Deborah Brown - Madison Westin 07 - Kidnapped in Paradise (7 page)

I laughed at her. I knew this new idea of hers would eventually be a win-win. It was only a matter of time until she was back at Jake
’
s, sharing office space with me at our private table out on the deck. I knew Fab better than she knew herself. It frustrated her not to be in the know, and she
’
d soon find her new location isolated and without the food service that Jake's provided.

“I
’
m a little jealous, but I
’
m thinking that with a little patience on my part, I might get your new offices for a tourist gift shop.” I felt certain it would disappear in the night before I got any souvenir paraphernalia unloaded.

“You wouldn’t, would you?” She looked wounded.
      

Fab
’
s phone rang again and I sighed. It was probably Brick yelling at us to hurry up. She answered, but didn’t say a word, putting it on speaker.

“Why in the hell can’t you say hello? I know you
’
re there, I can hear you breathing!” Mac yelled.

Mac Lane held the position of office manager of a ten-unit beachfront property that I inherited from my aunt. One day Mac showed up at the pool of The Cottages, demanding a job interview. Instead of conducting a professional question and answer, I hired her because she made me laugh and knew she could handle herself in a barroom brawl. Both highly sought-after skills.

“Hey, who works for whom here?” I yelled back, anticipating a highly entertaining conversation.

“Why is your phone off?” she continued, barely taking a breath. “You need to get over here.”

I heard the thump in the background and knew it wasn’t her foot stomping on the floor, but her tennis shoe kicking the desk in frustration. The lights that ran around the bottom of her shoes must have gone out again. Mac had regressed in her footwear choices. Every pair had to scream neon or have feathers or flowers. She wouldn’t wear “boring” things.

“Brick first. Then you,”
Fab barked.
“Hold the mayhem together until we get there. We
’ve
got to go.” She disconnected, as she often did, without a friendly good-bye.
 

Chapter 8

Fab pulled into Famosa Motors, a car dealership specializing in high-end sales and rentals. She screamed to a stop at the front of the showroom. Her driving must have started growing on me, because I hadn’t complained once and I'd finally let go of the cheater bar.

Two salesmen leaned against a large column to the side, giving us a cursory glance before they went back to their conversation. They were new guys, which was no surprise as none of them stayed around long. These two reminded me of pimps: dark eyed with slicked-backed hair, dressed in their Florida uniform of shorts and tropical shirts that were unbuttoned to show off their bear-hairy chests, covered in gold chains.

“Hey, Bitsy,” I yelled as we walked in and past her desk. “Your fake hair looks better than usual.”

Bitsy was Brick
’
s long time receptionist. Her biggest job qualification was a pair of double D
’
s. Brick boasted that he promoted from within when he transferred Bitsy over from his strip club.

She also ran an unsavory side business of selling information. I
’
d heard through gossip, which in our line of work frequently turned out to be the most reliable source, that Bitsy had screwed another customer, reselling the same information several times over.

Apparently, the victim showed up at Famosa
Motors,
making a huge stink until the security guards escorted him off the property. He left, shouting threats and obscenities. I wondered if Brick gave her the talk about the rules, when to and when not to screw people over. Long overdue, in my opinion.

Bitsy liked us even less than we liked her, which was saying something after she had screwed us over on a business deal last year. To show our displeasure, we tormented Bitsy as much as possible. On one visit, I pulled her hair and, to my surprise, it came completely off, revealing ugly, chopped-off, multi-colored hair. “I wish Brick would get rid of the two of you,” Bitsy snapped. She gave us the finger.

“Oh, you're hurting our feelings.” I wiped away a pretend tear, sniffing as though holding back the floodgates.

Fab and I looked at one another and giggled, gliding past her and up the stairs.

“I need a favor,” Brick said as he flashed his loathsome smile. “I
’
d appreciate if the two of you would skip the drama and just do it. I
’
d hate to remind you that you both owe me.”

I squinted at him. “You’ve got a lot of f
’
ing nerve. If Mother were here, she
’
d beat the hell out of you.”

Mother had met him a handful of times, and she
’
d never been impressed.
Smarmy
was the word she used when referring to him.

Fab laughed.

“How many times have the jobs you’ve given us exploded in a hot second?” I demanded.

“You could have just dumped this favor in my lap,”
Fab smirked.
“But no. For whatever reason, you have to have Madison on the job. Does that sum it up?”

Brick sighed.
“You remember Carmine Ricci, Madison? He
’
s got a job for you. I told him you already have a partner. He didn’t like it, but accepted it. He’s a preferred client, and I want you to take the job.”

