Sarah Woods Mystery Series (Volume 3)

by Jennifer L. Jennings

  “Who was it?” I asked, all innocent.

  “Jenn,” he said with a sigh of relief. “She's fine.”

  “Great. Maybe now you can relax and enjoy your dessert.”

  It was dark when Max and I walked back to the condo, hand in hand. There was no talk of going to Jenn's house and I was thankful for small miracles, but he wasn't being himself. I wanted to ask him what he and Jenn had talked about alone in the room while I'd been at Brook's. What had Jennifer shared with him? Why did she need to get off her chest?

  “So,” I said, breaking the silence. “You mentioned earlier that Jenn is fragile. What does that mean, exactly?”

  He didn't look at me, just stared straight ahead with a contemplative expression. “Well, it's mostly to do with her mom, I guess.”

  “Why? What happened with her mom?” I asked gently.

  “She committed suicide about twenty years ago. Jenn was only sixteen.”

  I cringed. “Well, no wonder you're so worried about her. That's awful. Did she tell you why her mother took her own life?”

  He hesitated. “Several reasons. One being that Jenn had a lot of health problems when she was younger. She was seriously allergic to peanuts, almost died once after she accidentally had a granola bar with small traces of peanut. She had to have emergency surgery. Her mom could barely afford health insurance, let alone pay the regular bills. The stress was overwhelming, being a single parent.”

  “Jeez. How could someone kill themselves, especially with a child? Did Jenn go to a foster family until she turned eighteen?”

  “Yeah. That was not a good situation, either. I'd rather not get into it, if you don't mind.”

  “That's fine,” I said, squeezing his hand affectionately.

  We were back in the room by nine o'clock. I slipped into my nightshirt and proceeded to the bathroom for my nightly rituals: face washing, tooth brushing, and moisturizing. When I emerged from the steamy bathroom ten minutes later, Max was already in bed fast asleep.

  I lounged on the balcony alone in the dark, watching the lights of ships out on the horizon. At 10:05, I got the text from Carter. He had arrived at Ocean Terrace, and was in his room. We made plans to meet in the restaurant located in the back lobby the next morning at nine.

  Chapter 8

  I woke up around seven o'clock, but Max was gone. In the kitchen, there was a note waiting for me on the table.

  Morning,

  Andrew called early this morning. I guess I still have a job. Anyway, I didn't want to wake you so early, you looked like you were sleeping soundly. I'm sorry I was so weird last night. I think I'm still in shock over Dennis. Let's try our romantic dinner again tonight. I promise I'll be present this time.

  Love,

  Max

  It felt like a weight had been lifted. I kissed the letter, then placed it back on the table.

  After a quick shower, I put on my usual work attire: jeans, basic cotton button-down shirt, and sneakers. No time to blow dry my hair, so I combed it up in a ponytail. A little lipstick and mascara were all I had time to apply to my pale face.

  Carter had already set up shop at a table in the restaurant; an opened laptop sat in front of him as he intently clicked away on the keyboard.

  His thick, grey hair was slicked back, still wet, probably from a shower. His eyebrows – darker than his hair shade – made him look younger than his fifty-four years.

  I was surprised to see him wearing the same black, leather jacket and jeans he always wore, better suited to the colder New England weather. His toned physique was the envy of most middle-aged guys, but Carter was not the type to go to a gym. I had no idea how he stayed in tip-top shape, but it most likely involved push-ups and sit-ups on a daily basis. I couldn't picture him in shorts and running shoes.

  “Hey, it's Florida,” I called out as I approached his table. “Why don't you ditch the leather?”

  He smiled when he looked up. “You're late.”

  “Thanks for noticing. I figured you'd want to sleep in after your long flight last night.”

  “Couldn't sleep, so I've been here drinking coffee since this place opened at six. Coffee's not half bad.”

  Once I took my seat, I leaned over to glance at his laptop screen. “Find anything interesting about Angela Foster, yet?”

