DOUBLE MINT by Gretchen Archer Read Free Book Online

at Sonic, America’s
     Drive-In. Or taking up golf. I love the clothes.
    No way was I going into the bathroom alone. I reached in my spy bag and pulled out
     my gun, gloves, and phone. I tucked the gun in the waistband of my Olivia Abbott pants,
     pulled on the gloves, and poked on my phone.
    “Hey, are you here yet?”
    “I’m in the dungeon,” Fantasy said.
    Our offices are three large rooms located in the underbelly of (Mother Earth) the
     main building. As the crow flies, we’re a tenth of a mile directly beneath Style,
     a women’s clothing store on the mezzanine, in 3B. B is for Basement.
    “Grab a print kit and come to room twenty-six fifty.”
    “What’s up?”
    “The guest is gone.”
    “How do you know?”
    “Because he’s not here.”
    “On my way.”
    I’m not going in that bathroom alone.
    It looked like he’d stepped out for a paper. Twelve hours ago. The bed had been turned
     down, but not slept in. The dresser had a man pile: car keys, loose change, a small
     folding knife, wallet, and his room key. The closet held a week’s worth of conference
     clothes and a rolling suitcase large enough for four weeks’ worth of conference clothes.
     The television was on. His leather slip-on shoes were beside the door.
    The small dining table was set for one with a barely touched meal, highly congealed,
     the chair pushed back from the table as if he’d just risen. A full glass of pink wine
     sat to the right of his dinner plate. An acrylic white wine chiller held the rest
     of the bottle, the ice long melted, everything room temp. His knife and fork were
     resting neatly on his dinner plate. Something or someone had interrupted this man’s
     dinner three bites in.
    Fantasy knocked. Knuckle, knuckle, pause, knuckle, knuckle, bang—our secret knock.
     I have a passkey that overrides the programming on every electronic door lock in the
     building. I have one of the two all-access passkeys, Security has the other one locked
     in a vault, and I guard mine like it’s a banker badge.
    Fantasy doesn’t have a passkey and doesn’t want one. For one, she can get through
     any door, anytime, anywhere. It’s her Superpower. For another, she says she has enough
     to keep up with and doesn’t want anything else.
    Fantasy, who is six feet tall, my best friend, my wingman and wheelman, looks like
     Tyra Banks with blue eyes. And she has three boys, two dogs, and one husband who lose
     all their stuff all the time. They count on her to keep up with everything. Her boys
     are constantly calling to ask where their this and that are, and she always knows.
     “You cut that shirt up to make a slingshot last week. It’s gone.” And, “Your hamster
     has not been ratnapped. You took his cage to the laundry room Tuesday because you
     said he needed a time out.” And, “No one is wearing your shoes. No one wants to be
     in the same room with your shoes. You left them in the treehouse.” I guess keeping
     up with a passkey would push her over the edge. So she learned how to get around without
     one.
    “Hey.” Her t-shirt said Bring It On. She took in the scene. “Yow. Where’d he go?”
    “Your guess is as good as mine.”
    “Have you looked in the bathroom?”
    “I was waiting on you.”
    “Davis,” she said. “You big chicken.”
    “If he’s in there, Fantasy,” I don’t know why I was whispering, “he’s dead. Like Elvis.”
    She pulled her gun from where she keeps it at the small of her back, marched over,
     turned the knob, then announced herself. “Coming in! Cover it up!” She kicked the
     door wide open.
    This is why I called her. Honestly, she’s not afraid of anything. Not one single thing.
     Not spiders, the flying monkeys in The Wizard of Oz , or men who may be naked and dead on the bathroom floor.
    She poked her head in, then right back out. She stepped away, then swept out an arm.
     “Take a look.”
    “Is he in there?” I don’t know why I had my gun drawn. If he was in there he