No Hiding Behind the Potted Palms! A Dance with Danger Mystery #7 (2 page)

Before you go thinking that
I was a bad wife and I just went looking for an affair to relieve
my boredom while he was away, let me explain. Bosco and I had been
struggling for three years after Kevin, our only child, was killed
by a drunk driver as he was riding his bike on a quiet little side
street in our safe, sweet little neighborhood. He was all of
thirteen years old. Part prankster, part history buff, my baby boy
was the quintessential good kid. His death left a void in my heart
that nothing seemed to fill. But for Bosco, it seemed like the end
of life itself. Full of rage for the injustice of Kevin’s death,
Bosco’s dark moods turned even darker, and I would find him sitting
in the basement den, brooding for hours on end. He didn’t want to
talk about his feelings. He didn’t want to talk about mine. I was
completely shut out from his world and he wanted no part of mine. I
was cast adrift in a cold, rough sea, left to fend for myself. Was
I wrong to seek shelter and warmth elsewhere?

For Bosco, solace came in
the form of work. He became more intense, more focused on the bad
guys, more persistent in chasing them down, and even more
determined to bring them to justice. I think part of that was
because Matthew Horner, the drunk driver, also died at the scene.
There was no one to punch out, no one to hold accountable, no one
to punish. That was stolen from Bosco, so all his energy had to be
redirected elsewhere.

Sometimes I wondered if he
blamed me for letting Kevin ride his bike that day. God knows I
wished I had driven him to soccer practice. Bosco’s withdrawal from
our marriage was painful, but I sometimes suspected that it took a
great effort on his part not to lash out at me.

“Dori?” He was speaking to
me. I brought myself back to reality, shaking off the memories of
those painful years. I tried to focus on Bosco, but all I saw was
traces of my little boy’s face in the man who sat across from me.
Kevin was the spitting image of his father, and now he would never
grow up and become a man. It had been almost six months since Bosco
and I had formally ended our marriage, but we had been separated
for most of the past three years, each of us taking our solace in
our own way.

“What?” I responded, wiping
away a tear, wishing I could just as easily wipe out the mistakes
in my life.

“Look, we know the guy is a
louse,” Bosco said, more kindly now. He reached out and patted my
hand. “We’ll get the guy, but I need you to cooperate. You can’t
feel guilty or sorry for him.”

“That’s not why I was
crying,” I said, wiping away more tears. How had my life become
such a mess? I lost my son and I lost the only man I ever really
loved. Bosco started to say something, but stopped himself. As I
looked at him, I knew that he couldn’t open that door to a
discussion about our son. So he did what Bosco does best in a
crisis. He turned all his energy into finding George.

“Show me everything he left
behind,” my ex-husband said. “Every piece of paper, every note,
every email he ever wrote you. I want to see it all.”

“Is that really necessary?”
I was feeling very foolish, the duped sucker who didn’t see this
deceit coming. George had written so many love notes over the six
months I had known him. At the time, I thought they were proof that
he loved me.

I took them down from the
two shoeboxes I kept on the top shelf in the bedroom closet. Bosco
took a look at them and scowled in disgust. I knew the next hour
would be unbearable as my ex-husband read the love notes given to
me by the man who replaced him. It was everything that was needed
for the perfect storm.

“Coffee?” I offered, hoping
to remove myself to the kitchen.

“Sure. But come back as soon
as you get it started. I need to ask you some
questions.”

“Right.” I got busy in the
next room, setting up the coffeemaker. I got out a tray and grabbed
a couple of mugs, a small pitcher I filled with half and half, and
the sugar bowl. I threw a couple of packets of sweetener on the
tray for myself. While I waited for the coffee to brew, I threw in
a load of laundry. I was gone all of about seven
minutes.

“What took you so long?”
Bosco wanted to know when I appeared in the doorway with the tray.
“Come here a minute. What does this mean?”

“What?” I put his mug in
front of Bosco. He pushed it to the side, intent on the letter he
was reading.

