The Case of the Minnesota Twins – Part 2
A Dan Diamond mystery by j.
[photo credit: Domina Goddess Severina Stern, by LeftEyeImages]
The dame looked like she’d seen way too many tequila sunrises. She was good-looking in a hard-edged kind of way, but her face was puffy, and her short, dark hair hung listlessly, as if it needed a good washing. There was a little too much belly above the string bikini that she had tugged up over her big butt, and her thick bush poked out around the strip of cloth barely covering her crotch.
I’m not saying she was a dog. She was okay. Kind of sexy. I am definitely no prize myself, so I am not a guy who’s going to piss on anybody’s parade when it comes to looks. But still, this was not a broad who needed to worry much about working up her Miss America application. You probably wouldn’t have looked at her twice on the street.
Right now, though, she was No. 1 in my private little world. She had me facedown on a lumpy mattress thrown on the floor of a tiny, windowless room, and she was running an ice cube around the rim of my anus. My backside was burning from the paddling she had just given me, so the ice cube felt good when she was sliding it over the welts on my butt, but it was freezing when she moved it onto my asshole. She pushed it against the tight sphincter and poked it deep inside with one finger. It came popping out again as though it had been shot from a gun. She laughed, a mean little laugh.
That was my first and last session with that lady, and I can’t really remember her name. Something like Chrissy, I think. I’d been introduced to B&D only a few weeks before, when good old Spanky hired me to find her missing dildo, along with the list of her clients that was supposedly hidden in its battery compartment. After my sessions at the Suncoast Health Club and Miss D.’s place, I wanted to try some more, but I was embarrassed to go back to those places so quickly. I soon got over that feeling and became a regular at both, especially at Miss D.’s, but before I changed my mind, I went looking for another spot in the ads in the Weekly.
I decided on a place called Strictly English, which turned out to be just one small room that was part of a storefront massage parlor on a dreary street off San Fernando Road way out in the Valley. The massage parlor was called Rub-A-Dub-Dub, and it was sandwiched between a cut-rate bail bondsman’s office and an unused space that once held an X-rated bookstore. You could see empty book and magazine racks through the dirty window. Next door, the window of the massage parlor had been painted over in a shit green.
The whole idea suddenly seemed very depressing, and I almost didn’t go in. My dick won that argument, though, just like it usually does, and I pushed the buzzer next to the door. Chrissy opened it. No, not Chrissy. Cissy, that was it. She looked as if she had been sleeping and wasn’t happy about the interruption, but when I explained why I was there, she brightened up a little.
“Good,” she said. “I like giving an English now and then. It’s a change from just jerking you guys off all the time.”
She took me back to the “dungeon,” which was small and didn’t have much furniture. There wasn’t even a bed, just the mattress thrown on the floor. A table held a couple of paddles and the ever-present bottle of Johnson’s baby lotion, and a few more paddles and one or two whips were hanging from nails driven into the wall. Tossed onto the mattress were lengths of rope and a pair of handcuffs.
“You want a Coke or something?” she asked.
It seems like they always offer you a soft drink in places like this, no matter how cheap or how fancy. You’d think that they’d order you to go thirsty and lump it when they’re getting ready to play out a bondage scenario. But I guess they figure that everything goes better with Coke, even an ass-whipping.
I told her that I’d skip the drink, but when she came back after taking my money to the office, she was carrying a little plastic glass full of ice cubes. I didn’t ask about it, because I’d stripped off my clothes while she was gone, just like she’d ordered, and all I could think about was where to put my hands. Your natural inclination is to cover your dick and balls, but I knew that would get me in trouble.
Of course, I was in trouble anyway. She had me lie facedown on the mattress, tied my hands behind my back and shoved a pillow under me to elevate my butt. Then she took a leather-covered Ping-Pong paddle, knelt on the mattress and gave me a pretty unimaginative spanking. Pretty fucking hard, too. Harder than I expected. I was glad when she stopped and slumped down next to me, breathing heavily from the exertion. She picked one of the ice cubes out of the glass sitting next to the mattress and held it in front of my face.
“Know what I’m going to do with this?” she asked.
I had no idea. I really didn’t. I was too new to B&D to think of ice cubes as objects that could be inserted in unusual places. I should have, though, because in my very first sessions, both with Denise, she had used a dildo on me and given me a “punishment enema.” I should have known by now that my asshole was fair game.
