Swindled in Paradise (3 page)

Fab opened the front door, and I wiggled in front of her. “Didier, she hit me,” she yelled.

I rolled my eyes and grabbed at her, coming up with air as she skated across the kitchen into the arms of her tall, dark-haired, blue-eyed, flawless boyfriend, a highly sought-after male model with only a first name.

“I saw the whole thing,” Brad said. “Madison used to do that to me as a kid.” He held my long-haired black cat in his arms, spoiling him with a treat that he offered in the palm of his hand. Jazz, who was twenty going on a hundred, took a cautious sniff, then wolfed it down.

My brother was the only fair-haired man in the room, more “boy next door” than anything that smacked of the disreputable. Over six feet, like the other two, he was tanned and brawny from hours spent on the water as a commercial fisherman.

“Damn, no girl brawl?” Creole snapped his fingers.

Creole, AKA Luc Baptiste, was my boyfriend and was sometimes snidely referred to as my cousin, as my aunt had unofficially adopted him as a kid, offering him shelter from an abusive father. The tallest of the bunch, with shoulder-length dark hair, he stood at the kitchen island with his arms crossed and a smirk on his lips.

I dropped my bags on the entry bench and walked into his outstretched arms.

“How was your day, honey?” His deep-blue eyes sparkled with amusement.

He’d ditched his work uniform of ratty blue jeans for shorts and a t-shirt that stretched across his rock-hard abs. As an undercover drug cop, blending in with the seedier element required that he seldom wore shoes. Today, he’d donned boat shoes, showing off his long, tanned legs.

Fab rushed over, hugging me. “I forgive you,” she said, then whispered in my ear, “Don’t mention the shooting.”

I flashed her an evil stare; she knew I hated to keep things from Creole––most of the time, anyway.

Creole pulled me back against his chest. His arms around my waist, he leaned down and whispered, “What’s she up to now?”

I looked up into his eyes, happy he was here. “Let’s sneak out the patio doors and go make out on the beach.”

The kitchen area blended into the living room, making the downstairs area a large open space with a wall of windows running along the back and French doors that opened onto the patio and pool. I’d made few changes inside: adding a coat of fresh paint, rearranging the furniture, and trying to prevent myself from over-accessorizing. All family events were held at my house, as I had the most room and the largest outdoor entertaining space.

The patio had been my personal stamp on the house. I hired a contractor to build an outdoor kitchen with plenty of storage and comfortable seating, which was a high priority. I’d finished the counter top myself, with small seashells for the finishing touch. Brad had contributed a large barbecue that could cook up delicious, aromatic food … if only one knew how to turn it on.

On the left side of the yard, an opening in the side fence led to a pathway and a set of steps that ended on the white, sandy beach a short walk from the shoreline. It had been overgrown with knee-high weeds, but once cleared, the shortcut to the beach was a welcome surprise. Now the small area was filled with brick pavers.

All eyes turned to the garden window over the kitchen sink as a woman with long blond hair wiggled by, a shopping bag in each hand. Phil, the bartender at Jake’s, had offered to deliver our takeout order on her way home.

Brad had the door open before Phil could knock, and she strode right in, setting everything on the counter.

“Thanks for the delivery. You’re the best,” I said.

“Just kissing up to the boss.” She waved to everyone.

Most people who knew Philipa Grey, a curvaceous young woman in short-shorts, also knew that she was a third-year law school student. The real secret was that she ran a side business selling information. Her street sources could be depended on to get the kind of dirt that local law enforcement couldn’t coax out of anyone. She and her associates located people reluctant to be found and got them to talk. For an extra fee, they would force a sit-down meeting. Phil always managed to stay under the radar, never attracting unwanted attention. In my experience, she delivered what she promised, which was why Fab and I called her instead of our unreliable street snitches, who traded info for cigarettes.

While Phil took the containers out of the bags, I grabbed plates and silverware. With a shuffling of the stools, there was enough room for all of us, including Phil to sit around the island. My brother got out an assortment of beers—none of the guys could agree on the same brand—and Creole had the blender going for margaritas while Fab’s favorite vodka appeared on the counter.

