MAKE HER PAY

by Roxanne St Claire

  CHAPTER

  ELEVEN

  CON MADE UP the delay easily, wending the Kawasaki the Bullet Catchers had arranged to be waiting for him through the light traffic, staying far enough back not to get on Paxton’s radar, but close enough not to lose him. Easy, since he stayed on A1A and kept a steady speed.

  “We just passed the turnoff to where my sister lives,” Lizzie shouted in his ear.

  He gave her thigh a solid pat. They’d get there. But if he didn’t find out what the hell Paxton was up to, he’d be remiss in his duties.

  Paxton took a right when they reached the smattering of stores and restaurants of a tiny beach town, and Con slowed a little. It’d be tougher to follow without being seen, now that they were on side roads, but he could do it.

  They weaved through some commercial areas, then backtracked north a few blocks, past several high-end gated communities. As he drove past an oversized manicured entrance flanked by marble slabs bearing the words St. Richard’s Island in gold, Con saw Paxton’s SUV at the gatehouse, his head out the window, speaking with a guard holding a clipboard. At the next intersection, he turned on a side street and stopped.

  “What are you doing?” Lizzie asked. “Didn’t you see him at that guard gate?”

  “Hang on. I’m getting us in,” he said, taking out his cell phone and dialing. Lucy said use the resources, and he intended to.

  Avery Cole, Lucy’s assistant, answered on the first ring. “Hello, Con, what do you need?”

  “Information.”

  “Name it.”

  Seriously, he could get used to this. “St. Richard’s Island, a private development about ten miles south of Vero Beach. Need a resident with a close relative named Elizabeth.”

  “Hang on,” she said.

  Behind him, Lizzie released a dismayed breath. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “The guards to these places are trained to let family members in.”

  “Family members usually have the same last name,” she said. “If they don’t, don’t you think they’ll call the resident and confirm?”

  He’d broken into so many ultraposh Florida gated developments, he’d lost count. This technique never failed.

  “All right, Con,” Avery said. “There’s a David Rollins at 546 River Run Road, in St. Richard’s. His sister is Elizabeth Fournier, and she lives in Madison, Wisconsin.”

  “How old is she?”

  “Thirty-seven.”

  “Thanks, Avery. Does Mr. Rollins have kids?”

  “Two. Ten and twelve. Jessica and Gabriel. Wife’s name is Sarah.”

  “Perfect. That’s all I need, thank you.” He revved up the bike, then paused at the intersection for a passing car.

  “Aunt Liz,” he called over his shoulder. “It’s a surprise visit to your brother and his wife, David and Sarah Rollins. You’re in from Wisconsin.”

  “What? How the heck do you know they live there?”

  “Just work with me and I’ll explain later.”

  He pulled up to the guardhouse and slowed the engine, earning a wary look from an older, balding man who wore a badge with “Mike” on it.

  “This is Elizabeth Fournier, here to see the Rollins family at 546 River Run.”

  He frowned and read his clipboard. “No one called you in, sir. I’ll have to call the house.”

  “No, wait.” Lizzie leaned forward to speak over the engine. “If my brother answers, then the whole surprise is ruined.”

  The guard looked dubious.

  “How about if we showed you some ID, Mike?” Con suggested with a smile. “Liz, do you have your license? It has your maiden name on it, right?”

  Behind him, another car pulled up. And behind that, a furniture delivery truck. The guard glanced at the growing line and waved them in. “Go ahead. Hate to ruin a surprise.”

  Con thanked him and rolled the bike respectfully through the gate as it rose. Luckily, St. Richard’s was one big circle, so he headed right and slowly made his way down River Run, looking for the SUV.

  “Who did you call?” Lizzie demanded into his ear. “How did you get the names of residents in that place?”

  “I have some great connections.”

  She nudged his shoulder. “No kidding. Who, the CIA?”

  “Actually,” he said with a smile, “you’re not too far off. Look for Flynn’s vehicle.”

  “Is that it?” She indicated a silver Highlander parked in front of the furthermost house.