“‘
The weekend at the Golden
Sands was everything I ever dreamed I could have with you.’ What
does that mean?”

“It means we had a good
time.”

“What kind of good time?” my
ex-husband wanted to know.

“What kind of question is
that?” I snapped.

“It’s a legitimate one. What
did you two do that weekend? I need to know so I can understand the
man who ran off with your money.” He had his investigator face on,
but I wasn’t sure I could trust him to keep his temper in
check.

“Oh, we flew to the Bahamas
for a weekend. It was the grand opening of the new casino on Grand
Bahama Island. We saw a few shows, had a couple of romantic
dinners, and played some roulette. Or rather George did. I just
stood and watched.” As I let myself remember that weekend, the one
thing that stood out for me was that George paid attention to me,
lavishing me with affection as we wandered through the vast complex
of hotel spaces and gaming rooms, relaxed in our own private cabana
by the pool, or walked along the beach in the moonlight.

“How much did he
lose?”

“I don’t know,” I confessed.
“He was playing with purple and orange chips.”

“One or two at a time?”
Bosco demanded.

“No, usually five or six,
depending on the table we were at,” I told him.

“The purple chips are worth
five hundred a piece, babe, and the orange are a thousand bucks a
piece.” Bosco was watching my reaction. I thought about the piles
of colorful chips that were swept up by the mucker at the table and
the ones returned by the croupier. George had laughed off his
losses. Bosco shook his head at that.

“Probably wasn’t playing
with his own money,” he sighed. I suddenly felt even more like a
complete idiot. Without saying a word, Bosco seemed to convey his
disappointment in me. And then I suffered a pang of conscience,
thinking maybe I was being overly sensitive. Bosco removed all
doubt with his next comment. “Was it yours?”

“Of course not!”

“How do you know?” When I
hesitated, he jumped on it. “It’s a legitimate question, Dori.
We’re trying to figure out when the guy started ripping you
off.”

“Oh,” I said, feeling
confused. Maybe Bosco really was trying to help me, and I was
reacting because I wasn’t thinking clearly.

“When did you first realize
there was money missing?”

“Saturday.”

“The day after he left?”
Bosco whistled, leaning back in his chair, hands clasped behind his
head. “The mark of a professional. What was the sign to you that
you had been taken to the cleaners?”

“The cleaners,” I
repeated.

“No, it’s an expression,” he
responded. “Where were you when you found out your money was
gone?”

“At the cleaners,” I said
again. “I was picking up my suits and my credit card wouldn’t work.
It was maxed out. Somehow, I used up a $5,000 credit limit between
Friday at the grocery store and Saturday at the cleaners. When I
tried another card, the same thing happened. Then I went to my bank
because my debit card wasn’t working. My bank said the account had
been closed out by my new husband. They told me we had been sharing
the account for three weeks, that I had come in with him and signed
the paperwork. Only it wasn’t me, Bosco.”

“Of course it wasn’t you. He
had an accomplice. What about that 401K? How did that get cashed
out?”

“Supposedly I asked for it
to be rolled over to my new account at my new job, only I don’t
have a new job. Bosco, everything was done to hit me on Saturday.
Doesn’t that take a lot of coordination?”

“And experience. The average
person doesn’t know how to do it. Financial professionals normally
help people transfer that many accounts, but usually it’s to make a
better return on investments, not to rob someone blind.”

“I guess I’m lucky you know
what you’re doing. I don’t know what I’d do if you couldn’t help
me.” I rose, intending to refresh our coffee mugs.

“Say that again.”

“Oh, come on, Bosco. Haven’t
you made your point? I screwed up....”

“No, Dori. Say what you just
said again.” Bosco had a funny look on his face.

“I guess I’m lucky you know
what you’re doing. I don’t know what I’d do if you couldn’t help
me.” As I repeated the words, Bosco closed his eyes, as if in pain.
“Are you okay?”

