The Second Goodbye

by Patricia Smiley

  She dug her toes into the sand. “You’ve been there?”

  “Once,” he said. “A long time ago.”

  “Was dancing involved?” Despite her light tone, Striker didn’t respond. Even in profile, she could tell he was frowning. “I see you’re taking the Fifth.”

  He scooped up a handful of sand and let it filter through his fingers. “There may have been dancing.”

  “Is that where you got your tattoo?”

  “You’re asking me a lot of deep questions.”

  Davie sat up. “Just curious. I don’t know much about you.”

  “There are more interesting things to talk about than me.”

  She hadn’t expected Striker’s dismissal to cause her pain, but it did. “Isn’t that for me to decide?” There was a long silence before Davie changed the subject and the mood. “Did you notice that necklace Lacy was wearing tonight?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “It was a gold apple charm. If I remember my high school French, the word for apple is pomme.”

  “And?”

  “One of the offshore accounts listed in Sabine’s doodles was Pomme, LLC with a post office box in Road Town, Tortola. What if Nate was skimming money from the launderers and stashing it in a bank here? Criminals don’t appreciate people stealing from them. They don’t forget or forgive. Maybe that’s why Nate was killed and why Valerie is tailing Lacy. She’s looking for the money.”

  “You’re speculating.”

  “Maybe, but Lacy claimed a secret stash of money was missing from Nate’s office—a hundred thousand dollars. Robert Montaine said his stepmother lived in L.A. for a year with no apparent source of income. How much money would that take? I’d guess the average rent for an apartment is at least two thousand dollars a month, probably more. She’d have other living expenses, too. Before we leave tomorrow, let’s stop by the bank in Road Town and see if they’ll tell us who owns Pomme, LLC.”

  48

  The champagne bottle was empty. Davie sat next to Striker on the sand, silently admiring the tropical evening tableau—waves lapping against the shore and the glow of a full moon.

  Striker was first to break the spell. “We should call it a night. Tomorrow is going to be a long day.”

  She stood and inched her toes into the flip-flops as a warm breeze brushed against her skin. “It’s so beautiful. I hate to leave.”

  “You can come back, unless your boss has a no-vacation policy.”

  “I wouldn’t know. I haven’t taken vacation days since I got to Pacific.” That was technically true. She just didn’t mention the days she’d been relieved of duty in connection with an officer-involved shooting that was eventually resolved in her favor.

  Striker frowned as he shook sand from the beach towels. “Everybody needs some downtime, especially people like us.”

  She let the subject drop as they crossed the road and made their way up the hill, pausing at the door to her room.

  “You need a wake up call?” he asked.

  She held up her cell phone. “Alarm app. See you in the morning.”

  Striker waited on the landing until she went inside. She leaned against the closed door, listening to his footsteps as he walked down the hall to the room next to hers and kept listening until she heard his door close.

  She was tired but not sleepy. The room felt hot and muggy, but the noise and artificial coolness of air conditioners didn’t appeal to her. Opening the sliding glass door meant fresh air but also an invitation for geckos looking to party in her shoes. She turned on the ceiling fan, undressed, and lay naked on the bed with only a sheet draped over her legs.

  The travel magazines and island promotional brochures on the bedside table didn’t hold her attention. She opened the book on money laundering but set it aside after a few pages, too distracted by the day’s events to concentrate. Finally, she turned off the light and closed her eyes. An hour later, she was still awake, thinking about Sabine Ponti and Lacy Gillen—and about Jon Striker. He had to know her interest in him was more than professional, but he’d never said or done anything to encourage her. Either he thought a relationship with a coworker wasn’t in his best interests or the feelings weren’t mutual.

  After another twenty minutes of wakefulness, she kicked off the sweaty sheet and stepped into the shower, letting the coolness wash over her until she felt guilty about her water usage. In Los Angeles, her showers were limited to five minutes or less, mostly less, because of the years-long drought.

  She toweled off and had just switched on the A/C when she heard a knock on the door. It was after 2:00 a.m. It crossed her mind that Valerie Ferrick had discovered Lacy Gillen was no longer at the hotel and had come looking for her. Davie threw on her ratty T-shirt, grabbed her gun, and tiptoed to the door.

  “Who is it?” she said.

  “Me.” It was Striker’s voice.

  She let go of the breath she was holding and opened the door. He stood under the overhead light wearing warm-up pants and a tight gray T-shirt stretched across his muscular chest. His chronically neat hair was tousled and his eyelids were at half-mast as if he’d just awakened from a deep sleep.

  Striker glanced at her gun and raised his hands in a jokey gesture. “Don’t shoot.” Then his gaze swept over her body. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

  Her cheeks felt warm, because even though her baggy T-shirt covered her legs to mid thigh, she was naked underneath it. She crossed her arms over her chest, tucking her weapon against her rib cage. “How did you know I was awake?”

  “Our rooms share a wall. I heard the shower. Truth is, I couldn’t sleep, either. I keep thinking about the case. You have a minute to talk?”

  Davie was worried about inviting him into her room. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the red thong underwear abandoned on the floor and remembered the Cinderella toothbrush she’d left on the bathroom counter.

