Bikini Baristas: Ted Higuera Series Book 4

by Pendelton Wallace

  “Good.” Abiba smiled at Catrina. “Look at the bright side, Mrs. Flaherty. Our old entryway needed an upgrade anyway. Our bomber just provided the funds to do it.”

  “I called Hope’s contractor,” Ted said. A soft rain started to fall. “Jorge Medina, who did the remodel at Hope’s restaurant, did a really good job and his prices were fair. He’ll be out today to look at what needs to be done.”

  Catrina opened her umbrella. “Okay, so who wants to keep us away from this case?”

  “Not Caglione,” Ted said, turning up his collar. “He asked us for our help and wouldn’t want to scare us off.”

  “Not Mrs. Randall,” Abiba said in her British accent. “She hired us to find her rat of a husband. All she had to do was call and say ‘stop.’”

  “I can’t think of any reason for Karen’s sister or her son to want us off the case, unless they killed Randall.” Catrina sipped at her coffee.

  “Let’s get out of the rain,” Ted said. “Why would they kill him? They don’t have any motive.”

  Catrina slid behind the wheel of her Explorer and Ted and Abiba climbed in. “Junior could want Dad out of the way. He’s a former soldier, you know. He’s no stranger to death.”

  “Yeah, but Randall didn’t leave him anything. Everything goes to Karen,” Ted said.

  “Maybe the son didn’t know that.” Abiba said. “Maybe the kid didn’t know about the will and the power of attorney. You said that Mrs. Randall brought those with her from Vegas. Maybe the boy didn’t know about them until after he did in Mr. Randall”

  The rain changed from a soft patter to a downpour.

  “Well, whoever did this, they had to be close enough to see the building,” Catrina said. “They flew the drone into the building. They had to see where they were flying.”

  “Yeah, and they waited until all the people were out. They didn’t want any collateral damage,” Ted said. “So what do we do now? Do we back off?”

  “Do you have to ask?”

  Catrina started her car and pulled out of the parking lot. “I think it’s time we had a little chat with Dick Junior.”

  ****

  Clayton hated to admit it, but his call to the Seattle radio talk show shook him up. The idea that a bounty hunter was tailing him sent a shiver down his spine.

  He had to be more careful. The airplanes had been fun, but they’d been too easy to track. If this Winston dude was following him, that meant putting some miles between Indiana and himself. The idea that Winston had tracked him across the country was unsettling. He needed to get at far away as possible.

  First he needed new wheels, something that wouldn’t be easily tracked. An older model Toyota Corolla from a shopping mall parking lot fit the bill. Next he needed to make sure the cops weren’t on the lookout for him.

  He found a similar model Toyota in the parking lot at a movie theater complex and switched plates.

  The owners would never realize the plates had been changed. If the cops ran the plates on his stolen car, they would think that it was a legally registered car.

  The next problem was money, enough to put some serious distance between him and Mr. Bounty Hunter. A hold up was out of the question, he wasn’t about to hurt or threaten anyone. Clayton was getting good at breaking and entering. After raiding several houses he found a suburban split-level with five hundred dollars rolled up in a pair of socks in the dresser. SCORE!

  Then he hit the road, stopping only occasionally at rest areas for a couple of hours sleep at a time and getting gas and supplies: chips, jerky, candy bars and Coke, from convenience stores along the way.

  Finally he drove over the Seven Mile Bridge in the early afternoon sunlight and marveled at the blueness of the water which stretched for as far as he could see in any direction, only occasionally interrupted by a tiny island.

  Sugar Loaf key looked like as good a place as any. He got off the bridge and explored the island. There was a small community on each end of the island, but plenty of vacation homes sprinkled around the key. Not that different from Camano Island.

  There was also a small general aviation airport on the island in case he needed to make a quick exit. There was only one road in and out of the Keys. If the cops blocked it, he was trapped.

  He needed to find a home that was off the road. It was easy to tell which homes weren’t in use because the shutters were fastened shut to protect the homes during hurricane season.

