“Is Joseph still hiding in his cottage?” I asked her.
Mac nodded without taking her attention away from her chest, adjusting herself and giving her girls a final pat. As I headed down the driveway, she called, “Wait up,” then said to Fab, “You better hustle; you can’t hear squat from here.”
“Open the damn door!” I yelled and administered my best cop knock.
Fab and Mac clustered behind me. One step backward, and I’d be in their collective faces.
I put my ear to the door—nothing. “Fine!” I yelled again. “I’m calling for a tow truck!”
A few seconds later, the door flew open, hitting the wall hard enough to embed the door knob in the drywall. “You can’t do that,” he wheezed.
“Show me legal paperwork.” I held my hand out. “I’m betting you can’t, since the tags expired last year.”
“It’s only for two nights. I owe Itsy. If I screw him again, he’ll kill me for sure.” He grasped the door frame, out of breath.
“I thought you shined up your act. Itsy’s a thug. He tried to sneak out the back at Jake’s, stiff us on his beer tab, and now he’s banned.”
Joseph’s eyes pleaded.
“No.” I shook my finger at him. “I’m not losing my property over your illegal activities. The court will say I knew and turned a blind eye. What happens when Kevin notices and runs the tags? He’ll escort you to jail, and they’ll squeeze you hard to rat on Itsy. Why do you owe him?”
“I told him where he could get a six-dollar blow job, and the chick bit him. He had to go to emergency care, says I owe him for the bill and that I should have warned him she was a nutcase.”
“A what?” I asked. “Not the nutcase part, the other.”
Fab banged her forehead against my back, making faint noises that I’d bet my last buck were laughter.
Joseph shifted from foot to foot, stammering, “I…uh… didn’t want my regular girl, you know…uh…doing him. I swear I didn’t know Fila would do that. Word will get around, and I think that would be bad for business.”
You think?
“Who does that for six dollars?” I knew a couple of women who offered those services, but not for six dollars, and they were homeless.
“What exactly do you get for that piddly amount?” Mac asked.
I shot a glare over my shoulder, then turned back to Joseph. “This—” I pointed at the Escalade. “—is leaving now. Go park it at the boat launch ramp. Just know that once you pull out of the driveway, you run the risk of an arrest.”
“I don’t have the keys,” he whined.
I gave him a look of disgust and turned my back, walking far enough away that he couldn’t eavesdrop. Then I pulled out my phone and flipped through my contacts. The call I made was short and to the point.
“You’re getting the slate wiped clean,” I said as I turned back and closed the distance between Joseph and me. “A tow truck is on its way. I can guarantee that Itsy will never bother you again. Should you bump into the man, I suggest you ignore him or run.”
“I’m going to go lie down.” It surprised me that he took me at my word. He even looked relieved, a tinge of color coming back into his cheeks.
“There’s one more thing. You owe Spoon. He asks, you deliver. Got it?” I knew Spoon would never ask Joseph for zip. The man had proven himself to be a flake, and Spoon’s connections were far superior.
At the mention of Spoon’s name, fear filled Joseph’s eyes. His moment of peace evaporated, he mumbled, “Thanks,” and disappeared inside, double-locking the door.
“Shooting him would have taken care of the problem much faster,” Fab said.
Mac poufed up her bouffant, forgetting that she never had a hair out of place thanks to Aqua Net. “Who’s Spoon sending?” she asked.
“Probably Billy. I think he’s been assigned to all problems labeled Fab and me, since we have a rapport.”
“Would you come to the office?” Mac motioned for me to follow her. “I have something to tell you.” She crooked her finger at Fab. “You might as well come along too. Then Madison won’t have to retell it.”
“You better not be quitting,” I said. I put my arm around her as we walked up the driveway. “I’ll keep whatever it is a secret. We can send Fab to check on Miss January.” I eyed the woman’s empty chair. All seemed quiet, for the moment.
“Miss January got her drunk on early, and Score’s still liquored up from last night. They’re sleeping it off,” Mac said.