A pounding on the front door brought the activity to a halt. Fab jerked open the junk drawer and grabbed the Beretta that was inside. It sounded to me like a cop knock, which I’d mastered a long time ago. Creole nodded to Brad, who checked the peephole, then turned and shrugged, opening the door.

Kevin crossed the threshold. He never showed up at the house in uniform unless he was on official business.
Now what?
I thought.
Wait until Creole hears about the horse.
I wanted to laugh, but Kevin looked serious.

Kevin stalked into the kitchen, skipped the pleasantries, and ordered, “Didier, would you step outside.”

Fab had slipped the gun back into the drawer when Kevin set foot in the house, but she jumped in front of Didier. “I don’t think so. What do you want?”

Creole spoke up, his mouth a firm line. “What’s going on, Kevin?”

Didier shook his head. “Good question.”

“Hands behind your back,” Kevin ordered. “You’re wanted for the murder of Lauren Grace.”

Didier’s eyebrows shot up. “Murder?”

The man wasn’t a cold-blooded killer, and the look of shock on his face convinced me he had no knowledge of the crime. I’d known him long enough to know he was an honorable, straight-up guy. “Doesn’t Didier have the option of telling you to go…stuff it?” I asked.

“I know you think you know the law, since you’re always busy trying to skirt around
your
legal issues, but this piece of paper gives me the authority.” He held up an official-looking document.

Fab jerked it from his fingers.

“Don’t say a word,” I told Didier. “I’ve got the best criminal lawyer in the state on speed dial. Do not speak to
anyone,
” I stressed, “without speaking to Cruz Campion first.” I tossed a glare at Kevin.

“This isn’t cool,” Brad told Kevin. “There’s no other deputy on duty to make this arrest?”

Kevin, by virtue of his sister and Brad being together, had been included in family get-togethers lately. The same events that Didier had been a part of for longer than him.

Does Kevin have to look pleased when whipping out the cuffs?
I thought.

Fab handed me my phone.

I eyed the screen and saw that she’d already dialed the lawyer’s office. I was on hold momentarily before he picked up. “Cruz Campion,” he said.

I hit the highlights, knowing he liked his information quick and to the point. Cruz only had one question when I was done. “His lawyer wants to know where you’re taking him,” I barked at Kevin.

“He’s going to the local station. Miami is sending an officer to pick him up,” Kevin responded.

I relayed the information to Cruz. “No talking to anyone until you talk to your lawyer,” I called out as Kevin cuffed Didier and led him out the door, Creole right behind.

The trio passed the window, Creole talking to Didier. He gave him a pat on the back when they reached the patrol car. I knew he was reassuring Didier that he and I would use every connection between us to make sure he didn’t end up in jail and, if the worst happened, that I had bail connections. Creole would be the biggest help since he worked directly for the Miami Chief of Police and if… well, Creole could get Didier jail perks.

Fab’s hands shot out in front of her as she demanded, “Who the hell is Lauren Grace?”

Brad shot a look at Didier, still standing in the driveway, before answering, “She’s VP for the 100 Ocean Boulevard Corporation, the real estate developer of the new project we’re partnering on.”

Fab grabbed her keys and ran to the door. “Call me if you hear anything.”

I grabbed the back of her shirt before she could disappear out the door. “Where are you going?”

“I’m going to follow Didier, so when he walks out of the police station, he’ll have a ride home.” Fab looked a wreck, not at all her usual calm and collected self.

I didn’t bother to remind her that it might take a while. Instead, I said, “Call if you need company.”

Kevin put Didier into the back of his car and, without a word to Creole, got behind the wheel and sped away.

Chapter 4

“Do you have something to write on?” Phil asked.

I’d forgotten that she had stood off to one side, listening intently. I knew that if there’d been any illegality on Kevin’s part, she would have spoken up. I pointed to the junk drawer, which really should be labeled “multi-purpose,” as it held a number of useful items, the Beretta, a switchblade, and the large plastic zip ties that could function as handcuffs.

To keep busy, I reclosed the lids on the takeout containers and made room for them in the refrigerator. Good thing everyone enjoyed leftovers, except Fab, who complained but ate them anyway.

