Death's Door (18 page)

The bouncer pushed the door back just far enough for Keith
to squeeze through. Inside, the warehouse was brightly lit, a sharp contrast to the shadowy street leading to it. He squinted against the blaring light and the blue haze of smoke that came from cigarettes and sweet-smelling Cuban cigars. Makeshift bleachers had been assembled in a circle and several hundred screaming, sweating men were sitting shoulder to shoulder like sardines in a can. Others were standing, shouting and waving their gambling chits.

“Keith,
chuce,
” Eduardo hailed him, using the short version of the Spanish word,
pachuco,
meaning “bad boy.” Keith knew enough YUCAs—Young Urban Cuban-Americans—to realize this was synonymous with “bro.” He’d met Eduardo online, playing blackjack. They’d discovered they lived in the same city and had become friends.

“Hey.” Keith slapped Eduardo on the back as he looked into the ring. “Did you hear about the two blondes who were sitting on a park bench in Alabama, staring at the moon?”

Eduardo gave him a good-natured smile and shook his head. He was used to Keith’s unending supply of jokes.

“One blonde asked the other, ‘Which is farther away, Florida or the moon?’”

“Uh-oh,” Eduardo said. “What did the other blonde say?”

“‘Well, hel-lo. We can’t see Florida from here, can we?’”

Eduardo chuckled but his gaze shifted to the ring. The cement floor glistened with blood from the previous fights. Two cocks were going at it. One of them was a prized auburn and black “Macumba.” They’d been bred in Cuba specifically for fighting and were considered the most tenacious fighters.

Macumba
meant black magic. The Macumba cocks were believed to have the devil in them. That’s why they won so often. Keith suspected it was just a matter of breeding. Tonight, the rather ordinary-looking bantam rooster seemed to have the upper hand over the Macumba.

“Ole!”
A cheer went up from the crowd as the bantam poked
out the Macumba’s right eye. Keith heard himself cheering. It was over in seconds, blood spurting from the Macumba’s neck as the other cock ripped his throat open for the kill.

“Bet on the underdog,” whispered Eduardo while the annihilated Macumba and the half-dead victor were hauled away.

“Why?” Keith asked, his eyes on the men clamoring at the payoff table in the corner. From the looks of it, the bantam had been a long shot.

“Heilo.”
Eduardo breathed the word so only Keith could hear.

“Ice?” he whispered. Ice, or crystal meth, was common enough, although he’d never tried it. He didn’t like the way it instantly addicted you, but he knew its high made men believe they had supernatural strength. And produced erections that lasted for hours. “Does it work on chickens?”

Eduardo nodded. Two more cocks were brought into the ring in wire cages. Both of them appeared to be Macumbas. The only way to know the underdog was to watch the betting chart being posted on the concrete wall in blue chalk.

“Jesus Willie Christ!” exclaimed Keith an hour later after his fifth trip to the payoff table.

Eduardo smiled at him. “Let’s blow this joint.” He lowered his voice and added, “If we win too often…”

Keith nodded; he was thrilled with several thousand dollars he hadn’t expected, but his sense of fair play made it seem like dirty money. Never before had he cheated. Not that this was cheating—exactly. People received tips all the time. Still, it didn’t seem…right.

Eduardo waved his wad of greenbacks in front of Keith’s face. “What do you say? Let’s spend some of this at Lola’s.”

Keith found himself grinning. Lola’s was a well-known club half a block off Calle Ocho. A neon sign with a woman doing the cancan flashed over the club’s entrance.
Lola’s
was written in bold script. Smaller letters proclaimed: What Lola wants—
Lola gets. What it really meant was Lola—a beefy woman in her late fifties—would get her customers
whatever
they wanted. No questions asked.

She had a string of strippers with bods that wouldn’t quit and the best pole humpers in Miami. She also had back rooms set aside for lap dancing. What went on in them seemed to have little to do with lap dancing as Keith had understood the term before Eduardo had brought him to the club.

“How about another twofer?”

“That’s the bomb, dude,” Keith replied, repeating what his students often said although he rarely used the term.

They stepped out into the shadowy darkness of the street. The bouncer had deserted his post. He’d probably gone inside to buy a chit. Keith paused a moment to allow his eyes to adjust to the lack of light.

A twofer. Just the thought sent a hot rush to his groin. Two girls—if you could call the pros at Lola’s
girls
—for the price of one. The things they could do with those humongous breasts and baby-soft, waxed pussies. The memory alone made him hard.

“Come on,
chuce
. Let’s go.”

Keith marched beside his friend, positive he could score a bag of coke at Lola’s. That would make the twofer an over-the-top fuckfest. He couldn’t remember being this happy—ever.

