Boca Undercover

by Miriam Auerbach

  I looked at the phone. No red blinking light to indicate a message from Enrique. Damn—Social Climber hadn’t shown up yet. Maybe because he or she had been the attacker in the maze?

  A rap came at the door, followed by Daniel’s voice. “Hailey? Time to go.”

  Okay. I wouldn’t find out anything sitting in this damn room.

  I opened the door. He eyed my attire—the same boots, black leggings, and The Oasis polo shirt that I’d worn all day.

  “Is that what we would wear for an evening out?”

  “We don’t go out, okay?” Hell, I spent my evenings in the swamp with Lana.

  “We have nothing more appropriate?”

  Like what—a slutty, low-cut, high-hemmed number like I’d worn in my Boca Babe days? You could have bought a small car for the cost of those dresses, but that didn’t make them any less cheap. “This is all I’ve got.”

  He smiled. “I see we’ll have to work on appropriate attire. Not to worry, this is a common challenge among people with addiction problems. In the meantime, let’s go ahead . . . and go . . . to Club Night.”

  Jeez, he sounded like some hyper TV host. Let’s go . . . Dancing with the Stars!

  We traveled along now-deserted hallways and entered a room jammed with people. Flashing multicolored lights bounced off glittering glassware and diamond earrings, necklaces, and bracelets. Beyoncé blared from the sound system as people gyrated on a dance floor.

  What the hell? The place was a full-scale replica of a ritzy Boca night spot—complete with a wood-paneled, mirrored, fully stocked bar.

  “Have fun,” Daniel said and departed.

  Okay. Hennessy at last. I headed for the bar and ordered a glass straight up.

  The bartender was Jason, the waiter from the dining room, apparently doing double duty.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “Perhaps you’ve misunderstood the purpose of this evening. It’s to use coping skills to resist the urge to drink in this tempting environment.”

  My coping skills in this environment consisted of Krav Maga. I considered lunging across the bar and dispatching with Jason to get at the booze.

  “What can I get you instead?” Jason asked. “Fresh-squeezed pomegranate juice? How about a passionberry smoothie with a hint of mint?”

  “Water,” I snapped.

  “Excellent choice. Sparkling or still?”

  “Wet will do.”

  “Irritability is a perfectly expected response in this situation. How about reciting a mantra to calm you down?”

  “Okay. Hmmm . . . my mantra is . . . dry throat. Dry throat. Dry throat.”

  The kid gave up on his pep talk, reached under the counter, and procured a bottle of Perrier.

  “Hold the lime,” I said, anticipating his next move. “Just hand over the bottle, nice and slow.”

  He did so. I unscrewed the top and gulped the water in one swallow, then banged the bottle down on the bar.

  “Make it a double?” he asked.

  Jesus. “No.”

  I turned and looked around the room. In addition to the dancers, other patients sat or stood in clusters. I spotted Gitta, wearing a black Versace dress with gold trim, at a far table with a few of the T’ai Chi masters and water sprites. I walked over.

  “Harr . . . Hailey!” Gitta exclaimed. “Please join us.” She pulled out a chair, a trio of gold bracelets sliding down her arm.

  Both the men and the women sized me up—the men as a potential plaything and the women as potential competition. Could none of them sense the pheromones coming off me from my recent encounter with Lior? The vibes that said my sexual interest in these guys was in the sub-zero range? My only interest in these people was as potential suspects—or leads.

  I sat down. “God, isn’t it horrible what’s happened to those poor kids here?” I burst out. “First that boy in the Meditation Maze getting killed, then that little girl who was stabbed last night in the dining room. I am so freaked out . . . what do you all think is going on?”

  If the staff had thought that the residents would have difficulty socializing without an alcoholic lubricant, they’d been mistaken. Murder and violence provided plenty of fodder of discussion. Theories about the deaths of the teens abounded. Someone on the staff was a secret agent of the foster care system and was knocking off the kids to save the state money. The kids were police informants, and the Mob had done them in. The victims had been abducted by aliens in the middle of the night, then killed to keep quiet.

