MOLLY

by Dan Ames

  The situation called for more surveillance, most likely, and maybe even a call to the cops, depending on what my client wanted.

  Once I crossed the bridge, I plugged my phone into my hands-free calling system I’d had custom installed in the Scout and dialed up Margaret Hornor.

  She wasn’t available so I left a message and headed back home.

  My home gym in the garage was calling me, but so was the pool. I decided to split the difference with a short workout – what’s the expression ‘anything is good, more is better’ – and a dive into the pool. I floated around for awhile, then got out and filled a bucket with three beers and some ice, then slipped back into the water.

  I have an inflatable lounge chair I can float in so I slithered into it and put my head back, let the soft breeze nudge me in different directions as I drank my beer. Around me, I could hear the subtle background music of the neighborhood. A car passing on the street behind my house. A dog yapped in the distance, probably the little old lady’s Yorkie I saw from time to time. Cinnamon was her name. The dog, not the old lady.

  A different tone reached my ear. I took a drink of beer and listened to the soft murmur of an engine. It had depth to it. Not like the big growl of a truck. No, this was the sound of a good motor.

  And then it shut off.

  There were always weapons nearby, I’d made sure of that shortly after buying the place.

  Something told me I didn’t need them, though.

  So I drank. And waited.

  Eventually, I heard the unmistakable echo of a woman’s sandals walking up my driveway.

  I shifted slightly, making the floating lounge chair face my back gate and the entrance to the pool.

  Margaret Hornor appeared.

  She had on a sundress, white, with silver aviators sporting gray lenses. A small clutch was in one hand and her cell phone in the other.

  “I got your message,” she said.

  “I can see that.”

  While I’ve always said I’m not much to look at, I will admit that there is a certain quality to my physique that occasionally attracts attention. Whether it was the width of my shoulders, the depth of my chest, or simply the surprising appearance of me in the water, Margaret Hornor spent a fair amount of time staring at me.

  “Thought I’d pop by for your report rather than playing phone tag,” she said.

  I nodded.

  “Did I give you my address?”

  She smiled. “Private investigators aren’t the only ones who can do a little detective work.”

  Now it was my turn to grin.

  “Why don’t you grab something to drink from the fridge over there and meet me poolside? I’ll tell you what I know.”

  She ignored me and came directly to the edge of the pool. She glanced down at me and I could see twin reflections of myself in the lenses of her sunglasses.

  Man, I looked really relaxed.

  “I just want to know if she’s okay.”

  “Yes, of course,” I said. “I mentioned that in my message.”

  “Thank God,” she said, her shoulders sagging inward. “I didn’t listen to your message.”

  “She’s fine. Hanging out on the beach with a surfer nicknamed the Chief.”

  “Of course,” Margaret said. “You know what? I will take that drink.”

  I watched her walk over to my outdoor kitchen area and bar. I couldn’t tell if she was depressed, angry, sad or happy by the news. Maybe it was a combination of all of them.

  She looked especially good when she reached down into my fridge for a beer. The shape was quite intriguing.

  Something told me she was wearing a bikini under that sundress.

  Or maybe nothing at all.

  18

  “Is this how you give all of your client updates?” she asked, taking a seat in a rattan chair with a white cushion at the edge of the pool. She crossed her long, tanned legs, and sipped from a beer.

  “What, it isn’t casual Friday?”

  I slid off the chair into the water, walked to the shallow end and got out. I wrapped a towel around my waist and sat in the chair next to her.

  “I think it’s casual Friday every day for you, am I right?” she asked.

  “More often than not,” I said.

  “So why don’t you start at the beginning?”

  That’s what I did, starting with my contact, tracing the lead to a dealer, and then following that to the Chief. I left out the part about the Florida Cracker and Squirrel.

  “Well, I’m disappointed, but certainly not surprised,” Margaret said.

  “About which part?”

  She signed. “All of it, really.”

  I nodded. Drugs usually don’t have a lot of Hallmark moments.

  “The Chief?” she asked. “What the hell kind of name is that?”

  “He’s a surfer, they always have nicknames,” I answered. “Supposedly he’s Haitian, but I’m not so sure. Maybe he’s Native American. Or Samoan.”

  Margaret considered that. The sun was sinking faster now and it cast a bronze glow over her smooth skin. She must have caught me looking at her because when she held out her empty, there was a little bit of a smirk on her face.

  “Mind if I do a few laps while you refresh my drink?” she asked.

  “Since you are my guest, yes, be my guest.” Not the smoothest line but she laughed, went to the edge of the pool and crossed her arms in front of her, grabbed the bottom of her cover up and pulled it off in one smooth motion.

  Wow.

  Very nice.

  Suddenly, I realized I was supposed to be getting her drink so I turned just as she jumped into the water. I heard splashing and glanced back, seeing her arms knifing through the water.

  Yep, definitely an athlete. A swimmer.

  I brought her drink back to the table and watched as she cut through the water with liquid precision and supple power. After maybe twenty laps she smoothly stood and walked up the steps to the pool deck. She shook her head, wrapped a towel around herself and joined me in the seating area. She was breathing a little quickly, but something told me she was in such good shape that would hardly qualify as a warm-up.

