by Meryl Sawyer
“I’m sorry about your friend.” His voice was so charged with sympathy that she wondered if he’d lost someone. “It must be really rough on you.”
If Garrison knew she was a suspect in the crime, he didn’t mention it. Once again, she was struck by how likable the man was. “It has been. And while I was taking care of Erin’s funeral, someone hacked into my bank account and withdrew the funds.”
“Oww! That’s terrible!”
“You’re telling me. It gets worse. They were able to tap the cash lines on my credit cards. They withdrew the limit on each card.”
“Do you have any idea how it happened?”
She shook her head. No sense in mentioning Aiden. She knew he was capable of deceit but he wouldn’t steal from her. Why bother? Aiden had gotten the best of her in the divorce. He had plenty of money.
“I’ll call Mike Tanner. I’m sure—”
“He’s already working on it. Paul’s been helping me. I have to report this to the police or it isn’t considered a crime. Then I have to talk to the bank and credit card companies and I don’t know what else, but I will be tied up most of tomorrow.” She stared down at the business card. “I’ll call the moment I have a chance.”
“Thanks,” he replied. “That’s all we can ask.”
He slowly rose and shook out the fold in one trouser. She realized Garrison took great care with his appearance. His stylishly cut hair was always in place and his expensive clothes were never wrinkled. Funny. It didn’t seem to fit with being a scientist.
“How many men have been to the moon?” he asked, the question taking her by surprise.
“A dozen,” she responded without having to think about it.
“Correct. Man has put more emphasis on space than they have on exploring the ocean on their own planet. Only two men have been down into the Marianas Trench. It’s over five miles deep. We have no idea what secrets it might hold.”
“Interesting,” she responded because she felt she should say something. His abrupt shift in conversation still had her off balance. “You told me your research is based on microorganisms found in the ocean. Right?”
“Yes. My father doesn’t agree that the future of medicine will be found in the ocean. Tonight we were again discussing what direction his foundation should take. It’s important to set up everything properly.”
“I guess there’s more to starting a foundation than meets the eye.”
“You bet. If you expect the work to continue in the direction you want, the foundation must have special directives and written rules.” He threw up his hands. “Lots of legal stuff. Lawyers get rich. So what else is new?”
He handed her another card. “Here’s my cell number. I’m going down to my place in the Keys. I have a small lab where I do on-site research. It requires a fair amount of diving.”
Madison decided he must be collecting fresh samples or something that would take him away from his father and his own work at the facilities they shared.
“Don’t hesitate to call,” Garrison continued, “if there’s anything I can do or if you have any problems.”
He headed for the French doors, stopped and half turned, asking, “Do you need money? I could—”
“No, no. Thanks, but I’ve got it covered,” she assured him even though she wasn’t sure what she was going to do for money until this mess was straightened out.
KEITH SMITH LOOKED over his shoulder. He’d been doing that a lot lately, he realized. He had the unsettling feeling someone was stalking him. Watching, waiting. It creeped him out. But whenever he turned around, expecting to catch someone—he couldn’t. Sometimes there were people nearby but they seemed to be going about their own business. At other times, no one was there at all.
An eidolon, he decided, pleased with his choice of words. Edgar Allan Poe and others of his generation had used eidolon instead of ghost. The word had gone out of use with the changing times.
Keith prided himself on his vocabulary. He considered himself to be self-educated, having been homeschooled by his mother before entering Brown, where his education was interrupted by his arrest for growing pot in his dorm room. His father had hired an attorney and Keith had been spared anything more serious than a terrifying night in jail, but his father had forced him to return to Florida.
Another semester and he’d had a degree in English lit from Citrus College—not that it did him much good. Being a high school English teacher paid squat, a fact his father used as a verbal bludgeon, reminding Keith every time he came home for dinner.
