The Queen of Miami

by Heidi Lowe

He was fixing his tie when she stepped in, his thinning blonde hair shaggy and untidy. He was a tall man, well-built with the sort of definition that suggested he put time in at the gym. For all the young brunettes he was in the habit of sticking it to, Layke surmised that he needed to keep in shape.

  “Close the door and have a seat, detective,” he said.

  Now she didn't know why she'd bothered checking her own appearance when his impropriety was so brazenly on display. He didn't seem embarrassed at all when he finally looked at her, not even beneath her thinly disguised look of disgust. The picture frame sat face down on his desk. A handful of papers had been scattered to the floor. On his finger his wedding ring gleamed.

  “I can come back another time if you're busy,” she said, her voice heavy with insinuation.

  He shot her a dubious look but didn't respond, just sat back in his seat. And just to make him feel even more guilty, she leaned over, stood the picture up. She didn't bother looking at it herself, because she was more than familiar with the picture and the faces in it. After all, she and her mother had had to force their smiles while he took it, in arctic conditions on their family vacation to Alaska, back at the turn of the century. She hadn't changed much, which was probably why the brunette had recognized her from the picture.

  Her father cleared his throat, color burning his cheeks. “How are you getting on?” he asked, quickly diverting to a neutral topic.

  “Okay, I guess.”

  “Nothing new on the warehouse killings?”

  She shook her head. She was still reeling from catching him, despite being used to his behavior. It was as though he waited until she was close to screw around. She should have known from the closed blinds that he was getting up to no good. But she had to let it go. Here he was her boss, not her father. Besides, it wasn't her argument to have. Her mother had condoned his cheating for years. If she ever got tired of it she was big enough and loud enough to speak out.

  “You know the FBI want to take over on this one?”

  “What? They can't do that. It's our case.”

  “Their Organized Crime Unit is more equipped to handle this sort of thing. And we don't have any leads.” He gave her a hopeless look.

  “If they take it they'll push us out,” she said, her voice pleading and whiny.

  “I know. That's why you guys need to bring me something, anything that makes it look like we've got a handle on this thing.”

  Well, it's now or never, Layke thought, taking a deep breath. “I think I might have something.”

  “I'm listening.”

  “Okay, well it's not exactly concrete. I don't really have any evidence per se...” She could hear herself stumbling and bumbling, scratching around for the right words. “I have a theory,” she said finally.

  “I'll need more than that, Layke. The Feds aren't going to back off over a theory.”

  “I think we're focusing on the wrong di Blasio. We should use our resources to tail the daughter, Willa.”

  “Why would we do that?”

  “Because I think the old man left her in charge.”

  The deputy chief studied her for a moment without saying anything. She didn't know whether he was looking at her from the perspective of her father or her boss, and concluded that it didn't matter which because he still seemed unconvinced.

  “What makes you think this girl, whom we know nothing about, has been left the whole di Blasio empire?”

  “That reason right there: we know nothing about her. She would be the ideal person to take over. The older son's too unpredictable. And, I was there at the funeral, Dad. You should have seen the way she acted, the way the others acted around her. She's the one with the power, I just know it.” So passionate in her appeal was she that she'd called him Dad. She'd never done that on the job before.

  “So this is a gut instinct?” As if the idea didn't already sound bizarre, his emphasis on the term only made it sound worse.

  “You've said it yourself, sir. A good detective listens to his/her intuition.”

  “But on something like this, when everything is pointing in the opposite direction?” He stood up. She stood up too.

  “What if I'm right and we ignore her? We might catch Trent, but we both know he isn't the brains. The family will only get stronger. We have to get to the brains of the operation, take out their queen, make them weak.” Although she hadn't played chess in years, like riding a bike it was something she never forgot how to do. She looked at life like a chess board; it made everything much clearer. Getting people to see it the way she did was the real problem.

  “You really believe she's the one?”

  She nodded heartily. “Yes.”

  “So what do you propose?”

  She couldn't believe he was actually listening to her. She knew it was a long shot bringing it to him; she never expected him to consider it.

  “We need a team on her 24/7, at least for a few days.”

  “Teams cost money, Layke. Money this department can scarcely afford, especially on something as flimsy as this.” The disappointment on her face he read as her father. She knew he shouldn't have, that he should have remained objective, but he'd never seen her so zealous about something before. Her gut instincts had gotten her this far, despite what some on the force claimed. She was just an exceptional officer, dedicated, focused, and her father had had little to do with her rise up the ranks. “All right, I can't afford what you're suggesting. I couldn't sign off on it. But I'll tell you what, you find something on her on your own time, on your own dime, then we'll see what we can do.”

  “You mean I have to follow her, off duty?”

  “You're the one making the claim against her,” he said. He sat back down. “Find me something that I can use, something that backs up your theory, and I might be able to get a wire tap. I can spare you a few hours a week, but that's it.”

  This was the best she was going to get. It was a million times more than she'd expected. She didn't try to renegotiate.

  “Thank you, sir. Dad.”

  As she went to leave, he said, “And call your mother. She thinks you've forgotten about her now that you're a hotshot new detective.”

