Swindled in Paradise (29 page)

I secured the toggle and squinted at the gemstones. “I bet these are real. I got one of these once. Well, not quite as big, but still my favorite piece of jewelry.”

“Preston and I are just friends,” Fab whispered.

“In your mind, he’s a friend. But that—” I pointed at the gift. “—is an invitation to call if you ditch Didier.”

Selfishly, I hoped that never happened. Preston was cute in that tall, dark and handsome way that we were both attracted to, but he wouldn’t fit into our foursome.

Chapter 41

Creole sat in a chair across from Didier and tugged me down onto his lap as we waited for Fab to make her entrance. Didier looked at his watch for the fifth time. Wouldn’t she be surprised when she saw that neither Creole nor I were dressed to go to dinner. The common theme of late was dressing up for these couples get-togethers, but I was in the mood for greasy tacos and a margarita. Creole had licked his lips when I mentioned a change of plans, his thoughts going directly to tamales. Our dining choice didn’t require anything more than shoes and a shirt, or so the sign said.

Fab emerged on the landing and flounced down the stairs in a short black A-line dress and heels that showed off her long tan legs, her hair tumbling in waves down her back. She absentmindedly played with the bracelet on her right wrist.

Didier whistled in appreciation. The man had on a black silk shirt and slacks, and had the best taste in shoes as he favored Italian loafers.

Creole whispered in my ear, “You look pretty delicious in your shorts, which I know would come off with one yank.”

I wiggled in his lap.

Fab turned her attention to Creole and me. “Why the hell aren’t you two dressed?” Her hands flew to her hips.

Didier leaned back and smiled, not the least bit concerned that we were on the hot seat. He’d warned us earlier that she would throw a fit.

“We—” I pointed to myself and Creole. “Aren’t going, but thank you for inviting us.” She started to speak and I held up my hand. “I should’ve told you sooner but chickened out. If you wait on us to get ready, you’ll be late for your reservations, which I already changed to two people.” I smiled.

“If we invited you to greasy hot dogs instead of a five-star restaurant, you’d be ready to go,” she huffed.

“Sadly, yes.” I winked at her.

“Now that that’s settled,” Creole said. “Call us if a gunfight breaks out.”

Didier reached out and took Fab’s wrist in his hand. “That’s a nice bracelet. I don’t think I’ve seen that one before.”

I tensed in Creole’s arms.

“What?” he whispered.

I shook my head. Fab had a way of letting the truth trickle out; I had no idea what she would say about this one. I hadn’t said anything yet either, but then, the delivery had only happened this morning.

“Remember Ursula?” Fab said.

“You steal that from her?” Creole hit the arm of the chair in amusement.

Fab turned and glared. “I did not.”

Didier wiped the smile off his face before she turned back around.

“Mr. Preston sent it as a thank-you gift for a job well done.” Fab fingered the stones.

Didier eyed the bracelet and pulled her into his lap. “So you have an admirer. Should I worry?”

“I told him from the beginning that I had a boyfriend.”

I spoke up. “Actually, she said, ‘I’m with the love of my life.’”

Fab blushed, and Didier tightened his hold on her. “I feel the same way,” he smiled. “But don’t think I won’t call him and threaten him with a painful disappearance. I have my own connections.”

Creole ran his fingers up and down my arm. “What did you get?”

“Cash. Just once, I’d like to be the hot one.” I stuck out my lower lip.

He turned my face to his. “You’re my hot one.” He kissed me.

“Stop with the kissy face,” Fab grouched. “We’re going to be eating soon.”

Chapter 42

Fab and I lay by the pool, but we’d moved our chaises under the tree in the far corner, giving us shade from the sweltering sun. She checked her phone frequently, worried that she hadn’t heard from Didier. He’d had an appointment with his lawyer, and both of them hoped to hear that the police no longer considered him a person of interest.

“I’ll take a lemonade while you’re up,” I grinned. “Not too much ice.”

“I guess you didn’t notice I was sitting.” She stood. “But please, let me.” She slunk her way across the patio in her black string bikini.

“Thank you,” I called to her retreating back.