There’s a lot of session stuff that I enjoy. I like the smack of a leather paddle on my bare bottom. I like the feel of the domme’s fingers when she’s binding my cock and balls with a cord or a leather shoestring. And I don’t know why, but I even like the giggles of amusement when I’m being humiliated in front of two or three of the other girls.
But I’m not too crazy about having things stuck up my butt. I enjoy the slippery finger running around the rim of my anus when it’s being lubricated for penetration, but I’d just as soon pass on the pentration itself. Enemas are the specialty of the house at Miss D.’s joint, and the girls were always bugging me to have one. I always told them to forget it, but I got a few anyway once they had me tied down.
Still, Cissy’s bit with the ice cubes was kind of a turn-on. I think it was because it was so unexpected. Or maybe it was because she thought it was so funny the way the cubes kept popping out after she shoved them in. She kept laughing and poking them back in until they melted away. Long before that, I had gotten off against the mattress, and I was lying there with a sticky little pool of cum under my belly, wishing that she’d give it up.
* * * * * * * * *
I was thinking about all the things that I’d had done to my butthole while I waited with Darrell and Delia in our room at Mrs. Stern’s, because we had some fun and games coming up that would involve a major plugging of that cavity. It was business as usual at Mrs. S.’s mansion, despite the disappearance and apparent kidnapping of Mandy Andrews. Her sister Candy had insisted on that. She had also ordered Mrs. Stern not to call the police, at least not until we got some kind of ransom note and knew for sure that Mandy had actually been kidnapped. That made some sense, because the publicity wouldn’t have done anyone any good. It was a lot more surprising that Candy wanted to go on with the B&D entertainment. I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised. Most rich folks like to get their money’s worth no matter what.
Mrs. Stern’s operation was known for three things. First, and most important, was her discretion. She had a lot of famous clients, most of whom drove over on the PCH from LA LA Land, and she never talked about them. Not ever. I think she trusted me pretty well by then, but the only one she ever mentioned to me was the late and not so lamented Joseph Balsemo, and that was because Joey Balls was putting the muscle on her kid.
No. 2 in the mansion’s Big Three was Darrell’s dick, of course, but it was not that much bigger an attraction than No. 3 — the famous pony races that Mrs. Stern held for the amusement of her guests. Naturally, these were human ponies, submissives who’d been stripped and strapped and bitted and hitched to little carts that held the dominant customers who whipped them around the course.
Among the little equipment worn by the naked ponies were artificial tails. The tails were attached to butt plugs, and the plugs were uncomfortably large so they wouldn’t fall out during a hard race. When I had the first one stuck up me, Joey Balls had coated it with horse linament, and my asshole still had terrible memories of the fire it lit. I didn’t expect anything like that this time, but I still wasn’t looking forward to the plug.
While we waited, Delia, Darrell and I talked about Mandy’s disappearance. When I was called to Mrs. Stern’s office the night before, she said that she’d been awakened forty-five minutes or so before by Candy Andrews, who was nearly hysterical, screaming that her sister was missing. According to the story that Mrs. Stern finally got out of Candy and later from Marilyn, Mandy had spent about an hour with Marilyn and Delia when she took them back to her room earlier in the evening. She had them take turns paddling each other, but she was tired and she got bored and she told Delia to split. Before she left, though, she was ordered to hogtie Marilyn as a punishment because she “didn’t get into” the spanking enough. The girl was bound facedown on the floor with her arms bent behind her and her legs bent up over her butt so her ankles could be tied to her wrists. Oh, yeah, and Mandy put a leather hood complete with blindfold and gag on her, so that she couldn’t see, couldn’t talk and couldn’t hear very well.
That’s why Marilyn didn’t have a clear idea of what happened in the room an hour or two later. Despite the painful hogtie, she had fallen asleep, but she came awake quickly when she heard angry voices in the room. Because of the hood, she couldn’t hear what they were saying, but she could tell that Mandy was in some kind of dispute with one or two — maybe three — other people. Then she heard what sounded like some kind of scuffle, and after that, nothing but silence. She lay there another hour or so, until she heard someone come into the room. It turned out to be Candy, who took the gag out of the hood so she could ask where her sister was. When Marilyn told her what she’d heard, Candy untied the girl, and they checked out the room together. The covering on Mandy’s bed was halfway on the floor, and a chair had been turned over. Nothing appeared to be missing. Nothing, that is, except Mandy Andrews.
