Swindled in Paradise (7 page)

“Which snitch are you using to dig up info on Lauren Grace?” he asked.

“I expect a call anytime with an update. I’ll share what I find out.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

I hadn’t thought I’d get away with not giving up a name, but it was worth a try. “I’d have to ask before revealing the name. Don’t worry, it’s not the homeless guy at the liquor store.”

“I’ve used Bosco a few times myself. Sometimes you get desperate.”

Just as Creole turned onto my street, both of our phones chimed. Fab had texted me that she’d extracted a promise from Brick that the job was local. She knew that I loathed driving all over the state.

Creole pulled to a stop half in and half out of my driveway and returned his call. “You okay?”

I leaned over and tried to listen. After all, Fab employed the same strategy.

He gave me a toothy grin and shook his finger. “I won’t be back until late tonight. Catch up with you over morning coffee.” I watched as he frowned at the phone and made a few grunting noises, his shoulders relaxing a little. He hung up. “Lucky Didier.” He shoved his phone in his pocket. “He has an alibi for the time the coroner estimated for Lauren’s death. He’s not off the hook, but the investigation is going his way.”

“The killer has to be found. Didier’s reputation is being smeared in the tabloids. His long-time agent took a step back and suggested he take a vacation. This is when he’ll find out who his real friends are.” I leaned back against the seat, not eager to go inside and find out what kind of drama awaited. “Why did the police suspect Didier right from the start?”

“Lauren was found dead in her living room, single gunshot to the forehead. No defensive wounds, which suggests she knew her killer. Didier’s jacket lay over a chair.”

I shuddered, my mouth forming an O. “How frightening for Lauren. To stare death in the face and have no way out.”

“Hey.” He wrapped his arms around me. “We’re going to solve this murder and keep Didier out of the slammer.”

He got out of his truck and ran around to my side. When he reached for me, I wrapped my legs around his torso and pulled him down on top of me. I needed a final make-out session to jumpstart my day.

“We need to stop before I drive you around the corner and molest you in public,” he whispered against my lips.

I clutched his shirt and pulled him against me. “We need to do this again—and again—very soon.”

He lifted me out and set me on my feet. The only other way for me to get out of the truck was to roll on my stomach and slide down to the ground. I’d once suggested a stepladder, but he about spit out the water he was drinking.

“Behave yourself,” he said with a low growl.

I wagged my finger. “You need to watch your back. No getting shot.”

He bit the tip of my finger and swooped in for a quick kiss. “I’ll track you down later.” He slid behind the wheel and waved.

A loud whistle echoed across the driveway. Fab, hand on her hip, motioned to me. “We don’t have all day,” she yelled.

Chapter 10

Fab nearly missed the driveway into Famosa Motors, but she’d never admit to not paying attention. A bundle of pure frustration, she hadn’t taken her eyes off the Miami patrol car that had followed her for blocks before we reached our destination. She’d started tapping her fingernails on the steering wheel when the officer pulled up behind her, waiting for his lights to start flashing, but he’d cruised along patiently.

Brick specialized in the sale and rental of high-end cars in this well-located, upscale area of Miami. In addition, he owned pawn shops, bail bonds agencies, and a strip joint in Alligator Alley.

One salesman dogged a mangy-looking guy around the lot, probably afraid he’d touch one of the sports cars. If the would-be buyer was stupid enough to steal it, Brick would have us chase the auto down. The other salesman, who was guarding the front door, straightened up and gave the Hummer a once over. Recognizing us, he nodded and went back to rubbing his back up and down against a pole, a cup of coffee in one hand and a phone in the other.

We walked under the double roll-up doors, both of us admiring the sleek black Lamborghini with red leather interior on display.

“Do you suppose Bitsy’s hiding under the desk?” I eyed the empty chair at the receptionist’s desk.

Fab looked around. “Where is our least-favorite bosomy blonde?”

Brick had promoted his favorite stripper from pole dancer to receptionist; he swore she was an asset to the showroom. What he meant was her double D’s were an attention-getter for his mostly male clientele. Fab and I had had an aversion to her ever since she screwed us on a business deal and bullets were exchanged.

