Kill Me Twice

by Roxanne St Claire

  Including a suitcase. Could Denise have taken that trip to see her son?

  “Look what I found in the trash.” Alex held out a square tag. Neiman Marcus. Color: café au lait. Size: six.

  Jazz gasped softly. “She was the person in Jessica’s apartment? She took the dress?”

  He shook his head slowly, still studying the tag while Jazz picked up one of the pictures of a golden-haired boy of about ten or eleven grinning in a classic grade school picture.

  “This must be her son.” Turning over the frame, Jazz tried to slide the cheap cardboard out of the back, but other pictures must have jammed it in place. “Maybe the school name is imprinted on the photo and they can give us some leads. Maybe she took off to find him and—” The cardboard suddenly popped out, along with several folded pieces of paper that fluttered to the ground.

  Alex bent to get the papers while Jazz examined the back of the photo.

  In childlike handwriting, someone had written, “Grady, age 8, Middlebrook Elementary.”

  “Jazz.” Alex’s voice had a decidedly ominous tone. She looked up from the picture to see him sitting on the bed, holding the papers. “You better look at these.”

  He handed her the packet. The top page was a printout of an online daily planner. She recognized it immediately from Jessica’s computer. The next six pages were copies of the e-mails from Jessica’s stalker. Exactly as she’d seen in the print-outs Alex had shown her. She looked up at him.

  “Did she take these from the apartment, too?”

  He shook his head. “No. Our copies were in a case in my car, with us. These are her own copies.”

  The words danced before her eyes. I love to watch you. I have to taste you. I’m going to fuck you while you scream at the camera.

  “Alex…” She frowned. “Could Denise be the stalker? Maybe she made that porn tape of Jessica by cutting together her face and someone else’s body…maybe she was trying to scare her with it?”

  “Or blackmail her. Keep reading.”

  The last sheet of paper looked like the others, but she hadn’t seen this one before.

  You went too far, Jessica and now I’m going to ruin your life and your job and your name. And won’t that make great news? Poor Jessica Adams. She did bad things and got caught, and then she committed suicide.

  Jazz’s legs almost buckled. “Let’s get out of here,” she said, folding the letters in half and stuffing them in her purse.

  Fighting down the ache in her chest and the itchy sensation that she had to do something, Jazz left the house and walked along the side yard. At the sound of laughter, she froze. Hiding behind a bush, she watched three teenaged boys on bicycles talking to someone in a dark four-door sedan in front of the house. The passenger side of the car faced her, and the blackened windows prevented her from seeing the driver.

  One of the boys left the group, dropped his bike on the side of the road, and walked over to the BMW that sat in the driveway. They’d left the top down and the interior wide open. Jazz swore under her breath. What a target that car was in this neighborhood. She was about to march out and tell him to bug off when the car suddenly peeled away and the three boys huddled together, looking at each other and Jessica’s car.

  Spanish phrases floated in the air. As much as she wanted to confront them, she decided to get Alex. He could get rid of them in Spanish. She tiptoed to the backyard, and found Alex closing the sliding glass door.

  “There are some kids messing around Jessica’s car. Can you go scare them off?”

  He nodded, shaking the handle of the door. “Think I should lock this?”

  “What? As a personal favor to her? There’s not much to steal in there anyway.”

  When they reached the front of the house, no one was there. The bikes were gone, the boys were gone, the car was untouched.

  “That’s funny,” she said. “They sure looked interested in getting a better look at that BMW.”

  Alex frowned, glancing up and down the streets for the culprits. “Did you hear what they said?”

  “It was Spanish,” Jazz said. “They were talking to someone in a car, then he took off and they zeroed in on Jessica’s car.”

  He held out his hand. “Let me drive.”

  She reached in her bag for the keys, glad to relinquish the wheel. She needed to search Jessica’s files for any mention of Denise on her laptop.

  Her laptop!

  She yanked open the passenger door and hopped in, reaching under the driver’s seat for the computer, but her hand hit something smooth and round. “Goddamn it. Did they take my freaking computer?”

  Alex climbed in the car and started it. “Miami, man. Some thing’s never change.”

