Savannah Breeze (24 page)

She reached into her bag and brought out a business card. The card stock was heavy, and the lettering engraved. “Rodolfo Martinez,” it said. No address, no business affiliation. Just a phone number with what I recognized as a Fort Lauderdale area code.

“You can have that,” she said. “But it's been disconnected. I called to tell him the boat was sold, and left a message. Later, when I tried it again, I got the recording saying it was no longer in service.”

“You tried a second time? Even though you'd already sold the boat? Why?”

She giggled. “You want to know the truth?”

“Absolutely.”

“Shhhh,” she said, holding her finger in front of her lips, smearing the lipstick in the process. “Don't tell my lawyer. He'd kill me if he knew. Adam is just looking for an excuse to rewrite our child-custody agreement. See, I knew this Rodolfo of yours was up to something. But I was just bored enough, I thought I'd try to figure out what it was. Let him make his play and see how far he'd take it. And hey, I don't have to tell you. There's something about the guy. I thought,
What the hell. I've never fucked a Cuban before. Maybe it's something I ought to try, just this one time.”

“Lucky you didn't,” I told Sabrina. “Or that ring of yours would be history. Along with everything else you own, right down to your gold fillings.”

She grinned and winked. She really was hammered on those lemon martinis.

“Who says I didn't?”

“What? My lawyer said you never saw him again.”

“Shhh,” she repeated, leaning so far forward she was almost in my lap. “Lawyers don't know everything.”

“Are you telling me you slept with him?”

Sabrina licked the rim of her martini glass. “Mmm-hmm. And, girlfriend, if I wasn't way too smart for my own good, I'd do him again too, that's how fine he was.”

I was momentarily speechless.

“Look,” she said. “My ex was doing hookers right and left. He took one of 'em to Eleuthera for a week! And the whole time, I'm living like a nun, 'cuz my lawyer says, ‘Sabrina, don't give him anything he can take to court.' So, all during the divorce proceedings, the custody shit, everything, I was pure as the driven snow. And afterward, you know, I got a shitload of money, yeah, and full custody of our daughter, but when was the last time I had a little fun?”

I nodded my head in sympathy. And anyway, who was I to judge Sabrina Berg?

“Can you tell me about it?” I asked.

“You want the juicy stuff?” she asked, her eyes glittering.

“No,” I said quickly. “I know the juicy stuff about Roy Eugene Moseley. Just tell me about the, uh, date. Where did he take you? Whose car did you take? Did he talk about his private life at all? Do you know where he's living?”

“Whoa,” Sabrina said. “Slow down. That's a lot of questions.”

“Sorry,” I said. “Just tell me about the date, if you would, right from the beginning. And how long ago was this?”

She took another sip of her martini, which was almost empty. The bartender started to glide over, but I gave her what I hoped was a discreet head shake. I didn't want Sabrina to pass out before I got the story of her date with Reddy.

“Hmm. Last week?”

“That recently?” I said eagerly.

“Let's see. It was maybe, oh, a week ago Thursday. Yeah, that was it, because Chantal had a birthday party to go to on Saturday, and I took her shopping for a new dress Friday morning.”

“Chantal's your daughter?”

“Most gorgeous five-year-old you have ever seen,” Sabrina said proudly. “If nothing else, Adam does make precious babies. The shit.”

“So you went out with Rodolfo Thursday a week ago.”

“Yeah.”

“How did that happen? I thought you said his cell phone had been disconnected.”

“He called me,” Sabrina said, preening a little. “He
said
he was just double-checking to make sure the
Pair-o'-Docs
really had been sold, but we both knew he was calling to see if
I
was still available.”

“Where'd he take you?”

“To Mark's, on Las Olas. You know the place?”

“Afraid not.”

“Incredible food,” Sabrina said. “You really should try it while you're in town.”

“Did he pick you up in the rented Jag?”

“Oh no,” Sabrina said quickly. “I didn't want him going anywhere near my house, or Chantal. Adam has his little spies, and he'd know in a minute if I was being picked up for a date—especially in a Jag. No, Rodolfo suggested Mark's, so I met him there.”

“What did you talk about at dinner?” I asked.

