Deborah Brown - Madison Westin 06 - Revenge in Paradise (8 page)

“My lawyer, Mr. Porter, is okay. Sucks he doesn’t believe me. I don’t care how much evidence they find, I didn’t kill Big Ed.”

I refrained from rolling my eyes at “Big Ed.”

Jami waved to Fab, who hadn’t stopped pacing. She’d soon be noticed by a sheriff and escorted out. “My only crime was that I didn’t call the cops when we found the body.”

She found the body! We?

I held up my hand. “Stop talking about your case to me, or to anyone else, except your lawyer.” I pointed to the sign that read:
All visits are recorded
.

“Don’t worry about me. I have friends who will visit as soon as they can make appointments; the ones who don’t have charges pending.”

A siren went off and all of the television screens went black. Fab grabbed my arm and hauled me out of the chair. She maintained such a tight grip that, when I stumbled, she caught me before I fell on the floor.

“I don’t know what the hell just happened but let’s get out of here,” she said.

The siren continued. A voice came over the loud speaker and said, “Visiting hours are over. Leave orderly through the exit.” The door closed behind us on that pronouncement. Fab didn’t waste time, and to her credit, drove calmly out of the parking lot. It didn’t matter where we went, Fab located the exit first. Good for getting out of tight spots.

“That was horribly depressing,” Fab sighed. “One poor guy sat there and whoever he was expecting never showed. I thought about sitting down and talking to him.”

“I think we should have a girls’ night, just the two of us. When’s Didier coming back?”

“Later tonight.” She smiled. “He called on the way out the door, reminded me to stay safe and out of jail.”

“Let’s walk down the beach to that new restaurant. They have tables on the sand.”

Fab picked up her phone off the console and looked at the screen. “It’s Brick.”

She had trained me to put all my calls on speaker, even though she never reciprocated. I punched her in the arm, making a poking gesture at the phone.

She made a few unintelligible noises, then said, “Send me the address,” and hung up. “No fun tonight. We’re picking up the Jaguar.”

She scrolled through her phone and called out the address, which I put in the GPS and a beeping noise sounded.

“That’s Creole code for stay out of that area. Now what?” I felt nauseous knowing we had a decision to make; we couldn’t satisfy everyone.

“We’ll lie and say we used the navigation tool on my phone. You stay behind the wheel and I’ll hop out and do the drive away.”

“I’m not lying to Creole about anything. He’ll find out, and when he does, he’ll tell Didier.”

Fab twisted her hair in a nervous gesture, then clipped it in an ugly bun. “I can’t do this by myself,” she whined. “How bad can the neighborhood be?”

I rolled my eyes. “Take a look around…and we’re not even there yet.”

We rode in silence. She made a couple of turns, landing us in the middle of a ratty commercial area. Our GPS had us turn onto an access road and bounce over rotted railroad tracks. Judging by the deterioration, the area had been abandoned for a few years.

Fab hit the steering wheel. “I’ll park in front of the building. You leave immediately and go home. I’ll drive the Jag back to Brick’s and get a ride.”

I shook my head in disbelief. “You know I won’t let you go by yourself.”

The paved road turned to gravel right before turning into the parking lot of a long-ago-vacant manufacturing plant. A block-long property, it was filled with old airport hangar-style buildings. They had missing doors, broken windows, and weeds growing up out of the cracks; at some point, the building had turned into a giant receptacle for hard-to-get-rid-of trash. Someone had gone to the expense of surrounding the property with barbed wire fencing only to have some creative soul hack out sections, making the area easily accessible by a car in several places. Two men, who were hunched over in the far corner of the fence, baseball caps covering their faces, looked up from sorting their shopping carts. They checked out the Hummer and looked away.

“Please tell me that the car’s not parked in one of those creepy buildings.” The roll-up doors were also missing, probably ripped off and sold as a resale item. I wanted to cover my eyes and pretend we’d listened to Creole and turned down the job, having gone home instead. I stared into the cavernous dark spaces, daylight casting a slim shadow to just inside the open doors.

“We’ll drive around back first.” Fab braked and drove slowly. “Setting foot inside the buildings is the last option.”

“Fab, the hairs on the back of my neck are standing on end. Maybe we should listen for a change.” My phone wolf-whistled. “That’s Creole.”