I closed my eyes and breathed in the salty air, relishing the do-nothing day. After ten minutes had passed, I said to myself, “Where’s Fab?” I looked at the French doors. If we were out of our drink of choice, she’d improvise; she knew everyone’s favorites. I tapped my foot on the chaise, noticing that she’d left her phone behind. Changing my mind about a quick swim, I headed for the house.

From the doorway, I could see that the kitchen was empty. To make sure, I poked my head around the corner, in case she had the refrigerator open. No Fab. I stood at the sink, looking out, and saw both our vehicles parked in the driveway. The silence enveloped me. Not seeing a glass or anything on the counter, I realized that Fab hadn’t even started on the drinks. A little chill ran up the back of my neck.

I’m overreacting,
I thought.
Just call out her name.

I slid open the junk drawer and reached for the Berretta. I could hardly stuff it in my bathing suit, so opted to hold it at my side, just behind my thigh. I stayed within arm’s distance of the kitchen and yelled, “Fab!”

I waited, hearing nothing, then yelled again. “Fab!” It came out more like a screech. Jazz lifted his head off the pillow on the daybed.

Having no choice, I crept up the stairs, gun held out in front of me, finger on the trigger. Fab’s door was open, and her room was empty. I peered in my bedroom, but nothing was out of place.

“Fabiana Merceau, are you up here?” I yelled, my throat not happy with me. Remembering that she’d left her phone on the chaise by the pool, I ran back downstairs.

“I’m right here.” She came in through the doors from the pool, her gun poking the back of the wiry man stumbling in front of her. She’d cuffed his hands behind him and taken the time to get out her shiny, stainless steel professional cuffs instead of using the zip ties we kept in the kitchen.

“Have a seat.” She shoved him down into a chair. “Caught him lurking around the front with this in his hand.” She pulled out a Luger handgun and set it on the counter. “And lookie! Cuffs of his own.” She placed those next to the gun.

“How can we help you?” I asked the man.

“Fuck you,” he snapped.

I shook my finger. “Vulgar words are no longer allowed in this house.”

He let out a chilling laugh. “You’re a dead bitch.”

I backed up into the entry and exchanged the Beretta for my Glock, which was in my bag sitting on the bench. “He’s not very talkative.” I arched a brow at Fab. This couldn’t be good. Surely if he had the wrong house, he’d have tossed out that excuse already.

Fab clocked him across the back of his head with the butt of her Walther. He slumped over. “We need to go through his pockets. Hopefully, we’ll find out who he is and what he wants. The Lexus he rode up in is what caught my eye.”

“We? This is your find.”

“His jeans are tight.” She wrinkled her nose.

“I noticed that. It’s not like we have to take them off; just check the pockets.”

“If he’s naked, he probably won’t get any ideas about running off before we’re done with him,” she said.

“I suggest we get this over with and tie him to a chair.” I dropped to the floor on his left side. “You do the other side. Then I’ll call a pickup service, and get rid of him.” I hesitated, then stuck my hand in his pocket and pulled out a cell phone.

Fab searched the other pocket and came up with keys and cash.

I grabbed the key ring off her finger. “You tie him up, and I’ll toss the Lexus.” I turned to go. “I only know one man who can get rid of him and the car at the same time.”

“Take your gun,” Fab instructed.

“Don’t worry. I’ll check both ways before making a move. I learned from the best.” I smiled at her and grabbed my phone and fit it down the front of my bathing suit top. I found a pair of latex gloves in a kitchen drawer and snapped them on, then went out through the patio doors and into the passageway that wound around to the beach or the front of the house, depending on your direction. I huddled in the corner for a moment, scanning the property before setting foot in the courtyard. Passing the Hummer and Mercedes, I peeked in the windows—nothing. The street was clear in both directions, neither a person nor a car that I hadn’t seen in the neighborhood before, aside from the Lexus parked at the curb. I texted Creole “911” and hit send. No answer. I called him without waiting for an answer, a thousand questions running through my mind. “What’s going on today?” I yelled at the phone when it went straight to voicemail.

Before hitting the key fob, I looked in the windows of the Lexus, front and back. All clear. I gave a thought to opening the trunk and rejected it. I didn’t want another surprise—a dead body, for example. I slid in and slammed the door, locking myself in. A piece of letter-size paper on the passenger seat listed my address, Fab’s and my names, and the license number of the Hummer.

