Deep Blue Trouble

by Steph Broadribb

I felt the anger rising again. ‘Why? Because I’m a woman?’

  He looked surprised. ‘Why would I have a problem with you being a woman?’

  ‘Because you’ve treated me like a second-rate bounty hunter ever since I arrived. You’ve never given me a chance; you were territorial right off the bat and got more hostile ever since.’

  McGregor shook his head. ‘I—’

  ‘And it’s not just how you’ve treated me. The way you were with Rosas last night; the spotter’s mistake was down to her and Ortiz, but you directed your frustration only at her.’

  ‘That wasn’t my intention.’ McGregor’s voice was loud, but I heard a slight undertone of doubt that hadn’t been there before. I wondered what that was about, whether he recognised the truth of my words, or if he was just irritated at me calling out his prejudice.

  ‘Yeah, right.’ My tone was sarcastic. ‘You’re all about the macho bullshit. Guys like you make me sick, you don’t think women have a place in this kind of business.’

  Bobby had heard our voices over his music and pulled his earbuds. He caught my eye and shook his head, warning me off.

  I ignored him. Glanced slowly, deliberately, around the office. ‘Tell me the last time you hired a woman?’

  A muscle pulsed in McGregor’s cheek. ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘I guessing never. Am I right?’

  He glared at me, curled his lips into a snarl. ‘Leave it alone.’

  I’d hit dirt. He was prejudiced against women in this line of work, maybe women full stop for all I knew. ‘Why should I?’

  His expression was grim, his tone hard. ‘Because it’s not relevant to catching Fletcher, and that’s why you’re still damn well here, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s relevant to me. You can’t—’

  ‘Stop!’ McGregor shouted. ‘I’m … We’re not having this conversation.’

  I forced myself to hold my ground. Looked at Bobby. ‘You think it’s right to treat someone bad because of their sex?’

  Bobby put his hands up. Looked real uncomfortable. ‘Don’t drag me into this.’

  I glared at him. Shook my head. ‘Coward.’

  I stormed out of the bond shop onto the sidewalk, the frustration of the job, the unfairness of McGregor’s treatment, the fear for JT’s life exploding inside me like fireworks. I wanted to punch something, McGregor and Bobby in particular.

  I slammed the heel of my fist against the wall. Felt pain jolt through me. Stared at the blood rising to the surface of my skin. Fuck. I felt like I was losing it. Right then, at that moment, I needed to talk to someone. I needed a friend.

  I called the only real friend I could talk to about this stuff. He answered after four rings. He didn’t give a greeting, just waited on me to speak first.

  ‘Red?’

  ‘Sure is, Miss Lori. You doing okay?’

  I inhaled. Stepped along the sidewalk to the Jeep. I leaned against it and took a moment to get my head together. Then I told him everything – from Dakota’s drawings and JT’s heart attack, to the unsuccessful pick-up in Mexico, and my fight with McGregor. ‘I just don’t see how I can work with him, Red. It’s impossible. We can’t even stay in the same damn room as each other without fighting.’

  Red whistled. ‘If Monroe’s insisting you work with McGregor you need to find a way to make it work.’

  ‘Didn’t you hear what I said about him hating women?’

  ‘Sure, I heard, but he works with a female spotter and from what you said he only got tough with her after the pick-up went back. It’s understandable he was pissed they’d got the target wrong.’

  It felt like Red was taking McGregor’s side. ‘So, what, you’re saying he should have taken it out on her?’

  ‘Don’t put words in my mouth, Miss Lori. From what you’ve said she was the one in charge out of the pair. It’s logical he’d focus on her.’

  ‘So what’s his problem then?’

  ‘Sounds like your man McGregor has a tight chain of command set up. He has a particular way of getting things done and you’re not fitting into it.’

  ‘Yeah, because I’m female.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Red paused a moment. ‘But chances are it’s not personal.’

  ‘Like him never hiring a woman isn’t personal?’

  Red sighed. ‘So he doesn’t like working with women; that’s not so unusual in your line of work, you know that. By my way of thinking there’s something else at play here, too. If I remember rightly you didn’t take to this McGregor guy from the start. Maybe you need to try a little harder to get along.’

