Deborah Brown - Madison Westin 06 - Revenge in Paradise

by Deborah Brown

  “We both work for Brick Famosa of Famosa Motors and we’re here to retrieve the Jaguar that the customer failed to return. We’ve got the paperwork and the keys.”

  “How well do you know Gage Banford?” he growled.

  “Never heard of him.” I noticed he blew off my explanation.

  The way he sneered, I guessed that to be the wrong answer. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched as Fab got hustled into the back of a police car. The door slammed and drove away, another car following them.

  “Can you tell me why I’m standing here, cuffed?”

  He jerked my arm. “I’m not the lead investigator on this.” He had his hand on the back of my head to shove me into a police car.

  “I’d like to call my lawyer. His number is on my cell phone inside the SUV.”

  “I’m sure you would but that’s not my call. Now get in.” He pushed me onto the seat. “Sit up,” he said, and jerked me upright.

  “Why am I being arrested?”

  “You’re being taken in for questioning. Now be quiet.” He slammed the door.

  I shifted to my side, trying to take the pressure off my arms, wiggling my fingers so that my hands wouldn’t go numb. None of it worked. If I got out of whatever trouble I was in, I’d have to rethink working for Brick, once again.

  That Gage character must have committed some major felony. In lieu of him, would Fab and I be an acceptable trade? Except, lately, we hadn’t committed any crimes. Hell, I even drove the speed limit.

  This cop sure as heck didn’t drive the speed limit as he wound through the streets, no lights or sirens. We arrived at police headquarters where Fab stood by the back door with a plain-clothes escort holding on to her arm, and two other men appeared to also be in custody.

  My door opened, a new face reached in and helped me out none-too-gently. Fab nodded at me, and I returned a half-hearted smile.

  We were both hustled up the stairs and down a corridor through an open door. The officer gave me a slight shove inside a small, uninviting conference room for criminals and sat me down in a chair in front of a severely gouged table and three other chairs. The door closed and Fab and I were separated. There was not much to look at—no snack bowl, or refrigerator for cold drinks, probably a vending machine in the hall. Would someone loan me a handful of change? The room was eerily quiet so that the slightest sound reverberated off the concrete walls. I scoped out the room, looking for the two-way mirror. All cop television shows had them in interrogation rooms. Odd. Not one single wall decoration; only a large white board, markers left in the tray.

  If Fab were here, she’d have us out of these handcuffs and doing a swan dive out the window. Such a bad idea, I laughed to myself.

  I flung my hair to the side and laid my face on it, one layer between my cheeks and the tabletop. I knew my hair was clean, but was unsure about the table. I coaxed myself to relax, like in the meditation CD I bought and used twice. I pretended to be sitting by my pool, enjoying the sun, Jazz lying next to me asleep. I crossed my fingers and hoped this wasn’t trouble we couldn’t get out of.

  The door opened. “You can sleep once we get you processed and into a cell,” a man’s voice boomed.

  “I’d like to call my lawyer,” I said. Cruz’s voice rang in my ears: “Do not answer any questions without a lawyer.”

  “Whichever one of you talks first gets the best deal. You tell me what I want to know and we’ll set up something sweet.” He eyed me like a cat does a mouse right before springing in for the kill.

  “I don’t know what the heck you’re talking about, whatever your name is. Miami is in the United States, the last I heard, and I’m entitled to a lawyer.”

  “Investigator O’Neill. Once you’ve been booked, you get your call. Make this easy on yourself and cooperate.” He stuck out his hand with a smirk, knowing mine were still cuffed behind my back. “Tell me about your relationship with Gage Banford.”

  I didn’t bother to mention I hadn’t been read my rights. I’d save that tidbit for my lawyer. The back of my head banged up my brain stem. A migraine in the works, I needed a nap, which was the only way it would go away now.

  “I’m sure you’ve heard of Chief Harder, call him and tell him I’m here and mention that you’re denying me a lawyer after several requests.”

  He crossed his arms and leaned in. “You’re ballsy, I’ll give you that. Chief Harder’s not going to walk down here for the likes of you.”