  Jeez, everyone was a damn detective. And a conspiracy nut.

  But all I could think about was Lior lying in a hospital bed, struggling for life.

  At ten, the club shut down. So much for the dose of reality. We were escorted back to our units like truculent teenagers.

  Mercy, the nurse from the prior day, was back on duty at her station. This time her fake designer scrubs bore Missoni zig-zag stripes.

  There was still no message from Enrique on my phone when I entered my room. I paced around the cage in frustration. There was no way I could sleep, not knowing what was happening to Lior at the hospital. I had to keep digging for the motive behind the attacks on the kids—and now, Lior.

  I’d already discovered some common threads among the kids. For one thing, they were all foster children. For another, none of them had drugs in their systems upon admission. But I couldn’t put together the information I had into anything meaningful. There had to be something else that bound the kids, and I kept thinking I might find the missing tie in those medical records.

  My computer search of those records the previous night had been cut short by the appearance of the cleaning lady. Then the pop-up ad for the National Inquisitor had led me in a different direction. I needed to finish my records search.

  I peeked out my door and waited until Mercy disappeared into the restroom. Then I quickly went into my own bathroom and grabbed one of the plush paper hand towelettes embossed with The Oasis’s logo. I exited my room and slipped out of the unit using Enrique’s magnetic key. I wedged the towelette between the door and the frame to leave it open a crack. I wasn’t going to get stuck outside the unit again, like I had the night before. Then, again using the key, I entered the nearest office, Dr. Stillwater’s.

  I ensconced myself in the fiendish massage chair after ensuring it was turned off. I logged on to the computer with the same username—Green—and password—Bobcats98—as before, and accessed the master spreadsheet that contained all the patients’ records. Previously, I’d been looking for medical information, like the nature of their addictions and their psychological assessments, that might provide some clues about the victims. This time, I needed to broaden the search for other possible commonalities among them.

  I selected the four victims out of the patient list. First, Demarcus Pritchett. Then, Angel Romero, the boy who had supposedly died of a seizure. Next, Kenyatta Underwood, who’d reportedly succumbed to anorexia. Finally, Jessica Jarrett, who’d been stabbed with a fork in the dining room the night before. I systematically began looking through all the data fields, starting with name, date of birth, and so on. Nothing unusual . . . until I got to their addresses.

  They were all different. Wait, I thought all those kids had lived in Gardenia LaFleur’s foster home before they’d come to The Oasis. After all, she had called them her “children.” What was up with that?

  Now wasn’t the time to stop and think about it—I had to gather as much information as possible. I kept scrolling across the spreadsheet. Still nothing interesting. Then I got to their school—they all attended the same one: Sterling Heights Academy.

  I’d never heard of it, but it was one of those bizarre Boca misnomers. The only height in Boca was atop the downtown movie theater, which had reserved balcony seating, served cocktails, and had a dome to rival St. Peter’s in Rome.
Geographically, South Florida was as flat as the proverbial pancake. But “Sterling Heights” had the ring of an expensive private school. How would a group of foster kids have gotten into a place like that? And were there more kids from that school in The Oasis? If so, one of them might be the killer—or they could all be potential future victims.

  I changed my search parameters to look for “Sterling Heights” in the “School” data field for all the adolescents in the facility. Only one more record popped up—Amber Moss. Amber—the girl who had stabbed Jessica. Had she killed Demarcus—and perhaps the others? I couldn’t make any sense of it, but I had to get back to my room before Mercy realized I was missing.

  I logged off, crossed to the office door, and peeked out. The hallway was empty. I stepped to the door of the detox unit and peered through the crack I’d left open. Mercy was back at her station. Damn. I’d have to wait until she took off again in order to sneak back in.

  It could be hours before she felt the call of nature. But . . . she couldn’t wait that long to smoke. Craving would soon strike, as Stillwater had lectured the patients that afternoon. Sure enough, Mercy soon rose and wandered out to the patio. I saw the flicker of a lighter flame in the dark, followed by the bright red glow of a cigarette tip.

