“I can’t tell you right now.”
Nicole studied me over the rim of her Cosmopolitan. “Must be family.”
“In a manner of speaking.”
She sipped her drink. “All right.” She set the glass on the table and propped her chin on the palm of her hand. “Then what should we talk about?”
Carling mimicked Nicole’s position and tapped a fingertip against her mouth. “Oh, I don’t know. How about…”
“Gabriel Chavez,” Nicole finished.
I rolled my eyes. Let the inquisition begin.
And so it did with a barrage of questions coming at me with the machine-gun rapidity.
“When did you two get it on?”
“What’s he like as a lover?”
Soul-baring warred with years of proper behavior drilled into me, not to mention a latent tendency toward being a prude. However, these were my friends.
I opened my mouth, but Carling and Nicole were on a roll.
“Does he wear boxers or briefs?”
“Or nothing at all?” Carling waggled her brows.
I took a deep breath and nearly shouted, “He wears briefs!”
Naturally, the game on TV chose that moment to go to commercial break. In the sudden quiet my voice reverberated down the street and into the restaurant. My face burned as people around us laughed.
My embarrassment didn’t deter Carling one iota. She waved a hand. “Tell us more.”
Amazingly, I could. While I drew a line at the bedroom door, I did talk about everything else. How he made me feel. My doubts and insecurities.
Together we laughed, cried and cursed at men.
As I looked at my friends, words welled up, words I had to say.
“I love you guys.”
Carling paused midstream in eating, dangling a French fry. Nicole set down her glass of water with a sharp clink. They looked at each other.
I grew irritated. Now, I didn’t expect responding declarations…or maybe I did. But a polite thank-you would have been nice.
“You’re obviously embarrassed.” I folded my napkin and laid it beside my plate. “Forget I said anything.”
Carling let out a whoop, sprang up and threw her arms around my neck. Nicole rose in a more sedate manner but also wrapped her arms around me.
I could barely breathe, but I wasn’t about to break up this group hug. It felt too wonderful, almost as if I were part of a family.
Wait a minute, I was. While Nicole and Carling may not be my blood relatives, they were the sisters I’d never had.
I patted the closest arm. “Thank you for being my friends.”
“Oh God,” Carling sniffed, let go and plopped down in her chair. “Stop. I can’t take any more or I’ll start bawling.”
Nicole’s eyes looked suspiciously damp as she resumed her seat. “Carling, you cry every time the Marlins lose.”
“Do not.”
“Do too. I’ve seen you in the bathroom.”
“Pul-ease. You insult me.” Carling sounded indignant. “I only cry when the Miami Hurricanes lose.”
“Especially when they can’t win the national title,” Nicole teased.
“At least they’ve had a shot at the title unlike your Gators.”
Uh-oh. I’d better nip this state intra-rivalry fight in the bud or we’d be here all night.
“Isn’t it strange?”
They both looked at me. “It’s strange, all right,” Carling said, “how an intelligent woman can support University of Florida football.”
I smiled and shook my head. “No, I was thinking what a small world it is. Here I’m defending a case that both your ex-boyfriends are involved—”
“What are you talking about?” demanded Carling.
“Why the prosecutor is your Jared Manning—”
“Jared Manning is not mine, never was.”
Surprised by the vehemence in her tone, I held up my hand. “Fine.”
Nicole leaned forward. “And let’s be clear. Lieutenant Sam Bowie is history as far as I’m concerned.”
“That’s what I said…‘ex.’”
“Good.”
She leaned back.
“Wait a minute.” I drummed my fingers on the table. “You two just gleefully gave me the third degree over every aspect of my love life with Gabe and all my exes.”
“Which questions you were all too happy to answer.” Nicole’s smile was a tad too saccharine sweet.
Carling gave a slight snort. “I still can’t believe Harold Lowell is a minute man.”
My face flamed. Maybe I shouldn’t have had that glass of wine. Somehow it slipped out that sex with Harold had been abbreviated. Very abbreviated.