* * * * * * * * *
Ms. Davis took us out to the stables naked, slashing at our buttocks with her riding crop when we walked too fast or too slow. We must have always been doing one or the other, because she never stopped whacking us. Delia got the most abuse and her ass was soon criss-crossed with red stripes. I felt bad for her, but hey, better you than me, kid!
Only one of the submissive guests had been drafted for the pony races, because Mrs. Stern had only four pony carts, just enough for Darrell, Delia and me, plus this blond chick named Dot. At least that what Ms. Davis called her. God knows what her real name was, but she was a dot for sure — a little bitty thing, so tiny that her bouncing boobies and butt looked as if she’d borrowed them from some larger dame. She was so small, I couldn’t figure out how in hell she was going to pull one of those carts, especially if she had to haul around Ms. Davis or Mrs. Hudson, who were good-sized broads.
“I’ve got to run back to the house, so you can put the harnesses on each other,” Ms. Davis said when we got to the stables. “I’ll finish buckling your wrists to them when I get back. Oh, and don’t put the tails in yet. Mrs. Stern wants to let the little rich bitch do that.”
Ms. D. must really have disliked Candy Andrews to talk that way in front of a bunch of subbies. Even if three of us were part of the family, so to speak, it wasn’t good form. Mrs. Stern would have been pissed (though she’d never put it that way herself) if she’d heard the comment. I thought for just a moment about wising her up sometime down the line. Nah, couldn’t do that. I’ve hated tattletales and squealers ever since Betty Buckley told Sister Mary Agnes who stole the blackboard chalk in my fourth-grade classroom. I had to stand in the corner all day, and I couldn’t have sat down anyway after Sister Mary used her board of education on my rump.
I didn’t take us long to get on the harnesses. They consisted mostly of a bunch of leather straps that buckled around the upper body, with large metal rings on each side that were attached to the shafts of the carts. A smaller group of straps went over and around your head to hold a feather plume as well as the wooden bit for your mouth, to which the reins were fastened. I’ve seen pictures of pony girls wearing tall boots with horseshoes on the bottom, so they could click and clack along, but Mrs. Stern’s ponies went barefoot for the races across the huge back lawn.
Ms. Davis hadn’t mentioned them, but there were some humiliating final touches that would be added later on, along with the butt-plug tails. Each pony would get a set of nipple clips from which little bells were suspended to tinkle merrily as the pony trotted along. Female ponies were spared the final indignity — a cock ring with another of those embarrassing little bells dangling from it.
We finished putting on the gear and stood around in the dirt-floored center aisle of the stable, between the two rows of stalls, waiting for Ms. Davis to come back. I noticed that one of the stalls held a “guest,” a skinny little guy who was down on has hands and knees in the dirt. A set of padlocked chains ran from his wrist cuffs to his ankle cuffs, so short that he couldn’t stand up or lie down but had to stay on all fours. Despite the gloom of the stall, I could see a shorter, smaller chain with a tear-shaped weight on one end dangling down between his legs; the other end of the chain was attached to his penis, pulling it downward. His mouth was stretched open with some kind of expanding metal gag, and I hoped that the flies that were marching up and down his back and clustering around his anus didn’t decide to wander inside. The eyes looking at us from above that grotesque gag didn’t look like the eyes of a happy camper, but who knows? The guy may have been having a ball. Enjoy it or not, he was paying big bucks to kneel there in the dirt.
Ms. Davis returned, looking just as annoyed and grumpy as she’d been when she left. She herded us outside with her crop to where a small group was waiting on the edge of the lawn. I’d expected to see Mrs. Stern, Mrs. Hudson and Candy Andrews, but another woman and a man were there, too — a fifty-ish couple, well-dressed and well-groomed, with the lean-and-hungry look of rich folks who spend a lot of their time and money trying to stay as young as possible. They seemed familiar to me, and then I suddenly realized that I knew them — not their names but who they were. Back when I was an involuntary cast member of Dundeen’s Vegas magic show, Joey Balls had ordered Dundeen to send me over to provide some private entertainment for some friends of his at their “villa” at one of the highest-priced resort casinos on The Strip. Those friends were the same couple now standing there on Mrs. Stern’s lawn.
A light bulb went on. For a moment, I was the private dick again, not a guy with a very public dick. If these people had been friends of Joey’s, they may well have been connected to the mob. Mr. Balls had gone to his reward (an unpleasant one, I hoped) after an encounter with Dundeen’s guillotine, but that didn’t mean that this couple didn’t have other ties to the criminal world. It was no great leap of intuition to see a possible link between them and Mandy’s kidnapping.
