As I pulled off my boot and sock, I noticed a ripple in the pond ahead. Then a pair of glistening eyeballs surfaced. Slick was back.
You are too funny, Miz H., he said in my head. Just like Aunt Lana told me.
What are you talking about? I demanded.
Your boot drying out? People come here to dry out! A plop of his tail sent up a spurt of scummy water.
At least one of us was amused.
When he saw I wasn’t laughing, he knocked off his adolescent games.
What’s up? he asked.
What’s up in a restroom down the hall is somebody’s secret stash of print materials. None of which makes any sense.
You’re telling me, Slick said. Who reads print these days? It’s all cell phones and tablets.
Whatever. I leaned forward in the lounger. But that’s the question—who? The what and the why are defined by the who. We—I mean I (jeez, I was starting to sound like the nurse)—need to find out who is behind this. But how? It’s not like I can station myself 24/7 outside the restroom door. Even then I wouldn’t know who’s doing what inside.
Eewww, Slick said, submerging his snout.
So . . . I need inside access, I mused.
Slick’s ridged back rose above the waterline. I hope you’re not thinking what I’m thinking. Contrary to urban legend, we gators do not swim through sewage systems and pop up in people’s toilets.
Eewww, I said.
But you might have another friend who could help you out.
Well, spit it out, I said.
He squirted water through his savage teeth. Not the answer I was looking for.
If I had my cell phone, I could scroll through my contacts, but . . . okay, I’d have to do it old-school style . . . using my brain. I reviewed my mental list of friends alphabetically. A . . . nobody I could think of. B . . . Brigitta. She could no more monitor the restroom than I could. C . . . Chuck. I couldn’t see how a gay, redneck, motorcycle mechanic would be a big help in this situation. D . . . blank. E . . .
Enrique! I said. That’s it! He’s all about security technology; he’s set up cameras throughout his hotel. I’m sure he could hide one in the restroom. It could transmit images to him remotely. Once someone climbs up to access the a/c vent, we will—in all likelihood—have our killer.
You better not be pointing that camera at the can, Slick said. That could land you a nice stay in the Big House. And a spot on the sex offenders registry.
Gee, thanks for the words of wisdom. We’ll aim it at the ceiling.
Well, hop to it, girl. He propelled himself to the opposite side of the pond and splayed out on the bank. Clearly, I was dismissed.
I needed to call Enrique from my room and somehow convey my needs without spelling them out, in case Big Brother was listening. Picking up my boot, I hobbled inside, one foot shod, the other bare.
Daniel manned the nurses’ station.
“Would you happen to have a fresh pair of socks available?” I asked.
“Yes, of course. What happened?”
“Oh, my foot just slipped into the pond outside. No biggie.”
Daniel reached into a drawer and pulled out several pairs of Tommy Hilfiger anklets in fuschia, sand, midnight blue, and other assorted shades.
“The plain black will do for me, thanks.” He handed them over. “I’m going to lie down for a while,” I said.
Once in the room, I picked up the landline phone and pressed the redial button, since Enrique was the last person—actually, the only person—I had called on that phone.
He picked up on the third ring. “Hailey, what do you need?”
What a true friend. He knew I would never call just to chitchat. It wasn’t in my nature, and he accepted that.
“Enrique, being here in treatment is giving me such a new perspective. I wish I had a way to record my views.”
“You . . . want a journal to . . . write your feelings in?” He sounded dubious. For good reason. He knew I wasn’t the touchy-feely, poetry-writing type.
“Um . . . no, I just wish I could capture my recovery process from this killer addiction that had me in its grip . . .”
“Ahhh . . . like if you could have a video of what’s happening there so you’d never forget.”
“Yes!”
“That’s wonderful, Hailey. I’m so glad to hear you’re making progress in finding . . . yourself. I’d love to stop by later to see you.”
“That would be awesome.”
A knock came at the door. “Hailey, it’s lunchtime.”
“I gotta go,” I said to Enrique. “I have a group session this afternoon. Could you make it around four?”
