I didn’t say anything to that. He was probably right.
“But now? You really need to watch your step. You’re dancing barefoot in a roomful of broken glass.”
Chapter 19
Garner
When the man found the email, it was like discovering his own obituary.
He’d been lounging by the Olympic-sized pool of his Port Vale mansion in a silk robe, but he sat bolt upright when he saw a sender that no longer existed.
It was from a dead woman. A ghost.
He opened it, but there was no message. Only a blank page with an attachment. Swallowing hard, he downloaded the document.
And instantly recognized it.
It was a page copied from a ledger listing fund transfers from the Virgin Islands to the Nacional Banco de Panama. Every single one was from his personal accounts.
Taken by itself, the page wasn’t incriminating. But the message was clear, because it came from the middle of the ledger. Whoever sent it had the whole file.
The extortion was beginning all over again, but with a major difference.
A new player must have taken over the game, because the last blackmailer was dead.
After a moment’s musing, the man realized who it must be. And exactly how to deal with him.
Still a bit shaken, he glanced around. His estate looked as posh as it had for the past century, a flat roofed tri-level, à la Frank Lloyd Wright.
His new mistress was swimming laps in the pool, nude as a Titian Venus. She was ten years younger than his last mistress, and beautiful, but not exceptionally bright. It was for the best. Sharing your life and secrets with a clever woman can be tiring—and sometimes dangerous.
In the driveway, his hired help was washing the Morgan Plus 8, a classically styled roadster, complete with a leather strap over the hood. The man admired the car, but rarely drove it. Driving was for his inferiors.
And so was the task at hand.
He called for his hired help. The gaunt man perked up and sauntered over.
“Sir?” he asked, smirking a little as he spoke. Both men knew his true role at the estate. He was a gift from a Serbian arms dealer. He drove the man around, protected him, and dealt with the messier aspects of his business. Including blackmail and murder.
The man outlined the problem to the assassin, speaking slowly and distinctly, to be sure the Serbian man understood. A new player had the stolen file. It was probably on a thumb drive by now. The assassin was to find the drive, find the player, and eliminate both of them.
“How will I know this man?” asked the assassin.
“That part’s easy. He’s famous.”
The man swiveled the notebook to show the assassin the screen. A video was playing of a man in a three-piece suit, soaking wet, and staggering out of the surf with a dog in his arms.
Chapter 20
NO SHIRT, NO SHOES, NO PROBLEM.
The sign over the door of the Beachfront Bistro says it all. It dates from the lumber baron days, built of pine logs that were probably dropped on the spot. The bar offers beers and burgers, and has a jukebox that thumps out pop tunes from the Summer of Love.
Locals love the joint. It’s a second home for everyone in the area code.
Tall Paul bought the place with his separation money from the army. He practically lives there. But at least it makes him easy to find.
Paul and my uncle Josh were at a table just outside the office, both suitably dressed for fine beachfront dining. They were barefoot, wearing shorts and Hawaiian shirts. Paul nodded at the barmaid as I walked in, and a cold Budweiser, cheeseburger, and fries arrived as I sat down.
“How did it go?” Uncle Josh asked.
“Bad news, and no news,” I said around a mouthful of juicy burger. I explained about the DA’s new hands-off policy toward Corzine’s crew, and told them about his warning.
“I managed to cut deals for a few clients, but Stolz wouldn’t budge on the others. Or give up any info that isn’t in the files.”
“This warning? Do you think it was about the biker?” Paul asked. “He’s not much more than a kid, but he’s got the likeliest connections for a bombing. Outlaw crews play rough.”
“If Jack’s ticked off at me, he’s about to be more so,” I said, chasing a mouthful of fries with a swig of Bud. “No deal for him, either. Leon wants to look tough for the cameras, and Crazy Jack’s a perfect photo op. His cell’s already booked.”
“But it might get un-booked if his lawyer had an unfortunate accident, right?” Uncle Josh said. “What would happen then?”
