“Will do,” I said.
Candice moved on to the other names on the list. “The rest of these are all requests for an estimate. Dave will need a half hour at each location to assess the property, take photos, and make a few notes. Allow another fifteen minutes for travel and he should be able to knock out a whole ton of those in the next couple of weeks—remember, you’re working between the hours of eight and two. I’ll take all the clients who requested Sunday appointments so that we don’t get our wires crossed.”
I skimmed the names on the spreadsheet, and stopped halfway down the list to let out a squeak. “Holy freakballs!” Pointing to the celebrity name, I said, “He wants a panic room?”
Candice grinned. “He does.”
I used the spreadsheet to fan myself. “Ohmigod. I had no idea he was still in Austin! I mean, I thought he moved to New Orleans, or back to L.A. God, if I call, do you think he’ll answer? Should I make small talk? What if I crack a little joke, like, ‘All right, all right, all right, let’s get you a panic room, sir!’?”
Candice threatened to snatch the sheet out of my sweaty fingers. “No small talk and no jokes, Sundance. Got it?”
I made a face at her. “Killjoy.”
An hour and a half later I set the phone down and happily crossed another name off the list. I was a brilliant saleswoman. I’d talked three people who were on the fence about going with another builder into letting Dave come out and give them an estimate. He was fully booked for every Saturday of the month, and I was smug with satisfaction that I’d helped my husband and his business partners secure even more business.
Trotting into Candice’s office, I waited until she was off the phone with a prospective client, who appeared to be passing on Candice’s offer to have Dave give them an estimate (not everyone can have my amazing sales skills), and showed her my spreadsheet.
“Whoa!” she said, after scanning it. “All of these are booked?”
“Yep.”
“Way to go, Abby!” She pointed to the celebrity name that had made me break out in a sweat. There was an X by his name. “No answer?”
I frowned. “No. The number rings to his business manager, and she said he’s finally decided to sell the home.”
“Awww,” Candice said in mock sympathy. “And you were so close to leaving your husband for him.”
“His loss,” I sniffed.
Candice set the spreadsheet in a file and glanced at her watch. “Can I take you out to dinner after your last client?”
“You can,” I said, sitting down in the chair across from her desk. I still had a little time before my first of three appointments for the evening. “Do Dutch and the boys have enough crew to handle all this work?”
Candice tucked the file away and leaned back in her own chair. “Brice said he and Dave have hired three more crews for a total of seven. They’ve gotten each room down to three weeks to complete if it’s just a retrofit, six if it’s a complete build-out.”
“What are they retrofitting?” I asked. Dutch never talked about the details of his business, which I honestly appreciated, because blueprints and construction . . . ? Hello, boring.
“Usually a walk-in closet. To retrofit it, they have to tear out most of the Sheetrock, insert a separate ventilation system, electrical, and plumbing, encase the exposed walls in two-inch steel, put the Sheetrock back in, and install a bulletproof door with a security lock.”
“Wowsa. I had no idea it was that involved.”
“A lot of them are even more complicated. The highest-security rooms aren’t in the closets, but a separate room located somewhere else in the house.”
“Why?” I asked. Man, Candice knew way more about this stuff than I did.
“Because closets are the obvious panic room choice, and someone intent on kidnapping or harming one of these superwealthy people would start there. Dave came up with a schematic to have a false panic room made out of the closet, so that any intruders would be stalled there, while the residents snuck out the back of the closet through a secret door that would lead them directly to the real panic room somewhere else.”
My jaw dropped. “You’re telling me that there are people who live here that are so concerned with their safety that they essentially have two panic rooms?”
Candice cocked her head slightly, as if she couldn’t believe I’d asked the question. “Abby, have you ever seen Dutch’s security business client list? He’s got at least six billionaires on it.”
I sat forward. “There’re six billionaires living here in Austin?”
“Oh, I’m sure there’re quite a few more. But I don’t think they live here—I think they just have a home here. One of many. Austin is a seriously cool place to live now, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
“I notice it every day on my drive home. The traffic here sucks.”
“True, but it’s also a place that’s been attracting tech giants and people with major money for the past few years now. We’ve got some big wealth pouring into the city, and your husband keyed in on a phenomenal niche at exactly the right time.”
“Go, Dutch!” I said, waving my fist in the air.
“Go, Safe Chambers Inc.,” Candice corrected. “It’s now a group effort.” And then Candice said, “Abs?”
“Yeah?”
“Has Dutch talked to you about quitting his day job?”
I blinked. “Quitting the bureau? No way. He loves that job.”
“Oh.”
“Hold on,” I said. “Has Brice talked to you about it?”
“A little,” she admitted.
I sat forward. “Brice is thinking about quitting the FBI? But he’s got, what? At least several more years before he could retire with full benefits, right?”
Agents could retire with full benefits if they had at least twenty-five years of service.