“The usual. The food. He seemed pretty knowledgeable about food and wine. Insisted on ordering for me. I had the most fabulous Hudson Valley foie gras with these huckleberries. I never even heard of huckleberries before. I thought that was a cartoon dog, you know? And then I had crab-crusted black grouper with some kind of mushroom sauce. Divine! And he knew all the right wines to go with everything, of course. And then he wanted to talk about me. He asked a
lot
of questions about my ex-husband, what kind of doctor was he, where did he practice. I'd already told him about how Adam cheated on me on the boat, and he was real sympathetic about that. Said it was a good thing I got such a nice settlement. Of course, he wanted all the juicy details about the settlement, but I just told him I'd done okay. He's a big hand-holder, isn't he?”

“What? Who?”

“Rodolfo. He held my hand all through dinner, and then afterward…”

“Probably trying to get that fatty diamond ring off,” I said.

“Uh-uh,” Sabrina said promptly. She held her hand out to admire the ring. “I had to work
hard
for this sucker. I knew what he was up to. It was like a game for me.”

“Did he talk about himself?”

“He laid a line of bullshit on me, if that's what you mean. Said his family made their money in the sugarcane business. Dropped some fancy Spanish words. Look, I took four years of Spanish in a Catholic high school. And my teacher was Cuban. Besides which, I've been living down here in Havana North for the past eight years. So I know how it's supposed to sound.”

“What did you do after dinner?”

“Thought you said you didn't want to hear the nasty stuff,” Sabrina said, grinning wickedly.

“You can leave that part of it up to my imagination,” I said.

“Like I said, all during dinner, he was putting the moves on me.
You know, holding hands, brushing my thigh with his. Very sexy. And, girl, I was not saying no. Of course, he thought we should go back to my place. But there was no way. I was up for a little sex, yeah, but no way did I want him coming around to my house, around my child. Finally, he invited me back to his place.”

“You went to his place?” I felt my pulse quicken.

She shrugged. “Why not? Okay, I'd been drinking all that wine. And I knew what he was up to, but I didn't care. He didn't seem kinky, or violent, nothing like that. And I had a condom in my purse, so I thought, why not? What's good for the goose is good for the gander, right?”

“Where does he live?” I asked quickly.

“In one of those new high-rise developments overlooking the intracoastal,” Sabrina said.

“Does it have a name?” I asked.

“Beats me,” she said. “I just followed him over there in my car. It's about ten minutes from the restaurant, I can tell you that. On, like, the seventh floor maybe.”

Great. I wondered how many hundreds of new high-rise condo developments there were along the intracoastal waterway in Fort Lauderdale.

“Maybe you'll think of the name later.”

“Probably not,” Sabrina said, chewing on a strip of lemon peel, all that was left of her martini. “It was dark. I was interested in getting laid, not in getting his address.”

“Sorry,” I said. “What was the condo like?”

“Fancy,” she said. “Swanky. Lots of modern furniture, great art. Lots of accessories. No way was it his place.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I could just tell. It had been professionally decorated. You know, with elaborate window treatments. Okay, here was one thing. The dining-room table was this smoked-glass deal, with chrome legs. Real modern. It was set! Dishes, napkins, silver, everything. Right down to
a silk-flower centerpiece. You ever know a single guy who leaves his dining-room table set—with a centerpiece and everything?”

“No. Most of the guys I've dated had piles of dirty sweatpants as a centerpiece.”

“Exactly,” she said. “I figured it was maybe the furnished model. And then, later, when he wouldn't even let me take a shower in the bathroom—which, come to think of it, also had a silk-flower arrangement—I knew for sure it wasn't his place.”

“He wouldn't let you shower?”

“Nope. I really did not want to go home smelling of some guy's essence, you know? I mean, a lot of nights, Chantal climbs in bed with me. But he made this lame excuse that the hot-water heater was broken. I mean, talk about a born liar!”

“He is that,” I agreed.

“Anyway, the whole night got cut short, after he got that phone call.”

“Did he say who was calling?”