“I’m not going into that cottage. There’s a dead cat in there,” Fab huffed.
“Trust me, sissy girl, Kitty will ignore you,” I told her. “Take a pair of gloves in case Miss January put her in the oven again.”
Miss January’s cat died years back and had since been stuffed and re-stuffed. It usually lounged at the end of the couch, except when Miss January sat outside, and then it lay in her lap. It was unclear to me if the woman remembered that the cat had passed on.
Fab grumbled and cut around me, and headed for the office.
Mac unlocked the door and swept her arm out in a gracious gesture to enter her domain. My aunt hadn’t spent much time here, as she rented to year-round tenants. I’d spent a few hours here back in the beginning, and it had made me claustrophobic if I had to stay long.
The Cottages had needed a facelift to take it from drab to eye-catching. Along with painting each unit in fresh bright colors, I’d given the landscaping an overhaul. The trees were pruned, and I added my signature lighting at the base of the palm trees and around the trunks. Flowers had been added to all the planters to discourage smokers from using them as ashtrays and passersby as bathrooms.
The office went from a drab hole to an inviting place to sit and transact business. The walls got a new coat of green paint, and the old battered desk and ugly chairs were replaced with dark-colored bamboo pieces. The chairs and the couch in brown leather passed the comfort test.
Mac knew my priorities and kept a full snack bowl, which she plopped down on the desk, then passed over our drinks of choice from the fully stocked refrigerator. She settled herself in her chair and kicked her feet up on the desk, wiggling the sandals off her feet.
I claimed a chair opposite her. Fab reclined against the back of the couch, opening and closing the shutters and keeping a watchful eye on any stray pedestrian or car that went by.
“I’m getting a divorce,” Mac said matter-of-factly.
I stood up and walked around the desk, enveloping her in a hug. “I’m sorry,” I whispered.
“What the hell happened?” Fab demanded.
“None of your business,” I answered for Mac.
“It’s okay.” Mac sniffed, and tears leaked from the corners of her eyes.
I reached across to a shelf unit that ran along the side wall and handed her the Kleenex box.
“He proposed to someone else, someone half his age. Unless he wants to end up in jail for bigamy, he needs to divorce his inconvenient wife.” Mac wiped her eyes.
“Ouch,” I said. The whole cheating thing sucked. Why should they get to be happy when you just want them to fall in a ditch?
“You say the word, I’ll take care of him, pay him a little visit in the middle of the night and pistol-whip his ass,” Fab said with a disapproving edge to her voice.
I smiled at her, loving that she was the kind of friend who would beat up your boyfriend/husband for such a betrayal.
“The hell with him.” Mac brushed her hands together. “I don’t want him back, now that he’s been dipping his wick somewhere else.”
“Anything we can do?” I patted her hand. “Girl lunch? A nighttime shopping trip, perhaps to South Beach for something that blinks and flashes? Shoes perhaps?”
Fab made a retching noise. Tourist paraphernalia held no allure for the hot French woman.
Mac glared across the desk, arms across her chest. “I want to date. It will ease my pain. Find me a boyfriend that can give me the sex that I read about in my
romance novels.”
Fab closed her eyes, her signal that she had checked out of the conversation.
“Put together your wish list. If we can’t introduce you to a nice man, I’ll put Mother on it. You’ll have to audition him yourself for the sex thing,” I said.
“Forget nice. I want a bad boy.”
Fab groaned and covered her face with her hands.
Chapter 23
Fab flew down the interstate to Little Havana in record time. Mother had called in a frenzy; she’d forgotten to pick up the cigar order for one of her private parties at Jake’s. It had been my idea to install the standing humidor, but I hadn’t thought about having to drive into Miami to replenish supplies.
A parking space opened up in front of Patron’s Cigar Bar, and a war of wills ensued, as an eastbound driver had every intention of hanging a U-turn and commandeering the space for himself.
I grabbed the armrest, just in case, as Fab hit the gas, cutting the other driver off, threw the shift into reverse, and backed into the tight space. My heart ceased its pounding as I yanked open the door, tossing Fab a glare before I jumped out.