  “Dare you.” I almost winced, sounding so immature. “Not one word without my lawyer, who, by the way, is Cruz Campion. I’m sure you’ve also heard of him. I’ll be inquiring if I can sue for being denied counsel.”

  There was a knock at the door. O-whatever-his-name-is cracked it open, stuck his head out, and then banged it shut.

  “Have it your way,” he said as he pulled me to my feet.

  A matronly woman met us in the hall; she gave me a disgusted once over, her face fierce-looking. She made me want to step back, but I had nowhere to move. She hustled me along the hall at a fast pace, not saying a word, up another set of stairs and into another room.

  “Please, this is all a mistake,” I tried to appeal to her. “Would you call Chief Harder and tell him I’m here?”

  “You know how many times I’ve heard that?” She barked her instructions, ordering me to stand on the shoe outline where she snapped my photo. Then she squished my fingers across an inkpad, tossing a paper towel to me to rub off the black ink.

  “Make yourself comfortable,” she said, and ushered me into a holding cell.

  I lay on the bed and curled into a ball, trying to stay calm and do the biggest pretend job of my life, telling myself I was sipping a margarita on the beach. I needed to pee but the only toilet sat in the corner, and the thought of someone watching freaked me out.

  I tossed and turned and lay on my back and kept an eye on the crawling thing in the corner of the ceiling, at least it wasn’t a roach. I turned to the wall and started counting the tick marks, wondering where someone had gotten a marker. After losing count three times and starting over, I closed my eyes. Days went by, more likely a few hours, when—at the same time—my name got bellowed by the guard and I heard a key inserted in the cell door. I rolled over and almost started to cry.

  The Chief himself stood in the opening. I leaped up and threw myself in his arms. “I’m so happy to see your grumpy-ass self.”

  He patted me on the back. “If you get any body fluids on my shirt, I’ll lock you up again.”

  I looked up at him and choked back a sob. “Fab’s here, too.”

  He took a monogrammed handkerchief from his pocket, placing it in my hand. “Come on, you haven’t seen my new office yet. There are perks to being Chief of Detectives. Nice big desk, comfortable furniture.”

  I struggled to get my emotions under control. “How did you find me?” I sniffed.

  “Creole burned up my phone until I answered. He’s not happy with you. Mentioned he might be committing a felony on your person. He blew into the old rubber factory as your Hummer was being loaded on a flatbed along with the Jaguar.”

  “Everyone I asked to call you sneered at me. Your investigator needs personality school.”

  “That reminds me, I have to call Creole. Didn’t take you long to have my best detective mumbling to himself.”

  “I don’t understand what’s going on. No one told me anything. I swear to you we were only there to pick up the Jaguar for your friend, Brick. How much trouble are we in?”

  The door opened and Fab stalked in, looking like a wild mess, her jeans and shirt covered in dirt.

  “Man I hate this place,” she muttered.

  Harder’s eyes turned to steel, looking her over. “You do realize, Miss Merceau, that you owe me––and owe me big.”

  “Fine. Just ask her and we’ll do it.” Fab turned and rolled her eyes. Good thing Harder couldn’t see her face.

  “Did I say thank you?” I smiled at Harder. “Probably not!”


  “O’Neill would like to speak with the both of you.” He picked up his phone, demanding the investigator’s appearance.

  “What about Cruz?” I asked.

  “He’s waiting for court to resume, so he’s sending over an associate. In the meantime, he’ll be on speaker phone.” Harder used his desk phone to call him. “This is just a formality,” he said to Cruz. “Once I heard these two were involved, I was certain it was another case of wrong place, wrong time. I spoke with Brick to confirm.”

  O’Neill knocked and stuck his head in, then held the door for another man who introduced himself as Cruz’s associate, Timothy Leeds, and looked fresh out of law school. He nodded at me and passed business cards around the table. He sat between Fab and I.

  “I’ll interrupt when I don’t want you to answer,” he whispered to the two of us.