“He
said
it was his stockbroker. Which was another crock. But I'd gotten what I wanted, he'd gotten, well, not exactly what he wanted probably, since I made it clear this was strictly a one-time thing, so I figured, call it a night. He walked me to my car, kissed me good night. He does have pretty manners, doesn't he? And I watched to make sure he wasn't following me. He wasn't. And that's the last time I saw or heard from Rodolfo Martinez. Or whatever his name is.”

After calling Harry
to pick me up, I walked Sabrina out to the restaurant's entry. “Are you okay to drive?” I asked, as she swayed gently before grasping a thick rope handrail. “Can I call you a cab?”

“I'm fine,” she insisted. “Anyway, my girlfriend's gonna pick me up. And then I'll buy both of us a 'spensive bottle of wine and a great dinner. And then I'll go home alone, to my kid.” She brightened then. “Did I tell you about my Chantal?”

“The most precious little girl in Broward County,” I said.

“Forget Broward, she's the cutest thing in the whole damn state of Florida,” Sabrina said, waving her arms expansively.

A little, red Miata convertible with the top down pulled through the drive then, tooting its horn, the driver, an attractive blonde, waving her arms wildly.

“There's my friend M'Linda,” Sabrina said. “Hey, why don't you come with us? We can have a lot of fun. M'Linda knows all the good clubs.”

“Sorry,” I said, meaning it. “I've got a friend picking me up, too.”

“Boyfriend?” she said, giving me a broad wink.

“Well, he's a man, but we're not romantic,” I explained. Just then the burgundy Electra turned into the driveway and glided to a stop behind the Miata. Harry was at the wheel, and he was alone.

“Come with us and we'll get you a boyfriend,” Sabrina said, struggling to open the passenger door of the Miata.

“Maybe another time,” I said. “Thanks so much for talking to me. You were a big help. I hope everything works out.”

“C'mon, BeBe,” Sabrina said, collapsing into the Miata. “We'll have a blast.”

“Can't,” I said, pointing to the Electra. “My friend's here.”

Sabrina stood up in the seat and craned her neck to get a look. “Hey, is that your boyfriend?” she said, her voice shrill.

“No,” I said quickly. “He's just a friend.”

“What's his name?”

“Harry. Gotta go. Call me if you remember anything else. 'Bye now.” I gave her a quick peck on the cheek, and she threw her arms around my neck and hugged me tightly.

“Hey, Harry,” she hollered, releasing me.

Harry had a map unfolded on the steering wheel, but he looked up now, startled to hear a strange woman screeching his name.

“Hi, Harry,” Sabrina repeated. “You're cute!”

He laughed and gave her a bashful finger wave.

“Whyn't you fuck BeBe?” Sabrina yelled. “She needs a good fuck!”

“Sabrina!” her blond friend trilled. “You're shit-faced!”

The two women laughed uproariously, and M'Linda peeled the Miata out of the restaurant doing at least forty miles an hour.

I watched them screech down Seventeenth Street, sighed, and got in the Electra.

“New friends?” Harry said, putting the map down.

“The gorgeous black woman was Sabrina Berg. She had four lemon martinis,” I said. “I'm thinking she was seriously overserved.”

“Whatever,” he said, shaking his head. He pulled the car out into traffic, at a much safer, more conservative speed, which was good, because it was a spring Friday evening in Fort Lauderdale, and traffic was thick with showy cars and showy people, out to show just how young and beautiful and carefree they were.

“What?” I said.

“Nothing,” Harry said. “How'd it go?”

“Better than I expected,” I said. “How'd it go with you guys? Did you find us a place to stay? Did Granddad get some Scotch?”

“Yes, and yes,” Harry said. A white Mercedes pulled in front of him, and he had to jam on the brakes to keep from rear-ending it. “Damn,” he muttered. “How do people here stand it?”

“You mean the fabulous weather?” It was just getting on to six o'clock, but the sun was still shining, and the palm trees that lined the street were rustling gently in the wind being blown in off the nearby ocean.

“All of it,” he said. “It's all too much. Too many cars, too many people…too much.”

He was in a mood, I could tell.

“Where's the motel?” I asked, changing the subject. “And where are Granddad and Weezie?”

“Grocery shopping,” he said. “The motel's not far from here.”

“Pretty awful?” I asked. “I told her we can't afford beach prices. And it's still high season.”

