by Meryl Sawyer
“Not necessarily. Talented hackers can get into any computer anywhere. The question is, who and why?”
Doyle Maxwell hung up the telephone, wondering how much longer he could hold off the prospective buyers. He was running out of excuses why they couldn’t visit To The Maxx and inspect the books.
Jesus Willie Christ. He needed this deal in the worst way. What was taking Shane and Vince so long to figure out the computer security problems?
He buzzed Taylor’s office but her secretary told him that she was down in the shipping department. Shipping? What was she doing down there? Trent oversaw shipping, not Taylor.
He tried Trent’s office, but his secretary told him that his nephew wouldn’t be in until after lunch. Then Doyle remembered Trent and Raoul had an appointment with the attorney concerning their drug charges.
The courts had become much stricter. His nephew and his ‘buddy’ would have a tougher time dodging this one than they might have several years ago.
And it would become even more difficult to hide the truth from Vanessa. That’s when he would have Trent and his meddling lover, Raoul on the ropes.
Doyle hustled down to the shipping department and found Taylor talking to Renata Rollins. What in hell was the stripper doing? It looked as if she was packing boxes for shipment.
He held back in the entrance to the area where the open loading dock accommodated shipping trucks and allowed the outside air to swamp the huge room with suffocating heat laden with humidity. Who would work under these conditions?
“What’s going on?” he asked as he walked up.
Renata stared at him with defiant brown eyes. “I’m learning the business from the bottom up. Taylor thought I should start working here first.”
Taylor flashed him a look that said she’d explain later.
“It’s fascinating,” the stripper told him.
Fascinating, my ass, he thought. The other workers were Cubans who spoke Spanish all the time. The job was tedious and boring, but he supposed if you wanted to really learn the business, shipping was the place to start.
It suddenly struck him that Brianna was right—again—Renata wanted to become part of the company. When they had offers for the business, money alone might not satisfy Renata.
If she inherited a chunk of Maxx from Vanessa, the stripper might not be willing to sell. That would be disaster. He needed to sell—now.
Once again, Doyle considered Raoul’s suggestion. Doyle had liked the idea as had Trent, but Taylor had taken the high road, insisting no one discuss the “ultimate option.” The swishy Cuban knew the Miami underworld like no one else Doyle had encountered.
Now, seeing Renata here, listening to her discussing Maxx as if she expected to inherit it, made Doyle reconsider. What right did this bitch have to call the shots? Where had she been during the past twenty years when his brother had nurtured the company into a first-rate cosmetics business?
“Taylor, I need to go over some advertisements with you,” Doyle said, knowing his niece would realize he wanted to speak to her alone. He rarely had anything to say about their ads, which were Taylor’s responsibility.
“I’ll see you later,” Taylor told Renata as she walked away.
“What’s she doing here?” Doyle asked.
Just as Brianna had predicted, Taylor told him Vanessa had insisted on giving Renata a job. His tie was suddenly too tight. He touched his bare skin and discovered he’d worn an open-neck shirt.
“I’m really worried about Mother,” Taylor confided. “She’s so wrapped up in Caleb and Renata. Why? Could one of her medications be distorting her perspective?”
“Possibly,” Doyle replied, although he personally thought guilt was the primary factor.
Vanessa had been a hard-core society wife, but she did flit in and out of Maxx with suggestions. She’d stepped on—and over—countless people until she’d got what she’d wanted through her husband, Duncan.
Her ability to maneuver his brother had been a wall between them until Doyle realized fighting Vanessa was useless. This sudden insight had occurred just as he was preparing to divorce Sophie to marry Brianna.
Vanessa’s support had deflected flack from his family and had paved the way for Brianna—at least to a certain extent. Although welcoming Brianna to the family, Vanessa had never admitted his new wife into her circle of society friends.
“Did you talk to your mother about seeing Ridley this afternoon?” Doyle asked, thinking about what his attorney friend had told him about Vanessa wanting to change her will.
Taylor hesitated a second too long. “Mother never mentioned her appointment with the attorney. All she wanted to talk about was Renata working here. She’s determined to have Renata learn the business.”
“Maybe it’s because you aren’t interested.”
“Possibly,” Taylor replied. “Mother may want to propel my father’s legacy into the new millennium. She says she feels the need to make up to Renata for all she’s missed.”
Doyle didn’t argue. Who knew what was going on in Vanessa’s mind? He’d spent the better part of his adult life fighting her—and losing.
He led Taylor through the double doors into the hallway leading back to the main building, where the air conditioning cooled the building to a reasonable temperature. Let the stripper spend her time with a pack of sweaty Cubans.
“Have you talked to Vince or Shane?” he asked. “What’s happening with the computer security investigation? I have two buyers champing at the bit. I have to keep putting them off because I don’t want them to find out about the security problems.”
“They’re working on it,” Taylor replied.
“It’s taking a hell of a long time. I think we should get another team in here to expedite things.”
“No. Don’t do that. Shane is almost through.”
Something in her voice alarmed Doyle. Taylor was not a good liar. What was going on?
“Does Shane have any idea what the problem is?”
“Not exactly,” answered Taylor, “but he says he’ll have an answer in a few days.”
