Milkshakes, Mermaids, and Murder

by Sara Rosett

  Joe glanced at me. I said, “That’s Bruno.”

  We could hear his blustery sigh from across the room as he turned in a half-circle, then dropped down onto his cushion. Joe cleared his throat and adjusted his collar as he stepped down, his face flushed.

  “You can never be too careful with dogs,” he said.

  “I’m sure you’ve got to watch out for them in your line of work.” I slipped into a seat at the table beside the reporter and tried to pretend he hadn’t just been standing on a chair. I stuck out my hand. “Hi. I’m Ellie. I don’t live here. Just visiting,” I said, hoping that would limit his interest in me. It seemed to work because he lowered the pen he’d poised to write down my name and, instead, he shook my hand. “Joe.”

  “So what’s going on? I’ve heard about these pill mills on the news.”

  “They’ve been a big problem in Florida for years. They distribute painkillers, mostly opium-type drugs, to anyone who walks in the door and pays them. The state is cracking down, passing laws and raiding clinics. That’s what is happening today, a statewide sting operation. Until recently, it’s been easy to get pills here. Florida has become a distribution point for pills going into other states, like Mississippi, Georgia, even Tennessee and up the East Coast.”

  Honey set a glass in front of Joe and took a seat opposite him. “Joe’s telling me about the pill mills,” I said to Honey to bring her into the conversation. I turned back to Joe and asked, “And that was going on here in Sandy Beach and Costa Bella?”

  “We’re strategically located. Drive a couple of hours and you can be in three different states. Pills were moved up here, mostly from Tampa, then distributed through two main locations, a clinic in Spring Heights and another one, Sandy Beach Sports Medicine Clinic, in the shopping center near The Hideaway.”

  “But like I said earlier, Chase doesn’t work at the sports clinic. He works at the restaurant,” Honey said, and pushed the plate in Joe’s direction. “Have a cookie.”

  He took one, ate it in one gulp, and said, “I just came from there. The doctor who owns the clinic was arrested a little while ago, too.”

  “So what?” Honey said. “I used to work for a CPA. That doesn’t mean I’m doing people’s taxes on the side.”

  “Well, in Chase Day’s case, it seems he was still working for the sports clinic.”

  Honey looked doubtful, and Joe said, “The state cracked down on these doctors who prescribe pain meds, so the doctors changed up the way they distribute pills. I’ve been reporting on this for a couple of years, and I’ve seen how the docs used to have waiting rooms full of patients at all hours of the day and night—even after midnight. It was easy to spot the bogus clinics because there would be so many people in the waiting rooms and lots of cars with out-of- state plates. Those details were red flags that the police and DEA looked for, so the docs switched things up so they wouldn’t be so obvious. Instead of waiting at a pain clinic and clogging up the waiting room and parking lot, the doc and Chase set up an elaborate scheme to funnel the patients through the restaurant waiting area and then over to the pain clinic. The patients gave the hostess a code word, and she gave them a special buzzer. When their pager went off, the hostess sent them through the restaurant to the back door. They slipped around the back of the building and into the back door of the clinic, got their drugs, and were on their way.”

  “That’s so elaborate,” Honey said.

  “But clever,” I said, thinking of the woman in the yellow tank and the man in the Phineas and Ferb hat. They had been antsy and didn’t seem to fit with the rest of the relaxed vacation crowd. The confrontation between the man and Chase must have been about the changes, the elaborate setup to get into the clinic. “The waiting area at a busy restaurant is always packed, especially at lunch and dinner,” I said. “A crowd there wouldn’t draw any suspicion and neither would a parking lot full of cars with out-of-state plates. It’s frequented by tourists, after all.” I realized Joe was taking notes, and I quickly put my hand on his arm. “Don’t quote me on that. I’m only thinking out loud.”

  “But how do they know this about Chase? Couldn’t it be a coincidence?” Honey asked.

  Joe shook his head. “You couldn’t set up a relay like that between two businesses without the knowledge of the managers. Anyway, law enforcement has been watching him and the doc for weeks. I’ve been shadowing the agents. They want the press coverage, so they’ve let me in on the story. Two undercover officers, posing as patients, ran through the whole setup yesterday.”