“Not too bad,” he said. “A little mom-and-pop joint. It's called the Mango Tree. I guess because there's a gnarly old mango tree in the parking lot. It's clean. We're sharing a room, though.”

“Who? You and me?”

“In your dreams,” Harry said, laughing. “No, I meant boys and boys. Me and Spencer, and you and Weezie. They only had the two rooms, and it's not cheap, either. Hundred bucks a night.”

“Oh.” I'd hoped to find something much cheaper. But with Granddad along, I didn't want to check into a really risky neighborhood.

“The rooms are efficiencies. We've each got a little stove and refrigerator. That's why Weezie went shopping. We figured we could save money by fixing cereal in the morning, and maybe keep some sandwich stuff too.”

“Good idea,” I said. “Although I hope we won't be here too long.”

“Did you get a lead on Reddy-Boy's whereabouts?”

“Sort of,” I said. “He took Sabrina to his quote ‘condo.' It's in a new high-rise on the intracoastal waterway. She got the idea he's sort of squatting in a decorated model.”

“Not bad,” Harry admitted. “She tell you all this before she got wasted?”

“She's a nice lady,” I said, feeling the need to defend my new friend. “She got screwed by her ex-husband. Sabrina is actually pretty damned shrewd. She spotted Reddy for a fake the minute she laid eyes on him.”

“But she still went home with him?”

I shrugged. “He's got a way about him. That's all I can tell you.”

He glanced sideways, started to say something, then thought better of it.

“Didn't James tell you Sabrina met Reddy only once?”

“Yeah,” I said. “But as it turns out, she doesn't always tell her lawyer everything. She actually saw him a second time. On a date.”

“Christ!” Harry said.

“Don't start,” I warned. “We've got more than we had when we got here, although I admit, it's not much. I've got the name of the restaurant where they had dinner. It's called Mark's, and it's on Las Olas.”

“That's the main drag,” Harry said. “Expensive stores and restaurants.”

“She said it was maybe a ten-minute drive from the condo. A new development, and they had a furnished model. It's better than nothing. Tomorrow we can find the restaurant and try to figure out which condo development he took her to.”

“He's probably long gone,” Harry said.

I knew he was right, but it wasn't what I wanted to hear just then.

Harry flipped on the turn signal and slowed the Electra in front of a narrow band of lush greenery. “This is the place,” he said.

The Mango Tree Motel had seen better days, probably twenty
years ago. The concrete parking lot was cracked, with weeds growing up through patches of dirt, and the symbolic mango tree was dropping dead branches onto the ground. A sputtering neon arrow pointed toward a concrete-block cube that had been designated “Office.”

“Oh,” I said, getting out of the car. “For this we're paying a hundred bucks a night?”

“It gets better,” Harry said.

I followed him down a cracked concrete sidewalk toward the rest of the units. There looked to be maybe two dozen in all, arranged in a squared-off U shape around a swimming pool. The pool itself was surprisingly clean, a sparkling turquoise oval set in a band of white paving stones, with fiberglass lounge chairs set around its circumference. A couple of little girls splashed in the shallow end of the pool, and nearby, a balding middle-aged man in swim trunks was grilling hot dogs on a portable grill. Salsa music spilled from the open door of one of the units, and people sat out in folding lawn chairs in front of other doors, sipping from soda cans, reading paperback novels, or smoking.

In spite of its somewhat faded shabbiness, I was surprised to find that the Mango Tree felt warm, cozy even.

“These two are ours,” Harry said, gesturing toward units 14 and 15, the second and third units in from the middle of the courtyard. I had my hand on the doorknob when the door opened and Weezie popped her head out.

“Hey!” she said, opening the door wide. “Welcome to Mangoville.”

The unit was approximately the same size as our units at the Breeze, maybe a little larger. A pair of twin beds with bright floral spreads had a blond-wood nightstand between them holding an incredibly ugly lamp. There was a long, low dresser with a mirror, two lumpy armchairs, and in the corner, a little kitchenette with a dorm-size refrigerator, a two-burner range, and a toaster oven. The walls
were painted a virulent shade of orangeish-yellow and the terrazzo floors were bare. A window air-conditioning unit rattled above one of the beds, and a picture window opened out with a view to the pool area.