  “I will,” she said. She would have agreed to anything now that she'd gotten what she wanted. Sort of.

  Everyone in the department knew that if they wanted Cody to do something for them, and do it quickly, they had to ply him with candy. The guy had a serious sweet tooth, though surprisingly he maintained perfect pearly whites. The candy-plying rule didn't apply to Layke Owen. Merely turning up was enough to get him to do something for her. Everyone said he had a thing for freckles, which Layke sported abundantly, all around her cheeks and nose.

  She flashed him a smile and squeezed his shoulder, knowing she had probably made him cum in his pants. It was the least she could do for the poor guy, who looked like an adolescent Professor Frink from the Simpsons. What he lacked in looks, though, he made up for in skill. When it came to intelligence and data he was the best there was.

  “What did you find?” Layke asked, sitting on the edge of his desk.

  He handed her a thin file which he'd compiled earlier that day, when she'd first made the request. He'd worked harder than ever to compile it as quickly as he could. Now, he had to peel his eyes away from her chest. She pretended not to notice him staring.

  “Not much. Public record stuff mostly. Your girl's a ghost. Hasn't even had a parking ticket.”

  Layke opened the file and sighed with disappointment as she thumbed through it. There were only three pages. “This is all you could find?”

  “They weren't lying when they said she was clean.”

  Layke scanned over the documents. “Privately educated. 4.2 GPA. Graduated from Brown. Jesus, it's hard to believe this girl is a di Blasio.”

  “Well her father was quite exceptional in physics, if I recall. I read it somewhere. Everyone expected great things from him as a child, but growing up his family was poor, and his father re
fused to take scholarships. Wasted talent. Not exactly your garden variety criminals.”

  “Do we know what she does now?”

  “Her name came up when I searched title deeds. She's down as joint owner of a strip club called Yum Yums, in Key Biscayne. It was put in her name when she turned eighteen.”

  Layke snorted a laugh. “All that private education only to run a strip club. Joint owner with whom?” Layke asked. She hadn't raised her head from the papers yet.

  “Some old guy. As far as I could see, he had no known ties to the family, besides the club.”

  Now she stared at him, her head cocked. “Definitely sounds like a ruse to me. Is the address in here? I think I'll go down there and check it out.”

  He nodded, flicking to the page she needed.

  “Do we have an address for her?”

  “Her last known address was at the di Blasio mansion. That was five years ago. If she has another place of abode it isn't registered in her name. Same with vehicle registration. Nada.”

  “This will do for now.” She squeezed his shoulder again, flashing him one of her most coquettish smiles. “Thanks a million, Cody. You're the best.”

  He couldn't even get the words out to tell her it was nothing, he was too tongue-tied, too immobilized by her touch.

  “Is it all right if I take this with me?” She was already heading off when she asked.

  He nodded quickly.

  When she got back to her desk, she had a more thorough perusal of the file, taking in everything she could, trying to learn all she could about this seemingly invisible woman.

  “All right, Miss di Blasio,” she said to herself, when no one was around to hear, “whatever you're hiding, I'm going to find it. Even if I have to follow you all year.”

  FIVE

  Willa felt as though her stomach would explode. But she pressed on through the aching, through the pain, swearing profusely and not feeling sorry for it. For some reason the cursing helped her through it.

  “Come on, Willa, you've got this! One-hundred and seven... one-hundred and eight... Just a few more... one-hundred and nine...”

  Gripping onto her legs and clamping her down in place was her personal trainer, an attractive blonde who'd been with her for several years, and thus knew that she indeed did have this. They both knew how much Willa despised stomach crunches and sit-ups; but her trainer was well aware of her unyielding persistence. If she started something, nothing on Earth could have stopped her from finishing it.

  “Just five more now.”

  Willa growled, clenching her teeth and trying to look as fierce as was humanly possible. “You said that five crunches ago!”

  “You can do five more.” Her smile was serene, angelic, but at that moment Willa thought she was the devil incarnate. She hated her.

  “All right, you're done. See, you made it. That wasn't so bad was it?”

  Willa collapsed onto her exercise mat and never wanted to get up again.

  “I hate you, you know that?” she said breathlessly.

  “I know, sweetie.” She giggled and patted Willa's stomach, feeling the taut, rock-hard abs she'd helped her achieve. “Your body loves me though.”

  All the hate Willa felt for her, the hate she always felt when her trainer pushed her that hard, soon vanished and was replaced by affection. She laughed and shoved her away playfully. “My body's a traitor.”

  The trainer helped her to her feet a minute later, and Willa brushed herself down. The buzzer rang.

  “I'll see you same time Tuesday, all right?” her trainer said, collecting her things.

  “Of course.” Willa kissed her on the lips and walked her to the door of her penthouse. “See you then.”

  On the intercom video system, her brother Guy's face appeared. She buzzed him in without a word.

  “I didn't know you still used that girl,” Guy said a couple of minutes later when he stepped into Willa's apartment.

  Water never tasted more refreshing than after her work out. She gulped down half a liter without stopping for air. “You mean after you slept with her?” she asked finally, shooting her brother an admonishing look.

  Guy gave her a bashful, dimpled smile. “You're still sour about that? It was, like, two years ago.”

