Takedown (An Alexandra Poe Thriller) (5 page)

McElroy shrugged. “She’s a natural. We wanted to exploit that.”

“Don’t try to con me, Jason. With that little excursion she took into Slavne prison last year, she proved she’s more than capable. But we both know that your real interest in her has more to do with finding her father than any skills she might possess.”

“At first, maybe, but she’s turned out to be a valuable member of the team.”

“Indeed,” Gray said. “Which is why I’d like her to be part of this operation. Favreau has a weakness for beautiful women, especially the exotic ones. She’s just his type.”

“She’s also got a mind of her own, and she isn’t too happy about how things went down in Turkey. I might have trouble convincing her to join your cause.”

“I assume you want this acquisition?”

“You know I do.”

Gray lifted his shoulders. “Then you’ll do everything in your power to make it happen.”

Overseas Highway, South Florida

A
LEX
WAS
THIRTY
minutes from her destination when her phone rang.

Third time in the last hour.

She didn’t bother to check the screen. She knew it was McElroy again, and had no more interest in speaking to him now than she had the first two times he called. He could wait until she was good and ready for him.
 

Which might be never.

It had been at least three years since she last made the drive from Miami International to Key Largo. Three years that felt like thirty. And as she watched the road roll beneath her, and looked at the marsh and the mangroves and the glassy surface of the ocean, the memories tumbling through her mind went even farther back, to a childhood that had not yet been ripped apart by the twin cruelties of death and abandonment.

Christ. That sounded dire, didn’t it?

The truth was, despite her occasional treks into the land of self-pity, Alex had turned out just fine, thank you. As much as she had missed having a mother and father around, she hadn’t allowed herself to fall prey to the lesser path of drinking or drugs or involvement with some loser who thought the fastest way to a woman’s heart was a blistering insult or a well-placed fist.
 

She had never been interested in such nonsense. She’d had a brother to care for. One who required time and attention from a sister who understood the value of self-discipline and focus.

But in their childhood years, before their mother had been taken from them, Alex had been a carefree spirit who had loved making this drive with her family. She remembered squirming on the backseat with Danny, both giddy with anticipation, looking forward to the fun they’d have at the Shimmy Shack.
 

That was the name their father had given to the beach house. He had come up with it after a balmy night on the back patio, drinking a beer and staring out at the bay as their mother tried to teach the kids to dance to Little Anthony’s “Shimmy, Shimmy, Ko-Ko-Bop.” Alex and Danny had found the record in the storage room, along with several more discs and an ancient but still functioning turntable, remnants from the days when Grandpa Eddie and Grandma Ginny had lived there.

The ritual was repeated up until the month before their mother’s death. Then the first blow of the one-two punch that defined Alex’s abrupt entry into adulthood had landed like a hammer to the temple.

And everything changed.

A few years later, when her father disappeared under a cloud of scandal, accused of things she knew he couldn’t have done, Alex had been surprised to learn he had signed the house over to her and Danny. The Shimmy Shack was now theirs. And shortly after her dad left, a Key Largo property manager had contacted her to ask where to send the checks he regularly collected from vacation renters.

Dad’s way of making sure they’d never go without money.

At the time, Alex hadn’t really cared about any of that. She had simply wanted to know why he left and where he had gone. Two questions she still didn’t have answers to.

But as time wore on, she had become accustomed to the extra income, happy to have it to pay for Danny’s assisted care at Ryan’s House. She had placed him there when she went into the service and had instructed the management company to forward the checks to Mrs. Thornton, the home’s founder and principal caretaker.

Unfortunately, when the economy tanked, the rental checks began to dwindle. And after the management company closed its doors, Alex had never gotten around to hiring another one. So the Shimmy Shack had spent the last few years rotting in the Florida humidity as Alex tried to eke out a living on the bounties she and Deuce managed to collect. The money from Stonewell was an unexpected bonus, but she knew she couldn’t rely on it forever. She had no desire to.
 

So, despite the memories, when the opportunity arose, she decided to sell.

Key Largo was the first and longest of the Florida keys, made famous by an old Humphrey Bogart movie that Alex had seen only once as a teenager. She hadn’t particularly liked the film, mainly because it had been shot in black and white, and the Key Largo she knew seemed to exist in a perpetual state of living color. Everything was brighter down here, with its pastel greens and blues at full saturation. Even the cement dividers along the highway were painted turquoise, as if to announce to travelers that the town they were about to enter was something special.

Baltimore, where Alex made her home, was a big and unwieldy and often dangerous waterfront city, while Key Largo was about as laid back as you could get without dozing off in your lounge chair. It moved at a lazy pace and smelled of the sea, and those who visited were often reluctant to leave.

With the town of Homestead in her rearview mirror, Alex drove along what the locals called the Stretch, the last bit of highway before you hit Largo proper, and felt the tension inside her begin to seep away, as if someone had released a pressure valve. She thought of her childhood again and wondered if she was making a terrible mistake.
 

Had she decided to sell the house too quickly?

Should she call the agent who had contacted her and tell him she’d changed her mind?