  Carter gestured to the screen. “Not really. She's never been arrested, but I think I was able to find her current address.”

  “That's a good start,” I said. “But I'm still not sure Angela is the blackmailer. I was thinking we should go to the airport where the money drop took place. There must be security cameras covering that area, don't you think?”

  He nodded while closing his laptop. “Makes sense. Want some coffee or breakfast before we head out?”

  “Sure, coffee is definitely in order.”

  He signaled to the waitress and she promptly brought over a mug.

  “When do I get to meet the client?” Carter asked.

  “Sometime today. But I can tell you right now, you're not going to like Brook.”

  He looked up, confused. “Why not?”

  I chuckled. “She's beautiful, and she uses it to her advantage. She basically came out and admitted that she married Dennis for his money. Here, listen to this.” I retrieved my cell phone and the recording of my conversation with Brook.

  Carter listened intently, casting glances my way every now and then. “I'm not happy about the fact that she won't tell us who she was having an affair with. That could be the biggest clue as to who set her up.”

  “I know,” I replied. “But as you can hear from the conversation, she's adamant about keeping it a secret.”

  Carter closed his laptop and slid it back into his leather satchel. “So, how's Max?”

  “Good. He's a little shaken up over Dennis's sudden death, but besides that, he's fine. It's been pretty awkward with his ex-girlfriend back in the picture.”

  “What do you mean?”

  I stared into my coffee mug and shrugged my shoulders. “I guess I didn't tell you. Max's ex worked for Dennis Foster. She's the one who got him the job here. Anyway, she's a nice person, but a little needy.”

  Carter raised an eyebrow. “Sounds interesting.”

  “I'd prefer to not talk about her.”

  He chuckled. “Say no more. Shall we head over to the airport?”

  I finished my coffee. “Yep. Let's go.”

  Chapter 9

  Mr. Wayne Byrne, Head of Airport Security at West Palm Beach Airport, invited us into his office, a cramped space with no windows that smelled of tuna fish. He was a pudgy man of about sixty, with an obvious and ill-fitting black toupee. “What can I help you folks with today?” he asked, not bothering to offer us a seat.

  Carter cleared his throat as he reached into his back pocket. He flipped open his wallet and showed the man some I.D; Carter's private detective license, which was interesting considering Carter didn't have one.

  “My partner and I would greatly appreciate your assistance in a case we're working on,” Carter said to the man. “We have reason to believe an unreported crime was committed near baggage claim three on March fifteenth, at approximately ten o'clock in the morning. We were hoping you'd allow us to view footage from a security camera you have set up near the ladies restroom in that area.”

  Wayne stroked his chin, giving Carter a narrowed look. “What kind of crime are we talking about? And why was it never reported?”

  Carter smiled. “Our client claims she is a victim of blackmail. She left a bag of money in the ladies room, and we'd like to see who picked it up. Our client is very connected in this town, and I'm sure if you were to assist us, well, let's just say she's a good person to have on your side.”

  Wayne appeared to think it over while tapping his pen on the desk. “Who is she?”

  Carter gave me a quick glance before returning his gaze to Wayne. “We can't share that information with you until we see the tape.”

  Wayne stared at u
s for a few moments, probably trying to assess his options. Finally, he stood up from his desk. “Follow me.”

  He led us to an adjoining room where another uniformed man sat at a large computer. The two men spoke to one another briefly. Within a minute, Wayne invited us to view the screen. The time stamp on the video showed 9:55 3.15.14.

  “There's no sound on this particular camera,” Wayne said. “Hope that's not a problem.”

  Carter and I leaned over to watch the monitor closely. The camera angle was high, but we could make out the entrance of the restroom.

  I pointed to the strawberry blonde woman standing nearby who was holding a large leather briefcase in her arms like a baby. “That's Brook,” I whispered to Carter.

  We continued to watch the footage as Wayne looked on from behind us. He was probably eager to find out who the “high profile” woman was, but he remained quiet.