“Lauren Grace.” Phil scribbled. “What do you want to know?”

“Who killed her? It’s not Didier; I know that much, it’s not in his character,” I said. “Unearth every piece of information about the deceased and her life and get a list of those who might want her dead. Hopefully the list is short.”

I leaned over the sink to scan the driveway, figuring Creole had left, but I saw him leaning against the fence as he talked on his phone. He would call in favors for his friend and cycling partner. The two of them loved to ramp up the testosterone, taking exercising to a new level, and recently, they’d included my brother in their insanity.

“Partner?” I said to myself. I locked eyes with Brad. “On what?”

“We planned to bring you up to speed tonight.” He ran his fingers through his sun-bleached hair, blowing out a frustrated breath. “Didier and I started talking about working on a project together before I sold the trailer court. He got a tip about a couple of condo developments in Miami Beach that could be had for dirt cheap because the developer went bankrupt before completing them. So we put together a group of investors. You’re one of them.”

I shook my head and let out a sigh. “I know we discussed doing something but I didn’t realize it was already in the works. Who’s Lauren and how does she fit in?”

“Didier’s friend Patino Balcazar is the real estate developer who gave him a heads up on the deal. Lauren is his VP. A new title; she just recently got promoted from assistant.” Brad paused to finish his beer.

Patino?
I thought. So there was a connection between B’s—the restaurant with all the bullet holes in it—and Fab’s boyfriend, and she’d kept that tidbit to herself.

Brad continued, “Nothing gets done without Lauren. She’s the brains of the outfit; Balcazar doesn’t get hands dirty with the details. We were in negotiations to acquire one of the bankrupt properties before it went to auction.”

“Don’t auctions have pesky requirements—like cash? Are we talking beachfront?” I realized I was holding my breath at the thought of how much the asking price might be and let out a whoosh of air.

Brad nodded. “With Balcazar’s connections, our bid was accepted before auction. We secured financing from a short-term lender, had a lawyer read the fine print of the contracts, and were waiting for the title company to schedule a closing. Lauren was a bit abrasive and snooty, but she handled the details with extreme efficiency.”

“Who’s we? How many people are in this investor group?” I slurped down the last of my margarita.

“Would you like another, Boss?” Phil reached for the glass.

I put my hand over it. “You’re a guest.”

“It’s a bad habit.” She smiled.

“The group’s all family: me, you, Creole, Didier, Mother, and Spoon. You do remember we talked about reinvesting the profits from the trailer court? You said you were content with being a silent partner.” Brad sounded defensive.

Good riddance to the trailer park,
I thought. “I trust you, and I knew that once you found something, you’d fill me in. A family affair. Are you sure you can work with all the diverse personalities?”

“Just call me ring master.” Brad cracked an imaginary whip. “I like ordering people around. Most are silent partners, like yourself, and will be given regular reports and financials. No background checks necessary since we know every one.” He glanced at Phil, who stopped taking notes. “I’d have wagered my…” He paused, turning red. “Only Didier and I have had dealings with Lauren. None of the others even know her, let alone have reason to kill her.”

I opened the refrigerator and took out a bottled water, holding one up for Phil and raising my eyebrows in a silent question. She nodded, and I handed her the water.

“It’s a bigger project than I’d originally planned and definitely required more investment capital. Truthfully, once Didier pitched the idea, I didn’t want to be left out. It was a big ego boost to find out that I could contribute more than brawn.” Brad flexed his bicep. “I used old connections from when Aunt Elizabeth and I had a few business deals going to arrange the financial backing we needed.”

“Elizabeth would be very proud of you.” I thought of the woman who had changed all our lives. She’d known how to bring out the best in each of us, and because of her, I’d found out I could hold my own in a tight situation. “How is this partnership going to work? Once the deal closes, who takes on the responsibility of construction? The
silent
partners just sit back and rake in the profits?” That seemed out of balance to me.

“Didier and I are going to be general contractors on the deal. We’ve already lined up sub-contractors through Spoon’s connections. Creole offered up brawn. All of us but Didier have a background in construction, and we’ll soon toughen up those callous-free hands of his.”