  While Honey asked more questions, my thoughts ran in another direction. Could the breakin at Chase and Angela’s apartment have had something to do with the pill mill? I’d assumed the breakin was someone looking for the photos, but I couldn’t make that assumption now.

  Honey said, “Well, that’s terrible. I hate to hear that. You can quote me on that. And I know you’ll want a picture to go with that quote. Let me get my hat, and we can go out on my patio.”

  I thanked Honey for the refreshments and slipped out. Joe had edged toward the door with me, but resistance was futile. Honey latched onto his wrist and pulled him to the patio, explaining her right side was her most photogenic.

  The door to Chase’s apartment was open now, and I could see two men in dark shirts with the letters DEA moving around inside, collecting evidence. They must have arrived when Honey, Joe, and I were deep in conversation and didn’t notice them. There went my chance to get a look at Angela’s phone, I thought dismally.

  I pulled the card that came with the flowers out of my pocket as I walked back to the car, marveling at how flexible my morals had become. Normally, I wouldn’t take anything—even a piece of paper—from someone’s home, but I thought of that scratchy voice on the phone threatening Ben. His matter-of-fact tone scared me. It sounded as if violence wouldn’t bother him. The hours were slipping by—it was a few minutes after six now—so quickly. I only had one other person who was linked with Angela. I climbed in the van, cranked the air conditioner, and dialed the number on the card.

  Chapter Twelve

  The phone went directly to voice mail. “Monica here with Celeb. Leave me a message.” The voice sounded young, and I had the impression she was around Angela’s age.

  Celeb? Monica was with the tabloid magazine? It was a national magazine that appeared at grocery store checkout stands across the country. I’d assumed that Monica was someone local because the flowers had been delivered by a florist in Costa Bella—I remembered seeing the name on the deliveryman’s shirt—but obviously Angela had taken her “find” to the top of the entertainment food chain.

  The phone beeped, and I said, “Hi. My name is Ellie. I’d like to talk to you about Angela and her find.” I left my number and hung up.

  My phone rang almost immediately. The caller ID showed it was the number I’d just dialed, so I picked up. “Hi. I’m Monica, returning your call about Angela’s . . . find,” she said in a quiet but hurried tone, as if she didn’t want to be overheard and didn’t have long to talk. “Do you have them? The pictures of Suzie?”

  I closed my eyes for a second. “Yes.” First snooping on phones and computers, then taking the florist card that didn’t belong to me, and now lying—it was terrible, but I knew if I said no the conversation would be over and I couldn’t have that.

  “Let’s meet,” Monica said almost instantly. “I can give you the same deal. Five now, five when it’s published.”

  “Hundred?” I asked, frowning—that wasn’t much money for all the trouble the photos had caused.

  Monica laughed. “No, five hundred thousand.”

  “One million? One million dollars?” I managed to squeak.

  “Yes,” Monica said, her tone swift and businesslike, despite her obvious efforts not to be overheard. “You’re local, too, right? You’re in Sandy Beach?”

  I was so stunned by the amount of money she’d named that it took me a minute to process what she’d asked. “Yes, I’m here.�
��

  “Good. Can you be at the Park Palms Hotel in thirty minutes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fine. Go through the hotel onto the beach. I’m in the fifth cabana on your left.”

  I strode through the cool, dark confines of the Park Palms, thinking that if I’d known I would be spending so much of my time at the exclusive hotel, I would have paid extra to stay here. It would have saved me so much time. I slipped my sunglasses on as I made my way through the wicker furniture on the veranda. I trotted down the steps, following a waiter carrying a tray of drinks with little umbrellas down the winding path toward the beach, counting off the cabanas as I passed them. The waiter turned off at the fourth cabana. I stopped at the next one. The curtains were shut, and I paused, not sure of the protocol. The fabric pulsed with wind as it caught the stiff breeze from the water. There was nowhere to knock and Monica had seemed intent on keeping a low profile on the phone, so I leaned toward the bow holding the curtains closed and said quietly, “Monica?”

