Beach Bags and Burglaries (A Haley Randolph Mystery)

by Dorothy Howell

  “What’s going on?” I asked. “Why are you here?”

  “I was worried about you,” Shuman said.

  My breath caught. I hadn’t expected to hear that, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to—not after what Shuman had been through with his girlfriend getting murdered not so long ago. I figured he was emotionally vulnerable, and no way did I want to take a chance that he might want to get involved with me at a time like this—I’d already dodged that bullet once.

  “This murder investigation of yours may be bigger than you think,” Shuman said.

  So he really was here just to talk about Jaslyn’s death. I kind of felt like an idiot now.

  “How so?” I asked, anxious to keep the conversation going.

  “After you asked me to check into Jaslyn Gordon’s boyfriend, Gabe Braxton,” Shuman said, “I did some digging and learned that Colby Rowan lives here at the resort.”

  This was not exactly a brilliant piece of police work; it had been reported in People magazine. Still, I knew Shuman well enough to realize something more was coming.

  “She was part of a robbery team that targeted upscale shops in L.A.,” Shuman said.

  Again, People had covered it.

  Maybe I should give him a subscription for Christmas.

  “Colby was the advance person for the robberies,” Shuman said. “She dressed as if she belonged in those stores, thanks to her daddy’s billions, so she didn’t raise suspicion. She went in, checked out the security, the employees’ routines, delivery schedules, everything.”

  This, People hadn’t reported—or if they had, Sandy hadn’t mentioned it.

  “They got away with millions in jewelry, watches, statues, paintings, all kinds of high-end merchandise,” Shuman said.

  “Was any of it recovered?” I asked.

  “Some of it has surfaced overseas,” Shuman said. “One member of the team was never caught.”

  Then it hit me. Oh my God, I might have solved two crimes.

  “Was it Gabe Braxton?” I asked.

  “Definitely not Braxton,” Shuman said.

  Damn. I hate when that happens.

  “But with the murder of the hotel maid here at the resort,” Shuman said, “I was able to convince the brass upstairs to let me come here and check things out, see what I could turn up on Colby’s accomplice.”

  “LAPD is spending money for you to stay at this place?” Haley asked. “Those robberies happened years ago.”

  “There’s always been considerable pressure on the department to close this case and recover the stolen goods,” Shuman said. “Sidney Rowan carries a lot of weight. He, apparently, doesn’t want that last gang member left at large, maybe causing problems for Colby in the future.”

  “What kinds of problems?” I asked.

  Shuman shrugged. “Implicating her in other aspects of the crimes.”

  Then something occurred to me.

  “Hey, isn’t Sidney Rowan dead?” I asked.

  Shuman grinned. “He’s very much alive.”

  Jeez, somebody should let People know about this.

  “Our police chief would like nothing better than to make Rowan happy by putting the last thief behind bars,” Shuman said. “It never hurts to be in the good graces of a billionaire, especially if you have political aspirations.”

  “Do you think there’s a connection between Jaslyn’s death and those old robberies?” I asked.

  Honestly, I didn’t see it. But maybe Shuman knew something I didn’t.

  “Two people were killed during those robberies,” Shuman said. “Witnesses claimed it was Colby, but their testimony never made it to trial.”

  “Do you think Sidney Rowan paid them off?” I asked.

  Shuman didn’t respond in the affirmative or negative, so I figured I had my answer.

  I could see that happening. Like most dads, Rowan would have done anything to make things better for his daughter, so he sure as heck wouldn’t want anyone testifying to worse crimes than the robberies she’d already been charged with.

  We stood there for a few minutes looking at each other. I stopped thinking about Jaslyn, Gabe, and Colby. I think Shuman did, too.

  We both seemed to realize it at the same second.

  “I guess I’d better go,” Shuman said.

  “I guess,” I said.

  Another few seconds passed. Light from the moon seemed to get softer, the ocean somehow sounded more intense, the breeze grew warmer.

  Shuman drew closer, then stepped back.

  “I’d really better go,” he said.

  “Yeah, me too,” I said.