“A minute man?” I arched a brow. “Sounds like you’ve known a few yourself.”
“Who me?” Carling rose. “Excuse me a second. I think the Marlins have just scored.” She rushed inside to the bar.
Nicole sighed. “We’re a screwed-up lot, aren’t we?”
I raised my water glass. “As to men, yes. As to the court of law, no.”
“Salute!” She lifted her Cosmopolitan just as a plump waitress squeezed between the tables, knocking Nicole’s elbow. Liquor spilled over the front of her emerald-green suit.
“Oh!” The woman gasped. “I’m so sorry.”
Nicole rose. “That’s all right. I’ll run into the restroom and rinse it out.”
The restaurant manager rushed up. “Miss, we’ll pay to have the suit dry-cleaned.”
Nicole held the damp fabric out from her chest. “Let’s first see if it will rinse out. If you would excuse me.”
The waitress and manager trailed after her as she wound her way inside. I sat back to wait. In the distance I heard the band begin another set. Tonight was reggae and my blood stirred with the beat of the music. If only Gabe was here…
No, don’t go down that path. Take each moment with him as it comes.
But I could wonder how his interview was going. Normally a criminal trial is fixed to get the defendant off. Thirty-five years ago someone paid Judge Winewski to find a defendant guilty.
A fall guy. Somewhere out there a powerful person got away with murder.
Mulling over this idea, I glanced across the street at the alley for about the hundredth time and saw the shadows stir. Someone moved in the dark. I went on alert. A form shuffled to the sidewalk: a woman carrying a stuffed bag.
I grabbed the waiter walking by and thrust a hundred dollar bill at him for the tab. “Please let my friends know that I’ll be right back. Tell them it’s about the case. They’ll understand.” I then snatched my tote and crossed the street.
Murphy’s Law said I was looking for a needle in a haystack, but maybe, just maybe, this was my lucky night.
Chapter 16
In my rush I dodged a few cars, horns blaring, but by the time I had reached the opposite side, the woman had reached Clematis. For all that her bent shape indicated she was at least sixty-plus, she was booking it. But then again, I cringed as a slight breeze loaded with odors of rotting garbage wafted from the alley. Who would want to linger here?
I made my way to Clematis and looked eastward into the crowd. Every Thursday night the city of West Palm Beach shut down vehicle traffic for this section for a street party. Tables from busy restaurants spilled onto the sidewalks. Retail stores put out racks and tables of clothes and other merchandise. Tucked everywhere were food and drink carts. Center stage was the band playing by the fountain built at the cross section Clematis and Narcissus. The weekly affair had grown so large that it now ran all the way to the Intracoastal, where a floating bar barge was moored and in full swing for next week’s SunFest, the city’s biggest party of all.
Tourists were already flooding into the city for the large jazz festival, judging how crowded Clematis was. Who was I fooling? I’d never find the woman in this throng. Besides, it could’ve been someone foolishly taking a short cut through the alley. I simply wanted the woman to be Shirley Cameron.
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I halted in the crush. Ahead of me, bright pulsating light spilled from a nightclub. A woman by the club turned slightly as if she were looking inside. The light captured her profile and I held my breath. Weathered and aged beyond her years, yes, but the shape, the mole.
She could be Shirley Cameron.
A burly bouncer appeared in the doorway and yelled at her, motioning for her to move away. The woman disappeared into the crowd again.
Biting back an oath, I pushed my way to the street so I could move parallel. Big mistake. The band broke into singing “Red, Red Wine” and the crowd went into a jostling frenzy. I lost sight of my subject, but I kept moving forward because that had been her direction. At last I reached the fountain and fisted my hands in frustration. Talk about confusion corner. The fountain sat at the hub of intersecting streets and sidewalks. She could be anywhere.
A drunk middle-aged man grabbed me around the waist, “Hey, baby, you’re too pretty to be alone.”