  “Was that a warm-up?” I asked.

  She raised an eyebrow at me over the glass in her hand.

  “Well, that depends on you, doesn’t it?”

  Now it was my turn to seek a little extra oxygen.

  “How about a tour?” I asked, nodding my head toward the house.

  “I was going to ask for one.”

  We went inside and I gave her the showing, but I knew she wasn’t all that interested.

  Finally, I realized we weren’t exactly twenty-year-olds.

  “You look a little cold,” I said, as I moved in and took her in my arms.

  Actually, she was anything but.

  Warm to the touch.

  My lips found hers and we kept them together as I pulled her into the bedroom.

  19

  They say that once an athlete, always an athlete.

  Margaret Hornor amply proved that several times over the course of the night.

  If there’s a better way to start the day than with physical exertion between the sheets with my new client, I don’t have any idea what that might be. An omelet with Jesus? Bloody Marys with the Dali Lama?

  I swung out of bed and walked to the kitchen. There was a bit of soreness from the night’s acrobatics. In fact, maybe I had misjudged my guest’s sporting background and rather than swimming she had been a gymnastics star.

  I made a full pot of coffee because I figured we were both going to need it, considering how little sleep we actually enjoyed.

  Just then, I felt arms circle my waist and a chin rest on my shoulder.

  “Thanks for making the coffee,” she said. “And for everything else.”

  We each took a cup and sat at my little kitchen table, with sheepish grins on our faces.

  Yes, it had been that much fun.

  My kitchen wa
s filled with sun and centered with a circular table and chairs.

  It was a vintage modern set. The two chairs were surprisingly comfortable, even though they looked like they would be anything but.

  “So now what?” she asked. And then, after a pause, “In terms of Molly, I mean.”

  “That’s up to you,” I said. “You mentioned the police were involved before so I think we should turn it over to them now that we know where she is. They’re probably best equipped to handle the next step. If they have to break into the Chief’s compound, at least they’ve got a SWAT team who could handle it. And they might need it.”

  I have to admit that’s not really what I wanted to do. I wanted to keep working on the case because I was intrigued by Margaret Hornor.

  Okay, intrigued was a bullshit word.

  This woman was hotter than the sand at noon in August, and I had suddenly developed a taste for that heat.

  But I’m a responsible businessman.

  Which was why I suggested turning it over to Delray Beach’s finest.

  “Nope. Sorry, nope,” she said. “No police. I don’t want them involved.”

  “Wait a minute, I thought you had already talked to the police.”

  She glanced out my kitchen window which looked out onto the pool. It was a cool sheet of jade.

  “They were initially involved,” she said. “But I just talked to them. I didn’t actually file a missing persons report.” She took a deep breath and soldiered on. “Look, the situation is a little more complicated than I initially made it out to be.”

  “Complicated how?” I asked, even though I had a fairly good idea of what was about to come.

  “Let’s just say Molly’s father isn’t completely out of the picture. See, he was an investment banker and he played pretty fast and loose with his clients’ money and never really came clean with it.”

  “Like a Bernie Madoff kind of thing?” I asked, referencing the investment “advisor” who swindled celebrities out of hundreds of millions of dollars through a Ponzi scheme.

  She seemed to be at a loss for words, which I took as a big ‘yes.’

  “So, what’s the deal?” I asked. “Is he on the run?”

  She spread her hands wide. “No, no, no. No. He’s not on the run, as you say. It’s just that, as the situation stands, I don’t want to involve the police. It would complicate things.”

  I was neither surprised nor disappointed. Clients never want to share everything at once. It usually arrives in bits and pieces like debris from a shipwreck washing up on the beach.

  Which was fine with me. I wasn’t going to start investigating her husband. And I certainly didn’t want to get mixed up in a case for which I hadn’t been hired. All of which lead me to my next question.

  “What do you want to do?”

  She gave a little smile to me, flashed the beautiful blue eyes that had blazed with so much intensity in the dim light of my bedroom.

  “First, I want to go back into the bedroom with you and welcome the day properly.”

  She took a drink of her coffee, then set down the empty cup. She looked out toward the pool and then back at me, meeting my gaze with frank honesty.

  “And then I want you to bring my Molly home.”

  20

  Eventually we said goodbye.

  However, before she left, Margaret had agreed to extend my contract at double my normal rate, after I had been clear about the difficulties I would face with the Chief’s compound and its extensive security. It would just be me, no backup, no SWAT team, no partner.

  Once Margaret left, I showered, dressed, locked the house up and drove to the office.

  There, I fired up the desktop computer and performed some clerical duties that come with running a business like mine. Not a lot of paperwork, certainly enough to merit an hour or two a week, though.

  I had thought about hiring a secretary at one point, but privacy is more important to me than delegation of duties. I’d rather work a couple more hours a day than open up my dealings to anyone.

  After that, I took lunch out on my balcony that overlooked Delray Beach and thought about next steps.