I could see the eyes of the pair flick across my naked body as we came trotting up, but they didn’t say anything or make any sign that the recognized me. I didn’t say anything either. I couldn’t, thanks to the bit in my mouth. But I would have waited until later anyway to question Mrs. Stern about them in private. She was standing next to a card table that had been set up on the lawn and held the rest of the ponies’ equipment, including the four tails that were about to be inserted in our rears. The pink butt plugs looked so big that I forgot all about the sudden, surprising appearance of that suspicious couple.
“Let me demonstrate how to do this,” Mrs. Stern was telling Candy, “and then you and Mr. and Mrs. Van Meter can prepare the rest of the ponies.” She looked up at us. “Come here, Dorothy,” she said to me.
I felt my hardening erection twitch, and my legs almost buckled. Mrs. Stern was going to fit me with the tail and bells herself. One of my fondest fantasies was about to be played out, but I felt paralyzed. I didn’t know if I could make myself walk over to the table, but I must have, because I was suddenly standing there in front of her. She picked up a nipple clip from the table, squeezed my right nipple between the thumb and forefinger of the other hand to make the nipple harden and snapped on the clip. When it was fastened firmly, she reached out with one finger and flipped the bell dangling down on my chest, making it jingle, much to everyone’s amusement. Then she put another clip and bell on my left nipple.
When she picked up a belled cock ring off the table, my stomach did a backflip. I was afraid of getting off while she was putting it on. I’d done that several times before when some broad was squeezing on a ring, and I knew that when Mrs. Stern took my dick in her hand, I’d be instantly on the edge. I stared up at the sky, trying not to look at her, but when I felt her fingers clasp my penis, I couldn’t help glancing down. She must have sensed what might happen, because she suddenly reached up and slapped my face sharply. I was so startled by the blow that I forgot for a moment what she was doing to my dick, and when I looked down again, the ring was on my cock, shoved down to just below the head, with the large bell hanging heavily from it. Mrs. Stern smiled at me, and I could swear that I got a little wink from her!
Then my balls seemed to tighten and my cock got even stiffer as I watched her take a pair of thin surgical gloves off the table and tug them onto her hands. She picked up a bottle of lotion, poured some into the palm of one gloved hand and began to coat one of the butt plugs with it. When it was glistening in the morning sun, she set it down and looked at me.
“Bend over the table, Dorothy,” she said. I obeyed her. “Not like that,” she said. “Don’t keep your legs together, please. Spread them widely for me.” I moved my feet farther apart. “Wider, please,” she said. “Don’t make me ask you again, Dorothy. You know what you’re supposed to do.”
I spread my legs as wide as I could, closed my eyes and pressed my forehead onto the hard surface of the table, raising my ass into the air. Mrs. Stern let me wait like that for a long minute or two before I felt her slippery fingers moving around the rim of my anus, applying the lotion to the tight brown ring. I could feel the touch of those fingers on my butthole run through my whole body, and then she slipped two fingers inside. She pushed in and out in slow strokes, probing deeper. She went very slowly. I felt like I couldn’t stand it any longer. And I couldn’t. The orgasm came rolling up from my balls and out of my jerking penis in a huge spurt of cum.
Mrs. Stern saw what was happening, took hold of my head harness and pulled me into a standing position, so that everyone could see another jet came shooting out of the quivering dick. My prick jerked again, but this time there was just a long, thin string of cum that dangled there as the laughter of the little ring of spectators rolled over me. It wasn’t good, honest belly laughs. It was more like polite laughter, like the amused chuckles of the “right sort” of people at the antics of some poor unfortunate. That was worse, of course. A hell of a lot worse.
“That was most impolite, Dorothy,” Mrs. Stern said. “I’m afraid that I’m going to have to instruct you in more proper behavior.”
Her instruction consisted of a very hard paddling with a stiff leather paddle. I had my eyes closed again as I bent over the table for the punishment, trying to hide from the fact that my audience probably found this equally amusing. My bottom was burning when Mrs. Stern finished, and then she pushed in the butt plug. It went in more easily than I expected, but it felt huge inside my rectum, almost as huge as my well-paddled ass.
