by Stuart Woods
Hurd shook her hand and went back to his office.
Holly sat down and called Ed Shine.
“Are we speaking?” Ed asked.
“Only just,” Holly replied.
“What kind of recommendation can you give Hurd Wallace?”
“Only the very best,” she said. “You’re very lucky to get him, and you’d better treat him right or I’ll arrest you on some spurious charge and put you in jail.”
“I didn’t go after him, Holly; he came to me.”
“I know he did, and I don’t blame him a bit. I want to ask a favor, though.”
“Shoot.”
“I want to hang onto him until I can reassign his duties to others in an orderly way.”
“And how long will that be?”
“I don’t know; two or three weeks—a month, maybe.”
“Take as much time with him as you need, sweetheart.”
“You’re getting yourself a good man, Ed.”
“I’d rather have you.”
“You always know how to say the right thing, don’t you?”
“I try.”
“Bye, Ed.”
“Bye-bye.”
Holly hung up and sighed. Oh, what the hell, she thought, everything changes. Just make it work.
21
Holly had hardly gotten home when the phone rang.
“I’ve got some perfect steaks and a couple of bottles of sensational red wine,” a male voice said. “You want to join me for dinner?”
“I don’t know who this is, but yes,” she replied.
Grant laughed.
“I’ll do almost anything for a good steak.”
“Really?”
“I said almost.”
“Oh. Seven o’clock? We’ll catch the sunset.”
“I don’t know how to break this to you, but your house faces east, and in this part of the world the sun sets in the west.”
“Whatever you say.”
“Those words exhibit a good attitude. Remember them. See you at seven.” She hung up, fed Daisy, and took her for a walk, almost as far as Grant’s house. It was a good-looking contemporary of wood and stone, not very Florida-like. It suited him, at least from the outside. She walked slowly back to the house, thinking about the evening ahead, while Daisy frolicked in the dunes. By the time they were home, she had made her decision, at least tentatively.
Tentatively meant that, after showering, washing and drying her hair, and dressing fetchingly in short shorts and a low-cut T-shirt that showed a lot of belly, she put her diaphragm in her purse instead of in its final resting place. As an afterthought, she tossed in a condom, too. “Brazen,” she said aloud, checking the mirror for signs of wantonness. Then she walked back down the beach to his house.
She could see him through the sliding doors, dressed in Bermuda shorts and a polo shirt, barefoot, fixing something in the kitchen. She tiptoed up the stairs from the beach to the deck and rapped sharply on the glass, making him jump and drop a salad fork. He opened the door.
“An undercover agent must be alert at all times,” she said. “I could have snuck in, jerked down your shorts, and tattooed you before you even noticed.”
He flung an arm around her and kissed her lightly on the lips. “And what would you have tattooed on me?”
“KICK ME, I’M FBI,” she said, “in great big letters.”
“Thanks a lot, but you can jerk down my shorts anytime you like.”
“In your dreams.”
“Let me get you a drink, and I’ll start dreaming.”
She spied a cocktail shaker on the wet bar next to the kitchen. “I’ll get you one.” She found a bottle of vodka and some Rose’s sweetened lime juice, filled the shaker with ice, added six jiggers of vodka and two of lime juice. She put ice cubes in two martini glasses and swirled them around, then shook the shaker until her hands hurt from the cold. She dumped the ice from the now-frosted glasses and strained the pale, green liquid into them. “Tie that on,” she said, handing him one.
He tasted the drink. “Oh, God, can I have another?”
“Easy, kiddo, we don’t know yet whether you can handle that one.”
He took a gulp, half emptying the glass. “Let’s find out.”
“What are you fixing?” she asked.
“A Caesar salad,” he replied. “I do it the old-fashioned way, in a wooden bowl, with a fork.”
“What else do you do the old-fashioned way?”
“Almost everything, especially . . .”
“Not in a wooden bowl with a fork, I trust.”
“If that’s what rattles your chain.”
She pretended to think about that. “No bowl,” she said, “but maybe a fork, and I get to hold it.”
He handed her a fork, and without another word pulled her to him and kissed her.
She leaned into him, finding what she’d expected, and she was astonished at how quickly her blood rose. She was already wet.
He put his arms tightly around her, pulled her to him, then lifted her a couple of inches off the floor and started walking toward a big sofa in the living room.
Holly went along for the ride, snagging her purse from the bar as they passed it.
Grant dumped her gently onto the sofa and, still kissing her, shucked off his shirt and shorts, while Holly helped him with her clothes. They were both naked in seconds.
“You mind if we skip the foreplay?” he asked, running his tongue over her nipples.
She opened her purse and took out the condom. “Skip it faster,” she said, stripping off the wrapper and sliding it onto him, in the process spilling the contents of her purse onto the floor.
He glanced down. “Do you always take a Walther PPK to bed?”
“Only when fucking an FBI man,” she said, guiding him into her.
The next ten minutes passed at fast-forward, with no subtleties or anything else except straight sex, enthusiastically conducted. He came seconds before she followed, and they were both noisy about it.
