“We should snag his phone and hide it from him. See what happens.”
“His head would spin,” she said, laughing. “He probably sleeps with the damn thing.”
I knew for a fact that he did sleep with his phone, though I wasn’t about to tell her. It was obvious by the way her eyes kept wandering back to the elevator that she had a crush on Baker. And while he and I had shared an odd friendship that included the occasional mattress pounding, neither of us had ever entertained thoughts of romance. The physical history between us was a mutual itch scratching of sorts with the bonus of pissing off my overbearing cousin who believed it was inappropriate for me to sleep with our business partner. And our lawyer… and our real estate agent... and maybe a few others.
Instead of upsetting Evie with the truth, I replied ‘probably’ as I pulled a twenty from my clutch purse, tossing it on the bar. “That’s for you. Put my drink on my account.”
“Are you leaving already?”
I glanced across the room at the man in the booth. He quickly looked away again. “Yeah. I have something to take care of.” I waved goodbye to Evie as I walked toward the elevator.
Chapter Five
CHARLIE
Saturday, 11:55 p.m.
Sliding my membership card into the security slot of the elevator, I pushed the five on the panel for the fifth floor. All the keycards were programmed for the corresponding floors a member could access. Without the card, the elevator wouldn’t let me past the second floor.
When Baker originally designed the access system, I had asked him to program my cousin and my keycards with Extreme VIP instead of our names. My reasoning was that it wasn’t anyone’s business who we were. And while most of the staff knew I was associated with the club in some way, they assumed I worked for Baker because I maintained a small private office next to his. The few who knew my name also knew I was a cop and understood my need for discretion. And even those small few didn’t know I owned part of the club, though I suspected Evie had guessed.
I exited the elevator and turned down the hall. On my way, I looked through the one-way glass windows to the playrooms below on the fourth floor. One sex actor was earning his money the hard way. I chuckled as the female actor slapped his bare ass with a wooden paddle. I shook my head as I stopped to swipe my keycard to enter my office.
Though I kept an office, I didn’t work at the club. Yes, I reviewed the quarterly financial statements before forwarding them to the accountant, but I normally did those bookkeeping activities from the comfort of my couch with my laptop balanced on my lap. This space was less of an office and more of an oversized closet, used for changing into either my evening slut-wear or one of my undercover outfits for nights like tonight.
I rolled my eyes, noticing that Baker had once again tasked someone with cleaning my room. The clothes I’d left scattered on the floor or draped over chairs were wrapped in dry-cleaning bags and hung in the closet. I flipped the halter neck of my dress over my head and shimmied out of it, grinning as I left the dress, along with the shoes, in a pile on the floor. I shuffled several hangers around until I found a pair of faded jeans, a well-worn dark-colored Miami Dolphin’s t-shirt, and a scraggly pair of slip-on tennis shoes.
The best part of being on leave from work was not having to worry about my badge getting in the way when I was about to do something illegal. On the off chance I got caught, giving the police department the option of saying I was on leave when the crime occurred sat comfortably within my I’m a good person scale. That wasn’t to say I hadn’t broken a law or two while wearing the badge. I had just been more careful when doing so.
Unlocking the two-door steel cabinet with the key I kept hidden, I selected a waist-clip holster and a Glock 17, snapping the holster on before sliding the gun in place. Tugging my t-shirt over it, I moved to the vanity and selected a few makeup-remover pads. I wiped the eyeshadow and eyeliner off before pulling my hair into a ratty ponytail. Glancing in the mirror, I rubbed some leftover mascara under my eyes to leave dark smeared circles. I pulled a few sections of hair from the ponytail to have them wisp out in a crazy pattern. I looked strung out, which was perfect. Unless you were a cop, people tended to avoid eye contact with druggies, turning their eyes away as they hurried across the street to safety.