I leveled an elbow into his stomach and left him bent over in a groan. I had no time to be polite. Stepping to my right, I peered down one street leading to Flagler Drive. My pulse quickened. The bent form of a woman was walking toward the bar barge. She stopped a couple who immediately waved off her begging attempt. She shrugged I set off, skirting a group of giggling, stumbling teenage girls who obviously had managed to beat the alcohol limitation law in some establishment.
Although the night was clear, the moon was only at quarter stage so that the Intracoastal Waterway ran like a glossy black ribbon, with only the occasional sparkle of light on its surface. While the floating bar was an explosion of noise and action, darkness surrounded it as a number of streetlights were out as a result of last week’s night fair. According to the newspaper’s report, a group of rowdy drunks had dared each other as to how many lights they could bust. The count had been at twenty when the police had put a stop to their fun.
I crossed Flagler to the seawall, littered with abandoned bottles. Tethered to the bar were a number of assorted boats, bobbing in the wake of any passing boat. A movement to my left caught my attention. A woman was walking along the wall, picking up bottles and drinking their contents.
Eeewww. Just think of the germs. Maybe all the alcohol in her system would kill them.
I walked toward her and called out, “Shirley Cameron?”
“Don’t know her,” she muttered, letting a beer can clatter to the ground.
“I’m Katherine Rochelle.”
The woman froze. “Jonathan’s daughter?”
“No, his granddaughter.”
She pressed trembling fingers to her mouth. “Granddaughter?” She blinked her eyes as she struggled to focus on my face. “Yeah, you have the look of Jonathan.”
“I’d like to talk with you about him.”
“I’ve nothing to say.” She stepped away.
If I had to lead a devil to… I gestured toward the bar. “How about something cool to drink on this warm night?”
She wet her lips as she glanced around. “You buying?”
“Sure.” If the owner wouldn’t let us in—a strong possibility given Shirley’s body odor—I’d pay him off to serve us on the sidewalk.
“Maybe just a small toddy to tide me over.”
I let her pass so I could follow. I wanted to keep an eye on her at all times. I could feel the waves of nervous energy rolling off her. If anyone would bolt at the drop of a pin, it was Shirley Cameron.
Were her jitters something beyond a street person’s natural avoidance of society?
As we reached the landing, two familiar-looking men stepped from the deep shadows cast by the barge. As they moved to cut us off from the barge, light glinted on the guns they both held. Somehow I didn’t think Officers Rick and Tony, aka Dumb and Dumber, were here on official police business.
Shirley whimpered and then stumbled as she tried to turn and run. I caught her arm to steady her.
Behind me I heard the hiss of tires. Thinking I could flag the driver down for help, I looked but saw a dark sedan, its headlights off, pulling to the side of the road.
Right, no help there. Clearly we were about to be forced inside that car.
I tightened my hold on Shirley’s arm. A roar of laughter caused our would-be abductors to turn. A group of partyers leaving the bar teetered along the pier. The men hid their guns and tried to blend in with the seawall.
Opportunity beckoned. “Come on.” I urged Shirley forward. I rushed to the pier before half lifting and half throwing her into the first boat. She shrieked and the partyers stumbled, halted, thus cutting off the thugs.
“Whatsa going on here?” One man, his tie askew, asked.
I untied the lines and prayed the engine was well tuned. It was. It roared to life on my first attempt. I gunned the motor, spraying the crowd. Shouts rose as I sped off. Shirley struggled to sit upright, but the rocking motion kept her off balance.
“What was my grandfather working on at the time of his death?” I yelled at her.
“Don’t know.”
I heard another boat motor kick in and knew that pursuit was on the way. I didn’t have much time.
“Yes, you do. Secretaries know everything. Jonathan was checking into a crooked judge, wasn’t he?”
“Yes.” Shirley drew her knees to her chest. “A lawyer came to him, claiming his new client’s murder trial had been rigged. Jonathan was very upset.”
“Why?” I spun the wheel and veered toward Palm Beach. I knew that side like the back of my hand, and I needed every advantage. A quick look over my shoulder had shown me that the men had shanghaied a faster speedboat than I had.