  Striker sensed her hesitation. “Never mind. Catch you tomorrow.”

  “Don’t be silly,” she said, nudging the thong into the closet with her foot before gesturing him inside.

  Striker hesitated and then stepped into the room. “Have you heard from that detective in Fort Lauderdale? Just curious if she identified those two men in the photo with Gillen.”

  Davie laid her weapon on the nightstand. “She hasn’t called back. I’ll follow up tomorrow.” She sat on the edge of the bed tugging the T-shirt over her knees.

  Striker moved to the sliding glass door and draped his muscular body casually onto the chair. “If her people can’t ID them, I think our analysts can.”

  “Have you heard any more from Quintero?”

  He rubbed his face as people do when they’re tired. “There’s a three-hour time difference. He’ll get back to us as soon as he knows more.”

  Davie studied Striker’s lean face and the silver highlights in his dark hair. Even with the T-shirt stretched over her knees she felt self-conscious, so she reached for the sheet and pulled it over her legs. “You don’t have to babysit me just because I have insomnia.”

  He leaned forward with his legs spread, forearms on his knees, and head tilted upward with a look that seemed open, almost vulnerable. “I’m aware of that, Detective.”

  Davie waited a beat, unsure of what to say. Finally, she resumed chatting about the case and jotting down notes. A few moments later she glanced at Striker again and caught him checking his cell phone.

  “I’m boring you. Don’t worry. It’s sort of my specialty.”

  “You weren’t boring me,” he said, standing, “but it’s late. I should go back to my room.”

  Davie sat on the bed, listening to the dull hum of the air conditioner and the buzz of the ceiling fan, thinking how much she didn’t want Striker to leave, wondering if he felt the same way. Inviting him to stay was a risky move. He might say no or, worse,
refuse to work with her anymore. Except, he was still standing there, watching her. Davie glanced around the room and noticed the gecko scampering toward the safety of her overnight bag. The little guy would be okay there tonight. Tomorrow morning when she packed to leave was another story. She took that as a sign. Tonight is tonight.

  Her chest cramped, her mouth felt dry as she struggled to keep her tone light. “You can stay here. I can bore you to sleep. It’ll be better than Ambien.”

  He smiled as he slipped his cell into his pocket. “Good to know you’re keeping me off drugs.”

  She stood and let the sheet fall in a heap around her legs. Her internal warning bells were sounding, but she no longer cared if Striker saw the outline of her breasts beneath the ratty T-shirt. She moved toward him, taking his hands in hers. “It’s such a long way to your room.”

  He raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. “It’s just a few feet down the hall.”

  She massaged his palms with her thumbs. “But you’re here already.”

  He drew in a deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment. “I don’t think this is a good idea.“

  She let go. “Why?”

  He cradled her face in his warm hands and stared into her eyes. “We work together and I outrank you. Some people will see that as a problem.”

  She was so close to him she could feel the warmth of his body and smell the fragrance of hotel soap from his shower. “It won’t be a problem when I go back to Pacific.”

  He wrapped his arms around her and rested his chin on her head. “Davie … ”

  His hesitant tone and the slight tension in his muscles were warnings she chose to ignore. She took a step back, as she guided him toward the bed like he was Fred and she was Ginger.

  His expression was serious as his eyes probed hers. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

  She nudged him gently to a sitting position on the bed. “I think I do.”

  His muscles seemed to relax but his expression remained unreadable for so long she began to wonder if she’d miscalculated. But it was too late to change course.

  Davie swept her hand over his smooth cheek. That’s when she realized he’d shaved before coming to her door. She smiled. “Are you going to make me do this all by myself?”

  Without a sound, he reached toward the lamp and flipped the switch before gathering her into his arms. In the darkness, she felt his warm breath on her neck and the soft brush of his lips against her skin.

  His voice was raspy and low as his hands explored her body. “We shouldn’t be doing this.” But she could tell by his tone that he didn’t mean it, not one little bit.

  “We can stop any—” A sharp intake of breath cut off the rest of her sentence.

  For the next hour or so she floated in and out of an altered state of consciousness. At some point during a brief interlude, Striker fell asleep with his right arm draped over her body. The moon’s glow streamed through the glass door as she ran her finger lightly over the tattoo on his forearm—Breathe. She felt as she often did when things turned out better than she’d imagined—apprehensive. Maybe the proverbial other shoe wouldn’t drop this time, but in case her seduction of Jon Striker was an irredeemable error in judgment, she would enjoy this moment while it lasted.

  Tonight is tonight.

  Her fingers laced through his. Her cheek rested against the tattoo. She counted her breaths as the department shrink had taught her to do and waited for sunrise.

  49

  The sun streaming through the window awakened Davie the following morning. She glanced around the room, but Striker was gone. She checked the time on her cell and then texted him. Where are you?

  A moment later, he responded. Reservations confirmed for ferry. Meet me in the lobby in 20 minutes.

  That definitely didn’t qualify as postcoital sweet talk.

  She showered and dressed, making sure the gecko had moved to safer ground before throwing her clothes and cosmetics into the carry-on bag. She paused over the sundress, wondering if she should leave it in the room. At the last minute, she stuffed it in her bag and applied the sunscreen she’d purchased in the gift shop.