Keith looked over his shoulder again at the shadowy doorways on the side street not far from Calle Ocho, the heart of Miami’s Little Havana. Calle Ocho was a string of small shops like a strand of cheap, unmatched beads, but…aah…the smells. The aroma of sweet Cuban coffee and coquito, coconut candy sold from pushcarts, mingled with the heady scent of cigars smoked by the old men playing dominos in sidewalk cafés while reminiscing about Cuba.
Here, blocks away from the main drag, his nostrils were assailed by the overpowering odor of rotting garbage that spewed from Dumpsters in nearby alleys and urine from druggies who lived behind the rusty trash bins. Rats scrabbled between cans, their red eyes catching the ambient light. The stagnant air brought out flies in full force, and they buzzed alongside thousands of no-see-ums that blanketed Miami.
Little Havana was a world unto itself, Keith thought, a world apart from the Miami once ruled by WASPS like his father. I inhabit a parallel universe, too, he decided, with a surge of pride. His mother had always told him the determining element in his life was his superior intelligence. His net worth proved her right. He’d like to tell his father—throw it in his face—that he was earning a bundle. But it was best not to rattle his father and disappoint the mother he loved. Neither would approve of the way he really made his money.
Gambling was his first love and always had been. As a kid, he’d bet on marbles, on the number of chips in a bag, on the number of milk cartons a friend could stack before they toppled. He’d won then, and he won now.
He was a winner because he was lucky and he was good at math. He was a whiz at cards because he knew the odds, and he was smart enough to count cards, not just rely on his luck. He played cards whenever he could; it was his bread and butter. It paid for the coke. He gambled on the ships that were nothing more than floating casinos and he played online.
But lately, he’d been going in for live action. Horses and dogs were okay, but cockfights were where the real excitement was. It was a blood sport, with cocks battling to the death with feral savagery.
It probably wasn’t like that in the barnyard. Cockfights there—the real deal—were for supremacy and the sole right to the brood of hens. Here cocks were fitted with silver talon extensions that were razor sharp. One cock was certain to die. It usually collapsed in death throes, to the delight of the mob of cheering spectators.
The winner wasn’t as lucky. It was removed from the ring, usually fatally injured. But no veterinarian was waiting nearby. The cock slowly bled out in a silent, painful death. If it survived, the cock was bred and its male offspring trained to kill.
Cockfights were illegal, of course, but that added to the excitement. He ventured another look over his shoulder at the elusive shadows. He saw a couple of men, jabbering in Spanish, coming his way. Not eidolons. Flesh-and-blood men who were probably headed to the same backstreet warehouse he was.
Keith slowed down and let them pass. They sauntered by, dressed to the nines, the way many Cuban men did. Neither bothered to look at Keith. Men never paid much attention to Keith, but women did.
Thick sandy-blond hair, big blue eyes and a bod that sported pecs and abs worthy of a fitness commercial drew women wherever he went. He knew he had a great personality to go along with his looks. He was famous for his jokes. He didn’t have to rely on potty gags, either. His humor was always witty, sophisticated.
His father never laughed at Keith’s stories, but then his father didn’t h
ave a sense of humor. His mother had been the one to encourage him as far back as he could remember. His father was straighter than Cochise’s arrow. It didn’t matter. The way things were going, Keith would have the last laugh.
He turned the corner and followed the men to the warehouse door. A bull of a man who looked like a creep from a horror flick was leaning against the wall, guarding the single side door to the building. The bouncer. Keith wasn’t concerned; Eduardo had given him tonight’s password. The men entered and an explosion of noise billowed out, then was cut off when the door closed behind them.
“Media noches.” Keith said the phrase that meant a sandwich of ham and cheese with pickles. It was called a midnight sandwich because Cubans who loved to party traditionally had them on their way home, closer to dawn than midnight.
The bouncer pushed the door back just far enough for Keith to squeeze through. Inside, the warehouse was brightly lit, a sharp contrast to the shadowy street leading to it. He squinted against the blaring light and the blue haze of smoke that came from cigarettes and sweet-smelling Cuban cigars. Makeshift bleachers had been assembled in a circle and several hundred screaming, sweating men were sitting shoulder to shoulder like sardines in a can. Others were standing, shouting and waving their gambling chits.