I looked up at Brick’s second-floor office window. Usually, the man stood there surveying his kingdom, but not today. “Shall we scream our arrival from down here or surprise the boss man?”

“I dare you.” Fab quirked her brow.

She knew I’d never make a scene. I ran to the stairs and got there one step ahead of her. We swung our hips back and forth, knocking into one another, laughing all the way to the top.

“Just once,” Brick huffed out a growl, slapping his fist on his desk, “could the two of you not play on the stairs and stay off the damn banister?”

I glanced around the office, checking the tops of the cabinets and the side table before turning to Brick and demanding, “Where’s the candy bowl?”

Fab leaned against the window ledge and scrutinized the busy boulevard below. She liked to scope out all of the exit routes wherever we went. In this office, it was the door or the window, but you’d have to knock out the glass and then risk the long jump and hope for the best.

“Got rid of it. Too much sugar puts on weight.”

The dark-haired, sexy Cuban boxed five days a week at a local gym for badasses. There wasn’t a scintilla of fat on his rock-hard body. His dark brown eyes turned beady as he returned my stare.

“I’ll go sit in the car. Hurry up,” I told Fab and marched to the door.

“You get back here,” he roared. He turned in his chair, opening the credenza, and slammed my favorite bowl on his desk, mini candy bars and, my favorite, a bag of Oreos falling over the side. “I don’t know why you can’t buy your own.”

“I’ve already told you, they don’t taste as good when you have to pay for them yourself.”
Everyone knew that,
I thought.

I picked out a mini Mars bar, which I knew was one of his favorites, and put it in front of him. “Do you have a bag? I forgot my purse.” I fingered the snacks.

“Such a shame. I bet next time you won’t forget your purse.” He rolled his eyes. “Sit down, you two.” He pointed to the leather chairs in front of his over-sized desk.

He kicked back in the chair that comfortably held his considerable, over-six-foot frame. Above his head hung his newest plaque, announcing him to be a Chamber of Commerce Man of the Year. The committee must have overlooked the fact that his businesses ran to the seedy. He stood out from his competition in that he gave back to the community and supported local charities.

Brick sucked down the last of his water. “I suppose you want one of these?” He wiggled the empty water bottle before pitching it in the trash.

I held up two fingers.

His lips turned up on the sides as he struggled to keep from laughing. “This is a simple case of lost and found. There’s to be no confrontation. You’re to recover said items and quietly relocate them to a storage unit that is already rented and waiting.” He pushed a brand-new heavy duty lock across the desk. “Use this to secure the stuff.”

I ripped open a piece of candy and devoured it, squashed the wrapper, and pushed it across his desk. “Thank you.” Annoying him was too much fun today.

He glared at it before flicking it into the trash.

“Simply put, we’re stealing back something that’s already been stolen. Does that sum it up?” I asked. “Have the police been involved
in any way
?”

“Sort of,” he hedged.

Fab and I groaned.

“Ian Neal is the client and a friend of mine, and I can’t stress enough that this has to get done ASAP.”

“How is it that all your clients are so-called friends? You’re certainly popular.” I finished off my water and tossed it over Brick’s shoulder and into the trash. I made a fist pump.

Brick glowered at me. “It’s my sunny, warm personality. I’m a people person.”

“Yeah, me too… people person, that is.” I smiled.

Fab snorted. “Skip to the good part; the part about how the police are involved.”

“Ian broke up with his live-in girlfriend, Ursula Richards. I never liked her.” He spit the last part out. “Ian takes an annual ski trip with his eleven-year-old daughter to Vermont for ten days. He and Ursula had been arguing non-stop and agreed that it was a good time for Ursula to move her things out of the house and that he’d use the time to explain everything to his daughter. When Ian returned, he got the shock of his life. Ursula had moved out all right; she gutted the entire house. She took
everything
—fixtures, appliances, clothing, furniture. She didn’t leave behind a single personal possession, only leaving his daughter’s bedroom untouched.” He shook his head, still not believing what had happened.

“Wonder why she spared the daughter?” I asked.

