Deborah Brown - Madison Westin 07 - Kidnapped in Paradise (8 page)

“A little old lady too much for you?” he asked me.

“Don’t look at me,” I told him. “Fab
’
s got the gift with the older set. My expertise is crazy folks, the ones not quite ready for commitment.”

I knew that Fab would agree that we didn’t want anything to do with a case where a grandmother might end up in jail.

“I’ll pay double if you bring Carlotta back to Ricci
’
s house in one piece, with no drama.” Brick
’
s tone sounded a bit desperate, so my guess was he didn’t have anyone else he trusted for the job.

“You
’
ll pay quadruple if anything goes wrong, and I mean
anything
. We don’t get so much as a scratch.” I gave him an evil smile, remembering those were Creole
’s words.

“
Done. Don’t
forget your folder.” Brick picked it up and handed it to me. “Sooner is better than dragging your feet.”

I scanned the list and followed Fab to the stairs, relieved to see all of the addresses were in good areas.

“Stay off the banister!” he yelled.

Fab ignored his rant and climbed on anyway, riding it to the bottom. “Let
’
s make sure we get the quadruple pay without shots fired.”

“Maybe she’ll be like Miss January, drunk all the time. We should take Mother along.”

“Your mother never listens to me,”
Fab huffed. I ignored her, flipping through the file's contents.
      

“This says the arrest took place in a high-end South Beach condo. I highly doubt she
’
d go back there anytime soon. We could snoop around to see if the yellow police tape has been removed.”

“Let
’
s not get arrested. How would we explain an association with Carmine Ricci to Didier and Creole?”

I handed Mrs. Ricci
’
s picture to Fab. “To look at her, you
’
d never suspect she peddled sex for money.”

Carlotta Ricci looked fit and trim, complete with character wrinkles. She looked like a woman of wealth, not prostitution.

“I should probably take a moment to mention that I had fliers distributed all over town. ‘Need a pet finder? Give us a call.
’
Since you
’
re always suggesting it.” I bit my lower lip.

“You did what?” Fab yelled.

I covered my face and laughed.

Chapter 9

Fab pulled into the parking lot of the Oceanfront Towers in Fort Lauderdale, where the Ricci family owned a penthouse.

“All of these addresses seem like a goose chase,” I said as I scanned the list for the tenth time. “I thought this one looked like our best shot. The rest are large properties that must have full time staff, except one commercial property.”
      

Fab had a great, albeit mysterious, connection that made us skeleton keycards. The building we were currently standing in front of needed real keys, though. I wasn’t even mad, since this meant I got to use my handy lock pick and show off my breaking and entering skills. Mother would be so proud. I inserted the two pieces into the lock, turned them at opposite angles, and the lock clicked open. I wanted to kiss the doorknob, but didn’t. I did a second door only a few feet later, with the same result.

Fab leaned against the wall, watching.

“My star pupil,” she cheered as she clapped.

It surprised me that the only security in this high rise were the two doors. You
’
d think in a pricey waterfront building, the security would be more impressive. We rode the elevator as it shot to the penthouse, opening to a small lobby with one door.

“The television is on,” I said, my ear pasted to the door.

“We’ll surprise her.”
Fab smiled.
“She
’
s old; we each get one arm and haul her out.”

“What are the chances she’ll pull a gun out of her bathrobe?” I asked.

Fab pointed her finger at the lock.

“
Here we go,
” I said, working my magic again. The door opened into a large living space with a high-end designer look; everything was in its place, but nothing was comfortable-looking.

Our little bail jumper lay on the couch fast asleep, in front of a large floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked a boat marina.

“Wake her up,” Fab said and nudged me. “Offer her a ride to her son
’
s mansion, so we can get back home.”

“Why me?” I asked, reaching out and gently touching Mrs. Ricci
’
s shoulder.

I looked down at her. Carlotta Ricci scored in the gene pool. An attractive, silver-haired woman, she looked a lot younger than her age and was in excellent shape. No ugly shift dresses for this woman, either. She had on jade-colored silk pants, and a very expensive pair of ivory satin pumps lay on the floor to match her top.

Startled, she clutched her chest.

“Who in the hell are you?” She sat up, flinging her legs onto the floor and blinking sleep from her eyes.

“I
’
m Madison and this is Fab. Carmine would like you to come back to his house and stay. He
’
s working with his lawyers on a deal that doesn’t include jail time. He
’
s terribly worried about you.” I didn’t know that to be true, but it sounded good.

She retrieved a silver monogrammed cigarette case from the glass coffee table. She took one out and jammed it between her lips, biting down hard on the end.

“No, thanks. Now get out of here before I scream.”