“See you then.”
DANIEL ESCORTED me to the dining atrium and departed. As I was about to enter, I saw Gitta coming down the hall, hand in hand with a robust, rumpled, red-haired man—Detective Kevin Reilly. Shit! I couldn’t let him see me—he’d blow my cover. And blow his stack.
I rushed into the atrium and slipped behind a large potted palm in the corner next to the door. Through the fronds, I peeped at Gitta and Reilly as they entered the threshold and paused. Gitta faced my way while Reilly faced her as they gazed into each other’s eyes. I picked up a small pebble from the planter, set it on the floor, and kicked it. It rolled and lightly struck Gitta’s sandaled foot.
Her gaze darted in my direction, her eyes widening when she saw me. The she raised her hands to the back of Reilly’s head, stood on her tiptoes, and gave him a long kiss. When she broke it off, she said, “Thank you so much for coming to see me, Kevin. I feel so much better now. Talk to you tonight?” She batted her lashes.
“Of course. I’ll call you, my love.” And he left.
I emerged from my hiding spot. “Good save,” I told Gitta. She had put her Boca Babe skills to good use.
Following a lunch devoid of murder and mayhem, Gitta went to a yoga session, and I was ushered into a small room where five other residents sat silently in cushy chairs facing a lectern. I took the remaining seat. I recognized the others from the previous night’s trauma debriefing session, among them Kyle, the military vet with the leg prosthesis, and Renee, the woman whose young child had died. They all still looked pretty shaken, with wide eyes, unkempt hair, and chewed fingernails. Hell, I probably looked the same—or even worse.
I appraised them as potential suspects. Okay, the guy with the false leg probably would not have climbed up onto the toilet, but the others had no such impediment. That didn’t narrow the list much.
The room’s pale blue walls and the New Age tones emanating from an iPod in the corner did not appear to be exerting their intended soothing effect. In fact, the so-called music, with its shrill wind instruments accompanied by syrupy strings, rapidly got on my nerves.
I was about to get up and shut the damn thing off when Dr. Stillwater strode in. In contrast to the rest of us, there was nothing disheveled about her. Her navy blue suit was tailored to her figure, which was highlighted by a pair of sling-back stilettos that elevated her ass. A matching striped scarf was tied at her neck, giving her the appearance of a stewardess from the days when Pan Am ruled the skies. Her immaculate hair and nails furthered the illusion.
Could she be the one who’d hidden the stash in the ceiling? She was tall enough. But she could come and go as she pleased, unlike the patients. She wouldn’t have to hide things on the premises—she could dispose of them in other ways.
“Good afternoon, everyone,” she chirped. Far too brightly, in my not-so-humble opinion. “Today, we will discuss the psychobiology of addiction.”
She stepped to the lectern and pressed a remote-control clicker. A white screen descended from the ceiling. With another click, a PowerPoint projection popped up on the screen. Stillwater launched into a lecture, the gist of which was “T
his is your brain on drugs.” Words like mesolimbic system, dopamine, and synapses were thrown around. I gathered that the bottom line was that substances, like drugs and food, and experiences, like sex and social interaction, that produced pleasure activated the brain’s reward pathways and created cravings for more. In some individuals and with some drugs, the brain’s function altered dramatically. Over time, tolerance built, requiring more stimulation to create the same effect, ultimately leading to a vicious downward spiral.
So in a sense, the kids in here had been hijacked by their own brains. But what had they been addicted to? Their medical records had indicated no evidence of drug metabolites in their bodies.
The way Stillwater was clicking through her slides with seeming glee made me wonder whether there was such a thing as PowerPoint addiction. After all, every press of the remote produced a gratifying click and brought a new image of a colorful brain scan. It was almost like a psychedelic show. It should have been accompanied by some Hendrix instead of that damn recorded harp.
