SHAKE DOWN

by Kendel Lynn

  “Dang, girl had some skills,” Sid said.

  The cardboard door rattled as someone knocked.

  I pressed the faucet and wiggled closer to slap on some soap.

  “What are you doing?” Sid whispered.

  “I touched the door handle to get in this germ box. I’m not leaving until I wash.”

  “How are we supposed to exit?”

  “Carefully and casually.”

  The bifold opened and Sid poured out with a bump, me on her heels.

  I simply smiled at the man waiting. Some things didn’t require an explanation.

  We dutifully fastened our seatbelts as the plane began its descent over the Atlantic. The ocean glittered in the late afternoon. Speed boats and catamarans catching gentle waves. The beachfront was dotted with people and umbrellas. The sun was visible across the horizon as we lined up to the runway, the ocean behind us.

  The short runway rushed up quick as we landed. We passed a plane near the maintenance hangar with several cars parked haphazardly close. Chatter inside the cabin grew louder, more animated. The terminal was surrounded by lush palm trees, airline personnel, and baggage carts. Along with two fire trucks, the paramedic unit, four police cars, and three unmarked SUVs. All with their lights flashing.

  Alex scooted down in his seat.

  “I think your investigation just ended,” Sid whispered.

  Once the pilot stationed the plane along the appropriate white line, he cut the engines and made an announcement to remain seated until the seatbelt sign had been turned off. The flight attendant unlatched the door and lowered the staircase.

  But before passengers could disembark, an officer wearing heavy gear and a tactical helmet boarded. He counted passengers, checked the restroom and galley, then stood guard at the very back. He nodded to the flight attendant.

  She welcomed us to Sea Pine Island, told us the local time, and wished us a pleasant stay.

  Two officers, wearing identical tactical gear as the man still on board, checked each person as they stepped onto the asphalt.

  “SWAT,” Sid whispered. “Making sure we all exit?”

  “Yeah, but they’re not local, and not from the Sheriff’s office either,” I said. “I’m more interested in the men not in uniform.”

  Three men in sunglasses waited with additional SWAT officers near the opposite gate door. Passengers from our flight were filing through Gate 1, but the G-men manned Gate 2.

  “Sir,” the officer on the left side of the stairway said to Alex. “Can you come with us?”

  Alex seemed fairly cool. He didn’t run, and he didn’t look panicked.

  I wondered where they were taking him and why. And if I could hang around the security offices to find out.

  “Ma’am,” a different officer said to Sid. “Go with him.”

  “You, too, ma’am,” he said to me.

  A two-member SWAT team escorted us to Gate 2.

  “This can’t be good,” Sid said.

  “No it cannot.”

  ELEVEN

  (Day #6: Thursday Late Afternoon)

  The four-man tactical squad led Sid and me into the airport via the Gate 2 entry door. Waiting passengers watched as we walked in formation straight through the exit and past the security checkpoint. People stared, holding their belongings close and their loved ones closer, as the armed men directed us to the hallway I’d discovered a few days earlier. We passed the vending machines and restrooms and Sergeant Whistler’s office, finally arriving at the door marked Homeland Security.

  Once inside, they relieved us of our handbags. Politely, officially, and definitely not friendly. Sid was directed into one room and me another, each door unmarked.

  “Ask for an attorney first thing,” I said to Sid before her door swung shut.

  “No shit,” came her fading reply.

  My room was windowless and cramped. A single battered metal table sat center with two padded office chairs on one side, a metal folding chair on the other. The officer indicated the metal chair with the briefest of gestures and left.

  Minutes past. First five, then ten. The door swung open and one of the sunglasses from the runway entered. “Good afternoon, Ms. Lisbon, I’m Agent Hunter. Thank you for waiting.”

  “Good afternoon,” I said.

  “I have a few questions. Simply answer honestly, and we’ll get you on your way.”

  “Of course. Whatever I can do to help.”

  “What took you to Charlotte today?”

  “Business,” I said.