I stood up in a daze, and Ms. Davis had to come up and lead me back from the table so that the other ponies could be fitted in the same way. That took a while, but I wasn’t paying much attention. I did notice the loud laughter at Candy’s struggles to get a cock ring over Darrell’s huge erection, but that was about it. All the registered was my hot ass and the plug inside of it and the memory of Mrs. Stern’s hands on my cock and the overwhelming feeling of humiliation. Some tough guy, huh? Well, my friend, I’ve got to tell you that it’s not easy being a tough guy 24-7. So maybe that’s the reason I liked the B&D thing and the change of pace it provided? Could be.
When the three others were ready to go, they took us over to where the carts were waiting on the edge of the lawn. This was old stuff for Delia and Darrell, and if they seemed flustered at all, it was probably because they knew the cash customers needed some kind of show to feel like they were getting their money’s worth. But Dot, the little blond chick, looked as if she was about to shit or go blind. She was trembling so hard that her full tits and butt were doing the Santa Claus bit — shaking “like a bowl full of jelly.” Her lower lip drooped sadly, and she seemed ready to burst into tears. I’d have felt sorry for her if I hadn’t figured that she had a lot of nights ahead of her when she’d reach down in bed and touch herself and get off while she remembered this moment.
We were hitched to the little two-wheeled carts, and each driver attached the reins to his or her pony’s bit. The fifty-ish guy (Mrs. S. had referred to him as Mr. Van Meter) was my driver, and he spoke to me as he put on the reins, keeping his voice low so that no one else could hear.
“Well, Mr. Diamond, we meet again,” he said. “For a private investigator, you have a habit of turning up in very odd situations.”
I stared at him, trying to look as formidable as anyone could with a long drip of cum still hanging from the end of his dick. He jerked my head around to test the reins, yanking harder than he had to. He smiled at me — a thin little smile that was as mean as a mother-in-law with piles.
“As I recall, things ended rather badly for our mutual acquaintance after our last encounter,” he said. “You were lucky that time, Mr. Diamond. Before you meddle the next time, I suggest that you consider that you may not be as fortunate again.”
I didn’t have a clue what he was talking about, but I was now convinced that the Van Meters were somehow involved in Mandy Andrews’ disappearance. And if they were mixed up in it, there was a good chance that there was some kind of mob involvement. I was beginning to wish that Mrs. Stern had called in the police right away instead of waiting to see if any kind of ransom demand surfaced. As soon as I could get together with her away from the others, I was going to suggest just that.
Van Meter didn’t say anything else. He walked back and climbed into the cart. I figured I knew what was coming next, and I was right. I heard the swish of his buggy whip, and there was a sharp bite of pain of my reddened right buttock as the little knot of leather on the end of the lash snapped away a fleck of flesh.
My butt must have taken a dozen of those bites as he drove me through the first race, which was two turns around the large lawn in a match against Darrell. Every step of the way, the butt plug seemed to be driving itself farther up my ass, but the whip snipping away at my sore bottom got me moving at top speed. I would have been running hard anyway, because I felt some odd need to prove myself, to show that I was the best damn pony out there. I don’t know whether it was tied up in the S&M fetish or whether it was just old-fashioned male vanity, but I wanted to win.
I did win. I won by a couple of cart lengths. But I gotta say that I think Darrell let me win. Candy was his driver, and she wasn’t happy with the loss. As we stood between the shafts of the carts panting, she threw her buggy whip on the ground, grabbed Ms. Davis’ riding crop and began slashing Darrell on the backs of his thighs. I knew that had to hurt like hell, but when Darrell glanced over at me, I could see a little grin flickering on his lips. You’re talking about tough guys? Here was a man who made his living as a submissive, but he was about the toughest guy I knew.
The next race was between the two girls, and little bitty Dot won going away. Mrs. Van Meter was driving her, and she kept snapping at the girl’s bouncing buttocks with her whip, but I knew it was probably sheer terror and adrenalin that sent Dot flying around the course. And I could tell from the sour look on Delia’s face afterward that she didn’t throw the race. Delia always liked to win, and she sure didn’t like the loser’s punishment strokes that she got from Ms. Davis. I knew that she was going to bitch to Darrell and me later on about having a much heavier driver, because Ms. Davis was a big, raw-boned blonde and a lot larger than Mrs. Van Meter.
The Van Meters obviously got bored easily, because they left after that race, and Mrs. Stern walked them back into the house. The rest of the show was just for Candy, and she decided to drive Darrell in a match against Dot. With Ms. Davis in Dot’s cart, it looked like Candy was a cinch to drive a winner this time, but Darrell stumbled and fell on the last lap — accidentally on purpose — and Dot won again. Candy was so mad that she hit Darrell just once before storming back to the house, where she probably took out her anger on poor Marilyn’s butt.