“He…would get a continuance to seek new counsel,” I conceded. “Then another delay while he brought him or her up to speed. Meanwhile, charges could lapse, his underage girlfriend keeps getting older, maybe changes her mind about testifying…The whole thing could go away.”
“Sounds like a plan to me,” Josh said, then stopped. “What is it?”
I’d held up my hand like a traffic cop. Stop. They both turned to see what I was staring at.
A blond woman, slim as a whisper in a summer shift and flip-flops, was standing in the club doorway, scanning the crowd…for me.
“Sherry?” I called, standing up and waving. “I’m over here!”
“God,” she said, hurrying to our table and clinging to me.
“You’re shaking,” I said, easing her into a chair. “What’s wrong?”
“Dex found me again,” she managed. Paul passed her his drink, and she guzzled it down without caring what it was.
“Slow down,” I said, sitting down beside her. “What happened? Where did he find you?”
“At the Glazers, that job you got me in Royal Oak. As a freaking nanny, for chrissake! I have a degree in software engineering.”
“Easy now, easy,” I said. “Remember? Engineers have to submit job histories, background checks. He could’ve tracked you—”
“He tracked me anyway!” she wailed. “He came to the house this morning in his freaking uniform! As a state trooper, he told the Glazers that I was mentally unstable, and a danger to myself and others. Then he showed them my old mug shot…”
She broke down, sobbing like a child. I touched her shoulder, and didn’t know what else to do.
But Uncle Josh did.
“Easy now, miss,” he rumbled in his deep bass voice, the way he’s been soothing Paul and me all our lives. “He found you, but now you’ve found us, and you’re home free. You’re safe. Everything’s gonna be fine. You just take another long slug of whatever this was.” He tapped Paul’s empty glass, motioning to the barmaid, who quickly brought over a refill. Sherry chugged that one at a gulp, too, wincing as she did it.
“Christ, what is this crap?”
“Single malt Glenfiddich,” Paul sighed, “twelve years old.”
“Scotch? I hate Scotch.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” Paul said, eyeing her empty glass. “Would you like something else?”
“Not here,” Uncle Josh said, rising. “If her ex-husband found her once, he might be following along. I will be leaving with this lady.”
“Where are you going?” I asked. Sherry didn’t even bother. She was already collecting her purse. Uncle Josh is like that. People in need of help are drawn to him, like metal to a magnet.
“If I told you, and someone asks where she is, you’d have to lie, Brian. And you’re a lousy liar, which is shocking for a lawyer. You should practice more. If you need me, you’ve got my cell number.”
He took Sherry’s arm and ushered her out. And she didn’t even look back.
Chapter 21
“Where will he take her?” I asked Paul.
“Unc’s got a half dozen rehab and remodel projects going, mostly for summer people. She’ll be safe at one of those, and untraceable for a while, at least. What are you going to do?”
“Haven’t a clue,” I said honestly. “Her husband’s got her on the run. Every time she lights somewhere, he shows up. I don’t know how he does it.”
>
“He’s a state cop, right?” Paul said. “Molinere? So it ain’t supernatural. He’s probably got contacts we can’t even dream about. But he’d better hope they don’t work this time.”
“How do you mean?”
“Uncle Josh is a sweetheart and I love him. But if that cop shows up and tries to bully that girl? He’d better have his major medical paid up, because bad things are gonna happen.”
“They already have,” I said. “Molinere’s filed a complaint with the Wayne County DA, trying to get me removed as her attorney. He knows the system, and he’s playing it.”
“So what do we do?”
“Nothing, yet. He filed the complaint with my old boss. Leon may be a jerk, but he’s good at his job. He promised to take a closer look at the guy, and I think he will.”
“If he’s so good at his job, why is your pal Corzine still walking around?”
“Because his flunkies handle the rough stuff while he plays cards in a public place, surrounded by witnesses.” I went on to explain my hunch about the messengers, and that I’d set Grady on the trail.