  “I’d say so.” He passed slowly, taking in the towering front windows and stately columns at the end of a long drive. He got the address and took one more pass around the circle, but there wasn’t much more they could do, unless he wanted to follow Flynn when he left.

  What he wanted to do was call Avery with the address, but maybe he’d just text it to her so he didn’t invite more questions about his CIA connections.

  “He might not come out for hours,” she said, impatience in her tone.

  “I’d like to see if he even goes to the Paxton Labs.”

  “If we hurry up and get to my sister, there’s still time to go up there before we need to be back at the marina. Please.” She gave the bag a gentle nudge. “Riding around with this is making me nervous.”

  “All right.” He pulled out, taking one more look at the entrance to St. Richard’s Island, then headed back to the beach highway.

  They zipped onto A1A and he opened up the bike, weaving through the little bit of traffic, glimpses of the cobalt blue Atlantic Ocean on their left.

  In Vero Beach, she led him to a simple, established neighborhood of ranch homes, mostly built in the fifties and sixties.

  “Your younger sister lives here, alone?” Seemed like an awfully quiet street for a twentysomething single girl.

  “Oh, she’ll tell you how much she hates it. And she’ll be moving soon. But she lived here with my dad, and now she’s in the process of emptying out his office and organizing all his papers so we can sell both places.”

  “Both?”

  “My dad had another place right on the beach, where he worked,” she told him as he slowed down on the street. “That’s the house. The blue one on the right.”

  He pulled into the driveway. “Does your sister dive, too?”

  “God, yes. And she’s really unhappy that she’s not on this dive with me.”

  “So why isn’t she?”

  As he brought the bike to a stop in the driveway, Lizzie pulled off her helmet and shook out her curls. “Long story.” She scanned the outside of the house. “Boy, she really is holed up.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “No windows open in November? All the blinds closed?” She frowned and took a few steps up the driveway, squinting at the small front porch of the stucco home. “Is that a flyer on the door? That’s not like her.”

  He took her helmet and attached it with his to the bike. “You sure she’s here? Maybe she went away for a few days.”

  “She’d have told me if she were leaving.” She slid the advertising flyer from the handle, then pulled out her keys and unlocked the door.

  “Hey, Bree,” she called out. “It’s me.”

  Con followed her into a dimly lit living area in the front of the house. The shutters were closed tight and the house was warm, as if neither fresh nor conditioned air had been blowing through for a day or two.

  Lizzie breezed through the tiny front room/dining area, popping out to a covered patio, then went down the hall to what he assumed were bedrooms. On the other side of the dining room, a tiny kitchen opened up to the lanai and a small pool area decorated with a Tahitian theme, including a thatched roof hanging over a two-person outdoor bar and a kitschy totem pool.

  Surprisingly, not a lot of money for a treasure-hunting family. And not a lot of real treasures on display, unless he counted Lizzie’s high school graduation picture on the dining-room wall. Next to it was a darker-haired version of Lizzie with similar features and a devilish smile. That must be Bree.<
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  Lizzie headed to the other side of the house. “I’m going to go back into the office and look around.”

  “What about this?” He unshouldered the backpack and set it on the diningroom table.

  “I have a place in the spare bedroom. But let me see if I can figure out where she is, first.”

  He followed her into a small office, and there the orderliness of the house ended.

  “My dad was a mess,” she said apologetically. “But this is nothing—you should see his beach house. It’s tiny and packed to the gills with crap he’s collected over the years. Maybe Bree is over there, getting more stuff.”

  “She ought to get through this pile first.” The floor-to-ceiling shelves bowed under the weight of reference books, files stuffed with papers, journals, magazines, yellowed newspaper clippings, crammed shoeboxes, and pictures on every inch of wall.

  “I know, right? That’s why she’s here and not on the dive. We have to get through all this.”

  The floor was full of packing boxes, crates, and plastic storage bins, all of it in disarray. On every wall were pictures of boats and coins and jewels and chipped porcelain and dark bronze utensils. Images of dozens of happy faces, almost all with diving masks pulled up, hands stretched out, beaming victorious smiles to show off a recovered treasure. Many were obviously Lizzie’s father, flanked by two girls with matching grins.