  We walked back down the path to the bar. The dance floor was packed now, and all the tables were taken. A limbo game had started up in the sand nearby, and four guys were playing darts.

  “Want to join us?” I asked, and nodded toward Sandy, Marcie, and Bella, all seated at our table.

  Shuman hesitated a bit, then shook his head. “No, I’ve got things to take care of.”

  “Oh. Well, I guess I’ll see you around,” I said.

  Shuman tried for a grin but couldn’t quite pull it off.

  “Sure,” was all he managed.

  He started to walk away when I remembered that he hadn’t given me the info I’d asked him for.

  “What about Gabe Braxton?” I asked.

  All attempts at a grin disappeared from Shuman’s face. He shifted into cop mode big-time.

  “Stay away from Braxton,” he said.

  I got a weird feeling.

  “He was picked up for assault and domestic violence,” Shuman said.

  Yikes! I hadn’t expected to hear that, but given his explosive temper I’d witnessed, I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised.

  Then something else hit me.

  “How did he get a job here?” I asked. “This place is super careful about everything that concerns the security of their guests. They’re bound to do background checks on all their employees.”

  “Charges were dismissed,” Shuman said.

  His expression shifted from cop mode to something else that I’d never seen before. I didn’t know what it meant.

  “Stay away from Gabe Braxton, Haley. Do you hear me? Stay away,” Shuman said. “Don’t go near him. Don’t talk to him. Don’t even let him know you’re alive. He’s dangerous.”

  Now didn’t seem like the best time to mention that I’d already questioned Gabe, so what could I say but “Okay.”

  Shuman turned on his lie-detecting, supercop-stink-eye glare—like he thought I wasn’t telling the truth, which I wasn’t, of course—then walked away.

  I went back to our table. Sandy was on the dance floor with Sebastian again, and Bella was now talking to a guy I didn’t know at the bar.

  “What’s Shuman doing here?” Marcie asked.

  If anyone but Marcie had asked, I would have said he was simply there on vacation. But no way could I lie to my BFF. She’d see right through it.

  That’s what BFFs do.

  “He’s working a case,” I said, and lowered my voice. “Undercover.”

  Marcie didn’t seem as impressed as I’d been with the whole undercover thing. What was that all about?

  “The murder of that hotel maid?” Marcie asked.

  “Yes, that’s it,” I said.

  Okay, I knew that was a total lie, but an acceptable one. I couldn’t tell Marcie—not even my BFF—what Shuman was really up to.

  BFFs do that, too.

  “Where’s that waiter?” Marcie asked, gazing around the bar. “Never mind. I’ll get us fresh drinks.”

  She left the table, and I had a major Shuman flashback.

  It creeped me out thinking that I’d hunted down Gabe Braxton, introduced myself, asked him about Jaslyn, then deliberately antagonized him so he’d divulge more info—probably not my smartest move, given what Shuman had told me about that whole assault-domestic-violence thing.

  But too late for that now. I couldn’t even promise myself that I’d st
eer clear of Gabe from now on, because his past troubles with the law made him a really great murder suspect.

  For a few minutes I considered talking to security chief Walt Pemberton about Gabe’s history. But I didn’t know if the LAPD had looped in resort security on Shuman’s investigation. If I told Pemberton about Gabe, he’d want to know how I’d found out, and no way did I want to explain my connection to Shuman. Plus, without some reasonable explanation of where I’d obtained the info, Pemberton might report it to those two homicide detectives who’d interviewed me; they’d probably think I was making it up to throw suspicion off of myself. And, really, I’d just as soon not remind them that I was still around.

  Besides, there was always a chance that Pemberton already knew about Gabe’s problems with the law—though why the resort would allow him to work here knowing that info, I had no clue—and I didn’t want to look like an idiot by telling him something he already knew, so I decided to keep my mouth shut since that would benefit me the most.

  Then something else hit me—was Colby, with her criminal past and jail time, somehow involved with Gabe Braxton’s sort-of criminal past even though Shuman had said they weren’t connected? Maybe it was something he hadn’t discovered yet. Had Colby gotten the resort security staff to somehow forgo Gabe’s background check and hire him at her request? Were Gabe and Colby both involved in Jaslyn Gordon’s murder?