“So what I want you all to take away from this,” Stillwater wrapped up, “is that addiction is a disease like any other. It’s not a moral failing. It’s not a lack of willpower. And it’s nothing to be ashamed of. It’s a chronic illness like diabetes or heart disease. No one is ashamed of having those, and the same should be true of addiction.”
Okay, sounded good to me. I slapped my knees and stood to go, ignoring the chatter that broke out among the other participants. Why was it that anytime a meeting of any sort ended, everyone started jabbering? Wasn’t there anyone else like me who just wanted to escape to solitude? Besides, I needed to meet Enrique.
I slipped out of the room and down the corridors. For once, no staff member accompanied me. I finally had the opportunity to snoop—but not the time.
I reached the luxurious lobby.
Tiffani, the receptionist, looked up from her cell phone. “Ms. Holloway! Where are you going?”
“Just outside to meet a visitor.” I smiled.
She smiled back and resumed her phone fixation.
The air had warmed up some since I’d sat on the patio with Slick that morning. The royal palms undulated in the breeze, and a powder-blue sky embraced the grounds. Another perfect day in paradise. Not for those dead kids, though—they’d never again savor the joys of this earthly realm.
I sat on the bench at the edge of the broad expanse of verdant lawn. Just as I did, a sprinkler came on, splashing me with its spray. Was the damn thing rigged? I leapt off the bench and sprinted onto the driveway. Looking toward the security gate, I saw Enrique’s big dark Beemer pull in.
He parked and emerged, took off his sunglasses, and scanned his surroundings, as was his habit. Spotting me, he ambled over, sidestepping the sprinkler to avoid any droplet on his pinstriped Armani suit. He had a distinct, languid stride that exuded self-assurance and sensuality.
“Hey, girlfriend,” he said when he reached me, kissing me on the cheek.
“Hey yourself. Um . . . let’s take a walk.” We trekked along the drive to the side of the building, where the huge stone fountain burbled. We sat along its edge. I felt the cool mist of the water along the back of my neck. Suddenly, my mind flashed to another place, another time.
ROME. WITH BRUCE. We’re sitting on another fountain, this one at the base of the Spanish Steps. Our tanned legs stretch before us. The sun glints off Bruce’s four-hundred-dollar-a-cut blond hair.
We’ve spent the afternoon shopping along the Via Condotti. Bruce has bought me a Bulgari sapphire necklace and a Prada bag. We’ve gotten pistachio gelatos from a street cart and have sat on the fountain’s edge to eat them and people-watch.
Bruce finishes his cone and reaches for the jeweler’s hinged box. “Let me put this on you,” he says. “I want you to show it off as we walk back to the hotel.”
I smile at him. I know when we get to our room, everything but the necklace will come off, and we’ll have a great session in bed. Spending fuels our sex life.
“Sure, honey,” I say. “Just let me finish this ice cream first.”
A look of irritation crosses his face. Shit. I’ve screwed up. I know better, but I’ve failed. When he wants something, I need to comply immediately. I gulp down the rest of the gelato. It’s lost all its delicious nut flavor and silky texture, just slides down my throat in a cold clump.
I smile again. “Okay, ready.”
I turn my back slightly to him. He drapes the jewels around my neck, his cold fingers giving me goose bumps.
“Jesus, I can’t get this clasp closed,” he snarls. “What’s the matter with you? Why don’t you move your hair out of the way?”
Before I can do that, he grabs my hair and yanks it aside. My neck torques, and I feel a muscle tear. Tears sting my eyes.
“Okay, fine,” he says. “It’s done. Let me see.” He puts a hand under my chin and pulls my face back toward him. “Are you crying? Are you serious? I just dropped ten grand on you, bitch.”
He snatches the necklace and tears it off. One lone sapphire flies into the fountain. Bruce stands, shoves the broken strand into his pocket, and walks away, leaving me sitting, my tears mixing with the fountain’s gentle spray of water.
“Harriet? Harriet!”
“Huh?” I blinked and saw Enrique sitting beside me.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“What? Oh. Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks. Sorry.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, yeah.” Dammit. I had work to do here. I had no time for reliving that old bullshit. That little reminiscence had spurred my Inner Vigilante.