A few days.
Everything seemed to be boiling down to ‘a few days.’ An answer about the computer security. The DNA results.
Time was everything, he decided. And it was running out He needed the money from the sale of his brother’s company. Computer glitches and strippers posing as long-lost daughters were nothing but trouble.
What could he do?
Renata pinned the tiny gold bar with a single bead of jet dangling from it on her dress. She’d driven her hot new Mercedes convertible to Little Havana right after work to buy the arichanet.
Not that she believed in their Santería crap, but she’d always been a little superstitious. She’d gotten it from her grandmother, who’d raised her with a healthy fear of haints—ghosts—and other creatures who roamed the hallows in the dead of night.
Her life had taken a new turn.
Renata needed her mojo—her good luck charm—now more than ever.
She had to work a bit longer with Cubans who gave her the willies. The way they looked at her and jabbered in Spanish would make anyone superstitious.
She’d told the Cuban bitches to fuck off and die. But for good measure, she’d bought the arichanet.
Santería stuff, but it might protect her. Okay, it was Macumba, the black magic some Santería followers worshipped like those who believed in Marie Laveau’s black arts.
Candles. Xs on tombs.
Followers of Santería sacrificed chickens. Animal rights activists had taken them to the Supreme Court The judges upheld their right to practice their religion the way they always had.
Native Americans smoked peyote in their services. Santería believers could have animal blood sacrifices of chickens.
Renata had never been to a blood sacrifice, but the concept intrigued her. “Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. If God won’t have you, the devil must.”
Then the innocent animal’s jugular
was slit open. Its life blood spilled onto the dusty earth, saving the true believers.
A loud rap on her door then Caleb barged in, saying, “I thought we’d hit the clubs after Vanessa goes to bed.”
“No way. I can’t. I’m bushed. I spent all day bustin’ my ass in the shipping department.”
“What’s that pin you’re wearing? Some fancy piece Vanessa gave you.”
“Don’t I wish. The arichanet cost me five bucks. Cubans use them to ward off the evil eye. You know, bad luck or worse.”
“Don’t tell me you still believe that shit. Who’d give you the evil eye?”
“Cuban workers.”
“Come on. Get real.”
“I’ve always been superstitious, but I’m feeling lucky these days. It doesn’t hurt to take precautions.”
Chapter 14
It was late afternoon and Shane was studying the computer screen’s sophisticated steganography. It still had him stumped. The scrambled letters and the numbers beside them had to be some sort of code.
What did it mean?
His mind drifted to Taylor, and he remembered looking at the photograph of a beautiful blonde and listening to Paul Ashton. They’d been sitting in a bar in Bogota’s Soluna district.
Soluna, a melding of the Spanish word for sun—sol—and the Spanish word for moon—luna. That’s what Colombia’s drug lords wanted—the sun and the moon. So far, it looked as if they were going to get it.
“Taylor’s my babe in Miami,” Paul told him as he placed three pictures on the small table. “Of course, when I’m here, I have Miranda. She’s one hot number. When I’m in Rio, there’s Alia.”
Shane had kicked back the dregs of his Tequila, unable to take his eyes off the picture of Taylor Maxwell. She reminded him of Heidi, a girl he’d gone to school with years ago.
Heidi had been intelligent and pretty in that refreshing girl-next-door way. Nothing had ever come of their relationship, but Shane often wondered what had happened to her.
Now there was Taylor gazing up at him from the photo, reminding him of the past and what it was like to care about someone. He had suddenly missed the real world. His work seemed oppressive and futile.
Could anyone ever get the best of these criminals?
“Got a woman here?” Paul asked.
“No. My trips are too quick. I fly in, broker a shipment of coffee beans, then I’m gone.”
Posing as a coffee broker trying to secure steady supplies of coffee beans for the American market was Shane’s DIA cover. He was actually working to cut off the stream of illegal drugs from Colombia that funded various terrorist organizations.
And flooded America with drugs.
Paul had picked up Taylor’s picture and tucked it in his wallet along with photos of the other women he’d already bragged about. They’d all been pretty, but none of them had been as appealing as Taylor.
“For the right price, I can help you bring a load of coffee beans through rebel territory,” Paul said.
“Not just any beans. Beans from the Obergon region. They have the acidity level we need.”
Paul nodded, and Shane knew he’d passed the test. If he’d been faking being a coffee broker, he wouldn’t have known Americans, unlike South Americans and Europeans, preferred coffee that was highly acidic.
“I’ll get you what you need,” Paul told him. “I’ll ship them for you.”
Shane haggled over the price—just for show—Paul had taken the bait. He intended to conceal cocaine in with the shipment of coffee beans.
After that day, Shane hadn’t been able to get Taylor out of his mind. When he’d completed his mission, he’d flown straight to Miami and took Vince up on his job offer. Then he went to find Taylor. He’d expected the real woman to shatter the image he had in his head.
Just the opposite.
Taylor Maxwell was even more interesting in person than she’d been in a photograph. She had a complex personality that Ashton—the crazy son of a bitch—hadn’t appreciated.