  I clenched my fist tighter around my cell phone. ‘I have to try harder? I just damn well apologised and he threw it back in my—’

  ‘I’m not trying to get into an argument with you, Miss Lori. You called me for advice, and what I’m saying is that you don’t trust this McGregor to help you and that’s what’s got you fighting like alley cats.’

  I said nothing. Red was right, I didn’t trust McGregor, but that didn’t mean I wanted to talk about it. I changed the subject. ‘How are you doing?

  ‘I’m okay; little bit sore in places but it’ll pass. I’m back working the job. No sign of Gibson’s ex-wife and her husband. I’m still working on the rest. I’ll let you know when I’ve got something.’ He paused a beat, then said, ‘Find a way to trust McGregor, professionally at least, otherwise I don’t think you’ll be able to get past the stand-off you’re in.’

  I rubbed my forehead. Thought of JT’s rules. ‘I was taught not to trust.’

  ‘You trust me. I’m pretty sure you always did.’

  ‘You’re different.’

  ‘Why?’

  Truth was I didn’t rightly know. But I did trust Red, always had done. Maybe it was the sense of calm just being in his company brought me. Maybe it was because he reminded me in many ways of an older JT. Maybe it was because he’d never doubted my ability or resolve. Whatever it was, I trusted him now, and I knew he was right – I did need to rescue the situation with McGregor. Problem was, I just couldn’t see any way I could bring myself to trust a man like him.

  I ended the call and walked down the block to a sandwich shop. I got pastrami on rye and sat down at one of the tables in the back, thinking I’d try and figure out my next move as I ate.

  I’d taken two bites when my cell rang.

  ‘This is Lori.’

  ‘My husband’s gone out.’ Mia sounded breathless. ‘I can check those dates, but I need your help. He’s locked the door to his study.’

  I jumped to my feet, shoved the rest of my sandwich into my purse and headed for the door. ‘I’ll be with you in ten.’

  It was time to find out exactly what Marco Searle had been getting up to.

  36

  My cell phone started ringing for the fifth time in as many minutes. I parked up outside Mia’s place and checked the screen. Five missed calls, all from Bobby Four-Fingers. Then one message: Momma don’t be mad. Call me ASAP!!

  I guessed he was feeling guilty about not backing me up earlier with McGregor, but right then I was all out of compassion. I didn’t want another argument, and I sure as hell didn’t want to talk to Bobby, McGregor or any of that crew for a little while. Besides, I had a job to do here; the chance to see whether my hunch was right and Marco Searle was the man who’d been masquerading as Fletcher’s brother Donald on the monthly prison visits. So I threw my cell back into my purse and hurried up the driveway to the house.

  Mia had the door open before I reached the porch. ‘He’s out, but I don’t know for how long. We can check his scheduler, but he’s locked the study and I can’t find the key.’

  ‘Show me.’

  We hurried along the hall. Expensive and understated, the oak floorboards, soft grey walls and smiling family portraits created a calm environment that was at odds with the tension I could feel radiating from Mia.

  She turned to me, frowning. ‘You can’t be here when Marco gets back. He hates me having visitors.’
/>
  ‘No problem. I’ll be quick.’

  She nodded, but the frown remained.

  ‘I really appreciate this, Mia.’

  ‘I’m doing it for Gibson. So that you believe me when I tell you he didn’t kill those people. Then you’ll help me clear his name.’

  I nodded. Didn’t tell her how he’d assaulted me in the parking lot, or say that all the evidence pointed to him being guilty. Instead I let her believe I was her friend, and that I’d help her. And if she was right, although it was unlikely, I would help her clear Gibson’s name.

  Mia stopped. ‘This is Marco’s study.’

  The door was high-quality oak. Sturdy. Not easy to force, not without making a mess anyways. A more subtle approach was needed. I rummaged in my purse, pulled out the black pouch containing my lock-picks and got to work.

  *

  Marco Searle’s office was real neat; white shutters shielded the windows, only allowing thin shafts of light through their narrow slats; white floor-to-ceiling cabinets lined the walls and a huge white desk with a computer and two screens dominated the centre of the room. There was no paper visible anywhere. I looked at Mia. ‘You said he kept his scheduler online?’