“Do
not
answer it. You need a more professional ring tone,” Fab said in disgust. “There it is,” she said, and pointed.

Someone had taken the time to park the Jaguar in Executive Parking, or so the sign read. It was the perfect dumping place for a stolen car, or anything else, since it couldn’t be seen from the street.

“He’s not going to give up.” I pointed to my phone. Creole’s call went to voice mail and instantly the phone started to ring again.

“Give me that thing.” Fab jerked it off a mat on the dashboard. “Hold your shorts,” she yelled, “She’ll call you right back,” and threw it down.

I rubbed the base of my neck where pain started to gather into a full-blown headache.
This is my fault. I should’ve stamped my foot and told her, “Hell no!”

“You better hide from Creole for a while. He’s going to kill you. Hopefully he’ll be exhausted, because I know you’ll fight him and he’ll spare me the same fate.” The thought of Creole’s angry face gave me a stomachache.

“Make sure Dickie has me looking my dead best for my final send-off. I wonder where I’ll end up.” Fab chuckled. “You’ll have to rent mourners since I don’t have any friends.”

Dickie, our good friend and the owner of the local funeral home, would give her the star treatment. I imagined a room full of Florida’s finest derelicts hired to pay their last respects. I better make it mandatory that they have to be sober.

I pulled on her arm. “Let’s go home. Now.”

“You don’t even have to get out.” She opened the door. “Slide over. When I get the Jag started, I’ll follow you back to the freeway, then meet you at Brick’s. Try stomping on the gas so I don’t have to wait all day.”

Just as the door closed, my phone rang again. I hit the door locks and took a deep breath. “Hi, honey.”

“When I get my hands on Fab’s skinny neck, I’m going to slowly choke her to death. What the hell are you two doing over in the Tracks district?” His angry voice was on the verge of yelling.

It made me feel safe in some odd way that I wasn’t alone. “Calm down. The doors are locked, I’m inside, and she’s retrieving the car.” I watched as Fab walked around the Jaguar, looking in the windows, and breathed a sigh of relief when the key worked in the lock and she opened the door.

“Did the warning beep go off when the map came up?” Creole clipped his words.

I hedged, not wanting to tell the truth, or to lie. “Do you—”

All hell broke loose. I watched in disbelief as an assortment of law enforcement cars converged from every direction, screaming to a halt; police officers jumped out, guns drawn, pointing them at Fab.

Another officer appeared out of my blind spot and banged on the driver’s side window. I screamed and jumped so hard that the seat belt cut across my neck.

“Madison, Madison,” Creole yelled in my ear.

“Help me,” I breathed.

Seconds later, another loud bang and the window shattered into pieces. I covered my face and started the engine, but before I could get it in gear, the door flew open and I was dragged from behind the wheel, thrown face down on the ground, and my arms jerked hard behind my back and cuffed.

“Creole, I’m sorry.” Tears slid down my face, knowing he’d never hear me, my phone left behind. He’d be going crazy wondering what just happened.

I heard Fab scream something in French, probably something about the cops’ parentage.
What the hell is going on?
I tried to look up, but felt a foot pressed into my back. “Don’t move,” barked a man’s voice.

I lay still to keep my wounds to a minimum, which meant holding my head at an odd angle with a view of the broken-up concrete. I heard male voices, but wasn’t able to make out the words. The sounds of hard-soled shoes hit the pavement, going in different directions. Car doors slammed, engines starting. A pair of hands wrenched me off the ground, and I stumbled to my feet and screamed as pain whipped through my shoulders.

“What are you doing down here?” the officer asked. His badge indicated he was with the Miami Police Department. “You Madison Westin? Matches the photo we got back; the Hummer is registered to you. Where did you get the money for that ride? Better yet, can you prove it’s yours?”

“We both work for Brick Famosa of Famosa Motors and we’re here to retrieve the Jaguar that the customer failed to return. We’ve got the paperwork and the keys.”

“How well do you know Gage Banford?” he growled.

“Never heard of him.” I noticed he blew off my explanation.

The way he sneered, I guessed that to be the wrong answer. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched as Fab got hustled into the back of a police car. The door slammed and drove away, another car following them.