  “And your business is?” He kept his pen poised over a short notebook.

  “I’m Director of the Ballantyne Foundation,” I said. “Here on Sea Pine Island.”

  “And what,” he said, looking at his notes, “Ballantyne Foundation business took you to Charlotte this morning?”

  “I’m guessing you’re asking about Alex Sanders,” I said.

  “What makes you guess that?”

  “I saw your men pull him out of line, right before they pulled me.”

  “How well do you know Mr. Sanders?”

  “Not well at all,” I said.

  “But well enough to accompany him to Charlotte,” he said. “Can you explain? Is he part of the Ballantyne Foundation?”

  “You misunderstand, Agent Hunter,” I said. “While we happened to be on the same returning flight, I actually don’t know when he arrived in Charlotte.” A stretch, but since I wasn’t at his arriving gate, I really didn’t know exactly.

  “Fair enough,” he said. “Let’s skip the arrival segment of your trip and pick it up in Charlotte. You met him at Freedom Park. What was the purpose of this meetup?”

  It was one thing for Agent Hunter to surmise Alex and I had been on the same outbound flight to Charlotte as we returned together, but how did he know about Freedom Park? I’d wondered why they’d chosen Sid and me from the deplaning passengers. Clearly, it wasn’t because of a random security check. This line of questioning indicated something much larger.

  “Ms. Lisbon?”

  “Is this about Daphne Fischer?” I paused a breath. “Did you find her?”

  “I’m asking about Alex Sanders.”

  “Is he under arrest? You must have found something.”

  “What was the nature of your meeting with him at Freedom Park? Him and the other man?”

  “Wait, am I?”

  “Are you what?”

  “Under arrest,” I said.

  “If you’ll answer my questions, we’ll be able to move this along.”

  “Which agency?” I said.

  “Pardon?”

  “You said your name is Agent Hunter,” I said. “It implies an agency.”

  “Drug Enforcement,” he said.

  “I guess we were wrong about the whistleblower,” I said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Agent Hunter, always go with your first instinct.”

  “I’m sorry? I don’t follow.”

  “I’d like to speak to my attorney,” I said.

  He started to speak, but I put my hand up to stop him.

  “I respect you have a job to do, and you need information. I appreciate your service, truly. But I won’t answer any questions without my attorney.” I smiled. Well, part smile, part remorseful grimace.

  He waited as my so-so-sorry grimace held firm. He nodded once with a glare and without any part of a smile, and left me alone in the tiny room.

  Being alone never bothered me, even as a child. And now as an adult who was surrounded by eccentric board members and their screwball antics and lively parties, I welcomed moments of silence. Though I mostly preferred to welcome the silence from my patio beachside, I often drove without music or sat in my quiet cottage without entertainment.

  The presence of the DEA mea
nt Alex was involved with drug dealers. Bringing that much fire power to a tiny airport to apprehend a single suspect, a kid armed with an empty-ish backpack and Jesus sandals, indicated a connection to something much larger. Even larger than a manufacturing operation like Sid and I first speculated. Perhaps a cartel?

  If Alex was in DEA custody, and he and Daphne were tied to a cartel, Sid was right. My investigation was over. And after the car chase earlier, I’d happily relinquish it.

  The door opened and Ransom walked in.

  “You my attorney?” I asked.

  “We’re all on the same side,” he said.

  “Uh-huh. That’s why they sent you to talk to me, right?”

  “How’d you know to go to Charlotte?”

  “Oh no, Good Cop, not in this room,” I said. “I’ll answer questions in here with an attorney or outside without. Your call.”

  He waited a beat, then stood aside so I could pass him.

  “Sid, too?” I asked.

  “She’s already been released.”

  An officer handed me my messenger bag, and I helped myself to a generous dose of hand-sani. Between the airports, planes, and interrogation room, I contemplated investing in something stronger than a mini-pump of hand-sanitizer. Like a bottle of tequila.

  Sid waited by her car, facing the Mini in the adjacent spot, Ransom’s McLaren adjacent to that.