  I thought about this for a few minutes, then realized that, while it made a great theory, there was no real evidence.

  Damn. That whole I-need-evidence thing kept getting in the way.

  Then something else hit me: why was I thinking about this now? I’m on vacation.

  And why was I sitting here by myself? I knew three—count them, three—good-looking, single guys right here at the resort, and you’d think one of them would want to take me for a spin on the dance floor, or buy me a drink, or at least sit here and talk to me. Where was Luke? Ben? Why the heck had Shuman taken off?

  My evening needed a boost.

  I glanced around the bar and saw that Bella was talking to three guys now. I had no idea who they were, but I figured I should definitely find out.

  I was just about to stand up, throw caution to the wind, and razzle-dazzle those guys with the magic that is uniquely me when Ben Oliver sat down next to me.

  Jeez, where had he come from?

  And why was he still wearing those same wrinkled khaki pants and that tired blue polo shirt?

  Ben leaned close. “That guy you were just talking to, he was a cop. Don’t deny it. I recognized him.”

  How did he manage to still smell so good when he kept wearing the same crappy clothes?

  “Seriously, Ben,” I said. “I’m assembling my glam squad first thing tomorrow and I’m giving you a makeover.”

  He ignored my comment and said, “What did he tell you?”

  “Oh my God,” I realized. “You were watching me?”

  “Shh,” Ben whispered. “I’m telling you, this place is crawling with undercover security.”

  He glanced around as if he expected to see plainclothes investigators dart from bush to bush.

  Then it hit me—Ben wasn’t here investigating Jaslyn’s murder, he was following the story of Colby’s old crime spree and searching for the one gang member who’d never been apprehended. Why else would he recognize and ask me about Shuman?

  Ben had claimed he was investigating a tip from a Hollywood insider about thefts involving A-list celebrities, so I figured some of the jewelry, watches, and other stuff stolen in Colby’s robberies had been connected to high-profile stars. Those shops stored expensive pieces for the wealthy, rich, and famous, especially since celebrity home break-ins were a constant threat.

  “His name is Shuman, right?” Ben said. “He’s a detective with the LAPD, right? What did he tell you?”

  No way was I going to admit to anything that might give away something major and betray Shuman’s trust.

  Ben didn’t seem to notice.

  “Look, Haley,” he said. “You owe me.”

  I did, in fact, owe Ben on some level, and I was surprised he hadn’t reminded me of that before now.

  Still, I wasn’t going to be bullied—or guilted—into telling him anything.

  Ben must have sensed that, because his expression softened—which was kind of hot, given the fabulous lighting—and said, “This story will put my career into the stratosphere. I’m talking Rolling Stone, the New Yorker, talk shows, morning news broadcasts. It will put me on the A-list of reporters. I’ll have my pick of jobs anywhere.”

  Ben sounded really excited—and kind of desperate. I didn’t blame him, of course. His career had spiraled downward lately and I’d been kind-of-sort-of to blame—not that I’d intentionally done anything to make Ben look bad. It was just a series of tough breaks that I’d, well, really, I’d been responsible for.

  Still, I wasn’t going to give away anything big.

  “You’re right,” I said, “he’s here on a case. Undercover—so don’t blow it for him.”

  “What did he tell you?” Ben asked.

  “This is a two-way street,” I said. “I’ll share, if you’ll share.”

  Ben stewed for only a couple of seconds—guess he was desperate for info—then said, “Fine, sure, okay, whatever. What did he tell you?”

  “He’s definitely here investigating a case that involves someone at the resort,” I said.

  “I knew it.” Ben clinched his fist and kind of growled—which was way hot, of course.

  “It’s very high profile,” I said.

  “Yes.” Ben gave another fist pump.

  “He’s investigating, so he doesn’t have anything definite yet,” I said.

  “LAPD wouldn’t have sprung for this place if they didn’t think there was something to it,” Ben concluded.