“And who do you think is going to show up?” Fab snorted. “Even if someone could hear you. Now you listen to me. This morning has sucked. I
’
m tired and cranky. Can’t you just hop your bony ass in the car and go drive your son crazy?”

Mrs. Ricci put her glasses on and ran her eyes over Fab in a clinical way.

“You looking for a sugar daddy, Honey? I could get big money for you. Especially if you
’
ll relocate to Europe.”

“What about me?”
I sulked.

She gave me a cursory glance.

“I could get you local work,” she said, her dollar-sign eyes already back on Fab.

“Come on, Grandma,” Fab said and motioned. “You
’
re out of business for a while, and if you want to stay out of jail, you'd best stay out of trouble. Take it from me—you’ll hate everything about jail. No silk anything on your skin and ugly, uncomfortable shoes. And the food is awful.”

“Who in the hell do you think you are? Barging into my house doing the bidding of that snot-nosed son of mine.” Carlotta cracked a smile and, in one swift move, slid a gun from under the sofa cushion. “Sit down, right over there.” She pointed to two chairs in front of the window.

“Toss me your keys,” she demanded and cocked the gun. “I
’
m leaving, all right––but not with either one of you.”

I blew out a frustrated breath.

“Think this through. Once you flee, the authorities will track you down, bring you back, and perp-walk the runaway madam before the cameras. Then, no deal and no bail. You’ll stay in jail until your sentence is served. I’ve been to your son
’
s house; you can snap your fingers for whatever you desire. Are you ready for life on the run? Cheap motels and burger stands?”

“You sound like you speak from experience,”
she sneered.
“Now shut up. Just be happy I don’t want to shoot you unless you force me.”

It made me squirm to watch her wave the gun around, knowing that with the slightest twitch of her finger, it could go off and there was no telling where the bullet would end up.

“You
’
re stupid.” Fab tossed her the keys. “Take the SUV and go; we don’t care. We
’
ll find our way home and you’ll never see our faces again.”

“Do you have a valid license?” I asked. “More importantly, do you know how to drive? I got a really good deal on that auto and would like it back in one piece. No eating or sex, if you don’t mind.”

“You young people are revolting. I've never screwed in a car in my life,” she sniffed.

“Can’t we just take you home before you do something stupid?” I asked.

“Stand up, both of you. Hands in the air. Start walking toward the kitchen. Now!” she yelled.

I felt pretty confident she had no plans to shoot us. I looked at Fab and grimaced.

“
Quadruple,
” she mouthed.

We walked through the dining hall into a kitchen that would rival most commercial kitchens, equipped with top-of-the-line appliances. The only thing missing was a private chef.

“Open the double pantry doors in the corner,” she directed, still waving the gun. “Walk in face first, no turning around.”

The pantry was much like a walk-in closet, but narrow, the shelves stocked with food and spices. Once the door closed, it would take some maneuvering to turn around with the two of us in the enclosed space.

She slammed the door closed behind us. “Now be good girls. The first one who steps out gets the bullet.”

We listened as she dragged a chair across the floor and blocked the door. I wasn’t particularly worried. It would take a while, but we
’
d get out.  If nothing else, we had enough bullets to blow the door off the hinges.

“Bye, girls!” Mrs. Ricci called out.

I smiled to myself. There were two things she had forgotten to ask for––our guns and phones. I leaned forward, head against the shelf, and texted Creole:
SUV stolen, being held in the kitchen pantry,
and
then I input the address.

We listened for any signs that the banging of the front door was a trick.

Fab looked sideways.

“Two choices––kick or shoot our way out?”

“Since it
’s
a shuttered door and not solid anywhere, I say we kick in the slats and crawl out.” Flip-flops weren’t ideal for bashing in the door, but at least I could put more power into my foot facing backward. I didn’t want to boast, but I had previous experience with kicking a door open. The lower slats cracked with the first impact and then snapped in half with the second one.

“Lean into the wall,” Fab instructed.

My movement gave her just enough room to turn so that she could use her tennis shoe, and she sent the rest of the slats flying across the floor. She got on her knees and pushed, sending the chair ricocheting off the stainless steel stove. She crawled out and opened the door; what was left hung on broken hinges.

My phone rang.

“What the hell is going on?” Creole yelled.

“I send you a text for help and you call instead?” I yelled back.

Fab laughed.

“Your phone went to voicemail. You know I hate that,” Creole said.

“
I
guess
I
don’t get great phone service while being locked in a crazy woman
’
s pantry closet. Did you get the Hummer back?”

“Already called in. I
’
m a block away.”

“Don’t bother, we rescued ourselves.”
I hung up.

Fab, who was already halfway to the front door, motioned impatiently for me to follow.