Shane had intended to satisfy his curiosity then leave, but seeing Taylor in person had taken his infatuation to a whole new level. Meeting her and getting to know her had made leaving impossible.
The phone on his desk rang, jolting him back to reality. “Shane?” the sultry voice asked. “It’s Renata. I think something funny is going on down here in shipping. Could you come check?”
Apprehension waltzed up his spine in a way it hadn’t done since he’d been assigned to the Colombian task force. Renata Rollins was cunning and deceitful, he thought. She might have discovered something or she might be playing a game.
Who knew?
Taylor nuzzled into her pillow, the noise threatening to awaken her, being kept at bay by the comforting down. It had been well after midnight when she’d fallen asleep. Disturbing images of her mother and Renata had kept her awake for hours.
“POLICE! OPEN UP!”
Taylor lifted her head from the pillow. Groggy. Surely she was dreaming. Cocking one ear to the side, she listened more closely.
“POLICE! OPEN UP!”
Oh, my God! She sat bolt upright, wondering if this was real. Or was this just another nightmare?
The clock on her nightstand said it was almost eight. She’d forgotten to set the alarm. She’d overslept and now she’d be late to the office.
She jumped out of bed, grabbed her robe, and trudged down the hallway toward the living room door. Peering through the peephole, she saw a police officer and a detective in a suit. The detective was holding his badge up for her to see.
Something must have happened to Trent, she decided, recalling what Doyle had told her about his arrest for possession. She swung open the door, asking, “What’s going on?”
“I’m Detective Morse and this is Officer Jennings,” the man said as he snapped his wallet shut and put it in his pocket. “Are you Taylor Maxwell?”
She managed to nod, a suffocating sensation tightening her throat.
“Where were you between nine o’clock last night and three this morning?” the detective asked.
“Right here? Why? What’s this all about?”
“Was anyone with you?”
“No. I live alone.”
Shane appeared, bringing Auggie back from his morning walk. “Taylor, is something wrong?”
Blood pounded in her temples and her knees quivered. Something was terribly wrong.
“I don’t know. They haven’t said what this is about.”
Shane walked over to her side, and she had to admit she was enormously relieved to have him with her.
“What’s the problem?” Shane asked.
“Renata Rollins was murdered last night.”
“No!” Taylor gasped. How could she be dead? Renata had been so alive—so ambitious. So in your face. Could she possibly be dead?
“How? Where?” Shane wanted to know.
“She was shot in her sleep some time between nine last night when she went to bed and three in the morning. We’re questioning people, checking alibis.”
“I had no reason to kill her,” protested Taylor. “I barely knew her.”
“That isn’t what Mr. Bassett says.”
Shane put his arm around Taylor as they sat on her couch. The police had left, saying they were questioning everyone involved.
“Who would want to kill Renata?” Taylor asked.
“It could have been any number of people, even someone from New Orleans. Who knows?”
“You’re right. Even Raoul talked about having her killed. Of course, it was just talk.”
Shane wasn’t nearly as positive as Taylor sounded. Who knew what a desperate person might do.
Anger glittered in her eyes as she gazed at him, asking, “Why would Caleb implicate me?”
“Good question. Did something happen yesterday morning when you visited your mother?”
“No … not exactly. Caleb did ask me why I’d come by the house the previous day. I had my excuse ready, but I don’t th
ink he believed me. I had the feeling he knew I’d been snooping in his room.”
“Taylor, listen to me carefully.” He pulled her a little closer, and she gazed up at him, concern etching her face. “You could be in serious trouble if they don’t find the killer immediately. Your fingerprints are going to be all over that room.”
“Oh, my God.” She muffled a gasp with a clenched fist. “You’re right. When I snatched the hair sample, I went through Renata’s things.”
Shane checked his watch. “Let’s get to the office and see what Trent and Doyle say. It might be smart to contact an attorney now.”
Shane stood in the back of Doyle Maxwell’s office and watched as Doyle talked with Taylor and Trent. Off to one side stood Raoul and Brianna.
“We could all be in trouble,” Doyle was saying. “None of us have alibis. Even Brianna spent last night at her mother’s.”
“Her heart’s been acting up, and I’m the only one who can convince her to go to the hospital if necessary,” explained Brianna. “You see, in Cuba, you went to the hospital to die.”
“Then your mother is your alibi,” Trent said.
“She was in the bedroom, and I slept on the living room sofa. I could have slipped out and she wouldn’t have known, but why would I?”
Shane decided Brianna could have pulled the trigger if she realized how financially strapped her husband was. Getting rid of Renata before she could squelch a deal to sell the company could be the motive, but Shane believed this was a long shot.
“Honey,” Doyle said to Brianna, “don’t worry about it Everyone knows you wouldn’t kill a fly.”
“Then why did the police question me?”
“They questioned all of us,” Raoul said. “They’re just gathering facts.”
Shane studied Raoul and saw his pale blue eyes were glazed and his fingers were trembling slightly. Unless he missed his guess, the Cuban was sprung on meth.
“You two weren’t together last night?” Shane asked Trent, watching Raoul out of the corner of his eye.
“No,” Trent said, his voice so low he was almost whispering. “I was home by myself.”