  “So, where’s your mom?” he asked.

  “She passed away when I was nine,” she said, pausing at a picture of a young couple with a toddler. “Here she is, pregnant with Brianna.”

  “Was she sick?”

  “Yeah, very. But we muddled through somehow. I managed to get Brianna through her teens without killing herself.” She laughed softly. “No mean feat, with that one.”

  “You managed?”

  She shrugged. “My dad was always on a dive, or researching or speaking somewhere. I just stepped in and did the big sister thing.” She looked around, zeroing in on the one empty surface, a small typing table. “Wherever she is, she has her laptop. That’s strange.”

  Con noticed the printer silently flashing a yellow light over the empty paper bin. He grabbed a few sheets of blank paper, fed them in, and instantly the machine clicked to life.

  “Something’s in the printer cue.” He read the paper as it fed out of the ink-jet printer. Delta Airways. Boarding Pass. Brianna Lynn Dare. “Could she have gone to Lisbon?”

  Lizzie laughed. “I seriously doubt that.” When she read the paper he held out, she paled a little. “I will kill her if she went to Portugal.”

  “Why? She’s not a child.”

  Her eyes flashed. “I know, but …” She waved her hand, studying the boarding pass. “There has to be an explanation. I’m going to call her.”

  She slipped her phone from a side pocket of her cargo pants and dialed.

  “Not that I think it will go through in Lis—” From down the hall came a digital jingle. “Shit,” she murmured, hitting a button. “Why would she do this?”

  “She’s a grown woman, Lizzie. Is it really out of the realm of possibility that she’d take a trip? Maybe she couldn’t reach you.”

  “Maybe. And nothing’s out of the realm of possibility with her. It’s just that …” She sighed. “She’s all I’ve got. And I’ve always been a little protective of her. More so since my dad died.”

  “But she took her laptop,” he noted. “Why don’t you e-mail her? My phone has Internet service.”

  She agreed and took his phone, sending a message while he perused the papers on the desk, on the file cabinet, everywhere.

  “Alachua High Springs?” he asked, reading out loud from some notes on a yellow pad. “I’ve been—”

  “What is that?” Lizzie put down the phone, drawn to what he was reading. “That’s my dad’s handwriting,” she said softly, her body slumping. “And those must be the notes from his last dive. That’s where he died, and the day it happened.”

  “He was cave diving?”

  She gave him a look. “You know the place?”

  “I’ve dived there, up under the Suwannee and Ichetucknee rivers. I spent most of my life over near the Panhandle in Tarpon Springs, not far from there, so, yeah, I know the whole area. Tons of caves.” He frowned, studying the map. “When you said he died of nitrogen narcosis, I figured it was a deep SCUBA dive for salvage. This …” He indicated the hand-drawn map on the page. “Is a whole different thing. This is more of a thrill-seeker’s sport.”

  “I know, which is why it was strange. He didn’t even tell us he was going on this dive, but I figured he didn’t want me to worry.” She bit her lip. “Which makes me mad as hell, on top of missing him.”

  She glanced at the notes along the side, describing “underground rooms so big you could drive two tractor-trailers through side by side” with three exclamation points.

  “Have you dived these caves?” she asked.

  “I have. And this particular one”—he circled the map sketch with one finger—“is very advanced. It’s a three-and-a-half-mile labyrinth about three hundred feet deep. That’s some serious diving. Was his dive partner a pro?”

  “Dylan Houser, a California cave diver. I never even met him during the investigation, but the authorities interviewed him. He was a diver my dad met through his contacts. He was on the surface when my dad died, and, no, they didn’t use tethers.” She shook her head, dropping the pad on top of a pile of books, and headed out of the room.

  Con picked up the printed boarding pass she’d left behind, folded it and slipped it into his pocket, then grabbed the backpack from the dining-room table on the way to the spare bedroom.

  The room was small, barely holding a double bed, dresser, chest of drawers, and a small empty aquarium in the corner. Lizzie paused at the door, reached for the bag, and gave him a pointed look.

  “Okay. Thank you. Good-bye now.”

