Finders Keepers

by Shirl Henke

  It still pissed her off.

  In moments, Matt’s great-aunt reappeared and walked directly toward her. Matt must’ve described the scratched and bruised short woman with clumps of her hair ripped almost as badly as the remnants of her clothing. She felt like a leper. No use trying to straighten her appearance at this point—as if she could.

  “So, you’re Samantha.” Claudia’s ice-blue eyes swept over her in one quick glance. “Matthew informed me—between bouts of cursing at the doctor—that you’ve been instructed to wait here for the police. When that’s taken care of, please call me so we can have a civilized talk, face-to-face. I’m at the Biltmore, of course.”

  “Of course,” Sam couldn’t resist echoing as Claudia took a card from her Gucci bag and gave it to Sam, then turned and headed toward the doors.

  Kit Steele and Alexi Renkov had tried to shoot her and burn her to death, but they weren’t a fraction as frightening as the woman climbing into the stretch limo that waited outside the E.R. As it pulled smoothly away, she muttered, “Well, that went great. Cat got your tongue, ‘Samantha’?”

  “I never saw you so subdued in your life. Who was that dame?” Sergeant Patowski asked, sidling up to her from behind.

  “Claudia Witherspoon, the one you and your fibbie pals tricked into paying me…if she still will.”

  Pat whistled low. “I was thinking of calling her in to answer a few questions.”

  “You just rethink the idea?” Sam asked sarcastically.

  “Let’s just say she has friends in high places. Thanks to you and your boyfriend, I already have half of D.C. ready to tar and feather me. Not to mention the director, twelve of the thirteen county commissioners and the county attorney.”

  “Only twelve?” she asked, curious who the lone holdout was.

  Patowski snorted. “Don’t think I’ll tilt at any more windmills, at least until the dust settles. Come on, we gotta take a ride out 25th Street.” The Miami-Dade Headquarters building was on the west side of the airport on NW 25th.

  “Bet you can’t offer me a stretch limo,” Sam said.

  “You’re lucky I let you ride in front of the wire barrier instead of behind it,” he snapped.

  “Homicide dicks don’t drive green and whites. You can’t threaten me.”

  “I can arrange for one to take you in and book you in a heartbeat,” he shot back as they left the E.R. and climbed in his plain blue sedan.

  “Look, I know you didn’t like Matt’s statement to the television news—”

  “Oh, I friggin’ loved the part about the Herald scooping them in a special edition. That’ll just make our day when every detail of Renkov’s ties to the CIA goes public.”

  “Hey, you and the fibbies were out to nail Mikhail and the whole Russian Mafia—and the Company, too, so why be mad at Matt for breaking the story of his career? He was the one who found that list, after all.”

  “We want Mikhail for murder, but the whole operation was supposed to be hush-hush until after we had all our ducks in a row. We didn’t count on a speed race down the Intracoastal drawing every newshound in the Southeast. Television helicopters.” He spat the words like a curse. In Patowski’s book, the only newshounds worse than newspapermen were broadcast journalists.

  “Steele would’ve killed Matt and Alexi and gotten away with that list of nuclear weapons. Then she’d have turned around and offered them to the CIA, who would’ve bought them—only to find the Brighton Beach crowd already had the same list. She’d also have sold a copy to Putin’s government. Can’t imagine they’d be too happy if we’d let that happen. Besides, it was Tess’s son who gave you probable cause for that warrant. Bet you found plenty at Mikki’s digs in Aventura.” Sam waited for him to reply, knew he wouldn’t.

  Instead, he shifted the topic. “The FBI has Mikhail Renkov on drug trafficking, money laundering and kidnapping. Alexi gets insurance fraud and several murders added to the indictments in his Christmas stocking. Oh, yeah, one of them’s Nancy Renkov.”

  “He admitted drowning her to us before he locked us inside that lead-lined bake oven. Hey, I’ll testify,” she said, cajolingly.

  He grunted. “Damn right you will. Maid at a Bal Harbor hotel found the body about an hour ago. Looked like she drowned in her bubble tub, but the M.E. has other ideas.”

  “Kit sent Alexi to do it, I’d bet, but why bother? They—or rather Kit after she killed Alexi—was making a getaway with millions to retire on. She had to know Mikhail would be after her for that.”