  “It doesn't matter. I almost had to find another trainer, she was that pissed off that you didn't call her back.”

  “I never call anyone back.” His delivery was so matter-of-fact, so devoid of smugness.

  “How are we even related?” Willa said, shaking her head at him. Although she loved her brother, his attitude to women peeved her. He was a perfect gentleman where it mattered; chivalrous – opening doors, picking up the check, bringing roses for a first date. But his lack of desire for commitment, and his abundant desire for pretty ladies, made him an asshole. He broke a lot of hearts. Willa herself had the same desire, but the difference was that she didn't lead women on. She'd made out with a lot of women over the years, but Honey was the only one she'd slept with since they'd met. Indiscriminate sex had never been her thing, though it easily could have been. With her name and her looks, she found that she'd never had to work hard for female attention. And her reasoning had always been that if she never had to work hard for it, it wasn't worth it.

  Guy helped himself to some pineapple juice from the refrigerator. “So the car showed up again at the house. Third time in a week.”

  “Little Johnny said it was parked outside Yum Yums a couple of times too.” She sat on a stool at her breakfast bar, slightly unnerved. “You think it's the Italians? Would they be that stupid?”

  “It's not the Italians.” He took a long sip of his drink, dragging out the pause as long as possible, keeping his sister on edge. “I had someone run the plate for us. It's not listed. Only one reason why that would be.”

  “It's a cop,” Willa interjected before he could.

  “Right. We had someone tail it back to the station though. And who should step out but the cute little redhead who showed up at Dad's funeral.”

  “The detective?”

  “Yep. Her name's Layke Owen. Her dad's Deputy Chief Stuart Owen. You know who that is, right?”

  She shook her head, giving him a blank look.

  “Well, he was Detective Stuart Owen at the time. He's moved up since then. That piece of crap and his partner were the ones who connected Dad to the shooting in '95. It was because of them why he went to trial.”

  “So he has a hard-on for our family, and now his daughter has too?” Willa slammed her fist on the counter. The anger was so severe she could hardly feel the pain. “That son of a bitch probably set her on us.”

  “Probably.”

  “Here's what I don't get though. Why the house and the club? They have to know that those are the last places we'd ever conduct business. And you guys both said the car doesn't tail anyone, it just sits there. Waiting – for something...” Her voice trailed off, a faraway look in her eye. “Or someone.”

  “What?” Guy stared at her quizzically.

  “I think I know why she's out there,” she said after a while. “She's waiting for me to show up. Perhaps I should give the lady what she wants.”

  Potato chips and soda had been her breakfast, lunch and sometimes dinner for the past week. Surveillance food, her colleagues called it. She had never been a fan, but had to admit that it came in handy. It did mean that she had to put in more time at the gym. When she'd begun surveillance on the first day, she'd been optimistic, pulling up across the street from the strip club and sitting back, waiting. It was only a matter of time, she'd thought. A matter of time before Willa showed...

  On the seventh day, having missed her lunch breaks and spent some of her evenings in her car, growing sick and fat from over-consumption of saturated fat and sugar, she realized she'd been wrong. She'd wasted hours on this futile pursuit, and the girl hadn't shown.

  “Cody, could you check if her passport or driver's license has been flagged at any national airports, or an
ywhere outside the city?” she asked earlier that day. She had to have been out of the country, otherwise why hadn't she shown up? At the strip club or the family mansion (which, Layke was now sure, wasn't her real place of abode).

  “Nothing's come up for her. If she's out of the country, she isn't using her own passport,” Cody had come back with. Well, that wasn't outside the realm of possibilities, considering the family she belonged to.

  The doubt started to set in on day four, and by day seven she was ready to close up shop, go back to her father empty-handed. She'd already mentally prepared herself for his harsh reprimands, making her feel more incompetent than she already did. And then a blue convertible pulled up in the parking lot of the club. Even before the driver stepped out, something told her it was Willa di Blasio.

  “Yes!” She squeezed her fist with victory. “I've got you now.”

  Her eyes remained trained on Willa in her flannel shirt and denim shorts, tanned and muscular legs on display. She watched her from her exit of the car right to her entrance into the club, saw her look around suspiciously before ducking through the customer entrance. Layke sat back and waited, now the most optimistic she'd been in a week. It didn't matter how long she had to wait there. Eventually Willa had to come out, and that was when she would follow her. She noted down the number plate.

  From the clock on her dashboard twenty minutes had gone by when Willa resurfaced. She wasn't alone. Judging by the way the busty blonde who accompanied her was dressed – everything one size too small, the tight fabric accentuating every feature of her body – Layke guessed she was one of the exotic dancers. The outfit wasn't the thing that made Layke's eyes nearly pop out of her head though, nor was it the hand-holding as the blonde walked Willa to her car. It was what happened when they got there. Willa took the woman around the waist, pulled her close and proceeded to stick her tongue down her throat!

  Layke knew she should have looked away, that would have been the right thing to do, but she couldn't bring herself to. She didn't want to. It was like secretly watching a porno being filmed. She didn't think real people kissed like that off screen. A goodbye kiss this was not.