  I opened the unit door, retrieved my towelette, closed the door behind me, and skedaddled to my room.

  The first thing I did was look at the phone. No blinking red light, meaning no message from Enrique. Or anyone else, for that matter. Dammit, why had no one yet climbed up to retrieve the reading stash hidden in the restroom ceiling? And why hadn’t the Contessa called to update me on Lior’s condition?

  My mind buzzed. I needed to talk the case over with someone. Leaving that confining coop, I went out to the patio.

  Mercy turned to me. “How are you doing, Hailey?” she asked, exhaling a column of smoke upward above my head. How considerate.

  “A little restless. Thought I’d come out and get some fresh air.” Cough, cough. She was hardly the one I wanted to talk to.

  Mercifully, she took the hint. “That’s a wonderful idea. I’ll leave you to enjoy the peace out here.” She took one last drag, then tossed the butt into the pond.

  A pair of jaws burst out of the water and snapped at her. She let out a yelp and rushed inside.

  Yes! Slick was defending his environment from pollution by the likes of her. She might think twice before doing that again.

  Anyway, he was the one I wanted to talk with in the first place. I sat down on a lounge chair.

  Aunt Lana wants to know when you’re coming home, girl, he said.

  Awww.

  As soon as you help me solve this case, I said.

  Well, give it up, girl! What’s happening?

  I brought him up to date, ending with my discovery that the kids didn’t live in the same home but did attend the same school.

  I have no idea what that means, Slick pronounced.

  Well, you’re a big help, I said.

  He swished his tail, propelling himself a few feet across the pond, then lurked there, instead of where he’d lurked before. Why did they do that? Maybe it was like humans rolling over in bed. You just had to find a more comfortable spot, even at rest.

  I keep thinking about the National Inquisitor pics, he said. You know, how maybe the victims leaked the snaps of Cody Keys and Jordan Mitchell being patients here, and how maybe that got them killed to stop them from doing it again?

  Yes, of course I know, I said. Do you have any fresh ideas about that? Okay, a hint of sarcasm might have crept into my tone.

  Well, thank you for asking. As a matter of fact, I do. Who were you speaking with on the phone a short while ago?

  God, he was just like Lana, always answering questions with more questions instead of just being straight up.

  I thought back over the evening’s events. The Contessa. I’d spoken with the Contessa about making sure Lior got the best care in the hospital.

  Slick dipped his head under the waterline. Was that supposed to be a nod?

  What does the Contessa have to do with the National Inquisitor? I asked.

  Who founded the Inquisitor? Slick looked like he was trying to arch a non-existent eyebrow.

  Hmmm. Jimmy “The Spade” Spadola. The guy had founded the tabloid right here in Boca back in the fifties, making a killing off its lurid headlines.

  But he died decades ago, I said. What’s he got to do with anything now?

  Hellooo? This is Boca!

  Oh, yeah. Every rich dead guy leaves a young widow. Theresa Spadola was alive and well and a prominent Palm Beach socialite.

  “So Theresa and the Contessa have to run in the same circles,” I exclaimed aloud, bolting upright. “I bet the Contessa could convince her to pressure the Inquisitor staff to reveal the source of the leak.”

  At that moment, an unmistakable, imperious voice rang out from behind me. “Did I just hear my name?” The Contessa, a seemingly ageless woman, stood in the patio entryway in her equally ageless pink Chanel suit, dripping pearls and attitude. One arm clutched Coco, her short-haired Chihuahua, who was decked out in a matching pink Chanel ribbon, pearl collar, and pink nail polish. Hey, this is Boca—even the dogs accessorize.

  The Contessa stepped out onto the patio. Coco was a perfect bite-sized snack for an alligator. Before I could issue a warning, Coco yelped, and Slick sprang from the mire a couple feet away, snapping his jaws in the air.