  Patowski shrugged. “Bureau’s had a tail on Nancy for months. She may have known a hell of a lot about Kit Steele that Mikhail could’ve beaten out of her—or once she realized that Kit had used her, she might’ve told him out of spite. Whatever.”

  Sam nodded. “That makes sense. Kit already sold the list to Pribluda’s man. That’s where all the loot on her boat came from.”

  Patowksi’s normally down-turned mouth actually inched into what might have been a smile. “Special Agent Gomez and her team nailed the boys from Brighton and retrieved their copy of the list,” he admitted.

  “If they’d caught Steele, I wouldn’t have had to chase her down the Intracoastal.” Sam knew she’d scored on that one.

  He harrumphed into silence as he threaded his way north onto I-826, then finally said, “I wanted to nab her but Gomez insisted her guy tail the bitch. Thought she’d lead him to Alexi, but instead, she gave him the slip on Brickell.”

  “Never underestimate the resourcefulness of a woman,” Sam said, rubbing her aching head. “She damn near snatched me bald.”

  This time Patowski actually grinned. “You gotta quit picking fights with people who’re bigger than you. Didn’t your uncle teach you that?”

  She returned his grin. “Naw, Uncle Dec only taught me to fight dirty.”

  When they reached the glass-and-stucco headquarters complex, the parking lot was filled with unmarked vehicles, either Bucars or fancier models reserved for CIA types. “According to Matt, his aunt has some clout with the spooks,” she said hopefully.

  “Who you tryin’ to convince, me or yourself?”

  “You guys are the ones in trouble, not me,” she said ingenuously. She’d cut out her tongue before she told him about her upcoming sweaty-palm meet with the Witherspoon dame.

  They walked into a conference room just off the main entry where a coven of FBI agents clustered at one side of the long table, male and female alike in gray suits with short haircuts. They mixed uncomfortably with several Miami-Dade cops Sam recognized from the old days. Two gave her thumbs-up grins but one who’d been a pal of the rookie she took the fall for appraised her with hard eyes. The kid had been canned for another screwup only weeks after she left the force. The hostile cop believed, wrongly, that Patowski had set up the kid as a favor to Sam. The irony of that brought a wry half smile to her face.

  The room was quiet. That didn’t surprise her. Cops and fibbies never socialized unless forced by circumstances. At the opposite side of the table two men stood apart. “If they branded them with a giant C on their foreheads, do you think it’d be more obvious they’re Company?” Sam muttered to Patowski.

  “Let’s just finish this before anyone gets to interview your boyfriend,” Pat said doggedly.

  Sam considered whether or not Matt would still be her boyfriend when everything was said and done. He’d been pretty mad at her when he found out that she had been working with the MDPD and the FBI—even more angry that she’d taken his aunt’s bribe. She doubted he worried about poor Aunt Claudia. It was his being set up that got to him. His aunt apparently swam with the sharks. She’d take care of herself. Sam fingered the old lady’s card in her pocket, using it as a good luck piece when Special Agent Gomez headed their way.

  I’d rather have a double root canal without Novocaine than go through this debriefing. Sam assumed her most badass south Boston demeanor when Gomez introduced her to the fibbies and spooks. She was damned if they’d see her sweat…but glad
the room was well air-conditioned.

  They reviewed every facet of the case as it pertained to her involvement. Sam answered as completely and truthfully as she could, leaving out only her romantic liaison with the reporter she’d been hired to snatch. So much for her rep as a retrieval specialist if that fiasco got out!

  After a couple of hours of grilling, punctuated by several sparring matches between the FBI team and the two CIA men, things started to wind down. Then a tap on the door brought disaster. Sergeant Cisneros slipped in and spoke quietly to Pat and Gomez. They argued in monotones for several moments. The special agent must’ve won because Patowski’s face was the same shade of red as the chairs around the conference table.

  Special Agent Gomez turned to the task force and held up a newspaper. A special edition of the Herald with banner headlines. Then she passed it to her FBI and MDPD colleagues. One CIA agent grabbed it and read aloud:

  CIA COVERS FOR LOCAL MOB BOSS!