  Harder took the call off of speaker and handed the phone to Mr. Leeds, who exchanged a few words with Cruz and hung up. Another man in jeans slid in the door and seated himself next to O’Neill.

  “You don’t mind if I start.” Harder glared at O’Neill. “Tell us from the beginning, when you got the call and everything you saw,” he said to me.

  I gave him a detailed synopsis of our morning, from when we left jail visitation to finding ourselves surrounded.

  “Mine’s the same as hers, except that there were two homeless-looking men slumped over shopping carts,” Fab said.

  Harder and O’Neill exchanged looks.

  “We know about them,” Harder said.

  Fab continued. “I kept my eyes peeled and didn’t see a thing. We never went into any of the buildings.”

  “What kind of business was it?” I asked.

  “It was a large rubber company that primarily manufactured tires, merged with a larger company that plucked off the good assets, selling everything else and laying off a lot of employees. The man who owns the property is old and rich and doesn’t care that it’s an eyesore that attracts felons wanting to dump evidence. I’m sure you noticed that there are no neighbors to complain.”

  Fab had her arms wrapped around her body, she’d been eyeing the door and the window. Hopefully she knew we were on the third floor.

  “When can we leave?” she asked.

  “The Hummer is now downstairs in the parking lot.” Harder reached in his pocket and pushed the keys across the desk, then opened his desk drawer and handed over our guns. “You two are lucky these haven’t been fired in a while.”

  “Aren’t you going to tell us why you brought us here?” I asked.

  The lawyer looked completely bored.

  “We apologize for the inconvenience. It’s an ongoing investigation.” Investigator O’Neill smirked. Translation: “None of your business.”

  I’d be annoyed later, once I was back home, floating in the pool. I said to Harder, “If you have questions, call me. We’ll both be available,” and nudged Fab’s foot.

  The attorney finally spoke up. I wondered if he thought I didn’t notice him using the phone in his lap. “Call Mr. Cruz’s office and we’ll make them accessible.”

  “Come on,” Harder said as he stood up. “I’ll walk you out.”

  Chapter 11

  Fab and I rode home, both lost in our own thoughts. It wasn’t until we turned on to the Overseas Highway that Fab broke the silence. “I saw the body,” she said, and shuddered.

  “What body?” I screeched. “What are you talking about?”

  “Someone wanted Gage Banford dead. Blew his face off. Several holes in his chest, blood splattered everywhere. Brick needs a new trunk if there is such a thing, I don’t see how that mess gets cleaned up.”

  I squeezed my eyes shut momentarily. I just wanted to go home and have Creole wrap his arms around me, but it wouldn’t be that simple after today.

  “Our car retrieval job had a dead body in the trunk? That’s why all the questions about Gage,” I said. “I wonder if that ass-clown lawyer of ours knew this was a murder case.”

  “I’m just glad we’re out of there.” Fab weaved through the traffic.

  “You do realize that without a friendship with Harder we’d be wearing ugly orange and staring through bars and not sharing the same cell.” I looked at my cell phone for the time. I wore a watch, but only for decoration; I never set the time and knew nothing about changing the battery. “Ten hours of detention seemed like days. You damned well better be nice to Harder the next time you see him.” I started to shake.

  “Are you okay?” She pulled my hair.

  “Where in the hell was Brick?” I screamed out my frustration. “He knew something went wrong when we didn’t show up on time!” I paused to breathe. “Thank goodness for Creole, who is going to kill us. I don’t want to go home, and we can’t go to Mother’s. When she hears Brick’s involved that will end any sympathy. She loathes him.”

  “I can’t believe I’m going to say this,” Fab said, and made a face at me, “but getting arrested, chased, and shot at is getting old. Want a partner in Jake’s? We’ll cater to the unsavory sort and discourage the others.”

  “You know I’ve wanted you as a partner from day one and you turned up your dainty nose. We’d need a new name.”