  He nodded, and I could see that he was spinning the story out in his head, mentally composing his headline and picturing himself chatting with the gals on The View.

  I’ll definitely have to help with his wardrobe.

  “Great. This is great,” Ben said. “What else?”

  I glanced around and leaned closer, the universal this-is-the-coolest-part move, and whispered, “Sidney Rowan is actually alive.”

  Ben fell back in his chair. His mouth fell open and, for a second, I thought his eyes might actually pop out of his head.

  Then he shot forward and drilled me with what I guess was his I’m-an-investigative-reporter-and-I’ll-know-if-you’re-lying look.

  “Are you sure about this?” he demanded. “You swear it? You swear it’s true?”

  It miffed me a bit that Ben actually thought I wasn’t being truthful, but given our history, I didn’t blame him.

  “I’m only telling you what Shuman told me,” I said.

  “I haven’t actually seen Sidney Rowan roaming the resort grounds or anything.”

  Ben fidgeted for a moment—mentally composing yet another Pulitzer Prize–winning headline, I suppose—then hopped out of his chair.

  “Keep me up-to-speed,” he said. “Okay?”

  “You do the same,” I said.

  “I will, I will,” he said, then gave me a half smile.

  Ben had a nice half smile.

  “Thanks, Haley,” he said. “This means everything to me.”

  I got a warm, tingling feeling in my belly knowing that, this time, I’d done something that would actually help Ben with his story. Finally, he and I were on the same page with one of his investigations.

  What could go wrong?

  CHAPTER 16

  It was almost lunchtime before we got downstairs. Last night at the beach bar had been fun—the kind of fun that’s a bit hazy the next morning. We all seemed to be in the same I-can’t-believe-I-did-that-even-if-I’m-on-vacation mode, except for Sandy.

  “Wow, Bella, I didn’t know you could limbo so well,” she said.

  Sandy seemed as perky and happy as always—not the kind of thing that u
sually goes over well with the what-the-heck-did-I-do morning-after crowd.

  “Limbo?” Bella asked.

  I had to hand it to Bella. Even though she looked like a returned-for-store-credit Dooney & Bourke bag on a clearance table—really, we all kind of looked that way—she’d still managed to style a perfect sea turtle atop her head this morning.

  “Last night,” Sandy said. “You were in the limbo contest.”

  Bella frowned. “I was?”

  “You won,” Sandy said.

  “Damn. No wonder my back is killing me this morning,” Bella muttered. “I won, huh? Did I get a trophy or something?”

  “You won a free drink,” Sandy said. “One of those big ones that comes in a commemorative Rowan Resort pineapple glass.”

  “That explains a lot,” Bella said, massaging her temples.

  “Yeah,” Sandy said, “and after that, you—”

  “Don’t tell me,” Bella said, waving her off with both hands. “Whatever happened, I don’t want to know.”

  I was with Bella on this one.

  “Who’s up for the breakfast buffet?” Sandy asked, as if she actually thought we’d consider it a good idea.

  Where was my all-time favorite mocha Frappuccino drink when I really needed it?

  Bella made a grumbling sound, and Marcie shook her head.

  “Just coffee,” I said. “Maybe a—”

  I stopped dead in my tracks as we crossed the lobby. My heart rate shot up, taking my blood pressure along with it, and I gasped so loud that Marcie, Bella, and Sandy stopped and stared. I tried to speak, but I couldn’t seem to form any actual words. All I could do was point, like one of those hunting dogs that had tracked down its prey. Only it wasn’t some poor dead pheasant I’d spotted, it was a Sea Vixen tote bag.

  I watched as a woman walked across the lobby and disappeared out the front door, the Sea Vixen hung casually in the crook of her arm. All I could think was, Oh my God, where did she get it? Then, all I could think was, Why was I standing here wondering instead of asking her?

  I was about to take off after her when I spotted yet another Sea Vixen, this one on the shoulder of a different woman who was walking toward the rear of the hotel. Two Sea Vixens in the lobby at the same time? Was I dreaming—or maybe hallucinating?