Sylvia Patron met me at the door. An older woman, always elegant and casually dressed, she was the sweetest woman ever, and had helped me out on a couple of occasions, making suggestions when I was choosing gifts for Mother. Patron’s cigars were the highest rated in the business and had the distinction of being hand-rolled on the premises.
“It surprised me when your mother called and informed my sister, Marta, that you would be picking up the order. I know Madeline enjoys her visits here. Marta wasn’t happy; they’ve become fast friends, and when your mother comes in, they share a cup of coffee, enjoy a cigar, and gossip,” she laughed.
“Do you join them?” I asked. Mother had impeccable manners, so I couldn’t imagine she would exclude the woman.
“Can you believe it? I don’t smoke and a cup of Cuban roast makes my heart flutter. I feel like I can fly.” Sylvia smiled. “Then the aftermath – it’s like a delicious drug.”
The front door banged open, and Sylvia’s gangly teenage son stumbled across the entrance with his arms full of boxes.
“The Hummer?” He motioned to it.
I nodded. My mouth almost fell open when I saw that Fab had moved to the passenger seat. I handed Sylvia the check and hugged her, then followed her son to the SUV, opening the back for the purchases.
I slid behind the wheel, wanting to savor the moment, a stupid smile on my face. Fab leaned her head against the window, phone resting on her shoulder. One of her patented evil smiles slid over her face as she continued the conversation in French.
A little love chat with the boyfriend, I thought. Since his arrest, their bond seemed tighter than ever.
Left to my own devices, I switched off the snooty GPS reminders and, with my backseat driver otherwise engaged, turned off the busy boulevard at the first opportunity to avoid the endless traffic lights. It took a couple of wrong turns before I found the little-used two-lane road that cut over to the freeway. I zoomed past empty fields and run-down commercial businesses that couldn’t afford the rates of the heavily trafficked main streets.
It surprised me when I looked in the rearview mirror and noticed a black sedan with blacked out windows. It hadn’t been there a moment ago, but now it rapidly approached and practically rested on my back bumper.
“A-hole,” I murmured.
He probably would have gone around and left me in the dust, which I was used to, but a big rig took up several car lengths of the lane on my left. I had no room to maneuver. With one eye firmly glued to the rearview mirror, I sighed with relief when the sedan veered to the far left, attempting to blast around the truck into oncoming traffic, a terrible way to treat what appeared to be a new Chevrolet SS. My relief was short-lived when he turned the wheel hard back into my lane and began once again tailgating me. The driver played a game of speed up and slow down, each time getting closer to having a chat in the back seat.
Under pressure and already just over the speed limit, I stomped on the gas to try to clear the big rig, or at least give the car enough room to swing around me and be on its way. As I sped up, so did the other car. I knew that if I had to brake suddenly, it wouldn’t be pretty. A moment later, fear swept through me as I wondered if it was someone Fab or I had pissed off, who was orchestrating the right time to run me off the road.
My hands sweaty on the steering wheel, I stayed steady on the gas but knew I couldn’t keep up the high rate of speed. I lacked the nerve for fast driving. I reluctantly gave up on the hope that the SS would get bored with the game of intimidation and turn at one of the many signals we passed, make a U-turn…anything. I flung out my hand, slapping Fab on the arm.
Fab correctly diagnosed from my rigid posture and the fear on my face that I needed her help. She turned toward the back window, then ended her call on a seductive whisper. “What’s going on?” She continued to stare at the road behind us.
“Hell if I know,” I hissed, one eye on the rearview mirror, the other on the road.
“Wait until I tell you, then tap your brakes. Now!” she said. “Car’s dropped back an inch.”
“I have no room to maneuver. The shoulder’s too narrow, and it drops into a ditch.”
“Okay, then just ease your foot off the gas. The other car will probably go around. If it doesn’t, you can pull over.” She glanced out the side window. “And stay out of the ditch. Option two, I hang out the window and shoot out the tires.”