From the peg board on the wall, I selected the keys to the old, rusted-out Toyota short-bed truck which I stored in the city’s parking ramp across the street. My everyday car was a drab cop-like dark sedan, bland on the outside but with all the electronic bells and whistles inside, including a souped-up engine under the hood. Then there was my baby: a metallic silver Mustang convertible I kept stored in the club’s private parking ramp.
I glanced longingly at the keys to the Mustang before turning away with the short-bed’s keys in hand. Exiting my office, I used my keycard to enter Baker’s office.
“You look ridiculous,” Baker said, barely glancing up from his stack of paperwork.
“Where did our guy from the Parlor park tonight?” I asked as I walked past the wall of security monitors toward Baker’s mini-bar.
“He comes and goes from the city’s parking ramp. That’s all I know. The security team wasn’t able to identify his car or plate.” He looked up, setting his pen down. “Are you really going to do this?”
I shrugged, pouring a shot of whiskey into a glass. “He’s obviously up to something. For Evie’s sake, we need to figure out what he’s doing.”
“Evie is safe. I have a security guard watching her when she’s here, and I can hire someone to watch her when she’s not.”
“Or I can do my thing and make the problem go away.”
“You sound like a hitman.”
I smirked at him as I sipped my drink.
He reached up and massaged his neck, likely trying to loosen the tension knots, as he leaned back in his executive chair. “Fine. Handle it your way. Are you coming back tonight?”
What he was really asking me was if I wanted to have sex tonight. Somehow knowing Evie had a crush on him made the invitation seem less appealing. “No. I better go home and water the plants. Maybe you should ask Evie to join you tonight.” I smirked at him before turning away to look at the monitors. “For some crazy reason, she seems to like you. You should explore that avenue.”
“You know I don’t sleep with employees. Besides, Evie isn’t the type of woman who’d agree to a no-strings relationship.”
“Maybe it’s time you try something new,” I said, downing the rest of my drink. “Must get lonely up here in your tower.”
“I have plenty of company.” Baker lifted his phone. “Besides, Magenta texted me earlier to tell me she was bored.”
I snorted. “Magenta? Do you even know her real name?”
“That is her real name,” Baker said, not bothering to try to hide his smile. “She has a brother named Maroon.”
“You’re hopeless,” I said, shaking my head and setting my empty glass on the mini-bar. “I’m out of here. Text me when our creepy guy leaves.”
Before taking a single step, his phone vibrated from his blazer pocket. He pulled it out and read the display. “Your creeper is asking for his bill.”
I started for the corner door which led to a private staircase and exit. “You should reconsider taking Evie for a spin. She might surprise you.”
“Goodnight, Kid,” Baker said dismissively.
I laughed as I entered the private staircase and started running down the five flights of stairs. By the last step, I was winded but happy to be wearing my tennis shoes and not the heels I’d worn earlier. I exited the door and stepped into the strangling humidity. I joined the small crowd at the street corner, crossing the street with them when the light changed.
One of the women glanced over her shoulder at me before tugging her man’s arm to hurry into the parking ramp. I snorted as I took the stairs to the third level. Making quick work of getting to my truck and moving it to the first level, closer to the exit, I waited for my
mark. Ten minutes later, the guy from the bar drove past me in a white truck. I let another car pass before I followed him from the parking ramp. When the car between us turned two streets later, I took a picture with my cellphone of his license plate.
If I was more like Kelsey, I’d go home now and run the plate, preparing for a confrontation in the future. But I wasn’t my cousin. I was the impulsive one, thus why I continued to follow him, though I backed off enough for another car to change lanes and drive between us.
I continued to follow him for a dozen or more city blocks and then onto Highway 41 before changing lanes and following him onto North Highway 9 toward Brownsville. I kept my distance, keeping him several cars ahead of me at one point, but after we exited we drove into a residential area that left me nowhere to hide.
Not wanting to be spotted, I pulled into a random driveway, hoping the homeowner wouldn’t wake at hearing a vehicle. I shut the truck off, including the lights, as I watched my target drive two more blocks before turning left. I restarted the truck at the same time the porch light came on for the house in front of me. I waved at the homeowner, a man in his late sixties wearing nothing more than a pair of boxers, as I reversed from his driveway.