“Keith, chuce,” Eduardo hailed him, using the short version of the Spanish word, pachuco, meaning “bad boy.” Keith knew enough YUCAs—Young Urban Cuban-Americans—to realize this was synonymous with “bro.” He’d met Eduardo online, playing blackjack. They’d discovered they lived in the same city and had become friends.
“Hey.” Keith slapped Eduardo on the back as he looked into the ring. “Did you hear about the two blondes who were sitting on a park bench in Alabama, staring at the moon?”
Eduardo gave him a good-natured smile and shook his head. He was used to Keith’s unending supply of jokes.
“One blonde asked the other, ‘Which is farther away, Florida or the moon?’”
“Uh-oh,” Eduardo said. “What did the other blonde say?”
“‘Well, hel-lo. We can’t see Florida from here, can we?’”
Eduardo chuckled but his gaze shifted to the ring. The cement floor glistened with blood from the previous fights. Two cocks were going at it. One of them was a prized auburn and black “Macumba.” They’d been bred in Cuba specifically for fighting and were considered the most tenacious fighters.
Macumba meant black magic. The Macumba cocks were believed to have the devil in them. That’s why they won so often. Keith suspected it was just a matter of breeding. Tonight, the rather ordinary-looking bantam rooster seemed to have the upper hand over the Macumba.
“Ole!” A cheer went up from the crowd as the bantam poked out the Macumba’s right eye. Keith heard himself cheering. It was over in seconds, blood spurting from the Macumba’s neck as the other cock ripped his throat open for the kill.
“Bet on the underdog,” whispered Eduardo while the annihilated Macumba and the half-dead victor were hauled away.
“Why?” Keith asked, his eyes on the men clamoring at the payoff table in the corner. From the looks of it, the bantam had been a long shot.
“Heilo.” Eduardo breathed the word so only Keith could hear.
“Ice?” he whispered. Ice, or crystal meth, was common enough, although he’d never tried it. He didn’t like the way it instantly addicted you, but he knew its high made men believe they had supernatural strength. And produced erections that lasted for hours. “Does it work on chickens?”
Eduardo nodded. Two more cocks were brought into the ring in wire cages. Both of them appeared to be Macumbas. The only way to know the underdog was to watch the betting chart being posted on the concrete wall in blue chalk.
“Jesus Willie Christ!” exclaimed Keith an hour later after his fifth trip to the payoff table.
Eduardo smiled at him. “Let’s blow this joint.” He lowered his voice and added, “If we win too often…”
Keith nodded; he was thrilled with several thousand dollars he hadn’t expected, but his sense of fair play made it seem like dirty money. Never before had he cheated. Not that this was cheating—exactly. People received tips all the time. Still, it didn’t seem…right.
Eduardo waved his wad of greenbacks in front of Keith’s face. “What do you say? Let’s spend some of this at Lola’s.”
Keith found himself grinning. Lola’s was a well-known club half a block off Calle Ocho. A neon sign with a woman doing the cancan flashed over the club’s entrance. Lola’s was written in bold script. Smaller letters proclaimed: What Lola wants—Lola gets. What it really meant was Lola—a beefy woman in her late fifties—would get her customers whatever they wanted. No questions asked.
She had a string of strippers with bods that wouldn’t quit and the best pole humpers in Miami. She also had back rooms set aside for lap dancing. What went on in them seemed to have little to do with lap dancing as Keith had understood the term before Eduardo had brought him to the club.
“How about another twofer?”
“That’s the bomb, dude,” Keith replied, repeating what his students often said although he rarely used the term.
They stepped out into the shadowy darkness of the street. The bouncer had deserted his post. He’d probably gone inside to buy a chit. Keith paused a moment to allow his eyes to adjust to the lack of light.