“This is all about me,” he
moaned. “Son of a....”

“What do you
mean?”

“That case I took on in
Somalia, this is payback.” My ex-husband looked like he was in
absolute agony.

“Let me see if I understand
this. You’re telling me that George was hired to steal everything
from me?”

“Yup,” Bosco agreed through
clenched teeth. “To punish me for catching the bad guys who stole
from Feed the World.”

“But I’m broke!” I cried. “I
have no money!”

“Babe...”

“What am I going to do?” It
all sunk in. George had never loved me. He wasn’t just a con man.
He wasn’t just a rat. He was a man who deliberately stole all my
money to punish my ex-husband. I was a pawn in a very ugly game.
That meeting in Pleasant Bay was no accident. George staged it, to
reel me in.

One look at my ex-husband
made my heart sink even further into the depths of despair. Bosco
looked like a guy who just landed in a vat of quick-drying cement
and was counting down the final minutes until he was ensconced
forever in his final resting place. The expression on his face told
me all hope was lost. The realization settled over me like black
thunder clouds just before the skies broke apart. That’s when I
burst into loud, wet, body-shaking sobs, howling like some wild
animal into the oncoming storm.

Chapter Three
--

“Dori,” Bosco said gently,
putting his arms around me as I stood there numbly, “we’ll get the
guy. We’ll figure out a way to get the money back for
you.”

“But how? This was all
planned out,” I sobbed, “right down to the seduction! He never
cared about me! It was all a sham!”

Hysteria was beginning to
cripple me, to bring me to my knees. In only minutes, I went from
being a foolish woman who was conned by a self-serving Don Juan to
a woman manipulated by a powerful group of criminals out to get her
ex-husband because of his career choices.

“What if it’s not over?” I
asked him, between chattering teeth. “What if they came after me to
draw you in? Because they knew I would turn to you and you would
come to my rescue.”

“Tell me about the first
time you two met. You went to Pleasant Bay with your girlfriends,”
Bosco prodded gently.

“Yes,” I said, thinking back
to the trip eight months ago. I had been lured by the promise of a
girl’s weekend at a luxury retreat with my college roommate,
Millicent Fournier, and her circle of friends from New York. There
were supposed to be four of us sharing two rooms, but the idea of a
chick retreat with spa treatments grew more enticing as word
spread. Tony Liselli, another former schoolmate from Pantheon
College, wanted to join us and she had a friend who was happy to
share the cost of the room with her. Mary Findlay, another Pantheon
pal, wanted to join us and Joyce Yamaguchi agreed to come along, to
share Mary’s room. Next thing we knew, the list grew and there were
ten of us, sharing five rooms.

“How did George wind up
there that weekend?” Bosco wanted to know. I explained. One of the
New York women, Tatiana Stevanovich, was dating George at the time
we met. He had decided to surprise her at the Oceania Resort,
appearing out of nowhere as we sat at our special dinner in a
private dining room on the first evening.

I had never met Tati before.
She was Millicent’s new neighbor at the Collins, someone who heard
about the weekend and asked if she could join the group. When Tati
introduced George Peterson, she called him her special friend.
George sat down between Tati and me. He seemed determined to fit
into our group, directing his bright smiles around the table of
females. As the evening wore on, Tati grew belligerent, chiding
George for being weak and unmanly, accusing him of failing to
satisfy her in bed. By eight o’clock, George finally had enough and
said good night, his machismo battered by her relentless assaults.
Another ten minutes of tirade kept Tati busy, regaling us with
stories of George’s failures. I reached my limit and finally
excused myself.

“Where are you going?” Tati
demanded as I rose from the table.

“See you all tomorrow,” I
said to the group as a whole, avoiding a confrontation with the
argumentative woman.

“I asked you where you are
going!” Tatiana’s words were slurred. She was getting sloppy. All
the more reason to pretend a hearing deficiency. I got as far as
the door of the private dining room before a hand landed on my
shoulder. “You will never have him!”