Hurrying down the road, I made the left turn then drove slowly, looking at the vehicles parked in the narrow driveways. At the seventh house I spotted his white truck. I observed the house as I drove past. The lights were off and there was no blue glow from a television. All signs pointed to him calling it a night and going to bed. I turned at the next intersection and parked around the corner along the street.
Some of the residential blocks in Brownsville were decorated with accent lights, featured a plethora of white iron fences, and had yards decked out with rich landscaping. Some even sported the occasional two-story house. This guy’s neighborhood wasn’t one of those.
Every house was a rectangular one-story with the narrow end of the house closest to the road and only a small patch of spotty grass between the front door and a cheap metal fence. There were no sidewalks on his block, nor marked street parking. About every twenty feet was a posted sign, warning citizens not to dump their trash or they’d be subject to hefty fines. An old mattress leaned against one of those sign posts not twelve feet away from where I’d parked.
I checked my phone as I waited. My cousin Kelsey had texted twice, just asking if I was alive and well. I responded that I was fine, but busy working a case. She didn’t need to know I only worked a few months a year these days. She’d worry. And the last thing I needed was my older cousin flying down to check on me, or worse, calling Uncle Hank so they could talk about me behind my back.
Uncle Hank wasn’t really an uncle but a cop who’d taken us under his wing when we first moved to Florida. Since Kelsey had left, Uncle Hank and Aunt Suzanne had fully infiltrated my life. I both loved it and hated it. It’s a nice feeling to have people care about you, but at the same time it feels invasive and smothering.
Headlights turned onto the road behind me and a black-and-white patrol car pulled up alongside my truck. I pulled my wallet from my bag, flashing my badge toward the officer driving. He drove onward without stopping to ask why I was dressed like a junkie and sitting in a rotting pickup at the edge of a subpar neighborhood. Guess he had better things to do.
Deciding I’d waited long enough, I tugged on a pair of nude-toned gloves, set my phone to silent, and grabbed my crossover handbag from the narrow space behind the passenger seat. Inside the bag were all the supplies I needed other than the gun which was already clipped on my waistband. The safer move would be to leave and return when he wasn’t home, but playing it safe was boring.
I slid out from the truck and jogged past several houses before ducking behind my target’s carport. Now taking my time, I walked the perimeter of the small rectangular house, keeping my distance from the windows. All the lights were off. I crept up the front porch, picking the lock with the tools from my bag. When I stepped inside, I was greeted by a low growl, only a few feet from where I stood in the pitch-black room.
I knew by the sound of the growling that the dog was large. I should’ve been scared. I suppose a normal person would be. But dogs liked me. Maybe because they sensed that I wouldn’t hurt them. Maybe it was because they were curious as to why I wasn’t afraid. Maybe it was because I carried treats. Moving cautiously, I sat cross legged on the floor and pulled a dog treat from my bag. I held the treat out, palm up, in front of me.
With my hand stretched out into the blackness, I waited for the low growling to stop and the snuffling sound to move closer. In less than a minute, the dog had taken the treat and continued to sniff me until his snout was snuffling my hair. I scratched his big block-shaped head and behind his ears. He laid a front paw on my lap, leaning his big body against my chest, nearly knocking me over as I patted him.
“Good boy,” I whispered as I slid on night vision goggles and glanced around the room.
The front room was an unkept sitting area with an old couch along one wall, stacks of empty takeout on the table, dirty socks on the floor, and a thirty-inch TV in the far corner. The next room back was a small kitchen with a hallway on the far side. Based on the stacks of paperwork and files on the kitchen table, I wouldn’t need to venture down the hallway.
