Page 59 of Paging Dr. Hart
You are cordially invited to the 13th annual
black and white masquerade ball
Hosted by John Stralla at his home
3900 Las Vegas Blvd., Tower One
The Penthouse
I drop the paper back onto the crumb-dusted tabletop. “How are you planning on getting into this party? I’m guessing you weren’t invited.”
Eyes gleaming, Shelly excitedly leans toward me. “That’s where you come in.”
“Me?” I question, pointing a finger at myself.
“You’re our ticket to get through that door.” Shelly’s hand has returned to my arm like she wants to hold me in place.
A disbelieving laugh escapes me. “How? I wasn’t invited either.”
“I know, but Stewart was. He goes every year.” Shelly pins me with a pleading stare.
I have a powerful urge to walk away. To stand up and march right out of there, never talking to these people again. But the thought of my mother’s medical bills and the lack of money to pay them keeps me seated.
“Let me guess—you want me to get Stewart to take me to that ball?”
Rafe gives me an approving look. “Smart girl. There’s a reason you’re going to be valedictorian.”
“Then what? Say I get Stewart to take me. What happens then?” I feel like I’m on a roller coaster, a big and scary one. I want to get off, but I’m already strapped in and at the top, waiting for the stomach-jolting drop back down to the ground.
Rafe takes over, eager to share his strategy. “Johnny Stralla has a safe in his home office. It’s full of everything we need: cash, diamonds, casino chips, you name it. The best part is that it’s his personal stash, so he’s made sure it’s all stuff that can’t be traced.”
He grins, a reckless shine in his eyes. “The room is protected by a lock on the wall. It’s the kind that’s activated by a specially coded badge, you know, one of those plastic keycards you see all the employees wearing. Once you get to the party with Stewart, we need you to lift that keycard off him. It’ll have access to the highest security locations, including the office door. Just give the card to us. I know the code for the safe. We’ll take care of the rest.”
Shelly joins in, eager to convince me. “See, Tiffany? You won’t be at risk. At the very worst, you get caught trying to steal the keycard. You can easily pretend it was a mistake and play it off. Stewart has a big-time crush on you. He’ll believe anything you say. If you can’t get the keycard, the whole deal is a bust, which will suck, but we won’t be any worse off than we are now. If you do get it, everything changes for us. You can pay off those bills, and I can move out of my mom’s house.”
I turn to Rafe and ask, “What about you? What would you do with the money?”
There’s a haunted expression on his face. “Me? I’d get as far away from here as I can.”
“Really?” I frown, unhappy with his response. I don’t want Rafe to leave. The thought of never seeing him again settles heavily in my heart, a boulder sinking to the ocean floor.
Hollow-eyed, he nods.
“How do you know all of this? About the ball, the office, the safe?” My brows rise, questioning.
Shelly dismissively waves her hand. “Rafe knows people. He hears things.”
I’m unconvinced. “What people?” I ask him. “How do we know if they’re telling the truth?”
“It’s the truth,” he answers without hesitation. “The code to the safe is legit. I’ve triple-checked it myself. I can get Shelly and me into the party, and I can open the safe. The only thing I don’t have access to is that office. The keycard is too heavily encrypted. We need Stewart’s badge. It’s the only way.”
I shake my head, my hands tightening into fists. “I don’t believe you. Who would have that kind of knowledge? It’s too far-fetched.”
Rafe scrubs a hand over his face and sighs heavily. “We have people all over this city. You wouldn’t believe the kind of information we have access to.”
“We?” I raise my hands palms up, frustrated by his vague response. If they want me to help, I’m going to need better answers than this.
“My family.” His eyes shift to the left, and there’s something odd in his expression. Is that guilt? Shame? I’ve never seen Rafe unable to stare someone down.