The car was clean, nothing under the seats or in the glove box, not a single piece of trash. That left the trunk.
Fab would have opened it by now,
I thought.
I’m not her,
I whined back.

Taking a deep breath, I found the trunk lever, bent down, Glock in hand, and pulled it up. The lid clicked open and I got out, and jumped behind the open door and waited. After what seemed like an hour, I went around to the passenger side and sent the truck lid flying up.

The contents made me nauseated, but I felt fairly certain I wouldn’t retch in the street. Rope, rags, a golf putter; I didn’t want to think what that might be used for. I used the muzzle of my Glock to poke at two folded plastic items, which turned out to be body bags. I slammed the trunk, locked up the car, and ran back inside.

“Les Nado.” Fab pointed to the man. She’d left him lying on the floor, secured to an overturned dining room chair. Good luck standing up when anchored to one of those. He was coming around, mumbling and trying to move without success.

“Car’s clean. Only this.” I held up the piece of paper. “Our names and address. What’s weird is the Hummer’s license plate number.”
Why?
I wondered.

“He’s got our ugly driver’s license photos on his phone. He’s definitely here for us. What does he want?” she asked, as though I had an answer.

“He’s here to kidnap us.” I listed the items I’d found in the trunk.

“Who did we piss off now?”

“You figure that out while I go change. Will you be okay for a few minutes?” She nodded and I ran upstairs. I tossed my bathing suit on a nearby chair, pulled on crop sweatpants, tugged a sports bra over my head followed by a T-shirt, and smooshed my feet into tennis shoes, with the laces already tied. My sweat-soaked hair looked like a giant bush. I twisted it around and held it together with a clip. Finally, I strapped on a waist holster, slipped the Glock in it, and shoved my phone in my pocket.

“Everything okay?” I asked, coming downstairs.

Fab had her cell phone to her ear. “Voicemail again,” she huffed.

“That seems to be epidemic today. Same thing with Creole.”

She scrolled through her phone. “Didier texted hours ago, that he’d gotten a call from Balcazar and planned to stop by his office. I’ve called him several times, but it goes to voicemail. Why would he agree to meet with that man?”

What started out as a great day had rapidly gone downhill. “We need help. I want this cretin out of my house.” I called Creole, but his phone was still turned off. I scrolled through my phone, looking for a Plan B. My finger hovered over the name, ‘Help.’ Twice in one week was getting to be a nuisance, and I could hear the man grumbling already.

“What?” the ever-friendly man answered his phone.

“Can you find Creole?” I asked.

“No. Hi, how are you?” he chuckled.

Now
he wants to do friendly instead of his usual get-to-the-point conversational style. I opted to stay silent instead of screaming my frustration in his ear.

“He’s up in Miami,” he said after a moment. “I can be at your house in a few.” His tone was now all business.

Creole had once assured me that Help could be trusted without reservation. I told him about our unwanted houseguest and that we didn’t know what to do. “Can you get a message to Creole?” I asked, declining his offer of handholding.

“You need answers before you turn his ass over to the cops. I’ll make some calls. You need anything, call back.” He hung up.

“Look at this.” Fab held up a business card. She had the contents of the man’s wallet spread out on the floor, making it look like she’d ripped it apart.

“And it says?”

“Balcazar’s business card, with a couple of Miami numbers scribbled on the back. Also, Les here has the man’s office number and another number for him in his phone.”

I leaned across the counter, taking the card from her fingers, and dialed both numbers. “No answer,” I said. “Voicemail—pre-recorded.”

“It’s rare that Didier doesn’t answer his phone, and when he misses my call, he returns it right away. Has he really been with Balcazar all this time?” she arched a brow. “There’s some connection here. What are we missing?”

I hit speed dial. “I need a favor,” I said when Brad answered. “Don’t flip out.” I put a finger to my lips and pressed the speaker button.

He groaned, “Anything. You need bail?”

“Do you think you can pull off covert and sneaky?” I smiled, knowing he’d be all in.

“It’s in my genes,” he snorted. “I’ve got just as much of Madeline’s DNA as you do. I’m your man.”

“Just make sure Mother doesn’t hear you using her first name again. Don’t think she can’t send you to your room like when you were a kid,” I chuckled. “Do you have Balcazar’s personal phone number?” I moved to the garden window, staring out at the driveway.