  When she arrived in the lobby her gaze swept the room, but Valerie Ferrick was nowhere in sight. Striker was waiting for her, dressed in jeans and a white polo shirt. He seemed remote even as he handed her a croissant wrapped in a paper napkin.

  “You missed breakfast,” he said.

  She kept her response simple. “I overslept. Ambien isn’t the best sleeping aid after all.”

  He didn’t take the bait. “The cab is on its way. We have to get to the bank in Road Town as soon as possible or we’ll miss the ferry to St. Thomas and our flight back to L.A.”

  Concern prickled the back of her neck. If she hadn’t texted him, would he have left without her? Of course not, but the mere fact the thought had popped into her head was troubling. They would have to talk about what happened last night, but obviously this wasn’t the time.

  Tense silence in the back of the cab made it impossible to read Striker’s thoughts. The cabbie dropped them off at CommerceBank, near Road Town’s Wickams Cay. The building was two stories and beige with an unobtrusive sign attached at the second-floor landing. When they arrived at the front entrance, the door was locked.

  “It’s Saturday,” Striker said, pointing to a sign painted on the glass door. “The bank is closed.”

  Davie knocked on the glass and waved her hand. “There’s somebody in the back.”

  A thin black man in his twenties looked up from his work and walked toward them, pointing to the sign. “Closed.”

  Davie held up her badge. “We’re from Los Angeles. We have a couple of questions. Could you spare a minute or two?”

  The man hesitated but pulled a ring of keys from his pocket and opened the door. “What do you want?”

  “We’re investigating a homicide. We believe the death may be connected to an account at this bank called Pomme, LLC. Could you confirm the name of the owner?”

  He shook his head. “Sorry. Privacy regulations and all that.”

  “Of course,” she said. “Maybe you could just tell us if there’s been any recent activity on the account?”

  “That would be confirming the account exists, which I’ve just told you I can’t do—not without the proper legal request.”

  “I understand, but if the account isn’t relative to our investigation I’d hate to bother you with all that paperwork.”

  In a carefully controlled voice he said, “Please wait.”

  He relocked the door and walked to the back room while Davie stood on the sidewalk, peering through the glass door. Striker leaned against the building, watching traffic roll by. Five minutes later the man returned.

  “I checked with my manager. I can’t give you the information you requested. All I can say is one of our local lawyers specializes in setting up those kinds of accounts. He might be willing to talk to you. His office is a few blocks from here.”

  It was about a five-minute stroll to the office of Aubrey Purcell, Esquire. The door was open but when Davie walked in, the reception’s chair was empty.

  Striker called out. “Anybody here?”

  A black man, five-eight or so with a slight build, walked into the lobby adjusting wire-rimmed glasses. His expression was placid, his accent British.

  “How may I help you?”

  “We’re with the Los Angeles Police Department,” Davie said. “An employee of CommerceBank referred us to you. We understand you may have set up an account for an LLC called Pomme.”

  His face lit up. “Los Angeles? I’ve always wanted to visit your city. Tell me, is the Getty Museum as grand as they say?”

  Davie struggled to hide her impatience. “It’s a sight to behold, all right.”

  “And the Rose Parade? All those lovely flowers
. I understand you can visit the floats up close after the parade.”

  “All true.”

  “Come in,” Purcell said, waving them into the inner office.

  The central focus of the room was a large ornate wooden desk with just enough battle scars to make it look interesting. The two guest chairs were leather, the reddish-brown color of a sorrel horse. A picture of Queen Elizabeth II sat on a credenza behind the desk, along with photos of Purcell with various dignitaries, including Prince Charles and Rihanna.

  Purcell sat in his large leather chair. “Can I assume you brought the necessary legal documents?”

  Striker leaned forward and with an earnest expression said, “We’re a long way from home, Mr. Purcell. We just uncovered this new information. I know it’s asking a lot, but maybe you could help a couple of L.A. cops just this one time. The owner of the account has passed away, and we’d like to find out if his death is connected to the murder of a young woman back home.”

  The lawyer hesitated for a moment and then put his hands on the keyboard of his desktop computer. “Who is the account holder?”

  “His name is Nate Gillen.” Davie crossed her fingers, hoping her guess was correct.

  Purcell leaned back in his chair, shaken. “Oh my. I do remember helping Mr. Gillen set up his account. I never saw him in person, you understand. All our business was done electronically, or over the telephone. There are so many laws these days. He wanted to make sure everything was aboveboard. I’m sorry to learn of his death. What happened?”

  “He was killed by a hit-and-run driver a couple of years ago,” Davie said.

  “How very sad. But he died some time ago. I’m surprised his wife didn’t notify me.”

  “Perhaps she didn’t know about the account,” Striker said.

  “I doubt that’s the case.” Purcell resumed typing on his keyboard. He pulled his glasses down on his nose and moved his head closer to the screen. “The initial deposit was a million dollars, US, of course. Mr. Gillen made weekly wire transfers after that, but for smaller amounts until the balance reached five million.”