Tourist Trapped (3 page)

FOUR

Tuesday December 8, Midday

Amanda pulled down
the lat bar, keeping it even. A good workout would ease the urge to strangle the men in her life: her father for expecting Amanda to swoop in and rescue one of the two women who stole him away, and her lover for his newly unearthed caveman tendencies.

The muscles in her back contracted and a trickle of sweat crept down her spine. The hum from the row of busy treadmills filled the gym, punctuated with the clanking of weights.

Both males plucked at her nerves, but her father’s call—along with Cooper’s comments—set her off. She had a right to avoid the fiasco—Rebecca had been her sister for forty years; why did anything need to change? Amanda could continue denying any association, right?

She eased up the bar and inhaled, then exhaled and dragged the bar back down to her chest. With each movement she felt the aggravation toward her father lighten until her rage withered to a slow burn.

What if Amanda disappeared in another country? She’d want the family to help find her—although she doubted she’d be foolish enough to lose her way in Mexico. She finished her fifteenth rep and rested before the next set.

“Uh, oh, trouble’s brewing. Amanda Sloane’s pumping iron over the lunch hour.” Terry Kemp wiped his forehead with a towel. “It must be pretty serious if you’re showing up here in the middle of the day. Trouble with Lover-boy, Mrs. Baird?”

“So you’ve heard…newspaper or Lauren?”

“Both. Looks like you haven’t chewed off your leg to get free, yet.”

“Matt’s a reasonable man. He’ll understand.”

“Holy sh—you’re still engaged? You didn’t break it off yesterday?”

“Matt had a big fund-raiser. We’ll straighten it out today.”

“Wow, I’m looking at a gen-u-ine betrothed Amanda Sloane. So, that’s why you’re here.”

“Yes…and no…I’m contemplating a trip to Cancun.”

“Can’t fit into your swimsuit? You?”

“Are you telling me I’m fat, Terry?”

His hands flailed and his head shook like a wet dog. “Hey—I’m not the philandering husband of one of your clients—don’t put words into my mouth. I’m just saying, normally you’re not sweating in the middle of the day unless something’s got you stressed. And if it’s not the fiancé…”

“It’s all about Cancun.”

“Lauren didn’t mention a trip.”

“No vacation. Family problems.” She increased the machine’s resistance by five pounds.

“What did your dad pull that requires you showing up in the Yucatán?” Terry adjusted his tortoise shell eye frames.

“It’s not dad; it’s Rebecca. She and Trent are missing.” A feeling of being a chimpanzee behind glass came over her. She looked around, but didn’t notice anyone staring at her.

“The dreaded half-sister—I thought you avoided her more than polyester,” Terry said.

“That’s the problem.”

“Mandy, you’re lookin’ good. When are we goin’ on that date, Lovely Lady?” Wayne-the-Bane wormed his way between them.

Wayne had been ogling me. Of course.
“Terry, what’s the temperature today?” Amanda said.

“I heard a high of forty-three degrees.”

“Sorry, Wayne. Hell hasn’t frozen over. Maybe tomorrow.”

The gym rat laid a slimy paw on Terry’s shoulder. “Don’t waste your time with this dude; he’s married. I’m still free as a bird.”

“Would that species of fowl be vulture?” Amanda grabbed the bar.

“Huh?”

“Wayne, thanks for the scintillating conversation, but I’m sure Amanda needs to get back to the office so we’d both better let her finish her workout.” Terry grabbed the back of Wayne’s T-shirt to usher him off, over the troglodyte’s protests.

“Terry, can you hang around for a few minutes? I’m almost done.”

“Sure, I’ll be over by the free weights, Mrs. Baird.”

“Smart-ass.”

Terry dragged away Wayne and Amanda completed her final set. She wiped down the machine and found Terry talking to a muscle-bound guy who spent his time heaving barbells hung with rows of weights the size of automobile tires.

“Do you think I should do this?” Amanda asked.

“Get married?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Go to Cancun to help Rebecca.” The feeling of being watched returned, but Wayne had left.

“You’re asking me for advice?”

“For all of the crap I give you, Terry, you’re one of my oldest and dearest friends. Yes, I’m looking for your opinion on this mess.”

He slung the towel over his shoulder and rested his hot, moist palms on her upper arms. “You’ll never admit it, but you’re a kind and caring person, Amanda. If you want to make the right decision, listen to your heart.” He touched his finger to her upper sternum. “You can try to deny it, but it’s beating in there.”

Amanda’s phone vibrated.

“You’re the most dedicated lawyer I’ve ever met—or maybe the craziest. Are there ‘attorney emergencies’ in family law that require you to tote your phone with you everywhere?”