  At exactly 10:00, we watched Brook enter the ladies room. She was only inside for about a minute. When she came out, the briefcase was still in her hand, but presumably empty. She paused to look around, then quickly left the scene.

  After Brook left, a woman and a little girl walked into the restroom with several pieces of luggage. Another woman of about sixty, with a rolling suitcase and a carry-on entered as well. A group of three young teenage girls, all with pink backpacks. Two elderly women, each with shoulder bags. And finally, a dark-haired woman with an oversized rolling suitcase big enough to fit a small human body inside.

  “Right there,” Carter pointed. “Could that be Angela wearing a brown wig?”

  I looked closer but it was hard to tell. “Maybe. Can't really see her face.”

  A few minutes passed and the brown-haired woman emerged from the bathroom. She didn't seem in a hurry at all. She checked her phone, then meandered off, with the suitcase trailing behind her. She kept her face down, never once giving us the chance to see her face.

  The video continued, and after the brown-haired woman left, only a few other people went in and out of the restroom. None of them resembled Angela in any way. Then finally, at 10:14, a janitor dressed in a white uniform wheeled her custodial cart of cleaning supplies into the restroom. She was a large, black woman probably approaching retirement age.

  “The janitor would have emptied the trash,” Carter said. “So our blackmailer must have come and gone before this point.” He turned to Wayne. “Any chance we could get a copy of this footage?”

  Wayne hesitated, then eventually gave a shrug. “I suppose there's no harm in it.”

  When we got to Carter's rental, I gave Brook a call but she didn't answer. I left a message saying that we'd obtained a copy of the airport surveillance. Could we get together so she could view it?

  Carter started the engine. “While we wait for her to get back to us, why don't we check out Angela's apartment? I already have it plugged into the GPS.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Why not.”

  Chapter 10

  Angela Foster lived in a modest apartment building located on the west side of West Palm Beach. The ten-story structure had balconies for each unit, four on each corner with a total of 40 units. The building, and those surrounding it, seemed dated, and I got the sense this neighborhood might have been nice at one time … but not anymore.

  “For the daughter of a millionaire, I expected something more fancy,” I said. “Are we sure this is the right place?”

  Looking around, the neighborhood was mostly condos, a few restaurants, and a drug store on the corner. Carter found an empty parking spot, rolled down all the windows, and cut the engine. He gestured to a parking lot adjacent to the apartment building. “Her Jeep is in the lot over there, so this is definitely her place, and she's probably home.” Carter leaned back, interlacing his fingers behind his head. “I have a plan and it's simple. I'll get into her apartment and look for a stash of money. Hopefully, she hasn't spent it all.”

  “So we just wait here until she leaves her apartment? What if she doesn't?”

  Carter grinned. I'd seen that same, mischievous grin many times before. “I have that covered,” he said, grabbing his duffel bag from the back seat. He reached inside, pulled out a navy blue hat and a nametag.

  Inspecting the nametag, I sputtered a laugh. “Jake Palmer, huh? Who are you supposed to be?”

  Carter put the hat on, and I saw the white, embroidered letters across the front – JP Pest Control.

  I laughed again. “That's brilliant.”

  “Termites,” Carter said, his expression deadpan. “It's a real problem in the tropics, you know. I'll tell her that the landlord has hired me to inspect the apartments.”

  “What if she calls the landlord to confirm the story?”

  Carter primped himself in the rearview mirror. “I'll just have to be extra convincing, that's all.”

  “So what should I do?”

  “Stay here and keep watch.” He exited the car with his duffel bag and made his way across the street to the apartment entrance.

  The sun was blazing and the temperature rising. How long would I be waiting in the hot car? I knew Carter wouldn't dilly-dally. He'd probably be inside the apartment no more than fifteen minutes.

  The neighborhood was mostly quiet. A few people ambled by, most of them coming and going from a nearby cafe.

  After five minutes, I had to assume that Carter had convinced Angela that he was legitimately there to inspect for pests. I could picture him in his navy hat, flashing his big smile, and charming her with his witty personality. Carter could be quite the lady's man when the situation called for it.