  She felt again, reaching under Alex’s legs. She moved the cylinder and her fingers touched the edge of the laptop. How did it get moved back? Trying to snag the edge of the computer without putting her face right in Alex’s lap, she was suddenly aware of a powerful odor. She sat straight up. “Is that gasoline?”

  Alex started to back out of the driveway, and sniffed. “Yeah. Maybe the car has a gas leak.” He sniffed again. “You can’t remember a word those kids said?”

  The words had been fast bursts of conversation, all run together. “Aparto?”

  He gave her a sharp look and sniffed hard. “What kind of car was it?”

  “A dark four-door. Maybe a Lexus.” The gasoline smell permeated everything, sending an unholy sense of apprehension through her. Or was that the look on Alex’s face? “Estallido,” she said as the memory hit her. “They said estallido.”

  He slammed on the brakes, knocking her forward. “Get out of the car!” he shouted, thrusting the shift into park and pushing her toward the door. “Get out!”

  He flung his door open and she did the same. Before she could climb out, he raced around, pulling her toward him. “Move!” He pushed her away from the car. “Run!”

  “My laptop!” she screamed, locking her legs in place and turning toward the car.

  “Forget it!” He gave her a hard push toward the grass.

  Spinning around, she tried to knock him out of her way. “I can’t find Jessica without it! I can’t lose all that information.”

  “Jazz, it’s a bomb—run!”

  Blood slammed through her head as she remembered the cylinder under the front seat, and the smell. A pipe bomb.

  It would take ten seconds to get that computer. Without it, she didn’t have a chance of tracking down Jessica. Tearing her arm from his grip, she lunged toward the car.

  “Mierda!” He growled, grabbing the material of her shirt and flinging her backward. In a brain-blurring rush, he charged to the open driver’s door and dropped to his knees. He grabbed something and tossed it into the backseat, then pulled out her laptop. Straightening, he ran toward her just as the bomb exploded with a deafening blast.

  The impact knocked her right into the grass. Alex tumbled on top of her as sparks and shrapnel rained over them, a putrid wave of sulphur and smoke filling the air.

  The pop and snap of fire and metal cracked in her ears, along with Alex’s breath as he pinned her to the ground. “Don’t you ever pull a stunt like that again,” he warned.

  He jerked up as brakes screeched out on the road. “Run!” He pushed her toward the backyard without looking behind him.

  “Hey, Romero!”

  The shout from the street froze them. Over Alex’s shoulder, Jazz expected to see the black sedan again, with menacing black windows and a gun pointed at them. The same one that tried to run them off a bridge.

  Instead, a small SUV had pulled behind Jessica’s car and two men jumped out. One ran toward them; the other, a mountain of a man, rushed toward the blackened car.

  Jazz blinked into the smoke, the smell of gasoline and fried leather making her dizzy. Why was Alex standing there? Why didn’t he run, or shoot the tall, blond man approaching them?

  “I knew I’d find you here,” the man said, flashing a quick, crooked smile. />
  Alex sighed. “Damn. I hate it when you outsmart me.”

  The other man looked up from the car and snorted. “Yeah, like that’s tough to do.”

  Alex gave him a look as fiery as the remnants of Jessica’s BMW. “Fuck you, Roper. Just get us outta here. Fast.”

  Chapter

  Eleven

  N othing had ever looked quite as out of place as big, bad Mad Max Roper on a Delano Hotel signature white settee. The delicate piece of furniture was obviously built to hold one of the hotel’s ubiquitous Brazilian supermodel guests, and not a former DEA hunting dog who’d allegedly crushed the skull of a Cali drug lord with one bare hand.

  Alex pulled himself back into the lively debate Dan Gallagher currently waged with Jazz, not at all surprised that the two of them had bonded like long-lost siblings. They both had inquisitive minds, rapier wit, and that bulldog quality that wouldn’t let them drop a bone until it was chewed down to nothing.

  “But it doesn’t make sense,” Jazz insisted, tucking bare feet under her. “Who blew up her car?”