Something made him look over his shoulder and an inexplicable wave of fear, almost like a fever, swept through him. He felt butterfly-shaped rings of sweat form on his shirt. A shape seemed to shift in one of the shadowy doorways. His imagination, he guessed, but the feeling had been with him earlier. Why would anyone be following him?

It occurred to him that cocaine did that to some people. Paranoia set in and they became suspicious of everyone around them. Even harmless shadows seemed threatening. Next thing he knew, he’d be hearing voices from another part of the cosmos.
Maybe he wouldn’t buy coke. Perhaps he should try something else.

He’d always wondered about “chasing the dragon.” Injecting heroin was so out, so over. Smart guys chased the dragon; they smoked heroin. That might be just what he needed to take the edge off his nerves. The thought made it possible to breathe a little easier despite the foreboding.

“Something wrong?” Eduardo asked.

“No,” he assured his friend. “Do you know the difference between guts and balls?”

Eduardo shook his head. Keith immediately felt better. Telling a joke kept his mind off…off what, exactly?

“What is the difference?” prompted Eduardo.

“Guts is coming home late after a night with the guys and being assaulted by your wife with a broom and asking, ‘Are you still cleaning or just flying over to your mother’s?’”

Eduardo chuckled. “Okay,
chuce
. What’s balls?”

“You come home late, smelling of perfume and beer with lipstick on your collar. You slap your wife on the ass and say, ‘You’re next, babe.’”

Eduardo hooted, the way he always did when he really liked a joke. For a moment, Keith felt himself again. He ambled along with Eduardo toward the lively Calle Ocho and the club where anything was yours for the asking. His friend chattered, but Keith wasn’t listening. He barely caught the throbbing beat of salsa music drifting through air so thick you could surf on it. The dread returned, gnawing on him the way rats in the alleyways chewed on garbage. Fear eddied through his stomach and the alley wavered in and out of focus. He couldn’t shake the disturbing feeling someone was stalking him.

“Come on, dude,” Eduardo said. “Let’s get back to those lap dancers.”

Keith wished he could respond to the urge to leave and
head for the safety of home, but he didn’t want to be a pussy. Cocaine had tinkered with his brain. He was being paranoid for no good reason.

Can you name a truly beautiful cannibal?

M
ADISON SLAMMED
on the brakes, nearly sending Aspen to the floor of her Beamer to avoid hitting the sleek Aston Martin that unexpectedly emerged from around the bend as she was leaving the guesthouse. She wouldn’t have known the make of the midnight-blue car except Aiden had always wanted one. Until Chloe. Then the man who’d been head of the me-first parade suddenly couldn’t do enough for the new woman in his life. He’d bought Chloe the Corvette she’d always wanted and kept driving his Hummer.

The expensive sports car screeched to a halt, its gleaming fender just inches from the Beamer’s. Madison recognized the gorgeous redhead behind the wheel. Savannah Holbrook was driving and Nathan Cassidy, her boyfriend, was with her. Did she still live at home?

Savannah leaped out of the car, her hair streaming behind her like a red banner, and beelined for Madison’s door. Her cheeks were flushed and her brilliant green eyes seemed to crackle. What now? Madison lowered her window.

“I’m looking for you.” Savannah all but shouted the words.

“You’ve found me.” Madison kept her tone level. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Nathan emerge from the car.

“It won’t work.” Savannah’s voice was lower now but anger
etched each word. She had seemed so pleasant at the party, but now in private her attitude had changed.

“What won’t work?” Madison asked, put off by Savannah’s attitude.

Nathan had joined Savannah, and he slipped his arm around her waist. Savannah looked at him through eyelashes so long and lush that they had to be extensions. Her expression seemed to say
Does this bimbo think I’m buying her act?

“Trying to cozy up to Wyatt won’t work,” Nathan informed Madison in a very sarcastic, superior tone.

“My father’s estate is already set. He’s not rewriting his will for some brat that crawled out of the sewer.”

Anger rocketed through Madison. She wanted to shout that she didn’t give a damn about the Holbrook fortune, but she realized these two would never believe her. With an effort, she swallowed a caustic reply.

“We know that’s why you finagled your way into staying in the guesthouse,” Nathan said. “You’re after Wyatt’s money.”

“You claim to need somewhere to stay with your—” Savannah glanced at Aspen, who was sitting on the seat beside Madison “—mutt. My assistant will find you a place by this evening. I want you out of here.”

There was just enough room on the narrow service road to the guesthouse for Madison to wheel the Beamer to the right and shoot around the Aston Martin without responding to their accusations. As soon as she’d cleared the expensive car, Madison hit the gas.

“That was fun!” she told Aspen. “Savannah thinks the world revolves around her.”