  It was early October and it was hot. The air was so thick that Clayton couldn’t breathe. His clothes stuck to him whenever he left the air conditioned protection of the car.

  He finally found the perfect place. It was a small concrete-block house on stilts far back from the main road on a crushed shell paved driveway. Surrounded by trees, it was virtually invisible from the street. No one would see his lights at night.

  He was getting good at picking locks and this one offered no challenge. He decided not to open the shutters. If anyone passed by, there was no sense in letting them know that someone was staying here.

  There were a few staples in the cupboards, but the fridge was empty which meant a run to the store. Key West was at the end of the highway and a big enough town that he should be able to shop without being recognized.

  The run into Key West was a trip. The buildings and houses all looked like pictures he’d seen of New Orleans. Sidewalk cafes mixed with open fronted bars; businesses of all sorts crowded the main street with iron railed balconies on the second floor. He half expected to see saloon girls hanging out, waving and calling to him.

  It seemed like there was a band playing on every street corner, from guys with guitars, playing Jimmy Buffet songs in front of open guitar cases looking for a hand out, to full-fledged steel drum bands. The street performers started just before noon and played ‘til the wee hours of the morning.

  He found a grocery store and quickly realized his next problem; he was running out of cash. Clayton only bought a bare minimum of supplies while pondering how to find more money.

  Back at the house, the French doors off the kitchen opened to a large covered deck. This was obviously the dining room. A path led from the deck’s stairs to the water’s edge where an aluminum fishing boat was pulled up on a wooden stand. The boat itself wasn’t that heavy and could easily be wrestled to the water. The outboard wasn’t that big, a ten horse job he could drag from the shed to the boat.

  The storage shed was a treasure trove. Not only was it full of tools, but it positively overflowed with fishing gear. In the corner were a gas BBQ grill and a full tank of propane.

  Once Clayton got the boat in the water and the motor mounted, he ventured out on a fishing expedition. The fishing was easy. No sooner had his line hit the water than there was a bite. Well, at least starving to death out here wasn’t going to be a problem.

  The one big drawback was that there wasn’t an Internet connection. Not even a computer. Who lived here anyway? Hadn’t they heard of the Twenty-first century? Clayton would have to venture into town to find an Internet café.

  Chapter 21

  While Catrina pounded on the punching bag, her mind was in high gear. How was she going to handle this interview? Dick Junior was a viable suspect in his father’s death, if his father was dead. She didn’t want to chase him off, make him run, but she also needed to probe deep enough to get a feel for whether or not he could be guilty.

  Jerry’s Gym was an old hangout for her. Her dad, a long time Seattle cop, first brought her here when Jerry was still alive. She loved the dank smell, the sweat, the oils and lotions, the sounds of leather on leather.

  Back in the day, when Dad still loved her, he dragged her to the gym with him. After her five brothers were out of the house, she was Dad’s surrogate son and he taught her the manly art of self-defense under Jerry’s watchful eye.

  In the old days Jerry’s had been ground zero for Seattle’s boxing crowd. Now ultimate fighters seemed more in vogue than good old-fashioned pugilists.

 
; “How’s it goin’ Cat,” an impossibly muscled young man said.

  “Hangin’ in there, Tommy.” Catrina didn’t take her eyes off the bag as she pounded away.

  Thinking of Jerry reminded Catrina that she needed to talk to Jenny, Jerry’s daughter and now the proud proprietor of Jerry’s. She remembered the day Jenny took over the Gym. Catrina had taken her hand and offered her condolences.

  Jenny was having none of that. She was all business.

  “Nice dog,” Catrina said as she spied the Rottweiler at Jenny’s side.

  “That’s no dog,” Jenny said, “That’s my gun.”

  And she was right. No one ever gave her any lip when Sugar Ray was at her side.

  But, like with all things, Sugar Ray was aging and now he spent more time asleep on his bed next to Jenny’s desk than at her side as she prowled her kingdom.

  “Hi, Cat. Sorry I’m late.” Leah Sykes called as she entered the door.