  She nodded. ‘It’s on the computer. I don’t know the password, though.’

  I went to the desk. The computer was password protected, as Mia had said. Glancing around the room, I tried to figure out what it could be. It was odd; there was nothing personal in the room: no pictures, trophies or diplomas. No clues.

  I typed Mia’s name into the password field. Incorrect. Then I tried ‘password’ figuring it was worth a try – a lot of folks used that even though you shouldn’t. Again incorrect.

  I looked at Mia. ‘Does he have a hobby, something important to him he might use as a password?’

  She shook her head. ‘Nothing I can think of.’

  Damn. There had to be something. Most people used the name of something on their mind, consciously or subconsciously, at the time of creating their password; that’s why photos around a desk were usually a good clue. The only things on Searle’s desk aside from the computer, a pen-tidy and a silver letter opener in the shape of a dagger, were a wooden box of Cuban cigars and a crystal ashtray with the butt of two cigars in it. The brand name on the cigar box was Monte Cristo. It had to be worth a go. I typed Monte Cristo into the password field. The screen unlocked.

  ‘I’m in.’

  Mia fiddled with the cuff of her sleeve. ‘Be quick. Please. If he comes back and finds us in here…’

  I nodded. Got to work. Opening the scheduler, I scrolled back through the months, checking the dates of his trips against those on which Gibson Fletcher had been visited by his ‘brother’. The first two matched. My heart rate accelerated. This could be the break I needed; I could be right – Searle could be the man who had impersonated Donald. I checked further back; the next date matched but the one before didn’t and nor did the two previous to that. Damn.

  I looked over at Mia. ‘Your husband wasn’t visiting Gibson.’

  She frowned. ‘Of course he wasn’t. Marco despises Gibson.’ Her voice faltered. ‘He said he was going to kill him.’

  Searle hated both brothers. Helping Gibson escape, then killing him and framing Donald could have been on his agenda, but if he’d been involved he hadn’t got his own hands dirty, not according to his whereabouts recorded in the scheduler. Yet the coincidence of both Walker and Searle having connections to the Chicago Mob was still on my mind. Searle was mixed up in this somehow, I was real sure of it. I just had to figure out how.

  The last date on my list was when the package had been sent to Southside Storage, allegedly by Donald Fletcher. I flicked to it. Inhaled sharply. Marco Searle’s schedule was clear that day. I checked the days before and after; there were no entries for eight days straight. In all the months I’d looked through, no other days had been blank, unaccounted for.

  I looked at Mia and pointed at the screen. ‘What happened in the first week of June, two and a half years ago? Where was Marco?’

  Mia pulled the loose thread she’d been fiddling with away from her cuff. Avoided my gaze. ‘I don’t know.’

  I kept my eyes on her. I was pretty sure she did know. I made my tone soft, hoping she’d confide in me. ‘You sure about that?’

  She was silent a long moment, then she said in a quiet voice, ‘That’s when he found out about Jacob.’

  ‘Your son? What did he find out about him?’

  Mia looked away, her cheeks and throat flushing pink. ‘Until then I’d let Marco believe Jacob was his. They both have black hair, brown eyes; it wasn’t so hard for him to believe…’

  I stared at her as the truth about Jacob’s parentage dawned on me. ‘He’s Gibson’s son?’

  ‘Mine and Gibson’s.’ She looked at me, defiant. ‘Marco making us move here had been the last straw. I hardly got to see Gibson, it was too hard … we couldn’t carry on like that. We wanted to be together. So Gibson was divorcing his wife, and I was going to leave Marco. But before I told him I had to be sure Jacob wasn’t his; I couldn’t have him getting custody. So I had a DNA test done. Marco found the letter with the results.’ She shuddered. ‘He went crazy. Ranted and hit things, hit me … threatened Jacob. He said if we left he’d find and kill all three of us. I couldn’t let him hurt my boy. So I stayed, and Marco left for a while, said he needed to be alone – needed time to process.’

  From what I’d heard of Marco, he hadn’t sounded much like a ‘time to process’ kind of guy, but I guessed finding out the kid you’d been raising wasn’t yours would mess with your head.