“Do you know any details?” Fab asked.

“He only said this job needs a woman
’s
touch
.
I’ve got a number here and he
’
s waiting for your call.” Brick pushed a notepad across the desk.

I met Mr. Ricci on my first luxury car delivery. The experience was intense and a bit scary. He’d been a gentleman, but, then again, I
’
d never had the occasion to tell him, “No, I
’
m not interested.”
I was willing to bet that Mr. Ricci never heard those words from anyone.

“He
’s
a mobster,” I told Fab.

“There
’
s no proof of that ugly accusation,” Brick huffed. “
Carmine’
s a retired businessman and any stories to the contrary are lies. I’ll remind you, he
’
s also a longtime friend of mine.”

Brick was one of those people who expected other people to take his every word as gospel truth.

“Call him,” Brick pointed to the paper in front of me. “He
’
s waiting for your call.”

Fab left her spot at the window that overlooked busy street below, surrounded by pricey commercial real estate. She made herself comfortable in the over-sized chair next to me, then dialed the number and put the call on speaker.

The phone rang twice and Carmine answered. “
Madison?
”

“
Hello, Mr. Ricci. I’
m here with my partner, Fabiana Merceau.”

“Yes
,
partners
. I
don’t approve, but Brick assures me that you only work in pairs. I have a matter of the utmost discretion that needs to be taken care of as soon as possible. Today, if at all possible. Are you available?”

I closed my eyes and shook my head.

“We can clear our schedule,” I said, against my better judgment. I didn’t think we had any plans, but with Fab you never knew. She had a tendency to spring jobs on me at the last minute.

“My mother is in a bit of legal difficulty. I believe she became overwhelmed by the legal system and has run away. She's in hiding. I don’t think she
’
d leave the South Florida area, as she has no ties to anywhere else.”

“She didn’t kill anyone, did she?” I asked.

“Hardly,” he sniffed. “She
’
s eighty-five. I need her handled with care and brought back home without scaring her to death. I need someone to reassure her. My lawyers have made this misunderstanding a top priority, and I
’
m certain I can make the charges go away. She doesn’t need to fear incarceration.”

I shook my head at Fab and pinched the bridge of my nose. We looked at one another, both of us understanding that his story stunk.

“Do you have any idea of where we
’
re supposed to look?” I asked.

“Brick has a photo and a list of addresses. He’ll give it to you. I
’
m hoping to hear from you soon. Don’t
disappoint
me.
”
He hung up.

Brick reached into a side drawer and withdrew a folder, sliding it across the desk.

“She needs to be found and brought in nice and quiet.”

“Did she commit a felony?” I scowled at him.

His slow response was noted.

“Carmine wants his mother back. If she's not found, I’ll be out a lot of money, as I posted bail for Carlotta.”

That was a nice non-answer.

“Cut the bull and spit out the truth,” Fab said as she stood up. “
Never mind. Let’
s go.”

“Sit down,” he half yelled. “She was charged with prostitution, pandering, and some other minor charges.”

I looked at him with pure disgust, and looted the snack bowl on his desk, pouring the contents in my purse.

“That
’s
the worst made-up story I
’ve
ever heard.”

Fab and I had reached the top of the stairs when Brick yelled, “
Wait! She runs a high-class prostitution ring, catering to the uber-rich out of South Beach. Other than this misunderstanding, she has a clean rap sheet.
”

“How are we supposed to find her?” Fab yelled back.

“Get back in here,” he barked. “And no more yelling, unless it
’
s me doing the yelling.” He waited until we were seated.

“In addition to Carmine
’
s list, I scribbled down a couple of possible hiding places. This requires discretion. She
’
s not to know that her son
’
s got his people combing the streets. She
’
s not stupid; she turned selling sex into a multi-million dollar business. I suspect she
’
s on alert.”

“What happens to her when we return her to her gangster son?” I asked,   taking
Fab's former spot on the window ledge and watching the busy traffic below.

“He
’ll
put a guard on her until the case is settled. He
’
s got his lawyer hammering out a deal that doesn’t include prison time, which will get blown to hell if she
’
s running around making headlines. Or worse, speaks to the wrong person.”

“We
’
re not interested.” Fab leaned against the door frame and turned on her heel. “You get another missing cat case, give us a call.”

“
Damn it.
You
’
re perfect for the job. Well, she is, anyway,” he said, sitting straight up and pointing at me. “Which is why Carmine requested you.”

I smirked and fluttered my eyelashes at Fab.