by Amy Vansant
Angelina snapped her fingers in front of the girl’s face. “Hey. We’ve got a job to do. Leave your daddy issues for the stripper pole. Focus. He’s the enemy until he isn’t.”
Croix smirked. “You’re telling me you don’t think he’s hot?”
Angelina pursed her lips. “Oh I’d ride him hard and put him away wet.”
They burst into giggles.
The elevator dinged and the two women turned laughter into matching frozen grins. Archie trotted through the sliding doors followed by his owner.
“We have to stop meeting like this,” said Angelina, struggling to keep a wriggling Harley quiet.
Mason jingled his car keys in his hand. “Seems I have some time to kill. Do you have some sort of tourist guide or—”
“Absolutely.” Angelina hustled to her desk and pulled the Things to See and Do list from her drawer to the sound of Harley’s staccato barking. “Here you go.”
Mason glanced at it. “You have a lighthouse here? Hm. Ooh, turtles...”
Angelina flashed Croix a smug smile.
“I’ll see you later.” With a quick nod at each of them, Mason left.
Angelina moved to the window to watch Mason’s truck leave the parking lot before returning to the reception desk, palm outstretched. “Give me the key to his room.”
“Way ahead of you.” Croix circled around the desk and headed for the elevator.
“Where are you going? Go start your black web searches.”
“It’s dark web and I think plain old Google will suffice unless he’s selling weapons for Bitcoin. Anyway, that won’t take long. I want to help search his room. I’ve never seen a heel safe before.”
“You’re too young. That was an old Get Smart reference. I need you to stay here and keep an eye out for him.”
Croix hit the elevator call button and motioned to the door. “Tell Bracco.”
Angelina sighed. “Fine. Bracco?”
The big man poked his head through the door.
“Ping my phone if he comes back.”
Bracco nodded. “Whalefish.”
Angelina followed Croix onto the elevator. “Just once I wish you’d listen to me.”
Croix smirked. “Stop it. You’re ruining your Christmas gift.”
The two rode the elevator in silence to the third floor.
“This is exciting,” said Croix as she opened Mason’s door. “It’s been a while since we had some intrigue around here.”
“You spent last night burying a body.”
“That doesn’t count.”
“How does that not count?”
They pushed into the room and Angelina lowered Harley to the floor, where the terrier ran scattershot like a berserker, smelling every place Archie’s paws had touched.
“Archie will be able to smell her, too,” said Croix.
“Shit.” Angelina snatched the dog from the floor.
Croix rolled her eyes, no doubt to be sure Angelina knew how much smarter she was than her.
Young people.
“Let’s do it by sectors,” suggested Croix. “We search one square area at a time until we’re sure there’s nothing, and then move to the next sector.”
“You go sectoring. I’m doing things my way.”
Frowning, Croix moved to the bathroom.
Angelina found the bureau drawers empty, but for one with a pair of shorts, running trunks, a pair of ankle socks and two boxer briefs. Mr. Connolly hadn’t been planning to stay long.
She moved to the small walk-in closet. The room safe remained opened and unused. Three pressed polos hung from the silver bar inside. She checked under the spare pillow and blankets before noticing Mason’s running shoes on the ground beneath the shirts.
I can’t believe I’m going to do this...
She picked up a shoe and pushed and pulled on the heel.
Nothing.
“Stupid,” she muttered, checking the mate.
“Anything?” asked Croix as Angelina moved back into the room.
“No. Though, apparently, there are two kinds of military men. Neat ones and Mick.” She knew the comment wasn’t quite fair. Mick was orderly if not clean, but something about him always made her feel as if everything around him was about to explode into chaos. She supposed that was her attraction to him.
Angelina smiled at the thought of Mick and then changed the subject lest she become maudlin. “Anything in the bathroom?”
Croix shook her head. “Sector One, clear.”
Angelina spotted Mason’s bag on the ground and stooped to unzip it. She slipped a hand into each pocket, finding nothing but a small black box.
She opened it.
“What’s that?” asked Croix, peering over her shoulder.
“Box of photos.”
Angelina straightened and they looked through the pictures together. Most featured a young man and a woman, all faded and muddy.
“Are these from nineteen thirty?” asked Croix.
“More like the eighties.”
“So everyone was blurry then?” Croix plucked a photo of a woman in a bikini from Angelina’s hand. “Is that Shee?”
“Yes. And that’s him.”
Croix whistled. “She was hot.”
“She’s still hot.”
Croix handed back the photo. “I guess. Mom hot.”
Angelina’s annoyance level climbed. “Mom hot? Shee’s gorgeous. You should be so lucky to look like that at her age. Age makes people more hot because they’re wiser.”
Croix laughed. “That’s what old people say to make themselves feel better.”
“Yeah, well, young people are assholes.” Angelina snatched the photo from the girl’s fingers and returned it to the black box. She slipped it back into the side pocket and then jerked her hand from the bag.
“Ow!” She popped her index finger into her mouth.
“What is it?”
“Something cut me.” She reached back into the pocket, moving slow, until she felt something hard. Gripping it, she slid it out to reveal a shining strip of metal in a faux leather sheath.