  ALEXI RENKOV ALIVE, UNDER ARREST!

  Sam couldn’t see the byline, but she knew who the reporter was. Intimately. Now she sat back in her chair and tried to make herself invisible as the firestorm broke over the room. How the hell had he done it? The man was hospitalized. He’d been shot and lost a gallon of blood. Then she overheard an FBI agent who’d just entered the room say, “Granger gave police security the slip in the E.R. and headed straight to the Herald offices.” He glared at Patowski—who glared right back.

  So much for worrying about Matt’s health. He was no doubt in his glory. One of the cops brought in a whole bundle of newspapers and she grabbed one, reading the first-person account of their encounters with Renkov’s associates. Sam skimmed down the front page, then skipped to the second. Everything except their personal relationship was outlined in detail. She hoped his aunt had as much clout as he thought she did. Before the dust settled, he’d need Claudia to keep the spooks from arranging an accident for him.

  But he wouldn’t need Sam. He’d left her at the hospital without confiding a word about his plan or asking her help making a getaway. What, did he think I’d rat him out to Patowski?

  Obviously, yes. Her heart sank.

  It was nearly dark by the time she walked out of the headquarters building, grateful not to be in federal custody. Sam considered calling the Herald offices to see if Matt was there, then decided against it. If he wanted to reach her, he knew where she lived. Pat had the Charger brought to the building so she’d have transportation home. Considering everything, it was a decent gesture. The cab fare from NW 25th Street to NE 110th would’ve broken the bank for her.

  As she climbed inside the old wreck, she felt Claudia’s card in her pocket. She’d been summoned. And no one dared blow off Claudia Witherspoon. “Might as well end the day as well as I began it,” she muttered, heading for the Gables.

  The Biltmore Hotel had been a Coral Gables landmark since 1926. It’s three-hundred-fifteen-foot central tower grandly overlooked an eighteen-hole golf course, ten tennis courts and the largest swimming pool in the continental U.S. The Spanish revival architecture with Moorish and Italian accents was pure Gables schmaltz. Over the past century, the grand old lady had an impressive guest list—the Duke and Duchess of Windsor, Bing Crosby, Babe Ruth, even Al Capone.

  And now it housed Claudia Witherspoon in a suite that was doubtlessly larger than Sam’s whole house. Although she’d lived in Miami for years, she’d never set foot inside the mausoleum before today. The vaulted lobby’s massive columns and marble floors dwarfed her as she passed several immense brass-and-mahogany birdcages. Heading to the banks of elevators, Sam felt as if she belonged inside one of the cages—as a newspaper liner for the exotic plumed inhabitants.

  Chapter 23

  “She’s just another rich old broad from Boston, for crying out loud,” Sam muttered as the brass-and-mahogany elevator whisked her to the penthouse. Apparently, Claudia kept the suite on retainer, like mob bosses kept sharpie lawyers, always available when necessary. Thinking of mob bosses, she wondered how Mikhail and Alexi were doing in the slammer. That brought a fleeting smile to her lips just as the elevator chimed discreetly and its doors glided open.

  If Claudia was trying to impress Sam, it worked. The hallway was lined with huge marble urns overflowing with birds of paradise and other lush tropical flowers in brilliant hues. She glanced at the card and the suite-number directory, then headed for her confrontation. The old woman’s wealth and social position would not have intimidated a tough kid from south Boston like Sam…but her relationship to Matt and the shadowy power he’d hinted Claudia wielded in Washington made her nervous as hell.

  What had begun as a profitable snatch in cooperation with the MDPD had placed her smack in the middle of an international conspiracy. Those spooks at headquarters hadn’t exactly been happy with her. Aunt Claudia would protect Matt, but would she extend the courtesy to his abductor, especially considering that she’d taken the old bat’s offer of money under false pretenses—and had done such a bang-up job acting as his bodyguard that he ended up gunshot and hospitalized?

  “Might as well find out,” she said, pressing the chimes on the massive wooden door.

  Amazingly enough, “the old bat” opened the door herself. She’d exchanged the red suit for a silk lounging outfit in some shade of silvery purple that Sam couldn’t identify. An expensive Cuban cigar’s fragrant smoke wafted gently into the hall. Her hostess waved a fat Triangelo between two dainty fingers that winked with enough carats to keep all the rabbits in the state fat for a year.