  “Seems the security offices at Sea Pine Island Airport hold the majority of the terminal space,” Sid said. “All those private interrogations rooms. Who knew?”

  “Seriously,” I said. “Next time let’s pack a lunch. Airport pretzels aren’t enough. Maybe we can go to dinner? I’m starving.”

  “I’d love to stay, but Milo is taking me out.”

  “I’m really sorry we were held up.”

  “No worries, it happens. And Milo doesn’t know yet. But he will, and it’ll be fancy. After today, I need something fancy.” She opened her door and climbed in. “We’ll catch up tomorrow. I have to be at a hospital board meeting until mid-day, but I can join the search teams after that.” She turned to Ransom. “Officer, go easy on her. You know how she gets when she’s on a case.”

  “You were the one driving the Ferrari.”

  She smiled and waved and drove away.

  “How do you know she was the one driving?” I asked. “And that it was a Ferrari?”

  He pulled me into a hug and kissed my forehead. “That was DEA surveillance you were evading in Charlotte. Why were you running?”

  “The thugs? All of them? They were DEA?”

  “Thugs?”

  “Yeah, the bulky guy with the sport coupe and blue haired punk girl in the Hummer and the two black extra-large SUVs. Though I didn’t get a good look at those drivers.”

  “Three SUVs, and they were undercover agents, not thugs. Now tell me, why were you running?”

  I pulled back and looked up at him. “We weren’t running. We were simply following a whistleblower who was accused of corporate espionage and he had hitmen on his tail. We only needed evasive maneuvers when they got in the middle of our surveillance.”

  “Evasive maneuvers from the DEA? They were following Sanders, but then started chasing you when it became obvious you were also chasing Sanders. They couldn’t use the sirens and risk spooking him.”

  “It went sideways pretty fast,” I said. “I’ll give you that.”

  He stood close as we leaned against the car. His thigh against mine, his shoulder against my shoulder.

  I loved feeling him next to me. Strong and protective, curious and encouraging. “Sorry they called you down here. I know you’re on a big case.”

  “I’ve been here all day,” he said. “Since you arrived at Freedom Park, anyway.”

  I pushed up from the car. “You knew I was in Charlotte? Being chased by federal agents? Why didn’t you call me if you knew? At least send a text. Give a girl the heads up.”

  “Because it’s against the law.”

  “We were scared shitless those thugs would run us off the road. Fire machine guns out their windows. Hunt us through the Charlotte airport. Track us to Sea Pine Island.”

  “There were two marshals at the airport, and one on the flight. I knew you were safe. And also, they weren’t thugs.”

  “Is this your case? Your DEA task force? Damn, Ransom.”

  “Damn is right, woman,” he said. “You two could’ve flipped that Ferrari. Sid took that last turn and my heart nearly stopped.”

  “You could see us? How? Satellite? Drone? Oh my good Lord, dash cam?”

  “Satellite.”

  “Did they find Daphne? Did they arrest Alex?”

  He stayed silent so I punched him in the arm. “You tell me right now, Nick Ransom. My day is not over unless my investigation is over.”

  “On Daphne, not yet. On Sanders, yes, he was.”

  “For kidnapping or, well, or worse?”

  “For drug dealing.”

  “And Daphne?”

  “It’s an active investigation.”

  “Not your investigation,” I said. “Or is it now?”

  “Talk to Sheriff Hill.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me all this earlier? Before I went to Charlotte?”

  “All what? Did I know you were dragging Sid to Charlotte to follow Sanders into a drug deal, which would lead to a high-speed car chase with the DEA?”

  “You could’ve guessed that last part.” I pushed him out of the way of the door with a swift hip check.

  He held the door open, making sure I tucked in properly. “Elli, I know you’re good at what you do. But you’ve got the Summerton Sheriff’s Office, the Sea Pine Police, and the DEA on this case.”

  “Yes, I know. And what I take from that is Alex’s drug dealing is tied to Daphne’s murder.”