“You never know when one of my clients decides to pay back her husband with a frying pan over the skull.” She checked out the number. “But this one’s a treat.” She raised the phone to her ear. “Hey, Zach-Man, what’s up?”

“Tell ‘em ‘hi’ from me.” Terry waved and sauntered off.

“Hey Amanda. Um, I thought I’d call and see how you’re doing. Mom mentioned you had a tough day yesterday. Any way I can help?”

She shook her head. Zachary Kessler, concerned godson. A kid who could barely drive, calling to check on her. Lauren and Dylan could be proud of the kid. “Well, Zach-Man, it’s like this. My dad asked me to help find Rebecca. She and her husband are missing in Cancun.”

“When are you going down?”

“At this point I haven’t committed to anything.”

“Amanda, remember how you told me to forgive my mom for lying to me and to give my dad a chance? Well? Are you going to take your own advice?”

* * *

“That condo is
one hoppin’ place,” Amanda’s private investigator, Ian Dunn, said over the crackling connection. “I’m sending over another set of photos tonight. Don’t recognize any of the guys, but maybe they’re local to Chicago, like Lamont.”

Cell reception improved when Amanda stepped out of the elevator on the forty-fourth floor of her apartment building. “Thanks, Ian. I’ll check them out. Any leads on who owns the condo?”

“Some corporation named Command Commodities. Don’t know much beyond that—but I noticed one thing, although the Johns change every day or so, I see a lot of the same hookers.”

“You think they order up from an escort service?”

“These gals aren’t comin’ straight off the street.”

“Keep an eye on the place for a few more days. I have a feeling about this one.” She finished the call and slid the cell phone into the side compartment in her purse.

Hopefully something edible lurked in her refrigerator or freezer; Amanda had lacked the energy to haul home take-out.

The day’s conversations about Rebecca whirled around her skull—Cooper and Terry implying she hid a “soft and gooey center” behind a “tough cookie” veneer.
Fantastic. Amanda Sloane, the human Mallomar.
Then the phone call from Zach, throwing her advice back at her.

She needed a good night’s sleep to clear her head. She’d deal with Matt tomorrow.

The aroma of roasting garlic greeted her nostrils as she opened the door. Although certain her part-time housekeeper hadn’t dropped in to fix dinner, Amanda didn’t reach for the Taser in her bag. If someone meant ill will, he probably wouldn’t be baking a root vegetable in her rarely used oven.

“Hello?” She hung up her coat and purse and immediately donned her fuzzy slippers, tossing another pair of her heels-from-hell into the hall closet.

“Hey Babe, I’m in here.”

“Stop calling me babe. I’m not Cher—or Sonny for that matter. How did you get in?” She shuffled into the kitchen and found Matt cubing a butternut squash.
So much for a peaceful evening.

“I showed up at the front desk with a sack of groceries and told them I forgot the key to your apartment.”

“That’s all it took to get you in?”

“Yeah, well…give the guys a break. They’ve seen me stop by constantly. I’m sure they assume I have a key, everybody does—and besides, you wanted to talk, so here I am.”

“What are you making?”

“Veal chops.”

“Humanely raised?”

“Huh?”

“Veal comes from baby cows. Was this baby cow treated well and killed without stress?”

“It’s two chunks of meat on Styrofoam, wrapped in plastic. I have no idea how it got there.”

“You and millions of other meat eaters. These poor animals are separated from their mothers and penned up in tiny crates, with barely room to turn around. Then they’re slaughtered, oftentimes suffering in the process.”

“When did you become a spokesperson for PETA?” Matt pulled a roasting pan out of the cupboard.

“The moment you sneaked into my condo.”

“I wanted to surprise you with a nice dinner. I had a free night and I wanted to spend it with you. Is that so terrible?” He kissed her on the cheek.

“I guess not. But I won’t eat the veal.”

“Fine. More for me.”

Her stomach awoke and complained of the void. “What else are you making?”

“Winter squash with fennel. Any concerns over the inhumane treatment of plant life?”

“Not yet, give me a few minutes.” Amanda thought it odd to see little squares of vegetables. One cubed cheese or tofu, but squash? Shouldn’t it be smooth and creamy? Not hard-edged.

Like me.

Matt gathered the squash cubes—tiny in his massive hands—and dropped them into the roasting pan, spreading them evenly over the bottom, followed by a drizzle of olive oil. “Have you thought about what I said?”

“About the vegetables?”

“About easing up on your career.”