Enrique reached out to hold my hand. Jeez, did I look that shook up?
Wait. There was something hard between his hand and mine. Enrique removed his hand, and I glanced at the object. A black plastic box the size of a cell phone, with a small glass lens on one end and a suction cup on the side. The video camera.
“Where did you want to put this?” Enrique asked.
“In a restroom.”
“You’re going to record people using the facilities?” His face scrunched up.
“Of course not. There’s a bizarre stash of papers in the ceiling, and I’m hoping whoever put it there will climb up to access it. I want to catch them on camera when they do.”
“Aha. Does this restroom have stalls?”
“No, it’s just for one person.”
“Okay, cool. Press this onto the back of the toilet, with the lens pointing up. Then push that button on the side.”
I felt the button and nodded.
“There’s an air card built in so it doesn’t need to connect to Wi-Fi. It’ll run for twenty-four hours before the battery needs recharging. The images will be streamed to me. I’ll keep an eye on my monitor at the office.”
“What if you’re out of the office?”
“It’ll save to my hard drive, so I can view it later. If I see something happen, I’ll give you a call.”
“Okay. You’ll have to call my room, since I don’t have my cell here. If I’m not in, leave a voice mail.”
“Right. Code word: Social Climber.”
“Perfect. That won’t raise any eyebrows if anyone’s listening in.”
“This is Boca,” we both said in unison.
We said our good-byes, and Enrique ambled away. His sultry stride reminded me of another man . . . Lior.
Lior! He was due to arrive at the airport in a couple hours. Dammit, I was supposed to have this case wrapped up so that I could pick him up. But the case was still wide open. I couldn’t abandon my search for justice in favor of lust. But wait . . . why did I have to choose? If I couldn’t go to Lior, he could come to me.
“Enrique!” I called out. He turned around, and I trotted over to him and explained my dilemma.
A broad grin spread across his face. “So you want me to deliver your lover boy for a clandestine rendezvous.”
I shifted my gaze from his. I hadn’t actually spelled it out that way. “Uh, yeah. I know this probably goes above and beyond the call of friendship, but . . .” I looked at the ground and kicked my toe into the grass. I mean, how embarrassing was this?
“Who are you calling a friend?” Enrique asked. “We’re family, girl. Besides, you know I’ve been trying to talk you into getting some for years.”
That was true. Much to my irritation, Enrique had never accepted my avowals of happily celibate widowhood.
“I’m going to be keeping an eye on the monitor for your . . . social climber,” Enrique said. “But let me make some calls to the rest of the family.”
“Not my mom!” I interjected. Although she’d be just as happy as Enrique to see me finally hook up. But please. It would be like being teenagers driven on a date by their parents, for God’s sake. Enough to kill anyone’s passion.
“Give me some credit,” Enrique said. “Chuck may be able to pick him up. Or Leonard.”
“Chuck!” Please. “Let it be Chuck.” Having Leonard, my mother’s lover, deliver my imminent lover was just too . . . gross.
“Okay, okay,” Enrique said. “I’ll text him now. Give me the flight info.”
I did, and he relayed it. A few seconds later his phone pinged. He looked at the display. “Done deal. Chuck’s on it,” he said.
Now it was my turn to grin. “Now let’s get this son-of-a-bitch murderer.”
I MADE MY WAY back into the building and the bathroom where the bust was to go down.
I removed the camera from my back pocket, slid it behind the toilet tank, and pressed the suction cup against the porcelain. When I let go, the damn thing slid to the floor with a clatter.
Then the door handle rattled.
“Just a minute,” I yelled.
Shit. I contortioned my body to retrieve the camera. I pulled it out and looked at the lens. Fortunately, it was intact. I’d read somewhere that moistening a suction cup would help make it adhere. I spit into the cup and pressed it to the tank again. This time, it stuck.
Boca Undercover Page 11