  He laughed softly. “Excuse me?”

  “I can’t get to the bank on Sunday afternoon, so I’m going to hide this, and I don’t want anyone to know where it is. Even you.” She put both hands on the bag and gave it a strong pull; he relinquished it.

  “Are you crazy? What if someone broke in here and stole it—”

  “No one will ever find where I’m hiding it.”

  Right. “What if there’s a fire?”

  She looked hard at him. “The bank’s closed. We’re due back at that marina in an hour. And he will leave without us, to make his point. Do you have a better idea, Con?”

  He did. He’d have Lucy send someone down here and retrieve it if he had to. “Not this second. Go ahead, hide it.”

  She backed into the room, and closed and locked the door. Like that little scrap of metal could keep him out. But he didn’t need to be in the room to know what she was doing; he could hear her moving around.

  He put his ear to the door and picked up the ruffle of some bedding, the brush of someone crawling on carpeted floor, and pictured her crawling under a bed. She liked that hiding place; it was the same thing she did with the scepter.

  He pressed his ear to the door and heard a snap, then a zipper too high-pitched to be the backpacks. Something hit wood … the scepter? If he had to find it without her, he now knew enough from what he’d heard.

  A loud knock on the front door pulled him away from her door. When she didn’t emerge and the visitor knocked again, harder, he missed the nuance of the next sound.

  “Lizzie,” he called. “Someone’s here.”

  “One sec.” The zipper sound again, and a snap, then another.

  He inched to the door to hear what she was doing, but another sound caught his attention. The lock opening in the front.

  Automatically, he reached for his weapon. He advanced down the hall toward the front, listening. Whoever it was made no effort to hide that he or she was there. A female, judging from the sound of heels on tile, moving fast across the living area.

  He gave it three seconds, then popped
around the corner to surprise her, and got a deafening scream in return.

  Behind him, the door to Lizzie’s room crashed open and she tore out. “What the hell?”

  An older woman with graying hair, huge brown eyes, and impressive lungs stood frozen with her hands balled to her cheeks.

  Lizzie shot right past him and almost lost her balance at the sight of the woman.

  “Joy!”

  The scream stopped. “Oh my. Lizzie. You scared me!”

  “No, he scared you.” She glared at the Glock. “You can put that away. This is a neighbor, Joy Caldwell. What are you doing?” she asked the woman.

  She held up a handful of mail. “Getting the mail while your sister’s out of town.”

  “Damn. She really is gone?”

  “She went to Lisbon, honey. I don’t think she was expecting you to stop by anytime soon. Aren’t you out diving?”

  Lizzie just shook her head. “Is she alone?”

  “I believe so.”

  “She didn’t happen to say why she was going to Portugal, did she?”

  Joy shrugged. “I thought it was for fun. She was awfully darn excited and, well, you know Brianna. Just doing something spontaneous.”

  “Thanks for the mail, Joy,” Lizzie replied, resignation in her voice. “Did she leave an itinerary?”

  “I’m sorry, no.” The woman’s gaze flicked to Con. “Are you a cop or something?”

  “Something.”

  Lizzie gently nudged Joy to the door. “I’ll call you if I hear from her, and you do the same. You have my cell phone number, right?”

  “I do.”

  Lizzie closed the door and turned to face Con. “First of all, why in God’s name are you armed? And second, do you think your amazing contacts can help me find my sister?”

  CHAPTER

  TWELVE

  FOR ALL THE money this guy must have to be able to buy the medallion, Gerard Dix’s winter home in St. Richard’s Island wasn’t that nice. The McMansion couldn’t go for more than two or three mil, and the furnishings were right out of the pages of Southern Living. Nothing like what Flynn would have if he could shell out six figures for a necklace. But ever since his mother had married Judd Paxton and Flynn had been exposed to true wealth, he’d noticed that some of the richest people didn’t reveal it to the world. But Dix was happy to part with his money, clearly enamored with the medallion. After he examined it, he disappeared from the spacious pool deck, leaving Flynn alone with a watery iced tea, then he bounded back, beaming, with cash.