Candice sighed. “Yeah, he’s already got seventeen under his belt, so it’d be another eight for him, but lately he’s been wondering if that’s the right move for him. I mean, you know how grueling that job can be. How hard on the soul it is to look at so much murder, crime, and corruption. It eats at your humanity to work that grind day after day. Right now both Brice and Dutch are making more than enough to live on, and with what they’ll continue to pull in, it makes their regular salary look like a joke.”
I sat back in my seat again and tapped the arm of the chair. Dutch had been making serious coin with his security business for quite a few years now, and in all that time I’d never heard him mention that he wanted to quit because he was making a better living arranging for bodyguards and home security systems for the superrich. It was my understanding that my hubby worked at his true calling during the day, and made a comfy extra living during his off-hours.
“Does Dutch know Brice is thinking about quitting?”
“I doubt it,” Candice said, before eyeing me keenly. “Don’t tell him, okay?”
“Okay,” I agreed. But it’d be hard to keep that confidence. “Candice,” I said, after thinking about it for a few seconds. “This whole panic room surge probably isn’t sustainable.”
“Agreed,” she said. “At least, not here. But I know the boys have talked about branching out into other cities. Dallas, San Antonio, and Houston are ripe for the picking for starters. Lots of money in those three places, and I heard Dave suggest Nashville as another location to scout.”
I was a bit less optimistic. “Yeah, but what makes Dutch, Brice, and Dave think that there won’t be tons of competition for them to contend with? I mean, just tonight I talked to three people who were thinking of going with another builder.”
“Oh, I’m sure the competition will be fierce,” she said. “But Dave is a magician when it comes to schematics. Some of his designs are exceptional, Abs. Have you really not seen any of the photos?”
“I haven’t,” I said, feeling
a slight blush touch my cheeks. I definitely should’ve taken a bigger interest in my husband’s entrepreneurial endeavors.
“Well, they’re incredible. Dave thinks of everything, even in instances of a breach. I saw one plan that had a false panel where the residents could go if the main door to the panic room was breached, which would make the room look empty to intruders. There’re also hidden places for gas masks, antidotes to several toxins, extra food rations, emergency medical supplies, even a landline phone if you want one installed, but that’s a big extra, so most people don’t opt for it.”
“A landline? What use is a landline when everybody’s got a cell these days?”
“It’s not very hard to block a cell phone signal,” Candice said. “All you need is a simple call jammer aimed at a specific location and presto, no service. But with a landline installed with a cable that goes underground all the way out to the junction box, no one would guess that you’ve got a very secure way of communicating with the outside world, and a way to call for help. But it’s superexpensive, because the junction box could be a quarter or even a half mile away.”
“Huh,” I said. “Leave it to older technology.”
“Truth,” Candice said. “Anyway, the point is that Dave’s thought of a million details like that.”
“Wouldn’t it be easier to simply arm these people and suggest that if anybody tries to kidnap them, they should shoot them?” I was being only slightly sarcastic when I said this to Candice.
She laughed. “It would be easier, but the reality is that a lot of these people have families and keep their guns locked up. It’s sometimes faster to get to the panic room than it is to get the gun out, and then what if you have multiple intruders with multiple weapons? You could end up in a shootout with lots of collateral damage. Dutch’s clients are trying to avoid that kind of scenario. To them, a panic room with all the bells and whistles is the way to make themselves feel safe.”
I sighed and got up from the chair. “Well, if it makes them feel secure, then okay, we’ll deck out their mansions with a bulletproof room full of fancy gas masks and landline telephones. In the meantime, I’m going to go try and solve real-world problems, but after my last client, I will take you up on that offer of dinner, okay?”
“Sounds good,” she said. “And, Abby, remember, don’t tell Dutch I said Brice was thinking about retiring from the bureau.”
“Lips zipped. Got it,” I assured her.
• • •
Later that night I sat in bed reading and waiting for Dutch. He came in just before ten and looked weary to the bone. “Hey, beautiful,” he said, leaning down to give me a kiss.
“Brice is going to quit the bureau!” I yelled, even before his lips touched mine.
My hubby paused, still hovering over me, probably regretting not stopping for a stiff drink before coming home. Finally, he leaned in again, kissed me, then moved around to the closet to begin shrugging out of his work clothes.
“Did you hear what I said?”
“The neighbors heard what you said.”
“You have to talk him out of it, Dutch.”
“Out of what?”
“Quitting! He’s too good. He can’t leave.”
My husband pulled off his T-shirt, exposing his broad shoulders, rippling biceps, and perfect pecs. (I threw that description in for you, ladies. You’re welcome.) “If Brice wants to quit the bureau, then he’s earned the right to leave without being talked out of it,” he said.
“How can you say that?” I demanded. “Seriously, honey, you guys are a team. There’s no way that bureau would operate nearly as efficiently without him. Plus, he’s your friend! You guys work great together. You’re the best team out there!”
Dutch came over to sit down next to me and take up my hand. “All of that’s true. But if he wants to quit, Edgar, then the best thing I can do for him, as his teammate and his friend, is support his decision.”
I tried pulling my hand away, but Dutch held it tight. “Some friend,” I snapped. “He’d be making a stupid decision. He’s only eight years away from retiring with full benefits.”