“How good is this Grady?” Paul asked.
“If you ever meet him, you won’t remember him five seconds later,” I said. “That’s how good he is.”
We sat quietly for half an hour, sipping our drinks and catching up. Then I excused myself, and walked up the beach to the cottage. It had been a rough day, and tomorrow would probably be even tougher.
I desperately needed to rest.
So naturally, sleep didn’t come when I laid in my bed.
I kept thinking about Grady, who was working the Riviera Club alone. Corzine was no fool. He was a rising star in the mob world and a dangerous man.
Had I pushed Grady too close to the problem? Being invisible to cheating husbands or embezzlers is one thing, but would it be so easy around a thug like Corzine?
Damn it.
Grady was the ultimate pro, though. He was practically a legend in the business. I had to trust his talents.
But as soon as I put Grady aside, thoughts of Serena took his place. She’d seemed so…overwhelmingly perfect at first. Smart, pretty, dressed like a runway model. She had a great job with Garner and Mackey at Cadillac Square. After the army, law school, and my crappy job as an ADA, having a woman like her seemed almost too good to be true…
And of course, it was. Our lightning engagement was her idea, and in hindsight, I realized our whole relationship was basically her idea. One that began to sour the day I gave her the ring.
She’d traded it in for a larger stone. She’d paid the difference, and said that she just wanted to impress her girlfriends at work. As though it was all for show.
But it wasn’t. Not to me. Before long, we were squabbling almost nonstop. But what if we’d faced up to it, admitted we’d made a mistake, and broken things off?
Maybe she wouldn’t have been in the car that day. And that was on me.
It was almost dawn when I finally dropped off. The alarm woke me fifteen minutes later.
I sprung out of bed because I had a big day in store. I was starting a job I hadn’t held since high school.
Chapter 22
The morning sun was barely breaking across the bay when I got to the beach. It cut a shimmering silvery path across the gentle surf.
I checked the bonfire pits first, collecting the empties, picking up broken glass, and kicking sand over the charred pits.
For the most part, the shore was in good shape. Beach folks generally police up after themselves, but there are always a few who party late.
I found a young couple under a beach blanket, sound asleep in each other’s arms and without a stitch of clothing on their bodies. I told them the beach wasn’t open yet, and that they might want to find their clothes before the kids started showing up. When I left them, they were still holding each other, watching the sun rise out over the surf.
My day brightened when I saw Carly coming down the beach, dressed for work. She was barefoot, and in shorts and a Hawaiian shirt. It was the uniform of the day.
“You made it,” she said, brightly. “I thought you might change your mind.”
“Why would you think that?”
“Because you’ve been through a heck of a lot, Brian,” she said, falling into step beside me. “Hell, you’ve been blown up. I’m just saying, if you do change your mind—”
“Wow. If this is your ‘go get ’em, tiger’ pep talk, it needs work.”
“Okay, okay,” she said, raising her hands in mock surrender. “You’re where you need to be. At least for now. If you need me, I’ll be in my office. I’ll be back at noon to rotate you out for lunch. Otherwise, you’re on your own, pal. Good luck.”
I watched her walk away, a dynamo of a woman in a coltish frame. She was really something. But once again, our timing was totally askew. I wondered if we’d always be out of sync—a day early, or ten years too late.
I didn’t worry about it for long, though, because the first invaders were already hitting the beach. A steady stream of cars rolled into the parking lot, and screaming kids spilled out, while their moms followed behind in floppy hats and shades toting lawn chairs and blankets and sunblock. There were tots with pails and shovels, and tweens and teens with cell phones and ear buds who were scarcely aware of the water.
I climbed the short ladder up to my tower chair and settled in. I took my first long look up and down the shore. Kids were daring each other to test the waters.