“My God,” he said, rolling over on his back next to her. “I wasn’t expecting that so soon.”
“I was,” she said. “Try to keep up, will you?”
“I thought I did keep it up.”
“You certainly did, Junior G-Man. Now I’m hungry.”
They visited the powder room together, sponging each other clean and dry, then headed for the kitchen, still naked. Grant turned on the built-in restaurant-style grill and turned to the salad. “I need my fork back,” he said.
“Dammit,” she said, handing it to him, “I forgot to use the fork.”
“Don’t worry about it, I have enough holes in me already.” He separated a couple of egg yolks and dumped them into the wooden bowl.
She fingered a scar on his back. “This must have been one of them.”
“Key West,” he replied. “I wasn’t running fast enough. Fortunately, I had a partner in the bushes with a sniper’s rifle.”
“He was a little late, wasn’t he?”
“Believe me, we had a serious discussion about that later.”
“Just like the FBI to be a tad late when it counts.”
“You won’t get an argument from me about that.” Using the fork, he mashed some anchovies, then whipped them into the egg yolks with some Dijon mustard and some chopped garlic. Then he added olive oil slowly, until he had a smooth dressing. He added torn Romaine leaves, tossed them well, and Holly sat down to a table already set with a bottle of the Far Niente Cabernet waiting, breathing. Grant tossed the steaks onto the grill before sitting down.
“When was the last time you had dinner naked?” he asked, shoveling salad into his mouth.
She rolled her eyes in thought. “Well, let’s see; that would have been . . . never.”
“No kidding? Well, you certainly do it well, for a first-timer.”
“Funny, that’s what my first lover said.”
“What else did he say?”
“Modesty prevents me from te
lling you.”
“That’s what I like, a modest girl,” he said, reaching across the table and tweaking a nipple.
“Careful, buddy, or we’ll never get to the steak. You better marshal your resources for a while.”
“I’m marshaling, I’m marshaling,” he said, serving the steaks.
When they had finished their steaks and a bottle and a half of wine, she took a deep breath and sighed. “That was wonderful,” she said. “Is there a bed in this house?”
“You betcha.”
“Don’t tell me, show me.”
And he did.
22
They lay on their backs in the moonlight, bathed in sweat, panting, on a bed that had been stripped of everything but the bottom sheet.
“It’s been a long time for you, hasn’t it?” he gasped.
“Over a year, but I’m always this way.”
“Always?”
“Can we do it again, now, please?”
“Oh, God, I’m going to die.”
“Not until I’m finished with you.” She rolled over, put her head on his shoulder and began fondling him.
He stopped her. “It has to rest.”
“How long?”
“I’m not sure. Weeks, maybe.”
“You should speak to your doctor about getting that pill that makes it possible for the impotent to get an erection.”
“Impotent? How can you say that?”
“Any guy who can’t do it three times in an hour and a half is in big trouble.”
He dissolved in what seemed to be a combination of laughter and weeping.
“Don’t worry, I’m not an impatient person. Take another ten minutes.”
“I’m going to die in this bed,” he said, “drained of all life by some new kind of vampire.”
“One that sucks semen from its victims?”
“Not just that; the whole life force.”
“I’ll bet you ten bucks I can bring you back to life in sixty seconds.”
“You’re on.”
A minute later, he said, “My money’s on the dresser over there; take whatever you want.”
She threw a leg over him and slid him inside her, moving slowly up and down. “Nice view of the ocean from here,” she said.
“From where?”
“From on top.”
“Yeah, I can’t see a thing from down here except you, and I like the view from this angle.”
“You’re sweet, for a G-Man,” she said, leaning down and biting a nipple.
“And you have marvelous breasts, for a cop,” he replied, holding them in his hands and massaging.
“I have marvelous breasts for a female human being,” she said, slapping him lightly across the chops. “Another compliment like that and I’ll stop.”
She woke first, showered, dressed, and went down to the kitchen. She was turning two omelets when he staggered in. “You’re walking funny,” she said.
“I’m lucky I can walk at all,” he replied, sinking into a chair at the table.
“You FBI guys aren’t in very good shape, are you? Maybe you should undertake a program of fitness training.”
“I’m of the view that exercise should be activity-specific.”
“What?”
“If you want to get in shape for sex, you should have more sex. Maybe you could be my personal trainer.”
“I’m sure we could whip you into shape in no time at all,” she said, sliding the omelets onto plates and sitting down. She sipped her orange juice. “So, I guess all you think about is sex, huh?”
“Well, I mean . . .”
“I had hoped we could have an actual conversation before this date ends.”
“Sure, I . . .”
“But the moment I walk into the house, it’s nothing but sex, sex, sex. Is that all you ever think about?”
“Sometimes I think about work.”
“So, how’s work?”
“So-so. How about yours?”
“You remember the guy who broke into my house?”
“Yep.”
“He turned up in the Indian River yesterday, with a bullet through his head.”
“Did you do it? I mean, I know you were pretty pissed off about the intruder, but . . .”
“I might have, if I’d had the chance.”
“How do you know it was the guy? Wasn’t he masked?”