“I think it’s a little less than that, actually. Brice served in the military for three years, so it’s more like five.”
I slapped his arm with my free hand. “See? He’d be so dumb to throw that away!”
“You know what we worked on today?” he asked me.
My brow furrowed. “What you worked on? I don’t know. Some cold-case files?” The bureau branch that Dutch and Brice worked at was one strictly devoted to cold-case files. It was arduous work without a lot of results and depended as much on luck as on the superior investigative skills of the agents.
Dutch’s expression was patient, but his eyes were serious. “We worked the case of a human trafficking ring from El Paso. And these girls aren’t women. They’re young. Illegally young, and these scumbags specialize in providing young girls and virgins to men who prefer children to women.”
I put a hand on Dutch’s chest and turned away. “Don’t tell me any more,” I whispered. Those kinds of cases were some of the worst I’d ever worked on. I was still haunted by a series of videos I’d seen in a child-pornography case I’d consulted for Dutch on. I’d never forget the fear and pain in the young girls’ eyes.
Dutch squeezed my hand. “Now you know why even five more years might feel like an eternity to Brice.”
I sighed and nodded. “Okay. I get it.” And then I had another thought. “Do you ever think about quitting? With the side business, I’m assuming we could afford it.”
“On days like today, I think about it every single minute. But then I come home to you, and I think about all the good you and I have done over the years and about all the pond scum we’ve put behind bars, and I wonder how I could think such selfish thoughts. I have more to give, Abs.”
“Don’t you think Brice has a little more to give too?”
“Why are you pushing this?”
I lowered my gaze to my lap. My miniature dachshund Tuttle was curled up there, fast asleep. “Brice has your back,” I said, unable to look at my husband because I was the one now thinking selfish thoughts. “If he weren’t there, who would protect you? Who would keep you safe? Who would look out for you both politically and in the field?”
Dutch stroked my cheek and lifted my chin. “Maybe it’s time I did that for the guy reporting to me,” he said. “Maybe I can be the guy at the top who looks out for everybody else.”
“You’d take Brice’s job?”
“If it was offered, sure.”
I sighed. I loved my husband with all of my heart—I truly did—but I also knew that Brice was the far savvier politician, and in the role of special agent in charge, a keen understanding of politics—and the ability to play them—were an absolute must. “Maybe he won’t quit,” I whispered.
Dutch chuckled. “We’ll hope that, whatever his decision, it’s the right one for him.” And then he got up and went to the dresser for his pajama bottoms. “Thanks for smoothing it over with Murielle,” he said, changing the subject and reminding me about our encounter with her, which, shockingly, I’d completely forgotten.
“You should’ve warned me about her, babe,” I said.
“I warned Candice. It seemed safer.”
“I don’t mean about what a bitch she is. I mean about what a freaking goddess she is.”
Dutch turned to face me with raised (innocent) eyebrows. “You think she’s pretty?”
I rolled my eyes and waved my hand dismissively. “Pfft!” I said. “No, she’s hideous. I can totally see how you’d be repulsed by her.”
“I am repulsed by her.”
“Oh, come on!”
“Check the ether,” Dutch challenged. “See if I’m lying.”
I was about to argue more with him, but then I did as he’d asked and chec
ked the ether after realizing that I hadn’t heard that familiar singsong Liar, liar, pants on fire . . . in my head when he’d said that he was repulsed by her. “But . . . ,” I tried, totally at a loss. “How can you not be attracted to her? The woman is like . . . liquid sex!”
“Not to me,” he said simply. “To me she’s overly confident, self-absorbed, narcissistic, materialistic, and a royal pain in my ass.”
“Huh,” I said, honestly shocked that Dutch could’ve looked past all the gorgeous trappings to see the real person underneath. But then, my husband is pretty great that way. In fact, he’s pretty great in general. “I wouldn’t have blamed you if you’d said you found her attractive.”
Dutch leaned forward to cup the back of my head and lay his forehead against mine. “In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m kind of blind to anyone but you, Edgar. You’re all I want. End of story.”
Reaching down, I began to lift off my nightshirt.
“What’re you doing?” he asked.
“Getting naked.”
“Really?” he said in that way that suggested he was totally for it.
“Yeah, really. Now, get your gorgeous self under these covers and make mad love to me.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, saluting. (And not just with his hand . . . wink!)
• • •
Several days later Dutch and I were spending a lazy Sunday morning out on our back patio, sipping coffee (him) and a caffeine-free tea (me) while talking about going somewhere for breakfast, when he suddenly looked up toward the door to the kitchen. “Is that your phone?” he asked.
I sat up and listened. Sighing, I said, “Yeah. I think it’s Candice. She was talking about going for a long run this morning and I might’ve said I was interested in joining her.”
“And now you’re not interested?”
“Not after the workout she put me through yesterday. That woman is obsessed with the kettlebell.”
Dutch leaned over and squeezed my bicep. “You’re looking really fit, Edgar.”