“Can you tell me why I’m standing here, cuffed?”

He jerked my arm. “I’m not the lead investigator on this.” He had his hand on the back of my head to shove me into a police car.

“I’d like to call my lawyer. His number is on my cell phone inside the SUV.”

“I’m sure you would but that’s not my call. Now get in.” He pushed me onto the seat. “Sit up,” he said, and jerked me upright.

“Why am I being arrested?”

“You’re being taken in for questioning. Now be quiet.” He slammed the door.

I shifted to my side, trying to take the pressure off my arms, wiggling my fingers so that my hands wouldn’t go numb. None of it worked. If I got out of whatever trouble I was in, I’d have to rethink working for Brick, once again.

That Gage character must have committed some major felony. In lieu of him, would Fab and I be an acceptable trade? Except, lately, we hadn’t committed any crimes. Hell, I even drove the speed limit.

This cop sure as heck didn’t drive the speed limit as he wound through the streets, no lights or sirens. We arrived at police headquarters where Fab stood by the back door with a plain-clothes escort holding on to her arm, and two other men appeared to also be in custody.

My door opened, a new face reached in and helped me out none-too-gently. Fab nodded at me, and I returned a half-hearted smile.

We were both hustled up the stairs and down a corridor through an open door. The officer gave me a slight shove inside a small, uninviting conference room for criminals and sat me down in a chair in front of a severely gouged table and three other chairs. The door closed and Fab and I were separated. There was not much to look at—no snack bowl, or refrigerator for cold drinks, probably a vending machine in the hall. Would someone loan me a handful of change? The room was eerily quiet so that the slightest sound reverberated off the concrete walls. I scoped out the room, looking for the two-way mirror. All cop television shows had them in interrogation rooms. Odd. Not one single wall decoration; only a large white board, markers left in the tray.

If Fab were here, she’d have us out of these handcuffs and doing a swan dive out the window.
Such a bad idea
, I laughed to myself.

I flung my hair to the side and laid my face on it, one layer between my cheeks and the tabletop. I knew my hair was clean, but was unsure about the table. I coaxed myself to relax, like in the meditation CD I bought and used twice. I pretended to be sitting by my pool, enjoying the sun, Jazz lying next to me asleep. I crossed my fingers and hoped this wasn’t trouble we couldn’t get out of.

The door opened. “You can sleep once we get you processed and into a cell,” a man’s voice boomed.

“I’d like to call my lawyer,” I said. Cruz’s voice rang in my ears: “Do not answer any questions without a lawyer.”

“Whichever one of you talks first gets the best deal. You tell me what I want to know and we’ll set up something sweet.” He eyed me like a cat does a mouse right before springing in for the kill.

“I don’t know what the heck you’re talking about, whatever your name is. Miami is in the United States, the last I heard, and I’m entitled to a lawyer.”

“Investigator O’Neill. Once you’ve been booked, you get your call. Make this easy on yourself and cooperate.” He stuck out his hand with a smirk, knowing mine were still cuffed behind my back. “Tell me about your relationship with Gage Banford.”

I didn’t bother to mention I hadn’t been read my rights. I’d save that tidbit for my lawyer. The back of my head banged up my brain stem. A migraine in the works, I needed a nap, which was the only way it would go away now.

“I’m sure you’ve heard of Chief Harder, call him and tell him I’m here and mention that you’re denying me a lawyer after several requests.”

He crossed his arms and leaned in. “You’re ballsy, I’ll give you that. Chief Harder’s not going to walk down here for the likes of you.”

“Dare you.” I almost winced, sounding so immature. “Not one word without my lawyer, who, by the way, is Cruz Campion. I’m sure you’ve also heard of him. I’ll be inquiring if I can sue for being denied counsel.”

There was a knock at the door. O-whatever-his-name-is cracked it open, stuck his head out, and then banged it shut.

“Have it your way,” he said as he pulled me to my feet.

A matronly woman met us in the hall; she gave me a disgusted once over, her face fierce-looking. She made me want to step back, but I had nowhere to move. She hustled me along the hall at a fast pace, not saying a word, up another set of stairs and into another room.

“Please, this is all a mistake,” I tried to appeal to her. “Would you call Chief Harder and tell him I’m here?”