No Returns (9 page)

None of the boats on this pier were occupied. Deacon steered us to the next to last slip. It was a large boat out of Rhode Island, attached to the dock by rope and cleats.

“Board,” he instructed.

“What is your plan?” I asked. “I have friends who know about you.”

“Like Liam?” he sneered.

The thought of Liam being hurt sent a chill the length of my spine. “Among others. You can let us go. You know my mother won’t get the authorities involved. Not so long as you have the DVD.”

“I know. That’s why you aren’t dead yet. Go below,” he said, waving the gun toward the lower compartment.

There was a bunk table and a small kitchen. It smelled musty. Deacon had us sit on the bench. He tied my ankles, then tied my hands, and finally tied me to my mother. We were back-to-back. I could feel my mother shaking.

“Stay put,” he said, then he went back up top.

As soon as he was out of sight, I said, “We’re going to crab walk.”

“What?” my mother asked.

“Walk sideways.”

“Walk where? He told us to stay put.”

“Mom? Do you want to die?”

“Of course not.”

“Then cooperate. We’ll stand up on three. Ready? One . . .two . . .three.” We teetered upright.

“Where are we going?”

“Those drawers. It’s a kitchen, kitchens have knives.”

“We’re going to attack him with a knife?”

“No. We’re going to cut ourselves free.”

“Then what?”

I sighed in frustration. “I’m winging it here. All I know is that the first step is freedom.”

It took a minute or two for us to cross the cabin. My mother was not well versed in crab walking. I twisted my hands enough to pull open one drawer. Nothing but a bottle opener. I had better luck with the second drawer. “Get up on your toes so I can reach into the drawer.” I was able to retrieve a steak knife. Not ideal, but it would have to do.

“Hold still,” I told her as I felt my way around the ropes at her wrists.

“Don’t cut me,” she said. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

“If you have a better one, I’m all ears.” I gently sawed at the rope. “You had no idea he was a con man?”

“I met him at a social function. I knew the family name. I can’t believe he beat me with a gun.”

“You weren’t pistol whipped,” I said. “Try to pull your hands apart.”

With a little snap, the ropes gave way. “Take the knife and cut the rest of the ropes.”

Once we were free, I moved quietly to the steps. I didn’t see Deacon, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t on the boat. I took the first step and my mother whispered, “What are you doing?”

“Shush.” I made it to the second step and then pivoted so I could peek out of the cabin. Deacon wasn’t on the boat. The guard shack was about three hundred yards away. Safety.

“Take your shoes off,” I told my mother.

She looked at me as if I’d just asked her for a kidney. I rolled my eyes. “We’re making a run for it.” I unbuckled my shoes, took them off and stood on the moist flooring.

“Is that smart?” she asked.

I turned and looked at her. “About as smart as dating a con man.”

Her face reddened. “I am a victim! Are you going to throw that in my face?”

I was.

I will.

I could.

I am. “Hey, if the shoe fits . . .”

As soon as my mother was ready, I grabbed her hand and led her up on the main deck. We emerged from the cabin just as Deacon began jogging down the pier.

“Shit!”

“Now what?” she asked, squeezing my hand hard.

“We might have to take a swim.”

“I’m not getting in that filthy water,” she complained.

I yanked her hand. She stood her ground. It was as if I had an errant puppy on a leash refusing to walk. Deacon had reached the boat.

“I told you not to move,” he said menacingly. My mother and I stood side-by-side and I watched in abject terror as he raised the gun. I heard the explosion and instinctively looked down, fully expecting to find blood draining from my body. I was okay, so I immediately looked at my mother. She appeared shocked, but none the worse for wear. Deacon had managed to miss from three feet away.

I looked at him and he had an odd expression on his face. He stumbled forward, then fell face first onto the deck. Blood started to pool around his head. I looked up again and saw Liam about a hundred yards away, his arms straight, his gun still trained in my direction.

He was wearing a suit and kinda looked like James Bond. His tie was askew and the top button of his shirt was undone, but he never looked better. Jumping from the dock to the boat, he immediately hugged me close.