  Although I had told my client there wouldn’t be any backup available to me, in the back of my mind I thought Delary Beach Police Officer Paula Barbieri might be of some assistance.

  She and I had been playing a game of teasing without pleasing for a couple of years.

  I had first bumped into her on a case where a local lifeguard had gone missing. The family and the police couldn’t find him so his girlfriend hired me.

  It turned out he had decided to move to Little Havana outside Miami and was working as a male prostitute. It brought new meaning to the term ‘buddy system.’

  I shot Barbieri a text.

  "How does a little Mexican sound?" I asked.

  Minutes later, she responded, “Like Herve Villechaize? If that’s the case, he sounds like the plane, boss, the plane!”

  “Cute, but I think he was French,” I pointed out.

  “How the hell would you know that?”

  “Probably a trivia question,” I said. “So, how about El Matador at noon? My client is buying."

  I added the last part just to give her fair warning that this was going to be more than just a flirting meal.

  Hey, don’t get me wrong. There would be plenty of that.

  But I wanted to let her know that there would actually be a little bit of business to do, in and around the mating dance.

  Back I went to work on the computer fielding a few email inquiries and matching purchase orders with invoices.

  My clientele was fairly exclusive. Which meant there was no real need or desire on my part to advertise. All of my business was word-of-mouth, I didn't have business cards or bus signs or flyers.

  And if you knew how to contact me you probably already knew what I was capable of and the kinds of services I offered.

  In the back of my office I had very small but highly secure armory.

  Inside was a small selection of handguns, some knives, ammunition and even a slim-fitting Kevlar vest.

  It had been at least a week or two since I’d done the mandatory cleaning of the guns, so I spent the next hour before my meeting with Barbieri taking apart all my guns. The Sig Sauer, Glock, Colt 1911, Ruger .357.

  After the cleaning and oiling was done, I reassembled them, and locked them all up, except for the ones I was bringing with me.

  Since I wasn't quite sure how the day was going to go, I strapped a small LCR lightweight concealed carry to my ankle.

  And I put the Colt .45 1911 in the holster on my belt, which I covered with a loose-fitting shirt. Tommy Bahama. Hey, don’t judge me. When you live in Florida near the beach, it pays to look like you live near the beach in Florida. Especially if you’re going to observe someone who probably doesn’t want any extra attention.

  With that all set I locked up the office, went down to the Maverick, started her up and found my way to el Matador, a little Mexican place just north of downtown Delray on a quiet little street tucked away between an art gallery and a pool cleaning supply service.

  Since I was the one who was going to make a request of the other, I made sure to arrive early, and nab a little table in the back. I ordered chips and guacamole, salsa and bottled water with fresh limes.

  The décor was surprisingly elaborate. A lot of Mexican paintings, sombreros, masks from the Yucatan on the wall and authentic Mexican music playing through a couple of tinny speakers.

  The owner’s name was Flora Alvarez and I knew her well. She'd been in Florida for nearly 30 years and although I wasn’t sure if she was legal or not, all of her food was made from scratch and in my opinion, was the best Mexican cuisine on the east coast of Florida.

  “Senor Wade," she said. “Will your girlfriend be joining you?" she said, nodding toward the food and water I’d already ordered.

  "Which one?"

  She smiled.

  "When are you going to
get married, Mr. Carver?"

  "I don’t know, Flora. I do know that I will get married in the morning, though."

  “And why is that?"

  "Because if it doesn't work out I don’t want to ruin a whole day."

  She laughed a nice, deep belly laugh and just then Barbieri spoke from behind her.

  "Don't get fooled by him, Flora. He’s a bad, bad man.” She slid into the seat across from me, her leather gun belt creaking with the motion. She looked good, even with her hair pulled back and very little makeup. Her skin was beautiful, a golden light brown that looked like silk.

  “Ah, Miss Paula,” Flora said. “So good to see the two of you together again. You would make beautiful babies. How is that project coming along?"

  Barbieri rolled her big brown eyes.

  “Procreating with this guy would be a really bad idea,” she said. “One Carver does enough damage around here. Could you imagine what a herd of them would do?”

  I laughed, appreciating the reference to me as a form of cattle.

  “The usual, por favor,” I said to Flora, who left and Barbieri smiled at me.

  “Oh, you would like that, wouldn’t you?” she asked. “I could just imagine your enthusiasm in trying to knock me up.”

  "Only one way to find out, baby,” I said. “So what’s shaking down at the shop?”

  Barbieri was always good for a cop story or two.

  “We found a tourist this morning passed out on the beach. He had an empty bottle of tequila next to him. He’d been in the sun all day passed out and his back was sunburned to almost third degree burns. It looked like at some point maybe some of his friends had recognized that he was getting painfully sunburned.”

  Flora put the first of our food on the table, but Barbieri kept going.

  “So instead of helping him, you know, maybe waking him up, or slathering sunblock on him, they decided to do something else.”

  She unfolded her napkin and placed it on her lap,

  “They squirted limes all over him, like he was a piece of roasting meat,” she said.

  "Lime really does go with just about anything,” I pointed out. “I especially like it over jicama.”