The dog turned and thrust his nose out the open window to sniff the breeze. She drove as fast as she dared. Not only did anger propel her, Madison wanted to catch Aiden at home. This was a discussion she didn’t want to have in the office, where they could be overheard.

Word traveled around the cube farm at work with astonish
ing speed. Jade called it “new millennium jungle drums.” Madison wouldn’t be surprised to discover the majority of office gossip was circulated by e-mail. Jade was probably behind most of it. When Madison had a chance, she was going to find more for the girl to do. Jade was bored because she was bright and spending each day as a glorified gofer was a waste of talent.

Madison was too upset with Savannah and her snotty boyfriend to concentrate on what else Jade might do. They thought they could order her around, take over her life.
I want you out of here.
Obviously, Savannah didn’t have her father’s best interests at heart the way Garrison did.

It occurred to her that Savannah might not know about Madison’s financial problems. If she had, the woman probably would have mentioned money. They couldn’t expect her to pay for a place when she didn’t have more than one hundred dollars to her name.

Madison suspected neither Garrison nor Wyatt had told Savannah that she was staying in the guesthouse. If they had, they must have just mentioned it in passing and not given her the details. More likely someone on staff at the main house had told her.

Why was Savannah so jealous? It took just an instant for Madison to come up with the answer.
Because she’s insecure.
Savannah Holbrook might be rich and beautiful and successful but she wasn’t sure of her father’s love.

The situation reminded her of colorful butterflies. Gorgeous beauties like Savannah. Most people wouldn’t believe that butterflies were cannibals. Many types ate each other. Savannah had the world—or so it seemed—yet she was ready to eat alive anyone who threatened her relationship with her father.

Or maybe greed motivated her. Who knew? At this point, Madison didn’t care. She had her own problems. When she’d gotten a handle on this identity-theft thing, then she would take
the test to see if she was a suitable donor. She knew she wouldn’t be. That would end it.

Her mind drifted to Paul, the way it had all last night, waking her often. What was wrong with her? Why did she keep throwing herself at the man every chance she had? She knew better.

Right now she had enough trouble for six women. She didn’t need to become involved with a man who…who what? She didn’t know much about him except that he was willing to keep his mouth shut about Aspen.

And that she was undeniably attracted to him.

Maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing. What had Erin told her that last night they’d been together, sharing cardboard pizza?
Get over Aiden. The past has you trapped
.

T
ANNER
S
ECURITY
S
OLUTIONS
’ offices were in a newly refurbished building in Coconut Grove. When Paul had been a kid, “the grove” had been known for its artists and writers and liberal types. Gentrification had transformed the area. Now clusters of trendy boutiques, nightclubs and the endless supply of Starbucks clones had priced out the artists and writers.

The suite his father leased took up the entire third floor. Not bad for a guy who’d retired from the police force with next to nothing except his pension. In a little less than five years, Mike Tanner was
the
go-to guy for private investigations.

Paul rode the elevator up to his father’s suite and mentally gave the old man credit for enlisting retired policemen and off-duty officers. He didn’t employ guys with drug or gambling problems. He used the best, paid them top wages and produced results for his clients.

Paul stepped out of the elevator and headed for the double glass doors. It was too early for the receptionist to be at her desk. Mike was a workaholic. Paul would bet his last dime that his father was sitting at the walnut desk in his office, just beyond
the inner office pod where the computers, laser printer and several copy machines were set up adjacent to an alcove for the coffee machine.

Paul stopped and grabbed a cup of black coffee. Mike never cut corners in his office. Kona coffee, the pride of Hawaii, was his father’s favorite. Paul turned the corner in the hall while blowing on the fragrant liquid to cool it.

Sure enough, there he was. Mike Tanner looked up and his sliding smile appeared, then vanished. His father never smiled for more than a second. He had a way about him that seemed friendly, but Paul doubted anyone really knew the man.

“You’re out early.”

Paul took a sip of coffee and lowered himself into the chair opposite his father’s desk. “Yeah. Thought I’d check in and see if you needed me. Then I’m going over to the station to find out if there’s any word on my reinstatement.”

Mike studied Paul from beneath dark eyebrows. No DNA check was necessary to confirm who Paul’s father had been. The older man still had a full head of dark hair just beginning to silver at the temples and a solid frame that hadn’t run to fat despite his age. The old guy worked out religiously—an hour a day, seven days a week.

“What’s going on with Madison Connelly?” Mike asked.

That’s what Paul had come to find out, but he didn’t want to rouse his father’s suspicions by appearing too anxious. Mike had been a hell of a detective and could pick up a scent like a bloodhound. He shrugged, saying, “She’s going to take the tests to see if she’s able to donate.”