And then I felt myself relaxing, really relaxing. I felt the knots that have been wound around my heart since Afghanistan loosen their hold a little. I was fully alert, mindful of every single soul on that shore, but at the same time, I was basking in the beauty of the day. The surf, the wheeling gulls, the laughter of children.
It got better. Women started arriving, but instead of sunning themselves or trolling for men, they were gathering around my chair, chatting me up, taking selfies with me in the background.
I knew that it was only because I was temporarily famous. I was the guy who saved the dog in the video, but still, I was enjoying my fifteen minutes of stardom…
Until I saw the first kid make a fatal mistake.
I was up, out of my chair, sprinting into the surf before I finished my conversation with a beach bunny. Something was wrong. Something serious.
A minute before, a little kid had been paddling around the first raft. It was moored thirty yards offshore in shallow water, only a few feet deep. He was having a great time, plunging into the breakers like a seal.
But he hadn’t surfaced. He’d been down too damn long. And then suddenly, he shot out of the water, hacking and gagging, half-drowned. With one arm, I grabbed him before the next breaker could roll him under. I held him clear of the water, letting him breathe and encouraging him to cough the water out of his windpipe. He was good to go in less than a minute, which is exactly how long it would have taken him to drown. He could have been gone just that quickly.
I asked him where his mom was, and he pointed her out. She was on her feet, rushing toward us. I waved that he was okay, then gave her a split-finger “eyes on” signal, and she nodded. I took a deep breath. The boy was my first save.
I went back to my chair.
The sun was still high, the lakeshore was still beautiful, but I’d just been reminded how quickly things can go wrong at the beach.
Or anywhere.
Chapter 23
Carly came by at noon, and I took my lunch break at the Bistro. I had an omelet and coffee, because I didn’t want to have anything heavy while I was on duty. I carried my plate out to the patio deck and took a table by the railing. It offered a view of the beach, and a better view of Carly, who was down the shore in the tower. Beautiful on both counts.
Paul popped out of the kitchen. “Hey, lifeguard. Uncle Josh called in at ten. Your friend had a quiet night, and all’s well. No sign of her husband. How’s your first day on the job going?”
“The best I’
ve felt in a long time,” I said around a mouthful. “Almost as good as I do now. You’re a great cook.”
“I am, brother, which is why I have to get back. No rest for the wick—aw, crap. Here we go.”
I swiveled in my seat to follow his stare. Two police cars had pulled into the Bistro lot. One was from the Port Vale PD, and the second was unmarked. Chief Paquette and Lieutenant Bev Hilliard got out separately, but marched in together, heading straight for me. Paul vanished into the kitchen, not an easy thing to do when you’re six seven, wearing a toque.
“Mr. Lord,” the chief nodded, pulling up a chair, “do you mind?”
“Not at all. I’d recommend—”
“This isn’t social,” Hilliard said, taking the seat beside the chief. “As you’ve probably guessed, you’re still very much a person of interest in the car bombing.”
“I’d be surprised if I wasn’t. The husband, the wife, the partner, are always prime suspects. But then again, since I was almost blown to hell myself…? Anyway, why all the muscle, Lieutenant? What is it you want?”
“I’m hoping to get a straight answer out of you for once. Your client, Jimmy Valentine? When did you speak with him last?”
“Not…for a few days. Why?”
“Is that unusual?”
“Jimmy doesn’t punch a time clock. Why are you asking about him?”
“He was under surveillance by the Organized Crime Unit until last night when he…dropped out of sight.”
“They lost him? Where?”
“An after-hours poker game on Dequinder. They couldn’t exactly follow him into a closed room. The other players said he left to use the bathroom, and then he never came back.”
“Did he ditch them on purpose? Or was he abducted?”
Hilliard shrugged.
“Why were they tailing him?”
“Since he’s trying to buy himself a deal by dealing dirt on Corzine, the boss’s people are looking for him.”
“And you were watching Jimmy? Instead of Corzine?”
Murder in Paradise Page 5