“Home sweet home,” I said, bouncing up and down on one of the mattresses, which produced an alarming
spoinnnging
noise.

“That one's yours,” Weezie said, plopping down on the opposite bed. “What do you think of the place?”

“It's not the Breakers,” I said. “But it looks okay.”

Weezie sighed. “Think what I could do with this place!”

“Maybe you could work a deal with the management,” Harry suggested. “Decorating advice in exchange for rent.”

“Don't think I didn't ask,” Weezie retorted. “The owner manages the place. Mr. Patel. He didn't think much of the idea. Can you believe he just painted all the units this nightmare color?” She shuddered. “I'll bet all this furniture came from the same close-out place. Flophouse 'R Us.”

“Is my soup ready?” Granddad stood in the connecting doorway to his room. He wore a pair of loud red-plaid swim trunks, black socks, and a blue plaid sport shirt. He'd fit right in with the rest of Fort Lauderdale's senior citizenry.

“Oh, sorry, Spencer,” Weezie said, jumping up from the bed. “I was just getting ready to heat it up for you when BeBe and Harry came back.”

She went to the kitchenette and opened a can of generic cream of tomato soup.

“Soup for dinner?” I asked, wrinkling my nose.

“Four cans for a dollar,” Granddad said. “And I had a coupon too!” He reached in the pocket of his sport-shirt and pulled out a wad of newspaper clippings.

“Spencer here is a great shopper, BeBe,” Weezie told me, dumping the soup into an aluminum pan.

“I'd of done even better if it had been senior-citizen day,” Granddad said. He sat down, and clicked the remote control for the television. “How did your meeting go?”

“Fine,” I said. I'd been deliberately vague about the details of my relationship with Reddy Millbanks. As far as Granddad was concerned, Reddy had simply been a “business adviser” who'd cheated me out of everything.

“The lady I met at the Binnacle was pretty helpful. Tomorrow we can start looking for the condo Reddy was staying at.”

“They've got the weather channel in Spanish down here,” Granddad said. “Ain't that something?”

While he stared at the television, Weezie turned toward me and raised one eyebrow. “Later,” I mouthed.

Harry looked down at the pan of soup with barely disguised disgust. “Is there enough for everybody?”

“We've got four cans,” Weezie said cheerfully. “And cheese and crackers.”

“And canned fruit cocktail for dessert,” Granddad added. “The good kind with the big chunks of pineapple. But you kids don't have to eat soup,” Granddad said, flipping channels now. “Go have a nice dinner out. My treat.”

With a grand flourish he produced a twenty-dollar bill from his coupon pocket. “Your grandmother made me promise to treat you to a nice dinner our first night.”

“Grandmama!” I said. “Did you call her? Is she feeling all right?”

“She's fine,” he said. “She was going to American Legion bingo with the bridge club girls tonight. They have fifty-cent beer, and you know how Lorena likes her beer.”

“Who was driving?” I asked.

“They've got a whole busful of 'em going,” Granddad said. “Can you imagine what that sounds like? A whole busful of beered-up biddies?”

“Well,” I said dubiously, looking at Weezie and Harry. “I guess we could go out. We wouldn't stay late, though. We've got a lot to do tomorrow.”

“I'm in for the night,” Weezie announced. She held up a glossy magazine. “Spencer even had a coupon for the new issue of
Coastal Living
. I'll have dinner and a nice shower, then it's reading and lights out for me.”

“We couldn't just leave you guys here,” I said.

“I don't know why not,” Granddad said indignantly. “Think I need a baby-sitter?”

“No!” we all said in unison.

“You guys go,” Weezie urged. “Really. I'm not even that hungry. Spencer made me try one of his Kit Kat bars while we were shopping.”

I tried to give her the look. The look that said “Quit trying to pair me off with Harry.” She was ignoring me.

“You up for supper?” Harry asked.

“I'm starved,” I admitted.

“There's a little Brazilian cafe right around the corner,” Harry said. “I spotted it earlier. We could walk over and check it out. Do you like Brazilian food?”

“Don't know. I've never had any.”