Deborah Brown - Madison Westin 06 - Revenge in Paradise (16 page)

I grabbed her shirt and whispered, “Just because he’s a member of the swine family doesn’t mean you can kill him for thinking you’re hot.”

“What will you have?” the mustached, platinum-blond bartender asked—rail thin, bikini bathing suit top showing off a pair of pancake breasts, overly tanned, and skin like shoe leather.

“Two of whatever you have on tap,” I said before I slapped down a fifty. “You can keep the change if you’ll answer a few questions.”

“Sure, hon.” Her nicotine-stained fingers reached for the bill.

I covered the money with my hand. “Answers first.”

When she set our mugs down, Fab arched her brow at the beer running over the side and scowled at the woman.

I shoved a grainy booking photo across the bar.

“Have you seen him in here?”

The old man next to me leaned in. His bristly whiskers brushing my shoulder, I damn near fell off the stool. I relaxed my fists when I realized he’d be my grandfather’s age if I had one.

He flashed a toothless smile and said, “I like redheads.” He whiffed of fish stink.

“Never seen him.” She pushed the picture back, busying herself behind the bar.

Liar!
Why would she pass on the money? Tips can’t be that great in this drinking hole. Maybe I should tell her the key to selling a lie is eye contact.

The old man reached his boney fingers across the bar. “Let me see that, Rita?” he asked the bartender. I handed it to him and retrieved my money.

“Too bad,” I said to the woman. Her eyes hardened to black pin dots. Clearly, she hated us both.

Fab turned her back to the bar and rolled her eyes at me.

“This is Ed,” the old guy said. “Used to drink here before his girlfriend rearranged his brains,” he laughed. “Are you going to drink that?” He pointed to the beer. “You know Ed brought her in here a few times.”

I grabbed Fab’s and slid them both in his direction.

“Did he come in with anyone else?” I asked.

“He hung out with the same guys at the table in the corner. Heard they all had prison records. The women didn’t hang around long. They all had a heavy hand with the ladies.”

“They still come around?” Fab asked.

“They’ve avoided this place since two of them got arrested on parole violations in the parking lot. Give me your number,” he said, and held out his hand. “What kind of information are you paying for?”

I dug a card out of my pocket and cash and handed it to him. “Anyone with a reason to kill Edsel.”

He looked around. “Careful who you talk to, you could end up hurt or worse, no one likes a snooper.”

I nodded my head. “You be careful, too.”

“You know we got a pool going,” he wheezed. “Does Jami fry, or free room and board the rest of her life? I’ve got five dollars that says she walks,” he said, only after he downed his beer and reached for another. “I never liked Ed. He peed on the bathroom wall one night. Worst aim I ever saw.”

Rita finished with the customers at the end of the bar and came back to listen. “You cops?” she asked. She’d written me off as harmless, but it was Fab that held her attention and she catalogued her every move.

“We believe his girlfriend is innocent and would like to speak to people who knew Edsel, possibly come up with some other suspects.”

“I’ll ask around,” Rita said, and eyed us. “Leave a card and I’ll call when I get something, but you’ll have to pay. No freebies.”

The old man leaned across the bar, almost face down. “You’re pretty, too,” he slurred to Fab.

She tugged on my arm and glared at the bartender. “Don’t waste our time. Call only if you have good information.”

“I hope she never calls,” I said as we walked out the door.

Fab yelped, moving backward.

A burly man had his hand wrapped in her long hair, pulling her in his direction. She struggled and he yanked harder. When she winced, I drew my Glock.

“Get your filthy hand out of her hair before I shoot your left eye out,” I growled. “And while you’re lying on the ground sniveling, I’ll put one between your legs.”

He threw her away and she stumbled but landed upright.

I cocked my gun. “Take one step and you’re dead. In fact, if you move before we’ve cleared the parking lot, I’ll shoot you.”

I rolled down the passenger window and leaned out, Glock in hand. “Another one of your admirers,” I said over my shoulder.

“I don’t think so, he called me Glow.”

“I know Glo-worm, she likes the worm in the bottom of the rot-gut tequila––lets it go down slow so she can savor the taste. If I had known that, I would’ve shot him just because.”

Fab squealed the tires and blew out of the parking lot.