  I could feel a stream of sweat rolling down my back. I got out of the car, hoping to catch a breeze and cool off. I leaned against the car while keeping an eye on the apartment and the surrounding area. I tugged my baseball cap down to shield my eyes from the blinding sunrays.

  I checked my watch. Almost ten-thirty. Carter had been gone for almost ten minutes and my heart rate was beginning to increase.

  At ten-forty-five, my hands began to sweat – a combination of the humidity and nerves. I kept glancing at the apartment building, wondering why Carter was taking so long. Her place couldn't have been that big, a few rooms at best.

  Maybe Angela had invited him to stay for a cup of coffee.

  The street was quiet except for loud T.V. coming from someone's apartment. They must have been watching a cop show; police sirens filled the air.

  Another minute passed, and finally, I looked up to see Carter walking out of the apartment building, his stride slow and measured, like he was in no hurry at all. But something was odd. As he got closer, I noticed his expression was strained.

  I blinked in astonishment. His left arm and chest was covered in red.

  “What's that stuff all over you?” I asked him. “Is … is that blood?”

  “Get in the car, now,” he said. “We have to go.”

  Chapter 11

  Carter started the engine, slammed the gear into drive, and squealed out of the parking spot just as a cruiser rounded the corner with lights flashing and sirens blaring. When I glanced back, a blonde woman with cut-off jeans was waving her arms in the air, running toward us in the middle of the street. Her white t-shirt was covered in red, too. She was screaming something at us, but her voice was drowned out by the sirens getting nearer.

  That had to be Angela Foster.

  “What the hell happened?” I shouted, but Carter was too focused on the road to answer me.

  He gripped the steering wheel, glancing in his rear-view mirror every few seconds. To my surprise, the little Honda rental car had a lot of pep, but the cruiser was not far behind.

  “Are you okay?” I asked. “I thought the police sirens were coming from someone's T.V.”

  “I'm fine,” he said, but I knew it was a lie. His face was pale and his breathing labored.

  “We should get you to a hospital.”

  “It's just a shallow knife wound.”

  “Angela stabbed you?”
r />   He glanced in the rearview mirror. “Can't talk. I need to focus on losing the cops, so hold on.”

  Carter put the petal to the medal as we approached the intersection. The light turned yellow but Carter did not slow down. By the time we sailed through the light, it had already turned red. A guy on a moped almost crashed into us.

  In the rear-view mirror, I saw the cruiser with its flashing blues gaining on us.

  Without any warning, Carter took another left, down a one-way street. An oncoming car had to swerve to avoid smashing into us. I gripped the handlebar and held my breath.

  Carter glanced at me with mild concern. “Relax. I've done this before.”

  “Outrun the cops or getting stabbed?”

  “Both, actually.” Carter slammed on the brakes, took an immediate left, and then a sharp right, pulling into a parking garage as I tried to steady my beating heart.

  As I glanced out the back window, I didn't see any blue flashing lights. Had we really lost them?

  Carter stopped just long enough to grab a ticket from the dispenser, then drove up the ramp to the top of the garage, six levels. He parked near the stairwell, shut the engine, grabbed his duffel and laptop bags. “We won't be coming back for this vehicle, so make sure you have everything.”

  I hugged my purse to my chest. Exiting the car, I glanced around. Only two other cars were parked nearby, but nobody was around.

  I followed Carter as he calmly made his way to the edge of the lot. He searched the street below. Only then did he pause to exhale as he set his bags on the ground.

  I helped him sit on a concrete step. “We have to get you to a hospital.”

  “I'm fine. I just need some antibacterial ointment and medical tape. Got any?”

  I rummaged through my purse. “Just a few Band-aids and wet wipes.”

  “That'll do.” Carter managed to get his shirt off as I got the wipes and Band-aids ready. Just below his shoulder on the outside of his arm, an open gash of about three centimeters oozed blood. I wiped it clean, but the bleeding wouldn't stop.