She pulled a bottle of Talbott Logan Chardonnay out of the wine refrigerator and set it on the counter, a contrast of green against gray granite. “I think this conversation will require a glass or two…or three.”

The phone rang and Amanda picked up before she realized it was her father.
Hell of a night.
She wandered into the living room, out of earshot of Matt.

“Mandy, please. We haven’t heard anything. Trent and Rebecca could be dead by now. We need you in Cancun.”

A nugget of concern lodged itself in her chest. “They haven’t surfaced? What’s been done?”

“The police said they’re searching for them, but no leads so far.”

Maybe, instead of confronting Matt about the engagement and the senate race, heading to Cancun would give her time to figure out how to handle the situation. And, if something serious had occurred in Mexico, Amanda could help with it before the Chicago papers caught wind of any family strife.

I must be going stark raving mad.
Was she willing to drop her commitments to help a woman she’d resented for the last thirty years? But Rebecca hadn’t masterminded the affair between their father and the pasty-faced shrew. Would it be so terrible to acknowledge a little sister?

“Damn!” A pan clattered across the tile floor. “Amanda, I need ice. I burned myself.”

Dad now, Matt later.
“I’ll fly down tomorrow. Jaz will give you the details.”

She hung up and rejoined Matt in the kitchen, put a bowl beneath the ice dispenser and watched the refrigerator spit out frosty cubes. “That was my friend Lauren. She’s heading down to Cancun and Dylan can’t make it. Some last-minute problem at work. She asked me if I could rearrange my schedule and join her.”

“For how long?”

“Um, she’s going to be there for two weeks. I don’t know if I can get away that long—”

“No, go. I think it would be good for you to take a little time off. Get away from the job and think about dumping some of your workload. Consider it a taste of life as the wife of a senator.”

“I thought you wanted me to accompany you on the campaign trail.”

“Well, yeah, of course, but a two-week break wouldn’t hurt too much—especially now, before the February primary. The important thing is to start winding down your work.”

Amanda’s blood pressure shot up like a fighter jet off an aircraft carrier, but she bit her tongue. Best to get away, clean up the mess in Cancun and then deal with Matt head-on when she returned.

Besides, maybe he wouldn’t win the primary.

Dream on
. She had witnessed the influential people behind Matt. Unless more powerful people like Gordo stomped on him, Matt would be the Republican candidate for the Illinois senate seat.

Deal with Cancun, then deal with Matt.

FIVE

Wednesday December 9, Morning

“Ms. Sloane is
leaving for Cancun, Mr. Harding,” Jonathan Wallace said, at the other end of the connection. “A coworker will accompany her, a Chad Cooper.”

Gordon Harding’s assistant crept in and slid a cup of freshly brewed Imperial Formosa Oolong tea onto his desk, setting it in on the leather coaster in the upper right-hand corner of the smooth, mahogany surface. As always, the tea had been brewed for one minute, at precisely one hundred and eighty degrees.

“Is he a problem?” Gordon asked.

“We don’t know; we’re starting our investigation. He’s relatively new to the law firm.”

Gordon scanned the view from his fifty-seventh-floor vantage point, amidst a cobalt-blue sky, high above the ordinary lives of the fools buzzing about the city, doing whatever mundane activities filled their existence. Streams of cars on South Wacker followed each other like a line of ants, stopping for lights and then proceeding again. Boats plowed deep wakes through Lake Michigan’s waves.

“Is the problem under control?”

“There’s no doubt plan A hit a snag, but plan B is running as expected. If you’d prefer, we could bypass all of the chasing around and execute plan C.”

“Is she that close?”

“There’s no indication they have any proof that you’re involved with Command Commodities or that they’re on the verge of obtaining any evidence.”

“Then let the two plans play out for a day or two. See if she’s smart enough to let up on the case. One more thing. Confirm with our, um, associate, that I expect my investments to pay off. If plan A fails, so will he.”

* * *

“Sorry this is
so last minute, Cooper. Thanks for coming,” Amanda said, settling into the first class section of the airplane. “I want to keep moving on Celeste’s case while out of town.” Certain they’d find a connection between Gordon Harding and the Miami condo housing the Gabriel Carter painting, Amanda didn’t want to risk slowing down the investigation while roaming the Yucatán.

“Duty calls, but I have to say, getting a call from Jasmine at eight o’clock telling me I needed to be at O’Hare by six the next morning—with my passport—was a little unexpected.” Cooper swung his feet. “This has to be the first time I’ve sat in a plane without my knees jammed into the seat ahead of me.”

“You normally fly coach?”

“Yes, with the rest of the mortals.”