“I need a shower,” she said.

“Let’s go for a swim, the pool water is warm. I’ll wax you in a game of basketball?”

“If it ever happens you beat me at something, I get a re-match,” Fab grumbled. “Beer is the only thing you could order?”

“A margarita and vanilla vodka doesn’t say, ‘blending in.’ The locals at Jake’s order beers, most of them with a chaser of something.”

She slowed going over the bridge, and as usual, a sheriff hung his hand-held radar out the window. “Thanks for the cover,” she said. “I love when you use the Madeline Westin you’re-in-trouble voice. The only thing better would have been if you had shot the guy’s little friend off and we could watch him bleed to death.”

“It’s a good day when I amuse you and when I annoy you, especially the latter.”

“Have you thought that Jami really is guilty?” Fab asked. “There’s no evidence in her favor.”

“Nothing more than a gut feeling. I’ve known her for a few years now. She works hard, plays hard, never violent. A new public defender, Droll, got assigned her case. I called him and offered our services. He didn’t seem impressed––then threw out that he was exploring a plea bargain.

“I asked Droll, ‘What if she isn’t guilty?’ And I got dead silence. I waited for a response and got none so I asked him, ‘Do you think she’s guilty?’ His response? ‘I never ask my client that question.’ That’s a standard lawyer answer, so I left my phone number and I could feel his relief getting off the phone. I let him know we’d check out anything he wanted. I don’t expect to hear from him.”

“If he’s like most public servants, he’s got a caseload for two people,” Fab reminded.

“His idea of a plea bargain is probably life in prison over death. If the court believes she murdered Edsel, then I highly doubt she’ll ever see her family again except from behind bars. I don’t know what good it does if I’m the only believer.”

Fab pressured me into playing nice with Brick and taking the damn delivery job. I coerced her into coming along with the philosophy that what Brick didn’t know, he couldn’t complain about until he got the bill. He ended up delaying the trip by a day since the Bugatti hadn’t arrived and I refused a ten-hour ride along in a hauler with the car.

To make sure there weren’t any misunderstandings, I purchased two tickets to Panama City Beach and booked 5-star hotel accommodations. When Brick mentioned Bitsy would make all the arrangements, I laughed and told him, “No, thanks.” I rejected the help, knowing she might pick a crummy motel for which I’d be subjected to endless complaining from my travel partner. Brick had a driver at the airport to take us to the hotel, where he’d made a rental car available.

We arrived the night before and indulged in massages and room service. That’s when I found out Fab’s ugly little secret: She liked horror films and found one on the pay channel she hadn’t seen before. I covered my ears, turned away, and read a book.

“The auto transporter is downstairs waiting, the Bugatti loaded on the flatbed. This shouldn’t take any longer than two hours,” I said to Fab.

“I’m coming along. I’ll hide in the back seat.”

“Last time I did one of these deliveries the guard checked my car before I got out. You stay here and behave yourself. That’s code for ‘don’t shoot anyone.’ Get another massage.”

“Give me the address, just in case.” She wiggled her fingers.

I handed her a piece of hotel stationary that had the pertinent information. “I’ll be fine. The last one went smoothly. I was escorted in, signed docs, collected cash, and left.”

At least I’ll get to drive the rental car
, I thought. That would have been impossible if Fab had been along. I pulled out of the hotel driveway and waved to the driver, pulling in front of him for the half-hour drive along the oceanfront panhandle. I ran my hand over the white leather, which did not have a single food or soda stain. Brick had a cherry red two-seater convertible Mercedes delivered as my rental car. His rich clients wouldn’t find it amusing if I arrived in an old Buick, blowing smoke.

There was little traffic on the highway, which made it easy to enjoy the scenery as I approached the exclusive community. It surprised me when I pulled up in front of an ugly dark yellow castle on the beach, complete with turrets. A solid-wood ten-foot fence ran across the front of the property, including the driveway. Before I could cut the engine, a man appeared, arms across his barrel chest, glaring at me. Holding his hand up, he motioned for me to stay in the car. He accessorized his tropical shorts and shirt with a shoulder holster.

He exchanged a few words with the driver of the transporter. Suddenly the fence opened, he turned, and directed me inside ahead of the delivery truck. I grabbed the briefcase off the seat courtesy of Brick, which held the paperwork.