  Nothing. I called her name again, slightly louder. This time the curtains twitched open an inch and a chocolate brown eye appeared in the slit. “Yes?”

  “Monica? I’m Ellie. We talked on the phone.”

  The curtains parted farther, revealing a woman with a heart-shaped face and a head of white curls wearing a boxy white caftanlike shirt trimmed at the sleeves and neckline with a Greek key pattern. Fluid black pants swished around her ankles as she stepped back and motioned for me to enter, then take a seat in one of the lounge chairs. The garments engulfed her small frame.

  She tied the curtains tightly together as I perched on one of the chairs and looked around. It was a luxurious setup. There were four plush lounge chairs, a flat screen TV, a small refrigerator tucked into a corner below shelves of fluffy white towels, and a tray with fresh fruit, nuts, and bottled water. However, it wasn’t the cabana of a person on vacation.

  There was none of the usual paraphernalia that surrounded someone on the beach—no tubes of sunscreen, no boogie boards or goggles, no discarded paperback or magazine. One of the lounge chairs was positioned beside the curtains that ran along the back of the cabana, the side that faced the hotel, not the water. A large canvas tote sat on the wooden floorboards beside the lounge chair, gaping open, revealing a shiny black camera case, a couple of crinkled notebooks, and a computer laptop case. A digital camera with a long lens rested on the lounge cushion.

  Monica sat down on the lounge chair, nimbly crossing her legs and picking up her camera. She brought the camera to her eye and peered through the slit in the curtains, the lens aimed at the back of the hotel. “Okay, here’s the deal,” she said with the camera to her face. “We sign a contract. You give us exclusive rights and agree that you won’t speak, publish, text, tweet, or even think the name Suzie Quinn until the issue is published. I pay you the first half now; you get the rest when the issue is published.” She pulled her face away from the camera for a second, a look of distaste twisting her full lips. “You stay with me until next week when the issue hits the newsstands.”

  I opened my mouth, but she raised a creamy white hand, cutting me off. She pressed her eye to the viewfinder. “I don’t like it either, but my editor insists. This is too big a story to risk a leak. From now on, you’re my new BFF.”

  I stared at her for a second, frowning. If she was an old lady, I’d give up chocolate and purses. I licked my lips as I thought, here goes. “I don’t have the photos.”

  “What?” She pulled away from the camera, and I got a clear look at her face. Despite a layer of heavy powder, I could see smooth skin, no lines around the eyes or creases at her lips. If she was more than twenty-seven, I’d be surprised. She said, “Now, look, you can’t—”

  “I have seen them. Angela gave them to me, but someone took them.”

  She frowned at me for a moment, then shifted around, propped the camera up on a bent knee and balanced it there with her right hand while she pulled her phone out of the pocket of her voluminous pants with her left hand. She dialed a number and checked her viewfinder while it rang.

  “If you’re calling Angela, she won’t answer. I’m sorry to tell you, but she’s dead.”

  She swiveled fully toward me, her camera dropping into her lap. “You’re lying,” she said, her tone accusing. “You’re trying to cut her out, get all the money for yourself.”

  “No. I wish I were. She died earlier today. Drowned in the pool at her apartment complex.”

  Monica gave me a long look, then put her camera down on the cushion and opened her laptop. Her fingers flew across the keypad. After a pause, she clicked on a link, then her eyelids flickered as she scanned the text. “Oh my God,” she breathed, then looked up at me. “How did you know? Were you a friend?”

  “I was there.”

  “But this doesn’t say anything . . . it’s just a report that a woman drowned. What happened?”

  “The police think it was an accidental overdose.” Monica grabbed a pen and a notebook. “Hey,” I said, “I don’t want to be quoted on any of this. I don’t want to be in the news.”

  Monica looked doubtful. “Everybody wants to be famous.”

  “I don’t,” I said.

  “Then why say you have the photos?”