A twofer. Just the thought sent a hot rush to his groin. Two girls—if you could call the pros at Lola’s girls—for the price of one. The things they could do with those humongous breasts and baby-soft, waxed pussies. The memory alone made him hard.
“Come on, chuce. Let’s go.”
Keith marched beside his friend, positive he could score a bag of coke at Lola’s. That would make the twofer an over-the-top fuckfest. He couldn’t remember being this happy—ever.
Something made him look over his shoulder and an inexplicable wave of fear, almost like a fever, swept through him. He felt butterfly-shaped rings of sweat form on his shirt. A shape seemed to shift in one of the shadowy doorways. His imagination, he guessed, but the feeling had been with him earlier. Why would anyone be following him?
It occurred to him that cocaine did that to some people. Paranoia set in and they became suspicious of everyone around them. Even harmless shadows seemed threatening. Next thing he knew, he’d be hearing voices from another part of the cosmos. Maybe he wouldn’t buy coke. Perhaps he should try something else.
He’d always wondered about “chasing the dragon.” Injecting heroin was so out, so over. Smart guys chased the dragon; they smoked heroin. That might be just what he needed to take the edge off his nerves. The thought made it possible to breathe a little easier despite the foreboding.
“Something wrong?” Eduardo asked.
“No,” he assured his friend. “Do you know the difference between guts and balls?”
Eduardo shook his head. Keith immediately felt better. Telling a joke kept his mind off…off what, exactly?
“What is the difference?” prompted Eduardo.
“Guts is coming home late after a night with the guys and being assaulted by your wife with a broom and asking, ‘Are you still cleaning or just flying over to your mother’s?’”
Eduardo chuckled. “Okay, chuce. What’s balls?”
“You come home late, smelling of perfume and beer with lipstick on your collar. You slap your wife on the ass and say, ‘You’re next, babe.’”
Eduardo hooted, the way he always did when he really liked a joke. For a moment, Keith felt himself again. He ambled along with Eduardo toward the lively Calle Ocho and the club where anything was yours for the asking. His friend chattered, but Keith wasn’t listening. He barely caught the throbbing beat of salsa music drifting through air so thick you could surf on it. The dread returned, gnawing on him the way rats in the alleyways chewed on garbage. Fear eddied through his stomach and the alley wavered in and out of focus. He couldn’t shake the disturbing feeling someone was stalking him.
Keith wished he could respond to the urge to leave and head for the safety of home, but he didn’t want to be a pussy. Cocaine had tinkered with his brain. He was being paranoid for no good reason.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Can you name a truly beautiful cannibal?
MADISON SLAMMED on the brakes, nearly sending Aspen to the floor of her Beamer to avoid hitting the sleek Aston Martin that unexpectedly emerged from around the bend as she was leaving the guesthouse. She wouldn’t have known the make of the midnight-blue car except Aiden had always wanted one. Until Chloe. Then the man who’d been head of the me-first parade suddenly couldn’t do enough for the new woman in his life. He’d bought Chloe the Corvette she’d always wanted and kept driving his Hummer.
The expensive sports car screeched to a halt, its gleaming fender just inches from the Beamer’s. Madison recognized the gorgeous redhead behind the wheel. Savannah Holbrook was driving and Nathan Cassidy, her boyfriend, was with her. Did she still live at home?
Savannah leaped out of the car, her hair streaming behind her like a red banner, and beelined for Madison’s door. Her cheeks were flushed and her brilliant green eyes seemed to crackle. What now? Madison lowered her window.
“I’m looking for you.” Savannah all but shouted the words.
“You’ve found me.” Madison kept her tone level. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Nathan emerge from the car.
“It won’t work.” Savannah’s voice was lower now but anger etched each word. She had seemed so pleasant at the party, but now in private her attitude had changed.
“What won’t work?” Madison asked, put off by Savannah’s attitude.
Nathan had joined Savannah, and he slipped his arm around her waist. Savannah looked at him through eyelashes so long and lush that they had to be extensions. Her expression seemed to say Does this bimbo think I’m buying her act?