“Who the hell knows. They did have a good relationship. Ian tried to keep everything from his daughter and make an adventure out of staying in a hotel. When she started asking too many questions, though, he had to lie or fess up, and he chose the latter. She took the news better than him.”

“It must have been quite a shock when he opened the front door,” I said.

“Ha,” Brick said in disgust. “Ian told me it took a minute to register that the front door was missing. When he crossed the threshold, he found that the house had been stripped to the drywall. He scooped up his daughter and took her to the car, ran back in, and surveyed the damage.”

“Is this where the police show up?” Fab tapped her foot impatiently. She preferred cut-to-the-chase explanations.

“Ian didn’t call law enforcement until the next day. They met him at the house. Can you believe she even took the cabinets? Anything that could be removed was gone, and if removing it wasn’t an option, she inflicted damage that left the word ‘repair’ out of the equation.”

“Why so vindictive?” Fab asked.

Brick shrugged. “Bitter over the break-up. I get that Ursula was unhappy—the relationship didn’t work out—but who destroys an entire house?”

“What did the police have to say about this lovely family drama?” I asked.

He pulled a file out of his drawer, shuffling through papers. “Here’s the best part. The officers claimed there wasn’t anything they could do. Referred him to civil court even after they said they’d never seen damage the likes of what had been done. As far as they were concerned, it was a new twist on he said/she said unless he could provide receipts for all the missing items.”

“Did they speak to Ursula?” Fab asked.

“My brother spoke to one of the detectives assigned to the case.” Brick’s brother, Casio, worked for the Miami Police Department as a decorated detective, and there were whispers that he wasn’t a man to screw with. “He reported that she was cooperative, claimed most of the household items belonged to her, and stated that she had left behind anything that belonged to him and had no clue who caused the destruction inflicted on the house. Suggested it might be one of his unsavory connections and that he had low standards when it came to choosing friends.”

“Any prior clues that Ursula was crazy-vindictive?” I asked.

Brick shook his head.

I shouldn’t be so cynical about Brick’s new forthcoming attitude about disclosing unpleasant facts in their grim detail. In the past, one had to read between the lines. I wondered if the confrontation with Creole had made him rethink sending us on jobs in complete ignorance of what to expect.

“Any eyewitnesses?” Fab asked. “What you’re describing took a long time to execute, hours if not an entire day, and certainly could not be done by one lone woman.”

“Several neighbors reported seeing a moving van and four men loading it up. Ursula, calm as can be, walked around the neighborhood, saying her goodbyes and informing anyone that would listen—and they all did—that Ian was a bastard of the worst sort. That he abused her and she feared she’d be killed if she didn’t leave. She claimed she was running for her life.”

Brick opened his refrigerator and took out another bottle of water. “She reported all these claims to the police, and in addition to her friend theory, she offered up another theory that it was a hoax orchestrated by Ian to provoke sympathy. According to Ian, the police acted like they deserved each other and were happy to refer the happy couple to the courts and let them figure it out.”

“Any truth to her claims?” I asked.

“No.” He slammed his water bottle down on the desk. It sprang a leak, water dribbling across his desk. The bottle took flight and landed in the trash with a bang. “Now that Ian is over the shock, he wants to get back at Ursula by stealing his stuff back. Forget the thrift stores. He hit those up, looking for anything familiar, and didn’t find anything. No one could remember seeing her either, but they did confirm that there had been no large donations of household goods recently. Ian figures she’s got it stored somewhere.”

“There’s always the trash,” I said. “But disposing of an entire household in bins without anyone noticing would be nearly impossible. She’d have to do a dump run. Not sure they allow moving vans out there.”

“Ursula wouldn’t ruin her fingernails at the dump,” Brick sneered.

“Why is Ian so certain she still has the stuff?” Fab got up and started to pace.

“I tried to tell him this was a lost cause, but he wants answers. Before contacting me, he hired a feckless detective to tail her,” Brick grouched. “Why not call me first? Ian figured Ursula spotted the detective, because she never slipped up.”

“Sounds like she’s a clever one. We’ll have to factor that into any plan we come up with.” Fab massaged the back of her neck.