The guard opened the door. “Welcome, Miss Westin. Step out.” He held out his hand, indicating the briefcase. He took it and opened it for inspection using the hood of the Mercedes—which I found disrespectful to the car. He thumbed through and handed it back.

“I’m Gunner. Put your hands on the hood.”

“For what reason?”
What’s with rich people?

“Security. Just a quick check for weapons.” His smile indicated he enjoyed this part of the job.

I took a step back. “Do not touch me.”

“It will only take a second. Unless you have something to hide.”

His smile made my skin crawl.

“I’d hate to report your lack of cooperation back to your employer. He may have lax standards, but we do not. Do not make me tell you again.”

I stepped back closer to the car and my hand reached for the handle. “I’m leaving,” I said.

His eyes were now beady brown. “It’s a cursory pat down to determine if you’re packing.”

I lifted my navy mid-thigh full skirt to my waist—thankful I’d worn pretty black lace bikini underwear that showed nothing—did a twirl, and shoved my skirt down. “Satisfied?”

He pointed to my navy and white short boxy jacket. I unhooked it and pulled it open and down to my waist, turning around. My black demi bra showed off my assets and kept my nipples covered. I officially hated this job.

I’d never want to be left alone with Gunner. I fiddled with the hooks and got myself dressed. We stood silently, watching the car being unloaded. The driver parked it into its assigned space in the six-car garage. Gunner grabbed my arm, his fingers digging deep, which would leave a bruise. I jerked away, and was surprised he let me.

“Follow me.”

The double-door entry opened into a stark white living space that overlooked the water. The furniture, rugs, and accents were all white; the only color, if it could be called that, was the chrome accents on the furniture. The room was devoid of personal items, sterile and ice-cold looking. Standing at the open patio doors was a man who I assumed was the client, Anthony Dunbar, jet black hair, emotionless, chilly dark eyes.

“Sit.” He indicated an uncomfortable straight-back dining room chair, pulled back from the square glass table.

Mr. Dunbar and Gunner apparently attended the same charm school. This was nothing like my first experience. I briefly entertained the idea of kicking off my heels and running for the door.

I set the briefcase on the table, snapped the locks, and removed the paperwork and the exquisite Mont Blanc pen the client got to keep. I held it out to him.

“Sit down,” he growled. “I’m not signing anything until my mechanic goes over the car and makes sure I’m getting what I paid for. Make yourself comfortable, it will be a few hours.”

I suddenly felt like a prisoner, no longer feeling the protection of Brick. “I’ll leave you my phone number and you can call me when you’re ready to sign.”

“I’m not going to tell you again.” He pointed to the chair. “Now give me the keys.”

“Per Mr. Famosa’s orders, I’m not supposed to relinquish the keys until the paperwork has been signed.” I struggled to keep the fear out of my voice.

He advanced on me, hand out; and, frankly, he scared me.

“Give them to me.”

Gunner cleared his throat. “Boss, I already turned them over to Victor, he’s got the Bugatti jacked up already.” Putting his hand on my shoulder, he shoved me down hard on the chair.

What the heck was happening? This was supposed to be a simple delivery job. I would pass on to my successor a word of warning: Never leave their keys in the briefcase.

Dunbar nodded. “Make sure she doesn’t go anywhere.”

He stormed from the room.

“Do you mind if I call my family and let them know I’ll be late?” I asked Gunner.

“You can call them when you leave.”

He had a threatening stance, arms at his side, flexing his hands into fists. “Bathroom is next to the bar. If you set one foot outside, the alarm will go off, and we wouldn’t want the guard to shoot you. Your every move will be monitored.”

“This is kidnapping.”

“Such a harsh word.” He shook his finger and left through the same door as his boss, a key twisting in the lock.

Damn. I’d thrown my phone in the briefcase and short stuff took it with him on his way out. I hated this chair and had only been sitting here a few minutes. I stood back from the open doors, hoping the fresh, warm beach air would have a calming effect on my nerves. I wandered around the room, running a finger over everything, every so often checking for dust and not finding any. I helped myself to a bottle of water from the bar and, of course, he had the brand I despised because it tasted like dirt.