  “Somebody who knew how to make your basic potassium permanganate and gasoline pipe bomb,” Dan said, “and paid cash to those kids to plant and detonate it.”

  “I want to know who and why,” Jazz said. “And what it has to do with my sister.”

  “We all do,” Alex assured her. Energy vibrated off her in waves; he could have sworn that a day of crime fighting and death defying just made her more radiant. One look at Dan and Max confirmed that; they hadn’t taken their eyes off her for two hours.

  And he didn’t like it one bit.

  “Maybe it’s as simple as this,” Dan suggested. “This Desirée character really is Jessica’s source for a story, and someone knows it and doesn’t want her talking to the media. The pipe bomb in Jessica’s car was a warning.”

  Jazz looked at Alex. “Some warning. We would have been killed.”

  Alex levered himself from his relaxed position against the wall. They’d spent enough time talking. And staring at her. “We need a plan: Let’s divide and conquer. You two go after every person listed in Jessica’s address book who has no relation to the TV station. Jazz and I will handle the television station colleagues.”

  Max held up a hand. “Wait a second, Romero. Lucy was perfectly clear on your assignment; you are the bodyguard to the stars.”

  Alex’s fist tensed in response.

  Dan leaned forward. “What he means, Alex, is that you are the exec protection expert. Jazz needs you more than ever. We’ll handle the investigation. You lay low in the safe house you’ve arranged, keeping Jazz away from any threats to her personal security.” He warmed Jazz with that boyish smile he had milked for most of his life.

  “You stay in that house in Coral Gables, Jazz,” Max added. “Jessica is a obviously a target and you look exactly like her. You need to be very careful.” His usual Rottweiler scowl was now a puppy dog face that Alex wanted to smash.

  Jazz shot up from the sofa and glared at Max. “Not a chance, bucko.” Bucko? Alex and Dan shared a lightning fast look of disbelief. “I am not staying in hiding while my sister is missing. I can get a lot of information from people. And I’ll go crazy if we just wait in seclusion.” She looked at Alex.

  He’d go crazy, too. For an entirely different reason. But he had no intention of returning to Jessica’s condo, or advertising themselves all over Miami while someone planned the next ambush.

  “You need to find this Yoder guy,” Alex told Dan. “Dig around the Biltmore. Go to New York, if you have to. Find the guy and figure out what his connection to Jessica is.”

  Max rose to his feet and the settee squeaked in relief. “We’ll handle Yoder and the people at the TV station.”

  “What about Parrish?” Jazz asked. “I have to talk to him. Maybe I can track him down tomorrow.”

  “No, Jazz,” Max said with a shake of his head. “He’s the Bullet Catcher client. Ms. Sharpe will discuss the situation with him.”

  “Bullshit,” she shot back, the vehemence practically knocking Max back onto the fragile seat. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

  Jazz slapped her hands on her hips and looked up at the big man. “I don’t give a good goddamn whose client he is. My sister is missing and I’m going to do everything I can to find her.” Her jaw set and Alex recognized the glint in her cinder gray eyes.

  “We’re calling the shots on this,” Dan said gently. “Believe me, we know how to do this.”

  Her fire shifted to Dan. “I didn’t hire you, and neither did my sister. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate the help—but Kimball Parrish has a powerful interest in Jessica, both personal and professional. No one will keep me away from someone who might know where she is.” She turned back to Max, and Alex relished seeing that testosterone-laden square jaw slacken in the face of Jazz’s pointed index finger. “Don’t even try to set those limits on me.”

  Alex stepped forward and put his hand on her shoulder. “We’ll talk to Parrish, Jazz.”

  She started to jerk out of his hold, but he held her tighter. “Together,” he added. “You and I will talk to him.”

  He felt the taut muscle under his hand relax a tiny bit, but the spark still lit her eyes as she fixed her gaze on him. “You and I,” she repeated.

  “Yes,” he promised. “All we need to do is make sure Lucy calls him first to grease the skids.”

  She eased out of his grasp, but didn’t take her eyes off him. “I won’t let you force me out of this, Alex. I won’t be buried in some house in Coral Gables while my sister is missing.”