“Is that a scalpel?” asked Croix.
“Yes.” She scowled at the girl. “Could he be hot and a surgeon?”
“Maybe. Or a serial killer.”
Angelina slid the scalpel back in the suitcase and inspected the tiny slice on her fingertip. “Hopefully, it was sterile.”
Croix rolled her eyes. “It was in a suitcase. It isn’t sterile.”
Angelina zipped the case and stood to survey the room. Fresh out of places to search, she headed into the hall with Croix on her heels.
“No smoking guns,” she mumbled.
Croix hit the elevator call button and the doors slid open. “Maybe he keeps them in his car.”
“We’ll check when he gets back.”
The elevator dumped them back in the lobby. Croix returned to reception, Harley curled up in her bed and Angelina sat at her own desk, staring out the front door, chewing her lip.
“He’s up to something,” she said.
At her station, Croix nodded.
“Yep.”
&&&
Chapter Twenty-Three
Shee made it to A1A before she realized she had nowhere to go.
I just can’t be there. With him. Not yet.
Jerking the wheel right, she parked in the public beach parking lot and rested her forehead on the steering wheel.
No part of her imagined coming home would be easy, but this was ridiculous.
I should have stolen his dog.
Curling up somewhere with her arms wrapped around a fluffy mutt sounded perfect. Maybe a cocktail. A citrusy Bahama Mama, a dog...what else? The sound of the sea lapping against the shore...
She looked up.
Well, at least I have the ocean.
Shee exited the car and made her way to the sand, already dotted with seasonal tourists.
She walked along the water’s edge to the fishing pier. The stroll seemed
like a good idea until the clouds burned off and she felt her flesh baking like a tray of cookie dough.
Retreat.
Shee wiped her beaded brow and started back. Little girls in bikinis ran giggling into the sea as she basted. The only good thing about slowly evaporating into a cloud of steam was it made concentrating on her problems difficult.
I have to tell him.
Do I? Why tell him now?
I am literally melting.
I’ve avoided telling him for nearly thirty years.
How can it be this hot?
Why tell him now?
Because he deserves to know.
My hair is going to catch fire.
Her thoughts shifted to ripping off her clothes and swimming to England.
She could rip off her clothes. It was Florida. No one would even blink.
A yellow Labrador retriever ran after its ball, and she stopped short to avoid collision. Jupiter Beach was the only dog beach for miles.
Maybe I could steal that dog...
She found it odd Mason had a dog. Having a dog meant having a whole life. In her mind, when she allowed herself to think of Mason at all, he’d always been twenty, humping through faraway lands in full gear. Now, her mind flooded with new images—Mason eating breakfast, brushing his teeth, food-shopping...
It was less painful to think of him as a young, hot, two-dimensional soldier.
A small, pointy-eared mutt trotted toward her and Shee squatted for some loving. She told herself the dog wanted kisses, but he probably just wanted the salt off her cheeks.
Good enough. I’m not picky.
Half a gallon of sweat and two dog pets later, she made it back to the car. Blasting the air conditioning, she drove slowly back to The Loggerhead Inn.
Mason’s truck was gone.
A strange mixture of relief and disappointment settled over her. She parked and nodded to Bracco as he opened the door for her to enter.
“Sponge,” he said, grinning.
She squinted at him. “I look sweaty?”
He nodded.
Hm. Maybe his word choices aren’t entirely random.
“Princess is back,” said Croix as she entered.
Shee stopped and turned. “Why am I Princess?”
“Oh, you know, everyone around here’s always waiting on you. Mick, Angelina, now the old hunk...”
“Right. I have it so easy. What are you? Twelve? My bad. I forgot you know everything.”
Croix sneered. “You don’t know anything about me.”
Shee leaned in. “I know if you don’t lose this attitude I’m going to kick your perky little ass.”
Croix scoffed. “Good luck with that, old lady.”
“Did you find anything in Mason’s room.”
“No. A scalpel. In his bag.”
“A scalpel?” Shee scowled. “He’s a surgeon?”
“I don’t know. He’s your boyfriend.”
“He’s not my...” Shee took a deep breath and wiped away a bead of sweat rolling down her cheek. “Where’d Angelina go?”
“I dunno.”
“Where’s Mason now?”
The girl shrugged. “Whoring. Said something about you being an old hag and left.”
“He take the dog?”
“Yep. Threesome.”
Shee sighed. She didn’t have the energy to war with Croix. She needed to restart their relationship before she ended up arrested for child abuse.
“Look, we got off on the wrong foot—”
Croix grunted without looking up from her phone. Shee continued.
“I want Mick back as much as you do.”
That caught the girl’s attention. She glanced up.
“Sweat much?” she asked.
Shee wiped her brow again. She wasn’t surprised to see more anger coming from the girl, but there, before she changed the subject, she saw clear evidence of pain in the kid’s eyes.
Mick’s the key. We both love Mick.
Shee swallowed her irritation and tried a new approach, one she liked to call the We’re in this Together.
“Please, Croix, tell me what he was working on. I want to help.”
The girl seemed thrown off-guard by her softened tone. It lasted four seconds. Then her expression clouded. “Oh now you want to help—”
“Yes, I do.”