“How did you find us?” I asked just before he kissed me.

“I remembered the sticker on Deacon’s car. You weren’t at the country club so I figured he had you stashed here.” He brushed the hair off my face and looked into my eyes. “Were you making a break for it?”

I shrugged. “That was the idea.”

“Not a very good one,” my mother chimed in. “You almost got me killed.”

Sirens sounded in the distance. “I’m guessing those are for us?”

He nodded. “Yep.”

“We can’t talk to the police,” my mother shrieked. “I don’t want anyone to see that video. Besides, I can’t get arrested without shoes on.”

I stepped out of Liam’s embrace. “Go get your shoes. The blackmailers are dead. There won’t be a trial. So what if a few police officers see the DVD?”

For the next several hours we were at the police station in separate rooms giving statements. It was a four cups of coffee event for me. I was tired and hungry by the time I was finally told I could leave.

Liam and my mother were already in the lobby. My mother looked positively idiotic sitting there with her hands tucked neatly in her lap and her legs crossed at the ankles. Liam just looked bored.

“Everyone okay?” I asked.

Liam and my mother stood. “Just waiting on you.”

We took a cab back to the marina to get Liam’s car. I wanted my cellphone and my purse but the technicians weren’t finished with the scene yet.

“Thank you,” I said before I got into the car.

On the way home I introduced my mother to the joys of Taco Bell. Not the country club but good enough for one in the morning. My mother ate her burrito with a knife and fork, proper as ever. Then she excused herself and went to the bedroom.

I went to Liam and wrapped my arms around him. “Let’s go to your place,” I suggested.

He kissed my neck, then whispered, “No.”

“No?” I repeated curiously. And with honest confusion.

He stopped nuzzling my neck. “I have . . . a
thing
.”

“What kind of thing?” A knot formed in the pit of my stomach.

“Just a thing. Don’t worry about it.”

How could I
not
worry about it? Was he ending our budding relationship? Annoyed at me for going along with Deacon? That didn’t make any sense. I was swimming in my own confusion.

“Your thing can’t wait?” I asked, pulling him closer.

“No, it can’t.” He slipped away from me. “Go take care of your mother. She’s pretty upset.”

“She brought it on herself. She was an easy mark for Deacon.”

Liam smiled. “Something I’m sure you’ll remind her of every chance you get.”

“Turnabout is fair play.”

He ran the back of his fingers along my jawline. “I’ve got to go.”

“Where?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

I couldn’t help it. My insecurities were raging. “When will I see you again?” I asked, hating that I heard the desperation in my own question.

“I’ll call you,” he answered.

The dreaded dating deflection promise. “I can’t change your mind?”

His eyes met and held mine. “You can always give it a try.”

I pressed myself against him and gave it more than just a try . . .

“Amateur detection and designer shopping on a discount play equally entertaining roles . . . in Pollero’s addictively acerbic series.”

– 
Booklist

“Witty, upbeat, all-around entertaining . . . a great read with plenty of attitude!”

– Janet Evanovich

RHONDA POLLERO is the
USA Today
bestselling author of Knock Off, Knock ’em Dead, Fat Chance, Slightly Irregular, and Bargain Hunting, featuring amateur sleuth and fashionista Finley Anderson Tanner – her delightful series set in South Florida. An author with more than 40 novels under her belt, Pollero lives in South Florida with her family, where she is busy working on her next project.

You can find Rhonda at
www.RhondaPollero.com
or on Facebook at
facebook.com/Rhonda-Pollero-Author-150050898427674
or on Twitter
@RhondaPollero
.

Glowing praise for
USA Today
bestselling author RHONDA POLLERO on her entertaining Finley Anderson Tanner novels:

“A fun, fascinating journey you won’t want to miss.”

– Nora Roberts

“A good blend of laughter and mystery.”

– Fallen Angel Reviews

“Amusingly entertaining and filled with fascinatingly appealing characters.”

– Single Titles

“Will make readers eager for an encore.”