“Yeah, but I fetched him a pretty good kick in the knee, and the floater had a badly bruised knee. He fit the general description, too.”
“You run his prints?”
“The FBI computer was running very slowly yesterday; we should know something this morning, if your people can get their act together.”
“Did you get anything else from the corpse? I mean, our people usually do.”
“Oh, we struggle along, in our own small-town way. He’s Cuban—we know that from his dental work—and he had a girlfriend. I found a locket with a picture of a girl.”
“That’s sweet.”
“I thought so.”
“You want me to delve into this?”
“I think I can handle it, thanks. Don’t you have better things to do?”
“Sometimes it is the duty of an undercover agent to simply sit and wait. I’m looking at some property, though.”
“Where, and what for?”
“At a new development called Blood Orchid, and because it’s the kind of thing the character I’m playing would do.”
“That’s Ed Shine’s place.”
“Who?”
“Didn’t Harry Crisp tell you about Ed?”
“Nope.”
“You remember the case of the two property developers in Miami who were recently shot dead on the same day?”
“I saw something in the papers.”
“Apparently, they were both bidding on the Palmetto Gardens property.”
“Where’s that?”
“It’s now called Blood Orchid. Ed Shine, who ended up buying it, had a shot taken at him around the same time. I happened to be there when it happened.”
“So you solved the case instantly?”
“Not exactly. By the time I had finished crawling around on my belly through broken glass, the shooter had dematerialized.”
“They’ll do that.”
“I’d be interested in your impressions of Blood Orchid,” she said.
“What’s Shine like?”
“Nice guy; you’ll like him.” She finished her omelet and stood up. “I gotta go to work.”
Without rising, he pulled her to him and kissed her navel, running his tongue around it.
“Or I could stay for a couple of days,” she said.
He spun her around and pushed her toward the beach door. “Go, while I still have the strength to send you,” he said plaintively.
She gave him a quick kiss, then ran out onto the deck and down to the beach. She ran all the way home, happy.
23
Holly arrived at her office whistling, turning heads as she walked by, Daisy at her side. She had hardly sat down when Hurd turned up at her door.
“Good morning. You seem to be in a good mood.”
“I’m always in a good mood,” she said.
“If you say so. We’ve got an ID on your floater.” He handed her a file folder.
She handed it back. “Tell me about him.”
Hurd sat down and opened the folder. “Name: Carlos Alvarez, born Havana, thirty-two years ago. Arrived Miami twelve years ago on a small fishing boat with nineteen others. He was printed by Immigration at the time. He’s a partner in a locksmith’s shop in Fort Lauderdale; unmarried; has no arrest record—he wouldn’t have gotten a locksmith’s license if he had. He drives a two-year-old Chrysler Concorde.”
“Is that it?”
“His partner’s name is here, if you want it.” Hurd handed her the folder.
“Thanks, Hurd.”
“I’m organizing my workload now, preparing memos to the people who’re going to take ov
er my duties. You want a list of my recommendations?”
She was thinking about the locksmith. “Whoever you want is fine with me, Hurd.” This was the sort of detail for which she relied on him.
“I’ll let you know if we find anything else,” he said. “We’re still dealing with Daimler-Chrysler about the car key.”
“Notify all the patrol cars to look for an abandoned Concorde,” she said. “You got a color?”
“Registration just says green.”
“Okay. If we can find the car, then we can dust it for prints, and we might get lucky and come up with the shooter.”
“I’m on it.” He went back to his office.
Holly read the file folder, then turned to Daisy. “You up for a trip to Lauderdale?”
Daisy was on her feet, wagging everything.
Holly closed her office door and changed into civilian clothes. “You can reach me on my cell if you need me,” she said to her secretary on her way out. “Try not to need me.”
She drove south on 95, enjoying the seventy-mile-per-hour speed limit at eighty-five. Her car had no markings, but there was the big antenna on the back. Once, a state trooper pulled up next to her and gave her a look; she held up her shield for him to see, and he dropped back. There were some perks connected to being in law enforcement.
Using a map of the city, she found C&P Locksmiths fairly easily. It was in a small strip mall in a good part of town. She parked the car and, putting Daisy on a leash for appearances’ sake, entered the shop. A Latino in his mid-thirties was making a key on a duplicating machine. He looked up and smiled, turning off the machine. “Hello, can I help you?” he asked, in slightly accented English.
Holly looked at the file folder. “Are you Pedro Alvarez?” she asked.
“That’s right.”
She showed him her badge. “My name is Holly Barker. I’d like to talk to you for a minute.”
“That’s not a Lauderdale badge,” he said.
“No, I’m from Orchid Beach, up the coast.”
“What can I do for you?” He had become a little wary, she noticed, but some people did at the sight of a badge, even when they had nothing to hide.
“Do you have some place we can sit down?” she asked.
He went to the door, locked it, and hung up a sign saying he’d be back in ten minutes. “Back here,” he said, leading the way to the rear of the shop. It was a room just large enough to hold two desks and a couple of filing cabinets. He indicated where she should sit, then sat behind his desk.