Just as she was thinking this, her phone rang and she groaned, assuming it was McElroy still trying to ruin her day. But when she glanced at the screen, she was surprised to see the name
THOMAS GÉRARD
, the agent she was scheduled to meet at the Shimmy Shack.

Talk about timing.

Gérard was the one who had convinced her to sell. A few days before she left for Turkey, he had e-mailed her with his pitch, assuring her that his client was willing to pay above market price for a chance to own property there. The neighbors in the area had told him they hadn’t seen anyone around her place for quite some time, and if she had no real use for it, why not bid it adieu and collect a hefty payoff?

She thought he was being a bit presumptuous at first, but after letting the idea percolate, she decided he was right. Sometimes it was better to move on.

Looking out at the bay again, she saw the boats bobbing in Gilbert’s Marina. The phone kept screaming at her to pick it up, so she pulled it from its cradle and put it to her ear.
 

“Hey, Thomas. Sorry I’m late. I stopped at a fruit stand along the way.”

The fruit stand was a place called Robert Is Here, and sold the best strawberry key lime milkshake Alex had ever had. It had always been a scheduled stop when she was traveling with the family, so she’d made sure to include it this time, too.

“Not to worry,” Gérard said in a voice that held the tiniest hint of a French accent. “I’m calling to apologize myself. I have to speak to one of my clients before I leave the hotel. I hope this isn’t a problem?”

“No problem at all. It’ll give me a chance to open up the house and air it out a little.”

She had no idea what that might entail. The management company had always prepared the place for hurricane season and had probably left it that way when the business folded. Two-plus years of summer heat and humidity were bound to have done a job on the house.

“Excellent,” Gérard said. “I’ll see you soon.”

Ten minutes later, Alex pulled onto the drive that led to the Shimmy Shack, and heard the familiar crunch of crushed shells beneath her tires. Like everywhere else in the Keys, there was no real landscaping at the house, more of a controlled, natural growth, featuring a jungle of palms and multicolored bougainvillea trees.
 

The house itself was a yellow box that stood on cement stilts several feet from the shore. And as Alex had suspected, large sheets of now graying and dilapidated plywood covered the windows and front door, to protect the place from seasonal hurricanes.
 

The house had been built by her grandfather in the late sixties, and no one had ever bothered to install proper storm shutters. Grandpa Eddie had always said a solid sheet of plywood was good enough for him, and apparently the management company had agreed.

Alex pulled into the carport and cut her engine. She’d have to pry the wood from the door to get inside, but she hadn’t thought to bring any tools—a boneheaded move if there ever was one. Hopefully, the kit her father had always kept on the premises was still here.

She climbed out of the rental and made her way to the storage shed built into the right wall of the carport, then found the key on her key ring and unlatched the padlock.

The enclosure was nearly as deep as the house was wide, and was full of over forty-five years’ worth of junk. Moldering cardboard boxes were stacked haphazardly, flaps hanging open, still bearing the signs of Alex’s and Danny’s childhood rummaging.
 

Even the old turntable was there.
 

No sign of “Shimmy, Shimmy, Ko-Ko-Bop,”
however.

Alex stepped over to a workbench on the left, cleared away a couple boxes, and was relieved to find her father’s battered gray toolbox sitting atop it. She carried it around to the front of the house, took the steps up to the front door, and went to work.

Five minutes and several rusty nails later, she set the slab of plywood aside, unlocked the door and…

Something stopped her as she was about to push it open.
 

A gut feeling. A sense that something was out of place.

Having learned long ago to pay attention to her senses, Alex took a step back and looked at the windows to the left and right. The graying plywood covering them was peeling in spots and otherwise looked the same as the board that had covered the door. But the one to her right didn’t seem as tight to the frame as the other one, so she walked over for a closer inspection. Several nails were missing, and those that remained appeared a bit loose in their sockets. This could have been from normal wear and tear, but her gut told her it wasn’t.

She grabbed the edge of the board, intending to give it a good yank to test its strength, but she’d barely started when the whole board fell off the wall and revealed a shattered windowpane.

Shit.

Someone had been inside.

Might still be, for all she knew.

She reached into the toolbox, wrapped her fingers around the handle of the hammer, and returned to the door. She twisted the knob, pushed it open a crack, and listened, knowing her caution was probably pointless after all the racket she’d been making. If someone had been inside when she arrived, they’d be long gone by now.

Then again, if that someone was hostile, he might be waiting for her.

Hearing nothing suspicious, Alex widened the gap and slid sideways into the living room, keeping the hammer raised as she swiveled her head, alert for any sign of movement. The tarp that covered the sofa had an obvious dent in it where someone’s ass had taken residence, and an empty bottle of Swamp Head ale sat on the wooden-plank coffee table her grandfather had made.

She supposed it could have been left by the laborer who had put up the plywood, but she didn’t think so. Not with that broken window.

Peering into the kitchen, she saw a spent candle on the countertop—to compensate for the lack of electricity—and another empty bottle of ale, along with a crumpled pack of cigarettes.