  “Please come in, Samantha. I’ve dismissed the servants for the evening and ordered hors d’oeuvres to go with our drinks.” She turned and floated toward the onyx bar across a sitting room large enough for a Patriots’ game.

  Sam’s shoes sunk into pale gray plush carpet as she followed, trying hard not to gawk at the retro decor, reminiscent of films set during the 1950s. A curving sectional sofa in soft black leather was flanked by chrome torchière lamps. A pair of blond wood chairs with charcoal upholstery sat with a low glass table between them. The appetizers Claudia had mentioned suddenly made Sam remember she hadn’t eaten in nearly twenty-four hours.

  “Name your poison. I used to be a fair bartender back in Berlin…or was it Paris? I forget now,” Claudia said, pouring a generous slug of expensive gin into a container and adding a breath of vermouth, then shaking it and pouring the drink into a crystal glass.

  “You wouldn’t happen to have any beer, say Guinness?” There. Might as well let her know where you come from. After all, Claudia was the one puffing on the stogie.

  Claudia laughed and produced one of the distinctive bottles from the mini fridge beneath the bar. She uncapped it and handed it to Sam. “Your uncle taught you to drink it when you were underage. Straight out of the bottle, no glass. Scandalized your mother.”

  “You do your homework,” Sam said grudgingly, eyeing the cigar.

  “I would’ve offered you one, but I know you quit smoking when you were—”

  “Fifteen. I only sneaked Uncle Declan’s Marlboros. Never tried a cigar.”

  “I acquired the habit during the twenties—not mine, I was only sixteen, but I was a flapper in the roaring twenties. Actually, the thirties were far more interesting. Do have a seat,” she said, gliding into one of the Danish-looking chairs and raising her glass in a toast.

  Sam sat and they both took a drink while eyeing each other like two poker players at a world championship game.

  Sam broke the silence, intrigued in spite of herself. “What made the 1930s so interesting?”

  “I met Charles Rochat in Berlin. He was a pianist, classically trained but playing jazz in a small club where I sang.” Her eyes glowed for a moment but then turned cold. “Of course, my family was horrified that I’d abandoned my grand tour and taken up with an impoverished French musician. When I married him, my father disowned me.”

  “You were kind of a Sally Bowles?” Sam couldn’t resist asking, never having
imagined the daughter of Boston Brahmins with such a colorful past.

  Claudia shrugged and took another puff on her cigar. “Weimar Germany was quite the place…until the Nazis took over. Charles and I worked for the resistance. My family was involved with the State Department and suddenly my connections abroad were useful. All was forgiven…after my husband was killed by the Gestapo.” She paused and took a fortifying sip of her martini before continuing. “Paul and Julia broke the news to me. My father wanted me to come home and be safe. Of course I refused.”

  “Paul and Julia Childs?” Sam asked.

  “We worked together until the war ended, remained good friends until their passing.”

  “Why’d you ask me to come here? I already know you’re richer than God and pissed as hell about how the cops and fibbies tricked you into hiring me.”

  “Tricked me?” Claudia’s mood shifted to amusement. She arched one eyebrow and smiled a Cheshire cat smile. “Samantha, no one has ‘tricked’ me in…well, let us just say a very long time. Do you honestly believe I’d think Matthew had been ‘brainwashed’ by some cult? Really. I tried brainwashing him for over twenty years without a modicum of success.”

  Sam suddenly remembered to close her mouth before her jaw hit the low glass table in front of her. “He did mention his family not approving of his newspaper career,” she managed to get out.

  Claudia chuckled. “Spurning his trust fund and refusing to take his place at Lodge, Asher, Witherspoon & Fiske made my brother go ballistic. I was secretly pleased to see my blood will out, not that I’ve let Matthew know, of course.”

  “Of course,” Sam echoed, taking a long pull on her Guinness as Claudia continued.

  “Within hours of that ridiculous call from my nephew’s bogus editor, my sources had appraised me of what he’d become involved in. He is my only living heir and I do not intend to see him hurt. Ever. So, I investigated you since you came recommended by the Bureau. I was prepared to dislike you.”