  “Order!” the Contessa commanded.

  Coco wilted like day-old lettuce, and Slick retreated into the pond’s murky depths.

  Damn, that woman had power. But what was she doing here? A sudden stab of fear ran through me. Lior. She’d come to deliver bad news.

  She must have seen the blood drain from my face. “Sit!” she said.

  I sat.

  She took the lounge opposite me. “Your young man will be all right,” she said. “I spoke to the doctors personally. He’ll remain under observation for eighteen to twenty-four hours, but he is expected to make a full recovery.”

  My shoulders collapsed, and I buried my head in my hands. “Thank you, your Highness,” I mumbled.

  I took some deep breaths, then sat back up.

  The Contessa remained seated, her spine upright in perfect posture, Coco alert at her side, ears perked and twitching. In times of hardship, some friends talk to you, some hold your hand, some pray for you. And some share silence with you.

  “What did the doctors say?” I finally asked.

  “It seems that Lior was injected with some kind of stimulant drug.”

  “Like what?”

  “They don’t know—it’s not a common one like amphetamine or cocaine, they said. Whatever it was, it was a massive dose. The doctors said it was Lior’s substantial muscle mass that saved him. A smaller person would have been killed.”

  A smaller person . . . like me.

  Lior and I had been rolling in the grass. I was on top, then suddenly he was, just as the needle came down. “Contessa . . . I think I was the target.”

  She nodded. “Indeed.”

  Someone had tried to kill me.

  Chapter 14

  I HAD TO BE getting close, since someone had tried to do me in.

  “I trust you will hunt down the . . . perpetrator,” the Contessa said, her voice as cool and smooth as steel. She knew better than to try to talk me into leaving for my safety.

  A shadow came over us as a cloud passed in front of the moon.

  “I’ve arranged for Lior to stay in the hospital’s Presidential Suite,” the Contessa said. “And I’ve posted private security at the door. So you need not fear for him. You can devote your full attention to finding out who did this and what is happening here to my children.” The Contessa, herself child-free, habi
tually viewed the beneficiaries of her largesse as family.

  “Now, why were you speaking of me to that . . . savage beast?” she asked.

  “I wasn’t speaking to Coco,” I said.

  The Contessa rolled her eyes and inclined her head toward the pond. Oh, she was referring to Slick.

  “Your Highness, I was saying to . . . well, I was saying that perhaps you could be of help on another aspect of the case.”

  “Of course I’ll help,” she said briskly. “What is it?”

  I told her about the leaked photos of teenage celeb patients to the Inquisitor. “Maybe the deceased victims were the ones who snapped the pics with a banned cell phone and sent them to the tabloid,” I said. “I’ve discovered that Dr. Stillwater had been viewing the Inquisitor website on her computer, so she knew about the leaks. You know how much this place values privacy and discretion for the rich and famous. What if Stillwater—or a henchman—killed the kids to silence them and scare off anyone else who got the same idea? And with Lior being stabbed with a needle and syringe—I mean, it practically screams ‘doctor’, right?”

  The Contessa nodded with a sigh. “Indeed, no one is above suspicion.”

  “If we can find out who sent the photos to the Inquisitor . . .”

  “Consider it done,” the Contessa cut me off. “I will speak with Theresa Spadola.” She rose. “I shall be in touch.” She departed, leaving a whiff of Chanel No. 19 and a few stray tan Chihuahua hairs in her wake.

  I stayed outside for a few moments, trying to get a grip. My emotions were a mess. On the one hand, I was relieved that Lior would be okay. On the other, I was rattled that someone had tried to kill me—and might well try again.

  As I rose to go inside, I realized, too late, that I should have asked the Contessa about all the kids being students at Sterling Heights Academy.

  I SPENT A SLEEPLESS night on hyper-alert to any noise that might indicate the killer coming for me—and waiting in vain for a phone call from Enrique about Social Climber. And trying to figure out what the hell the hidden reading stash could have to do with the photo leaks.