  “Disappearance.”

  I sighed, hit the button to put the top down. “Right. But we both know there must be some kind serious of evidence to bring Alex in, and so spectacularly.”

  “They have plenty.”

  “And you’re not going to tell me?”

  He leaned into me, his hand on my chin. He smiled low, his eyes crinkling. He kissed me. Softly, then deeply. He smelled of sandalwood and vanilla soap. Ransom never cared who saw his public affection. He only had eyes for me. He rested his forehead on mine. “I’m happy you’re home. I wish I could see you tonight, but this case will go late.”

  “I know,” I said. “Mine, too. Here’s hoping Sheriff Hill plays nicer than you.”

  By the time I drove down Spy Hop Lane to my cottage, it was past dusk. I decided to get something fancy for dinner, too.

  I called John’s Pizza for a double sausage and black olive with a side of cannoli. Hey, it was fancier than cereal. And I needed the extra carbs to restock my nerves from a mostly harrowing day.

  With Alex under arrest and Daphne still missing, where did that leave me and my investigation?

  Square uno.

  TWELVE

  (Day #7: Friday Morning)

  Here’s what I knew about Daphne Fischer’s disappearance: Her cell phone pinged on the island Saturday night.

  The end.

  Here’s what I knew about Daphne Fischer: She participated in a batshit wild season of Down the Isle where she met her best friend and/or fell in love and was jilted on national tv. Also, her boyfriend Alex dealt drugs via Charlotte, North Carolina, and Daphne knew about it or maybe just simply liked to visit the Atlanta airport. She enjoyed beading and may or may not have stolen a beading technique developed by a fellow contestant who threw a hissy fit for not getting credit in a magazine. She worked part-time at the Cake & Shake with the aforementioned best friend who’d asked Daphne to a) be her maid of honor and b) bead her wedding gown. Lastly, Jona Jerome, producer slash pot-stirrer, promised to fi
lm, photograph, and promote said beading, cakes, and wedding to launch Daphne’s new business, which as far as I could tell was a dream not a reality.

  The only illegal bit in the bunch belonged to Alex Sanders. He was an alleged drug dealer currently in the custody of the Drug Enforcement Administration. He’d also been a significant person of interest to the Sheriff’s Office in Daphne’s disappearance starting the morning after that fated final cell phone ping. The hidden car rental receipt implied Daphne knew about Alex’s nefarious extracurriculars (Note to self: Add the hidden car rental receipt to the list of things I knew about Daphne).

  Had she confronted Alex about his drug dealing? Had he reacted poorly? Or perhaps one of his associates had?

  As I drove to the Big House that morning, I realized I’d started thinking of Daphne less as missing and more as gone. With Alex’s arrest, the energy had shifted again. And with no police agency sharing information with me, my investigation was definitely not over.

  Another day with fire trucks and police cruisers in the circular drive. The uniformed personnel directed volunteers into the Big House in the morning and sometimes assisted those same volunteers in the afternoon. As the sun rose hot and humidity thickened the air, the risk of heat stroke and exhaustion intensified. I was grateful for their presence, but seeing so many emergency vehicles parked in front of the literal structure of my stability was unsettling.

  Volunteers jammed the foyer from library to staircase, and the registration desk had been moved to the second-floor landing. People wore bright pink Find Daphne shirts, but had long swapped bare feet in flip-flops for sneakers with socks. I, too, had forgone flowing linen in favor of heavy shorty pant cargoes and traded my messenger for a backpack.

  “We’re in the ballroom now,” Tod said. He wore a trim plaid blazer over his pink tee. “Carla made egg wraps and about two hundred gallons of fresh squeezed everything.”

  “Thanks, Tod, to you both, and really, everyone,” I said, glancing up at Zibby. She handed clipboards and pens to those in line, guiding people through the gallery landing. She’d dyed her hair fuchsia to match her tee.

  “I’ll grab Carla,” he said. “You can update us—”