  Jerry’s was old school. They had what was fashionably called a “unisex” bathroom. That meant that first Jerry then Jenny, was too cheap to install a women’s bathroom. There was no women’s shower room either. Girls showed up in their workout clothes and left in their workout clothes.

  What girls there were. Catrina knew she was on a short list of female patrons. The other women who frequented Jerry’s were young, strong and mostly kick boxers or ultimate fighters. Leah was an exception. Catrina dragged her along on occasion for companionship.

  “Leah, I didn’t expect you today.” Catrina turned from her punching bag.

  “It’s Tuesday, isn’t it?” Leah asked. “You’re always here on Tuesday evenings.”

  “Yeah, but I didn’t know you were coming.” Catrina eyed her friend. As usual, Leah wore baggy gray sweats and ridiculously long gym shoes. Her bushy red hair protruded from under a Mariners baseball cap.

  “Do I need to be invited?” Leah asked. “I thought I’d just show up.”

  “Hey, no problem. You’re always welcome, although, I am meeting someone here later.”

  “A man!” Leah almost jumped out of her shoes. “Who is he? Is he a hunk?”

  “No such luck. I have to interview a witness. It just so happens he comes to this gym too. I thought it would be less threatening to talk to him here.”

  “Hey, Cat. Lookin’ good, Mama,” a young Latino man said as he strutted towards the ring.

  “Hey back at ya, José,” Catrina called out. She turned back to Leah. “Spot me on the free weights, will you?” she asked.

  The two women moved to the weight area.

  “Let’s start with one hundred,” Catrina said. She was warming up. She knew she could press one-fifty. Twenty years ago, she would have done that in her sleep. The best she had ever done was one-eighty, but that was a long time ago.

  While Leah slipped the weights on the bar and fastened them down, Catrina removed her sweat pants. She wore gray gym shorts and a blue tank top. She lay down on the bench and took the weight of the bar.

  The burn felt good. It was hard enough to strain her muscles, but not so heavy that she was laboring, yet.

  “So, who’s this client you’re meeting?” Leah asked as she stood over Catrina’s head and spotted her.

  “Dick Randall... Junior.” Catrina spoke between breaths. “He thinks he’s... some kind of... ultimate fighter... he said he needed... a sparring partner.”

  “You can’t be serious.” Leah lifted the barbell out of Catrina’s hands and dropped in on the rack. “You? A sparring partner? For a young ultimate fighting guy? Have you lost your mind?”

  “I promise not to hurt him.” Catrina sat up and wiped the chalk off of her hands. “Speaking of the Devil.”

  Dick Randall Junior strutted in from the men’s locker room door. He looked around the room before spying Catrina and headed towards her.

  “Mrs. Flaherty. You really showed up.” He grinned at her. “I didn’t think you’d make it.”

  “You don’t know me very well, Mr. Randall.” She extended her hand as Junior approached. “This is my friend, Leah Sykes.”

  “Leah,” Junior said.

  “You sure you want to do this?” Junior asked.

  “Can’t wait. Let’s go.” Catrina led the way to the ring.

  ****

  As the most junior attorney at Hardwick, Bernstein & Johnson, it felt like Chris was everybody’s slave. It didn’t matter that his name was on the wall, every senior attorney in the firm dumped junk work on his desk.

  Candace didn’t seem to have the same problem. She was treated with respect. They all acted like she was some kind of goddess. Was it because she was Dad’s wife, or because she was a beautiful woman?

  Dad wanted him to start on the ground floor and work his way up. It sure seemed to be working. Hell, he wasn’t on the ground floor, this was the basement.

  It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that Chris was always buried and easily billed eighty hours a week, sometimes coming closer to a hundred. Oh well, the senior partners liked that.

  He looked out his window, one of the few perks he could attribute to nepotism. Fall weather brought seasonal winds. Elliot Bay, beneath his window, and Puget Sound, further out, beyond the Bay, were dotted with white sails.

  He thought about the Courageous, his dad’s boat. Dad bought the Chesapeake 43 to replace his old Defiant when it was destroyed by al-Qaeda terrorists. Dad said he named the boat after Chris.