I fed the large dog, a rottweiler by the looks of it through the night-vision goggles, another treat as I climbed up from the floor. He followed me over to the table where I sifted through the pictures of Evie and read the background information the man stalking her had. She grew up in Georgia which I already knew based on her faint Georgian accent. She’d moved to Miami about six months ago and took a job at the club shortly after settling. Evie lived alone in a small condo building in the better part of Little Havana. She was taking marketing classes at the community college, and based on the surveillance photos of her eating out and going to the local coffee shop, she didn’t seem to have many friends. Her living such an isolated life seemed odd. Unlike me, Evie had a friendly, outgoing personality and was quick to make people feel at ease. So where were her friends?
I picked up an application from a private investigator’s office, Spencer Investigations, which I found completely uninspiring for a PI company name. The application appeared to have been completed online using PDF field inputs. The next page was a printout of the receipt for a credit card payment. The amount paid was listed as a down payment with a hefty final payment due upon a missing person’s whereabouts.
I flipped back to the application and read the description of the missing person which fit Evie to a T, but named the person as Genevieve Lawrence. Shit. Evie wasn’t being stalked by this guy. Someone had hired him to find her. And by the looks of it, that someone had deep pockets and was very motivated, which in my book was worse.
Deep into reading the paperwork, I was startled by the ringing of a cellphone lying on the table in front of me. I glanced at the backlit screen which read: Asshole is calling.
Hearing footsteps hurrying down the hall, I jumped back and looked around the room. There was nowhere to hide. No closets. No partial walls. No fake Ficus trees. I scurried over to the kitchen counter, climbing on top of it and shrinking back as far as possible beside the refrigerator. I took off the night-vision goggles and pulled my gun. The man came rushing into the room and turned on the kitchen light.
“Hello?” he said, answering his phone.
I peeked around the refrigerator, but only got a quick glance of a naked body before I tucked my head back again. The dog, who was indeed a black and tan rottweiler, sat on the kitchen floor, watching both his owner and me. I gave the dog the evil eye, hoping he wouldn’t give away my location, as I kept an ear to the one-sided conversation.
“No, I haven’t confirmed it’s her yet. I should know by tomorrow, the day after at the latest.” There was a short pause before he spoke again. “No. You’ll need to wait until I confirm it’s her. It could be a lookalike. It happens a lot in this business.” Another pause. “Yes, I�
��ll call when I know.”
He tossed the phone onto the table and then did something I wasn’t expecting—he turned and opened the refrigerator. We stood staring at each other, neither of us moving. Of course, I had my gun pointed at him and he was not only unarmed, but completely naked.
“Don’t believe in jammies?” I asked, sliding off the counter and keeping my gun pointed in his direction.
He glanced over his shoulder at his dog. “How the hell did you get in my house?”
“Lock pick set and doggy treats. Your dog really likes the peanut butter snacks.”
He pulled two beers from the refrigerator. “I’m going to sit and drink a beer. My gun is in the bedroom so you can either join me or shoot me. I don’t recommend shooting, though. Gunshots scare Beast. He’ll pee all over the floor.”
Without taking my eyes off him, I tossed him a dishtowel from the counter. “In case you want to cover up.”
He tossed the towel back on the counter before moving to the table and sitting with his back against the wall. He uncapped both beers, setting one in front of the chair on the other side of the table.
I raised an eyebrow as I watched him. “You don’t seem too concerned to find me here.”
He shrugged. “I recognized you earlier at the club when you were talking to Evie. Kid Harrison. Half cop. Half criminal. You have one hell of a following, but as far as the stories go, you’ve never killed an unarmed man.”
“Who are you?” I asked, though I was confident I’d already figured it out.
“Russell Spencer, private investigator.” He took a casual drink of his beer.
“Why are you following Evie?”
“I was hired to find her.”
“I saw the contract.” I looked around the small house. “I know you could use the money so why are you stalling to tell your client about Evie?”
He sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. “Fucking conscience. One phone call and I could collect my money, but I get the feeling this guy is lying about why he’s looking for her.”
Hunt and Prey (Kelsey's Burden Series Book 8) Page 3