Ms. Davis took Dot off to a stall to be scrubbed down with a stiff brush. It didn’t seem like a very great reward for winning two races, but it was probably another experience that she’d remember fondly somewhere down the road. Ms. Davis told the rest of us to go back to our room, which we did, and Darrell and I had to listen to a solid thirty minutes of bitching by Delia, just like I expected. It was cut short when Mrs. Hudson came in and told me that Mrs. Stern wanted to speak to me in her office. I had expected that, too.
When I came into the office, Mrs. Stern greeted me as “Mr. Diamond” again, not “Dan” as she had the night before, so I knew she wasn’t quite as upset. She still looked worried, though. Just anyone would have been worried at the prospect of explaining to one of the country’s richest and most powerful men that one of his daughters had somehow been mislaid.
“The Van Meters said that they had met you,” she said.
“I’ve had the pleasure, if you can call it that,” I told her. “When I was being held by Joey Balls and his magician friend in Vegas, Joey sent me over to the Van Meters’ place so they could beat on me for a while. I guess they were friends of Joey’s or he owed them a favor or something along those lines.”
“He brought them here once,” she said, “and they’ve visited once or twice since then on their own. I don’t know a lot about them, except that they’ve got a beach house in Malibu and an apartment in San Francisco, though I don’t think they actually live in either place. Obviously, they have money, but they don’t talk about it. I’ve always been a little uneasy about them because they were introduced by Mr. Balsemo, and it certainly is suspicious that they showed up unexpectedly right after Miss Andrews’ disappearance.”
“I think you’re right,” I said. “If they were buddies with a hood like Joey Balls, you’ve got to figure that they know some other hoods, too. They had to make all those bucks somehow. It’s been my experience that money is the favorite topic of conversation for most rich folks, so if the Van Meters don’t talk about theirs, there must be a reason.”
“Do you believe that I should call in the police now?” Mrs. Stern asked.
“That’s what I was going to suggest,” I said, “but I think I’ve changed my mind. Are the Van Meters still here?”
“They’re planning to stay tonight,” she said. “In fact, they asked me to send two submissives up to their room this evening, and they specifically asked for you.”
“Good,” I said. “That’s actually what I was hoping. I remember that Mrs. Van Meter likes to take a drink or two, and she’s likely to say a little more than she intends.”
“Mr. Diamond, I hope you know what you’re doing,” Mrs. Stern said dubiously.
“I hope so, too,” I said.
* * * * * * * * *
I was all dolled up in my maid’s unform and hot to trot when Ms. Davis came to collect me that evening. The Van Meters had requested that both of the subs be decked out as females, so Delia insisted on putting a long blond wig on me and turning my lips into a little bow with her reddest lipstick. I’d gotten used to going around in a short skirt with my bare butt showing underneath, but the wig and the lipstick made me feel like a real fool. I said so.
“You look really cute!” Delia said indignantly.
“I think so, too,” Darrell said, trying to keep from laughing, “but you should probably have shaved again.”
“I just got through shaving,” I said.
“Not your face. Your legs,” Darrell said. “And your rear end could have used a once over, too.”
“He’s right, Dan,” Delia said. “You do have kind of a hairy ass.”
While I was trying to think of a snappy comeback, Ms. Davis arrived and took me off to the second floor, where the guest bedrooms were. She stopped outside one of the doors and told me to wait there. In a few minutes, she came back with Dot, who was dressed just like me but looked a whole lot cuter. I wouldn’t have minded paddling her myself.
“The two of you can wait here,” Ms. Davis said. “The Van Meters are dining in Santa Barbara, and when they get back, they’ll let you in.”
We listened to our footsteps recede and could hear her going down the uncarpeted back stairs. We looked at each other, and then Dot glanced up and down the long hallway to make sure we were alone.
“You’re Dan Diamond, aren’t you?” she whispered.
“That would be me,” I said quietly. “And who are you?”
“Rebecca Thatcher,” she said.
“So how do you know me, Rebecca?” I asked.
“Tommy Donnell mentioned you,” she said.
“And how do you know Tommy?” I asked.
“We’ve worked on a lot of cases together,” she said.
“On cases!” I said. “You mean you work for the L.A. Police Department?”
“No,” she said. “The DEA.”
* * * * * * * * *
NEXT: The odd couple.
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