“Let’s leave door number two as a last resort.” I did as she instructed and sighed with relief when I felt the Hummer slowing, gradually getting back to the posted speed. I glanced in the rearview mirror and blinked. My mouth dropped open. Flashing lights inside the Chevy’s grill and windshield went on signaling—law enforcement.
“What the hell?” I spit out at the top of my lungs. The last thing I wanted to do was pull over on the shoulder and park the SUV taking up half the traffic lane. Up farther, I spotted a sign hanging by a thread in the distance, so I continued. When I didn’t immediately pull over, the driver began laying on the horn to accompany the siren.
I pulled into the driveway of what was once an old fast food restaurant. A half-dozen men loitered on the property, leaning against the boarded-up building. They looked up as I rumbled over the gravel and then scattered when the police car pulled in behind me. Every one of them disappeared before I even got the engine shut off.
“What did you do?” Fab asked as she handed me my wallet.
“No idea.” I put the window down, license in hand before he could ask.
The police officer’s face appeared in the window. He was in full uniform, and the patch on his shirt read Miami Police Department. I guessed him to be fortyish, but it was hard to tell with the reflector sunglasses covering most of his face. Instead of it being a comfort to find out he was law enforcement, it made me really mad. I sucked in a deep breath, struggling not to say anything stupid.
He took the license from my fingers. “Does this tank have registration and insurance?”
Fab had already retrieved them from the console box and handed them over.
“Do you know how fast you were going?”
I ground my teeth. “Fast enough to get away from you. You were speeding. You tailgated me. And you scared me witless.”
“Scared you?” He huffed a half-laugh.
“Your car’s not marked and looks like it belongs to a drug dealer.” Calm down, I coached myself.
“Don’t go anywhere.” He paused for a second and started back to his pimped-out car.
I stuck my head out the window and said, “Your erratic driving forced me to speed up to get away from you.”
He didn’t miss a step, not acknowledging that I’d said anything.
Fab started laughing. “Miss Slowpoke is going to get a ticket for speeding.” She slapped the armrest.
I glared at her and flung my head back against the seat. I hop
ed he’d let me go when he checked my record and saw no tickets or accidents. I watched the clock, tapping the steering wheel in a steady beat as the minutes ticked by. Ten minutes later, we were joined by three more patrol cars, one a K-9 unit.
“Get out your carry permit,” I said to Fab. I pulled my Glock from my waistband and dropped it in my purse. “I think we’re in big trouble.”
The original officer came back to the window. “Both of you need to get out and stand over there.” He pointed to where two officers stood staring. I handed over our concealed carry permits and told him the guns were in our bags. “Both of you, hands in the air.”
He walked us to the back of the Hummer, where we were joined by another officer, and they conducted a pat down. The officer in the K-9 car opened the door, and a German Shepherd jumped to the ground. He headed straight for the rear tire on the driver’s side and lifted his leg.
Fab poked me in the side.
The dog continued to sniff around the outside of the SUV. The officer opened the passenger door, and the dog jumped in and sniffed the interior. The officer was joined by another, who opened the back door. From my vantage point, I couldn’t see what they were doing.
An older officer, sixties and Cuban if I were to guess, stood less than a foot away. He flashed me a friendly smile.
“What’s going on?” I asked the man.
“They should be done in a minute. As long as everything checks out, you’ll be on your way.”
Fab bristled. “You’d think we were drug dealers.”
The original officer conferred with the K-9 officer, his jaw set with determination, then came over to us. “The dog scented on something. We’re going to transfer you to the women’s jail for a thorough pat down.”
Before I could say anything, Fab pinched my arm. “What is it you want to see?” She lifted her top and did a three-sixty.
“Fabiana.” I winced and exhaled a puff of air.
The officers were enjoying the show.
Fab motioned to me, so I followed her lead and said a thankful silent prayer that I’d outgrown my no-bra stage.
“That was cooperative of you.” He gave us an oily smile.
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