donna’s face on the other side. Donna gulped, and Helen could smell the woman’s fear over the light touch of Chanel No. 5. “When this pepper spray hits your eyes,” Helen said, “they’ll slam shut. You’ll have uncontrollable tears, swelling, and temporary blindness. Plus, this hurts like hell. It will be a while before you’ll be pretty enough to sucker rich idiots. I won’t hesitate to shoot. Tell me where you took Will’s furniture.”

“I really don’t know.” Donna was crying now. “It’s not in Lauderdale.”

Helen took a wild guess and said, “Then give me the key to the PODS padlock.”

Donna’s tears stopped. “How did you know?”

Bingo! She’d guessed right.

Margery gave a lunatic grin and said, “Because we’re good at persuading people to talk.”

Donna still said nothing. Phil’s snores in the front seat fueled Helen’s fear — and her anger. “Your choice, Donna,” she said, her voice stone hard. “Where’s the key? Tell us and we won’t turn you over to Will Drickens.”

“Willie Boy’s real upset,” Margery said. “He’d love to get his hands on you, but not the same way he did eight months ago.” Her cackling laugh was straight from a horror movie.

Donna stayed silent. Phil snored.

“That’s it!” Helen slid out of the back seat, slammed the door, and sat in the driver’s seat. “Will’s house is five minutes from here, straight down A1A. We’ll drop you off and let him get the information from you. No one will hear you scream behind his high walls.”

She started the car, and Donna cried, “Wait! The key’s in my purse.”

Margery held up Donna’s black clutch, while Helen pointed her pepper spray at the woman. “Snakeskin,” Helen said. “How appropriate. I wonder which fool you skinned for this fifteen-hundred-dollar evening bag.”

Margery rummaged through Donna’s clutch. “There’s some interesting pills and a white powder in here,” she said. “Wait! Here’s the key.” She held it up. “Based on my experience as a landlady, I’d say this belongs to an industrial-grade padlock with a long shackle, good for self-storage units and toolsheds. It’s real, Helen.”

“Now will you take me to my hotel?” Donna said, her voice shaking. “I’m staying at the Five Flamingos on Federal Highway.”

A middling-priced tourist motel, Helen thought. “I’ll be glad to take you. I want you out of my car and my life.”

She texted Broker to meet them in the hotel parking lot. “Park by the back fence,” he texted back. “Ten minutes. Black Dodge Charger. Local backup one lot over.”

Helen, Margery, and Donna rode in silence to the Five Flamingos. “You can drop me off in front,” Donna said, but Helen kept driving around to the back. Phil woke up suddenly and murmured, “My head is killing me. Where are we?”

“Making a delivery.” Helen couldn’t stop smiling. Phil fell back asleep, but he seemed okay. She’d insist on a hospital check when he got the blood test to prove Donna had drugged him. And Margery had that video.

Broker flashed his car lights and Helen pulled next to him.

“Donna,” she said, “let me introduce you to Stanley Morgan. He’ll give you free room and board for a very long time — and some lovely bracelets.”