Croix’s lip curled. “You know, he never even talked about you. Except—”
She looked away.
“Except what?”
The girl ran her tongue over her front teeth, stalling. When she spoke again, her voice felt softer, although still caustic. “Sometimes he’d get this far off look in his eye and kinda laugh in this sad way.” She met Shee’s gaze. “That when I knew that he was thinking about you. The daughter who broke his heart.”
Shee sucked in a breath as Croix’s words slid like a blade between her third and fourth rib to pierce her heart.
She fought to keep her composure, speaking low and measured. “Just tell me anything that could be a lead. Angelina said he was helping people?”
Croix stared, clearly hoping she’d earn more of a reaction. Deprived, she huffed. “Yeah.”
“What was he working on, specifically?”
“About a week before he went to Minnesota, he broke up a local massage parlor full of prostitutes.”
Shee’s eyes popped wide. Thanks to some of the high-profile johns involved, she’d seen a report about that bust on the national news—she’d taken it as one of the omens calling her home.
“That was Mick?”
Croix nodded. “Afterwards, somebody sent suits, asking Mick to scuttle evidence.”
“Which he refused?”
“Duh.”
“Do you know who sent them?”
“No. One of the rich dirtballs, I assume. Mick might’ve known.”
“But all that’s trapped in his head,” mumbled Shee. Now she had two things to look into, Viggo and the massage parlor bust. “Thank you. That’s a lead. See what we can accomplish when we work together?”
Croix returned her attention to her phone. “Whatever.”
Shee plucked at the shirt sticking to her chest. Even the hotel’s relentless air conditioning couldn’t make a dent in her body’s need to purge liquid.
“I have to go change before I melt.”
Croix nodded. “Thanks for the update.”
Shee rode the elevator to her room, took the world’s quickest shower and then caught herself spending extra time on her makeup. She pulled back from her hunched position in front of the mirror.
What am I doing?
Staring at her image, she tried to remember what she’d looked like during her delirious summer with Mason so many years ago.
Younger.
She leaned in again.
Ah, what the heck. A little extra blush to hide that sun damage...
She grabbed a pair of shorts but eyed the cute skort she’d purchased on her way to Florida. Skirt said flirty, but the sewn-in tights beneath said all business.
Perfect.
She donned the skirt and a v-neck tee before heading to her father’s room. Upon knocking on the door, Martisha let her in with a smile.
“Miss Shee?”
“I’m just stopping by to say hi.”
The woman motioned to the bedroom and then returned to her seat on the sofa.
Shee entered to stand beside the hospital bed. She rubbed the top of her father’s head.
“Your hair’s getting awfully long,” she teased. “Another week and you’ll look like a hippie.”
She smiled.
If that doesn’t get him moving, I don’t know what will.
“So Mason’s here. Weird, huh? I’ll bring him up to see you. I guess. I suppose he’s still here. I sort of freaked out and left for a while...” She ran her fingers along the smooth chrome guard bar, imagining her father’s side of the conversation.
She nodded. “Yeah. I know. I will. Don’t worry about me. Yo
u worry about getting better. I want you up and at ’em by...”
What seemed like a reasonable request?
She saw green. Wednesday. Today was yellow.
“...tomorrow, or I’m going to get an Admiral in here to order you to your feet, Captain.”
She leaned to attempt a hug.
“Okay. Good talk. See you in a bit.”
Shee turned away, waved goodbye to Martisha and headed back to the lobby. She needed to make arrangements to go to Minneapolis, find out who sent men to threaten her father, and deal with Mason—at least a little.
Keep it light. No need to—
The doors opened and Shee saw the ladies in their positions, including Harley, curled in her bed. Both Angelina and Croix glanced her way, but neither acknowledged her.
She expected snubs from Croix but Angelina?
Something’s up.
Angelina caught her eye and bounced her own orbs to the left. Shee followed the motion.
Someone in the sitting room?
She took another step forward, and, with her new angle, spotted a young man reading a newspaper in the room to the right off the entrance. She didn’t recognize him.
First Mason, now this guy.
Judging from the reaction of the two lobby-dwellers, this new man was a wildcard. Probably here for her.
I am Prom Queen, today.
Shee walked toward the front door, pausing just past the entrance to the sitting room, where the visitor couldn’t see her. Bracco stared at her from his post, trapped in doorman’s purgatory.
Shee looked at Croix, who shrugged with her right shoulder ever so slightly. The man could see her from his vantage point. Apparently, she had no information.
Okay. Let’s see what’s up.
Shee took another step toward the door so Bracco could act. He opened the portal and she said “Thank you” loud enough for the man in the sitting room to hear. Without leaving, she sat on a dark wood Bahamian-style bench against the wall and motioned for Bracco to let the door shut. He did.
Shee caught Croix’s attention and then bounced her gaze in the direction of the sitting room and back.
Croix nodded as if she had a tune in her head and busied herself at the desk.
We have his attention.
Shee smiled. It felt good to make a tiny motion and have people understand her meaning. It reminded her of the shorthand she’d shared with her father during their working years.