  She was a fine racer. Lightning fast and maneuverable as hell and he couldn’t wait to get back out on the water this weekend.

  “Chris, call on line one,” Jennifer’s voice came over the intercom. “You want to take this one. It’s Clayton Johnson-White.”

  “Crap. What’s the little bastard up to now? Put him through.”

  Chris picked up the phone and pressed the button. “Clayton. This is Chris. Where are you? What’s going on?”

  “Hey, Chris. Just thought I’d check in. I’m having the time of my life.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I think it’s better if you don’t know. But it’s warm and sunny and the beaches are full of hotties in their bikinis.”

  “What can I do for you, Clayton?” Chris grabbed a yellow legal pad and his pen.

  “I’ve beat the system, man. I’m living the dream. Fishin’ every day, swimmin’, surfin’. I can hit the hot spots every night. I’ve got girls lined up to enjoy my company. I’ve hit it big.”

  “So, what can I do for you?” Chris tapped his pen on the pad.

  “I’m calling to ask about movie rights. I saw Catch Me If You Can. You know, with DiCaprio. I think my story’s a lot more interesting. What do you think I could get for the movie rights?”

  “Clayton, you know that there are laws against that sort of thing. You can’t profit from the story about your crimes in Washington.”

  “Yeah, but I’m not in Washington. What if I wasn’t in the country? I’m thinking about taking a little trip. I might find myself some beach hut in the tropics and write my life story. Could you sell it for me?”

  “You would need to find a publisher outside of the country, maybe in the UK. You’d need an agent who handled international rights. That is pretty complicated.”

  “Yeah, well figure it out. I found a guy who’s willing to pay me twenty thousand dollars to smuggle him out of the country. I’m going to take the cash and run. I’ll settle down on some little island somewhere and write. When I’m done, you’re gonna need to sell the story. Then you’re gonna sell the movie rights. We’re all gonna be rich.”

  “Clayton, you’re living in a dream world. I have news for you. Some people on Camano Island hired a bounty hunter to find you. I looked him up. He’s really good at his job and has the same motto as the Mounties, ‘We always get our man.’”

  “I know about this bullshit bounty hunter. He’s no smarter than any of the rest of them. He can’t find me now and he’ll never find me once I’m out of the country.”

  “
Listen to me. You don’t understand. You are his mission in life. He’ll never rest until you’re in custody. He stopped by and said that it would be a lot better for you, if you’d give yourself up.”

  “Are you putting me on? Man, I’m flying high. He’ll never find me.”

  “Think about your future. You’re only seventeen years old. You have your whole life ahead of you. If you screw this up, you’ll never be able to go to college, get a good job. I can help you. Come back home, turn yourself in and let me work my magic.”

  “You’re shittin’ me man. You won’t hear from me again until I have my book ready. You find me an agent who can handle it.”

  The line went dead.

  Oh, Clayton, you’re heading for such a fall.

  ****

  Junior telegraphed his punches. Catrina easily dodged first a couple of left jabs then a roundhouse right.

  She sized him up. Maybe an inch taller, he had twenty pounds on her. The boy moved like a cement truck and his guard was pathetic too. Catrina landed a soft jab on his chin.

  Junior’s head snapped back.

  “Got lucky,” he said through his mouth guard.

  “You know your step-mother hired me to find out what happened your father.” Catrina blocked a punch.

  Junior danced back and launched a kick.

  Catrina saw it coming a mile away and stepped back to absorb the blow.

  “Cat, look out,” Leah shouted.

  “Get’m Cat.” A small crowd was building around the ring.

  “So, what can I do for you?” Junior danced around the ring like he thought he was Ali. Wearing a wrinkled Grateful Dead T-shirt and what were once white shorts, he obviously hadn’t shaved in several days.

  “You know I’m trying to find out what happened to your father.” Catrina dodged another right. “Maybe you could answer a few questions for me.”

  “Yeah.” Junior launched a kick that Catrina didn’t see coming. She staggered back to the ropes. A gasp escaped the growing crowd.