  I tapped the screen. ‘And these eight days were when he was away “processing” things?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you’ve no idea where he went?’

  ‘I told you I haven’t.’

  ‘It’s just that—’

  Mia put her hand up. ‘Wait.’ She looked out to the hall, listening.

  I heard it too – the sound of the automatic garage door opening.

  Mia’s expression turned to terror. ‘Marco’s back. We have to get out of here.’

  I shut down the computer, made sure everything was exactly as we’d found it and hurried out, closing the study door behind me. I couldn’t relock it without the key. Hopefully Marco would just assume he’d forgotten to lock the door.

  ‘He’ll see you if you try to leave now. In here, quick,’ Mia said, pushing me into a large, light family room decorated in lemon and white. Long white drapes hung floor to ceiling from the windows; at one end of the room stood a white baby grand piano, a vase of white roses blooming on top. Just like in the other rooms, there were no photographs of Marco, Mia or Jacob. It was a beautiful space, like something out of a magazine, but utterly soulless.

  I sat down on the nearest couch. Mia re-entered with two glasses of iced water and sat on the couch opposite. I grabbed a glass and gulped down half the water.

  I heard a door open. Mia laughed loudly and started talking about a shop downtown. I nodded along, said I needed a new outfit. It wasn’t far from the truth.

  A black-haired man, handsome in a dark suit and tie-less shirt, appeared in the doorway. He had a strong jaw and full lips that turned down just slightly at the edges.

  He looked from me to Mia. ‘I didn’t realise we’d be having company this afternoon.’

  Mia stiffened at the sound of his voice. She turned. ‘Marco, this is Lori, a friend of mine. She dropped by as she was in the neighbourhood, letting me know there’s a sale on at my favourite store this week.’

  Searle strode across the room to me. Held out his hand. I saw that between his thumb and forefinger he had a scar in the shape of a starburst. He smiled. ‘Pleasure to meet you.’

  I stood and shook his hand. It was soft, like he’d never done a day of manual labour in his life. Like he always paid others to do the heavy work for him. He held my hand a moment longer than was necessary and said, ‘Mia doesn’t have many friend
s. Don’t think she’s mentioned you before.’

  I forced a smile. ‘Well that’s because we only met recently; I’m vacationing here. Lucky for me I got chatting to Mia at beach yoga and she told me all the best places to visit.’

  Searle let go of my hand. Glanced at Mia. ‘Very lucky.’

  ‘Anyways,’ I continued. ‘It’s time I got on my way.’

  Mia looked tense and withdrawn. I could only imagine what it was like for her living with Searle – him hating her while she resented him.

  They both led me to the front door, and I stepped out onto the porch. ‘See you soon, Mia?’

  She nodded. Didn’t quite meet my gaze.

  Marco Searle put his arm around her and pulled her to him. She flinched as his fingers pressed deep into the flesh where her neck met her shoulder. His message was clear: you’re mine; I’ll never let you go. He smiled at me and wished me a good afternoon. His smile was broad, warm, and at odds with the cold hardness of his eyes. I shivered. He reminded me of my late husband, Thomas Ford – another man well used to using anger and cruelty to get his way. A man who liked pretty things that did as they were told.

  Mia was a trapped in a loveless marriage by a violent man. I’d been in that position before. I’d felt that hopelessness. I’d felt that longing to escape. And I knew what had happened when I had managed it: people had died.

  I wondered if that was a price Mia was willing to pay too.

  I wondered if the people Gibson had killed already were a part of that price.

  37

  The more I thought on it, the more I felt sure Gibson wouldn’t leave town without Mia. Their affair had lasted more than twenty years, and when Searle had uprooted her from Florida to California, the distance between them had been unbearable enough for them to decide to leave their spouses and run away together with their son, Jacob. It stood to reason that, if Gibson was running now, he’d want Mia with him.

  So rather than heading back to McGregor’s bond shop I ignored the three missed calls I’d had from him and drove out to the beach and Pier 61, the Costal Surf Cottages. Mia said she rented the place as a retreat from Searle, but she’d also admitted Gibson had met her there before he went to Mexico. Maybe that was the truth, but I still wanted to be sure there was no one staying in cabin twenty.