  “We could still take the crap cases, missing animals and dead people––not surprise dead people like today. You know, like the caskets missing or bodyguard for Dickie when he does fancy funerals.” She ran her finger along the bridge of her nose, admiring it in the rearview mirror, and smiled.

  “Eww,” we both said at the same time.

  Poor thing, Fab’s lost her mind.

  “Didier’s back?” I pointed to his car. “He got back earlier than you thought. We should’ve gone to Key West.”

  “Please don’t tell him anything, not tonight anyway,” Fab pleaded.

  “I’m taking a shower and pulling the covers over my head. Listen to me––it would be a lot better coming from your lips than Creole’s.”

  We walked in together. I smiled at Didier and picked up Jazz. “See you two in the morning,” I said, and disappeared up the stairs before he could say more than, “How was your day?”

  * * *

  When I peeked into the kitchen the next morning, Fab and Didier were entangled, laughing and drinking coffee. She had a tendency to ignore good advice, and I knew the words “almost charged with murder” and “no chance of ever getting out of jail” never passed her lips.

  Jazz sat on the island, Didier feeding him some treat Fab buys from the deli. “No feeding him on the counter.” I picked Jazz up and set him on the floor; he meowed at me, and stuck his tail in the air, giving me the cold shoulder.

  “What?” I mouthed to Fab silently, stirring my coffee.

  She gave a slight shake of her head.

  “What are you two ladies doing today?” Didier winked at me and put his arm around Fab.

  “I’m sitting out by the pool with a book. I’m turning my phone to silent. I need a quiet day.” I smiled weakly, feeling guilty Fab hadn’t womaned-up.

  Before Fab could answer, the front door banged against the wall. “Where in the hell are you?” Creole yelled. He blew in like a full-force category-5 hurricane. I didn’t say a word and slid closer to Fab.

  “What the hell, man?” Didier scowled at him.

  Creole stalked into the kitchen. “What did I specifically tell you two?”

  I’d never seen him this mad, rendering me speechless. I admired that no one intimidated Fab, but getting in his face with a snotty attitude would be the wrong move. Thankfully, she stayed quiet.

  Creole told Didier in excruciating detail about our little adventure. How we ignored the warning beep on the GPS—along with every single other thing he said about safety—and put our lives in danger.

  I gave him kudos for story recreation. He ramped up the drama to where our offense of not listening became a felony. His story-telling skills were on par with mine.

  He turned his dark eyes on me. To look at them then, you’d nev
er know they were blue.

  “Come here,” he demanded.

  “No.” I hid behind Fab, peeping one eye over her shoulder. “Where’s your gun?” I felt up her back.

  It took a few moments for Didier to absorb everything he’d just heard, but when it all clicked into place, he turned on Fab and yelled at her in French and the fight was on.

  Her hands flew to her hips, and leaning forward, she yelled right back in his face.

  Starting tomorrow, new rule: No fighting in French.

  Not paying attention, Creole grabbed my arm and pulled me around the island.

  “Are you okay?” he asked as he looked me over. In one swift move, he threw me over his shoulder like a sack of flour and headed out the door.

  “Don’t wait up,” he called.

  He dumped me on the front seat of his truck, and fastened my seat belt. “I dare you to move,” he growled.

  He hit the gas. Staring at the road, he flew over to the Overseas Highway, his jaw clenched the whole way.

  I laid my head on the back of the seat. “It was terrible.” I started to cry.

  “You know you’re not allowed to cry, so stop it.” He ran his hand gently down the back of my head.

  “I don’t like jail,” I said, and covered my face with my hands to sob out all the fear I had stored from the day before, especially those bleakest moments when I thought I might not see him again without a barrier between us.

  “We’ve got the whole day and night together and I’m going to make you forget yesterday.”

  “That’s understanding of you,” I sniffed.

  “Did I forget to mention the part where you’re going to get a lecture that sets your ears on fire, and if I suspect you’re not listening, I’ll call your mother?”

  “I’d never escape without another torturous lecture. Once, as a teenager, I made her cry and I was so consumed with guilt that I threw myself in her arms to comfort her. I still had to go to my room.”