  “Because I need your help.” I couldn’t think of a clever lie to trick Monica into helping me, so I went with the truth—a slightly edited version of the truth. There was no way I was telling her about Ben if I could help it. She worked for a tabloid, after all. “I think Angela was killed for the photos. She sent them to me by mistake.” I hesitated for a second, then decided I wouldn’t go into that part of the story now.

  “It’s a long story. Anyway, she asked me to bring them to her apartment today, but when I got there, the apartment had been broken into, and her body was found in the pool. The police think her death was an overdose, but everyone who knew her says she’d never do drugs. I didn’t even know I had the photos, but I found them after she died. When I saw them, I realized how valuable they were. I think she was killed for them. Then someone stole them from my hotel room. Whoever killed Angela knows I had the photos and wants them. I’m afraid if I don’t find the photos, I’ll end up like Angela. I’ve got to find them. Your phone number from the flower arrangement is the only lead I’ve got.”

  “That’s a rather vague story. Lots of unidentified people.”

  “No kidding. That’s why I’m in this situation. Will you help me?”

  Monica blew out a sigh. “Don’t have much choice, do I? I just told my editor I had the most explosive front page scoop since Brad and Angelina got together, and now I’ve got absolutely zero.” Her eyes narrowed as she said, “I’ll help you, but when we find them, I want them. No fee, either.”

  “You and everyone else,” I murmured. “Fine,” I said louder, relieved to have her cooperation. My main goal had to be to get the photos. Once I had them, there would be nothing to stop me from giving a copy to Monica. I wanted Ben safe, but the people who were doing this to him were dangerous and if giving a copy of the photos to Monica was what it took to expose them, I’d do it. I had a feeling that when everything was over and Monica knew the whole story she’d jump at the chance to provide all the details. It would be quite a scoop.

  Monica noticed a movement through the gap in the curtains. “Crap.” She yanked her camera up, hitting the shutter before it was even steady in her hand. She must have turned off the sound of the shutter clicking because the familiar noise was absent, but her finger pulsed steadily on the shutter button as she adjusted the lens with her other hand. “Three days in this stupid cabana and the first time they step out on the balcony, I’m not ready.”

  “You’ve been here for three days?”

  “I’m on Suzie Watch,” she said, continuing to photograph. “Wherever Suzie goes, I go.” Abruptly, she pulled the camera away. Squinting, she watched the balcony for a few moments while she removed the memory card from her camera, slipped another one fr
om her pocket, and loaded it into the camera, never looking away from the gap in the curtains. She plugged the first memory card into a slot on her laptop, then divided her attention between the balcony and her laptop. “At least the light was good,” she said to herself.

  “So you were at the Y today when Suzie visited?”

  “Sure. Nothing very interesting there. We all got the same pictures. The name of the game is to get that one picture that no one else has.”

  “Like Angela’s pictures.”

  “Right. Those photos are unique—no one has seen anything like that out of Suzie—but the real kicker is the scandal. Perfect sport icon Suzie doing drugs? Huge readership boost. And don’t forget the worldwide appeal that the Nick Ryan angle adds. It’s a tabloid perfect storm. So tell me about the photos. Angela said they show Suzie doing drugs.”

  “That’s what I saw.”

  “What was the quality? Sharp or grainy?”

  “They looked fine to me, but I’m an amateur. I definitely recognized Suzie,” I said. I wanted to get the conversation off of the photos and onto Angela, so I asked, “How did Angela contact you?”

  “Phone call. Same as you.”

  “How did she get your number?” I could see the laptop screen and watched the blur of the pictures uploading from the camera memory card. She typed a short e-mail and hit SEND, then repositioned herself with the camera at the ready.

  “Wouldn’t be hard. My contact info is listed at the end of every story I do for Celeb, and the website has a contact page. Celeb encourages tips. You’d be surprised how many photos and videos come in from amateurs now. Freaking cell phone cameras. Everybody’s a photographer.”

  “What exactly did she say?”

  “She described the photos and asked me how much Celeb would pay. I called my editor, got a figure, and called her back.”

  “When was this?”

  “The day before yesterday. I called her back and told her what we were willing to pay, but she said she had to think about it. That’s why I sent the flowers, a little reminder.”