  “I promise, Jazz. You’ll be involved in everything, but—”

  “But nothing.” She notched one eyebrow. “I don’t do deals, concessions, bargains, or special arrangements.”

  He heard the echo of his own words. “Fine. But don’t do anything stupid, either. It might make things worse for your sister.”

  “All right,” she said with a hint of surrender in her voice. “That’s fair enough. Now if one of you has a computer, I can probably download my sister’s address book for you.”

  Dan took her into the back bedroom, where his laptop was connected to the Internet. When he returned, he closed the door to the bedroom behind him.

  “Got your hands full with this job, big guy.” Dan gave Alex’s arm a friendly punch. “Even Mad Max can’t scare that woman into submission.”

  Alex threw a dark look at Max. “Evidently she’s not scared of monsters.”

  Max thumped back onto the settee, his hard glare locked on Alex. “You’re so deep into her you can’t see straight. Haven’t you screwed up enough jobs because of that?”

  Irritation skittered down his spine. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, Roper.”

  “Hey.” Dan cut the air between them with his hand. “Chill. You two are wasting your pissing contest on this girl.”

  Alex gave him a questioning look.

  “She’s too smart for either one of you,” Dan said with a wide, dangerous grin. “But when this is all over, I may be taking a trip to San Francisco.”

  “Give it up, Gallagher,” Alex said. “She’d eat you up for breakfast and spit you out for fun.”

  “I don’t know.” Dan rubbed his day-old beard growth and looked toward the bedroom door. “I think she likes me.”

  Max let out a disdainful grunt. “Yeah, I thought so, too. Until the ‘don’t set limits on me’ speech.”

  Dan laughed, but Alex crossed his arms and leaned against the bedroom doorjamb. “Forget it, both of you. She’s mine.” Where did that come from?

  Dan raised an eyebrow. “Lucy’ll love that.”

  “I don’t give a shit what Lucy loves,” Alex said. And this time, he meant it.

  “Your sister lives here?” Jazz peered through the massive wrought iron gate tucked into the foliage along picturesque Old Cutler Road. Alex punched a code into a keypad on a stucco column, and the gates opened like welcoming arms.r />
  “She works here,” Alex corrected. “The owners are wealthy globetrotters who live here about five weeks of the year. Ileana keeps the house. I filled her in about what’s going on, and she agreed we could stay here.”

  A canopy of banyan trees shadowed the winding drive toward a sprawling mansion that mixed old-world architecture with tropical chic to jaw-dropping effect. A woman in her early thirties, with flawless skin, chiseled features, and long black hair pulled off her face, waited near the house.

  Alex climbed out of the car and leaned over to kiss his sister, who immediately started speaking Spanish. He shook his head and laughed, then held up a hand. “Ileana, this is Jazz Adams. Please speak English for her.”

  Ileana turned her attention to Jazz, a wary look in eyes the same inky color as her brother’s. “Hello, Jazz.” She held out her hand. “I’m a fan of your sister’s.”

  With a stream of Spanish-flavored chatter, Ileana led Jazz into the side entrance of the house, and Alex followed with two bags they’d hastily packed that afternoon. They settled into a kitchen the size of Jazz’s whole apartment, and filled with the scents of coffee, baked goods, and lemony cleaning solutions.

  Ileana told them about the Sastre family, the homeowners. “Señor Sastre is a doctor, a very highly regarded plastic surgeon, and his wife is a world-class flute player. Very famous. But they travel constantly.” Ileana set out a plate of guava pastries and poured tiny cups of Cuban coffee. “I come every day to take care of the house and supervise the landscapers and pool cleaners, but no one is scheduled for several days. And the Sastres are not coming home until Christmas.”

  “Thank you,” Jazz said automatically, taking the coffee, her mind far away in Kendall, visualizing the exploding BMW, the damning e-mails, the piles of porn. Clues that were everywhere, but not yet understood.

  “Do you know the city very well?” Ileana asked politely.

  Jazz looked at her for a moment, processing the question, and tamping down her growing frustration. She burned with the need to take action, to get answers, to do something, but was instead eating sticky buns and chatting about nothing.