–
Kirkis Reviews
(starred review)

“Stylishly entertaining.”

–
Booklist

“A great book to curl up with on the beach.”

– Fresh Fiction

“Fun.”

–
Publisher’s Weekly

“Rhonda Pollero’s humor and compelling mystery will keep you turning pages.”

– Tess Gerritsen

I
don’t usually
go to active crime scenes and I wasn’t looking forward to the one on Hutchinson Island, just north of West Palm Beach. But this was a bad one, so the Sheriff’s office had called the Florida Department of Law Enforcement – better known as FLED, and they in turn, called me.

I had two more days left on my vacation, but like so many vacations that had come before, my time was cut short.

I got off of I-95 at the Palm City exit, then listened as my GPS directed me to the east. A knot was starting to form in my stomach as I drove over the bridge. I had to lift my hand to try to shield my eyes from the brilliant sun glistening off the water. Even with sunglasses, the reflection was blinding.

I drove the six or seven miles until I saw flashing lights up ahead. I carefully parked my government issue SUV on the grassy edge of a vacant lot, killed the engine and grabbed a notepad and pen off the passenger’s seat.

At first I didn’t recognize anyone, then off in the distance, I spotted newly minted lieutenant Max Gable crouched near the temporary yellow barrier erected around what I assumed was the primary scene.

Max and I met in an advanced investigations course at Quantico about six months earlier but I hadn’t had an opportunity to speak to him since. And believe me, I’d been hoping to meet up with him again. But perhaps not under these circumstances.

It was an unusually warm February morning in south Florida, according to the local weather guy, we had some el Niño thing out in the Pacific Ocean that was wreaking havoc with our weather. It was just past 7:30 AM and already it was in the upper seventies.

As I walked quickly toward the officer stationed in place to prevent non-essential personnel from entering the crime scene, I pulled my badge from the back pocket of my jeans and held it up for him.

He spent a long time examining it, then called for Max. He looked at me, then he nodded to the sentry. I steeled myself against two things. My secret attraction to Max Gable and whatever was hidden behind the quickly erected tarp.

I weaved through a small group of gawkers, then dipped below the yellow tape and strode purposefully toward the scene, careful with each step. It was mostly sand and red ant hills, but still, I didn’t want to be the one to step on a spent shell casing or some other relevant piece of evidence.

Max, who had been resting on his haunches, stood and greeted me with a nod. His brow was furrowed and his mouth was a thin line as he stepped away from the scene enclosure. “Supervisory Special Agent,” he greeted.

“Lieutenant,” I returned. “Call me Peyton,” I insisted.

“You got here fast,” he observed.

“I was on my way back from Miami when I got the call,” I explained. “You asked for me?”

“Yeah,” he said on a breath.

I noticed the other members of his team had gone silent and were watching our exchange. Not unusual. Cops in general are very protective of their turf and the Stuart police department was no different. They eyed me with equal parts of caution and curiosity. Statistically speaking, Stuart was one of the safest small towns in all of Florida.

“Catch me up?” I asked as I pulled a pair of vinyl gloves from my front pocket.

“Last week we had a woman’s torso wash up on Bathtub Beach.”

“Not good for tourism,” I said.

“On Saturday a group of fishermen snagged a bag off Bridge Road Beach. Legs.”

I swallowed and blew out a breath. “Someone is sending you your victim in pieces?”

“The legs were male, mid to late fifties.”

“Two victims?”

He shook his head. “As of this morning, three.”

I motioned toward the tarp. “Are you sure?”

A woman was out running on the beach with her dog this morning when he brought her this.”

He led me around to the opening. My stomach fluttered. I looked down at the bloated, grayish head lying on its side in the sand. The hair was dyed bright red with purplish streaks in the front. Her nose was pierced, as were her lips and one eyebrow. The distortion from time spent in sea water made it nearly impossible to tell her age, but based on the visible clues, I put her somewhere between eighteen and thirty. The ME could be more precise and hopefully dental records would give us a name.