“You said she didn’t believe she is related to Wyatt Holbrook.”

“She still doesn’t.” Paul sipped again; the coffee was almost cool enough to drink. “But you know the Holbrooks. They got her out to their offices and she saw what valuable work Wyatt is doing. Yada, yada, yada. She agreed to be tested.”

“That’s good.” Mike fingered a stack of files on his polished walnut desk, where everything was lined up with military precision. “Then maybe we won’t have to track down anyone else.”

Paul knew he was referring to the list of children conceived through Wyatt’s sperm donations. A few might still be in the Boston area, but thanks to New Horizons, more could be in Florida. Paul took some pride in having unearthed those files himself. Of course, his father had never given him any credit. After all, he’d been paid to do a job. That’s the way Mike viewed the world. You did what you were paid to do; praise wasn’t necessary.

“Madison needs to straighten out this credit card mess before she can check into the hospital for testing.”

“What do you think about her?” Mike Tanner responded. “Could Madison have killed her friend?”

How like his father, Paul thought. The man asked a lot of questions. He rarely volunteered anything, particularly about himself.

“I doubt it.” In his mind, he could see how upset she’d been. Hell, he could feel her lips under his, feel the softness of her skin beneath his fingers. Could almost…Paul gulped down the last of his coffee, realizing his father was intently staring at him. “She was too shook up about it to be acting.”

Paul knew his father would trust his evaluation. Homicide detectives saw more than their fair share of liars. A good detective could smell a lie, could see it in someone’s eyes. Paul’s ears actually tingled when he was onto someone, a fact he never mentioned because it sounded so absurd.

Mike rocked back in his chair and studied Paul for a moment. “I ask because I had Kirk Bryant on it all last night.”

Paul nodded, pleased to hear this. When his father announced he was setting up a private investigation firm to service businesses, Paul had advised him to hire a computer expert. This would attract corporate accounts who would be concerned about computer security.

Paul had been stunned—nah, he’d been blown away—when the old man took his advice and hired a geek and set up a computer security department. Mike had never given him credit, but Paul suspected the department, which had grown from one guy to several, was responsible for the rapid growth of Tanner Security Solutions.

“What did Kirk find out?” Paul prodded when he realized his father, in his typical fashion, wasn’t adding anything more.

“The transactions were seamless. Whoever withdrew the funds had all the relevant information. The bank and credit card companies wouldn’t have known a thing if Miss Connelly hadn’t contacted them.”

“She says she does a lot on the Internet—”

“More than half of identity thefts come from sources other than the Internet. Family, friends, coworkers or your trash. Most reputable Internet sites encrypt private information. It’s called TLS. Transparent Layer Security.”

“I’ve read about Internet sites as well as bricks-and-mortar companies whose databases have been compromised.”

“True,” Mike conceded, “but most are quite safe. I always check the percentages first. She’s been divorced. That raises a red flag right there. You wouldn’t believe the people who don’t change their passwords or bank accounts after a divorce.”

Paul knew Madison planned to speak to her ex this morning. From the moment he’d first heard about her problem, Paul had wondered if the ex was to blame. Paul had never met the man but he disliked him. What kind of a guy would cheat on a babe like Madison?

Don’t go there,
he cautioned himself. His father was the next best thing to a mind reader. He didn’t want him to know he was involved with Madison. Screw it! His father had probably guessed by now.

“How long do you think it will take for Madison to straighten this out?”

“A year to eighteen months.”

“You’re kidding!”

“No. Depending on what happened, she’ll need to have the credit reporting agencies freeze her accounts so the thieves can’t get credit in her name or order more credit cards and run up charges.”

Paul knew about identity theft, but he hadn’t had any personal experience with it. He did recall it was the fastest-growing theft category in America. Still, he’d thought it would be relatively simple to fix.

“If a gang targeted Madison, the info already went out of state and they’ve applied for credit in her name. It’ll cost the average person around five thousand dollars to clear up the problem.”

“Son of a bitch! Why does it cost a victim so much?”

“Sometimes it’s necessary to hire an attorney or a credit counselor, especially if other states are involved. Often it’s easier to pay off small charges to restore your credit than to fight the system.”

Paul almost said it wasn’t fair, but he knew what his father would have told him.

“What about getting back the money that was withdrawn from her bank account and credit cards? Doesn’t filing a fraud claim help?”

Mike sat forward and realigned a neat stack of papers directly in front of him. “Kirk tells me that she’s beyond the processing period. That means after a number of days, the transaction has been processed. The funds are gone. The bank or credit card companies aren’t to blame unless you can take them to court and
prove
they knew this was a fraudulent transaction.”

“How long is the processing period? She reported this within days.”