“Don’t know. Jonathan warned me not to say anything, to anyone.”
Which meant Shirley did know something more. “What didn’t he want you discussing?”
“Nothing.”
“Listen, we have two men chasing us and it’s not to wish us well. They want to kill us. Tell me what you remember about his investigation.”
She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “The defendant didn’t kill the store owner. His murder was a hit.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the nose of the other boat. They were going to try to cut in front of me. I spotted the dark form of the anchored barge from which the SunFest fireworks would be launched.
Let’s play a game of water chicken.
I throttled up, asking the engine for all the power it would give me. Water stung my face and wind tore at me, whipping my hair free from its braid. I steered straight at the barge. The other boat overshot me and then righted to run parallel.
Game on.
“Who ordered the hit?” I shouted above the engine noise.
“A Cuban crime lord. Diego something.” She made a cross.
“Castillo?”
“Yes, yes.” She pointed her hand and screamed. “You’re going to crash!”
“No, I’m not, but they will.”
All those summers of boating all over the world—from Cannes to Hawaii—were paying off. I had the feel of the boat now and a good handle on what it could and couldn’t do. While it may not be the speedster the thugs were driving, this baby had maneuverability and rode well in the water.
As the dark sides of the barge loomed ahead, I began a mental countdown. I heard the other boat hot on my stern and smiled. Three, two, one.
I spun the wheel at the same time I throttled down. The engine roared its protest as the boat sharply veered to the right. A plume of white spray rose high to our side.
“Come on, baby,” I cooed as the boat jolted and careened. For a moment I wondered if I had misjudged the distance but then the boat held the water and zoomed around the barge.
My pursuers weren’t as fortunate. An explosion erupted as light flashed through the night like lightning. I glanced over my shoulder and saw another boat racing to the crash scene. A powerful beam spotlighted the area, and I saw two men thrashing in the water, waving for help. They must have bailed at the
last moment.
Relieved, I eased back on the throttle. I didn’t want more bodies to be on my conscience. Instead of the other motor shutting off, it increased in noise. Startled, I swung around. The boat was making a beeline toward me.
The sedan on Flagler.
Cursing, I poured on the power. Fortunately, every square inch of this part of the Palm Beach shoreline boasted a pier. I planned to hide in the warren of boats. The other boat’s light wasn’t powerful enough to catch us in its beam so I stood a chance at being able to lose them.
Not the first pier, not the second, but the third…
I cut the engine and threaded through the outer series of anchored yachts. There, a spot between Bahama Mama and the Dolphine. I eased in the narrow slip with barely an inch to spare on either side. Good. The yachts were so large that a passerby could mistake this smaller boat for one of their tenders.
I scrambled over the quivering mass that was Shirley and tied the boat up. “Come on,” I said, grabbing the woman’s arm. Thank God, she didn’t protest. On the dock I removed my shoes and gestured for her to do the same. I then pulled her along in my wake. If I remembered this dock, a dense tropical garden lined the drive to the road.
Yes! I dove into the nearest outcrop and wormed my way as deep as I could, pulling Shirley with me. Although Shirley wasn’t the person I would nominate to share a bush with, given her smell, she was wearing dark clothing. I sent a quick prayer of thanks that I had picked out my black wool crepe suit this morning instead of the ivory.
The new hunter didn’t bother to mask his arrival. The hum of his engine grew louder and louder as he coasted along the pier. Through the foliage I watched the light pan over the moored yachts. Then the light arced, grew fainter. The engine noise lessened.
Good, he was heading out. I whispered to Shirley, “We’ll give it another minute and then we’ll head toward the road. At this time of the night, I should be able to flag a taxi doing the Worth Avenue circle.”
Vehicular traffic followed a square through town to hit the famous fashion avenue plus the other hot spots. At this time of the night, the flow should be constant if not downright heavy.
Courting Danger Page 20