Cooper looked presentable in his Levi’s and slate blue polo shirt, like a regular guy instead of a mascot for the nerd nation.
Wonder if he knows the shirt brings out his eyes or if he’s clueless and his wife bought it for him?

He pulled out his phone and checked his email. It was the second time he’d done it since they met at the airport.

“Waiting for something?”

“I have…um, a friend…working on a personal project for me so I check in on occasion.”

“What is it?”

“Looking for long lost family. I’ll tell you the story sometime—why are we heading to Florida first?”

“Jaz couldn’t book us straight through on such short notice. The best we could do was to complete the first leg today and finish the trip tomorrow. I thought we’d take advantage of the situation to stop in Florida to touch base with my father, and to handle some other business.”

Amanda pulled out the print of the portrait and handed it to Cooper. “I think there’s a link between that Miami condo where we caught Lamont frolicking with the femmes, and Gordon Harding.”

“You think Harding’s been a guest?”

“He’s big on the artist, a Gabriel Carter, and Celeste said this particular piece is one of his favorites. It’s hanging in that apartment, and I doubt he sold it.”

“It’s his condo?”

“According to Ian, Command Commodities owns the place.”

“So…the question becomes, what is the organization and who’s behind it?”

“Exactly.”

Once the plane took off and achieved cruising altitude, Amanda turned on her MacBook. A day or two in Cancun and it would all be straightened out. Rebecca and Trent would resurface and Amanda would return with a tan.

The missing couple must be stranded somewhere. Could they have gone on an excursion and become lost? Maybe they rented a car—or could they have chartered a boat and run out of gas? Trent seemed the type to gloss over details, such as checking the fuel tank.

Amanda had no qualms about misleading Matt. She normally didn’t run from a situation, but the idea of circumventing the pressure appealed to her. The time in Mexico would afford her an opportunity to figure out what she wanted. A chance to decompress, away from her alpha male and his chest thumping.

“Stopping in The Villages gives us a chance to find out what my Dad and Miriam know—where Rebecca and Trent are staying, who we’ll work with on the Mexican police force, and maybe walk through the timeline. Then we can book rooms within the vicinity of Trent and Rebecca’s hotel.”

“How long have they lived in The Villages? I’ve heard it’s quite the place for the senior set.”

“About eight years. He’s a big golfer so he’s in heaven. Miriam also golfs, so they spend their days on the courses and their evenings at the town square.”

“What did they do before they retired?”

“He owned a music shop and then a string of video stores. She worked as his secretary until he walked out on us and married her. Then she became a lady of leisure while my mother went back to school for a nursing degree. Mom worked through two bouts of breast cancer, the second one killing her at fifty-two.”

“Some of the staff mentioned they knew your mother and that she was a delightful woman.”

Amanda thought about the tough years after her dad left. She had been attending Northwestern and had offered to move back home, but her parents told her to stay at school. Amanda returned to the house every weekend, but her mom insisted she focus on her studies during the week. Even through her mom’s first bout of breast cancer, Elizabeth had been emphatic that Amanda live her own life.

“By the way, I saw the engagement notice. Congratulations.”

“Thanks.”

“This is your first marriage?”

“It would be, yes,” Amanda said.

“Why did you wait until now—I mean I’m sure Matt Baird is a nice guy and all, but I have to wonder if you hadn’t met someone else earlier in your life that—”

“Do you really want to start down that path with me here, in an enclosed area from which you cannot escape?” She glared at him.

“Good point. Never mind.”

The flight attendant poured them coffee. Cooper eyed the china cup before setting it down. “Your dad owned video stores? It’s good he got out of the business before the bottom fell out.”

She snorted. “No luck. My sister’s husband went into business with Dad and took over after he retired. Dad has a lot of his investments tied up in those money pits.”

“Why haven’t they sold out?”

“I doubt if anyone would buy the stores. Kind of like owning swampland—you get mired in the mess. But, based on his lifestyle and the mini-mansion, Dad made out well. From what I understand, Trent and Rebecca also have a nice place in the Chicago burbs. Evidently somebody still rents videos.”

The flight attendant set down breakfast trays.

Amanda tore a croissant in half. “I have friends who play with computers and they make a decent living, so I’m assuming you didn’t spend years in law school so that you could make more money. Why the job change?”

“After I earned my undergrad in psychology and computer science, I decided to get a job in IT. I got started as a DB2 DBA.”

“What is it with you people? Why does everything have to be a mouthful of acronyms? Don’t you learn English in college?”

“Sorry, I took a job in information technology as a database administrator. I went back for my MBA—that’s master’s in business administration—”

“Smart-ass.”

“But I was a good database administrator so no one wanted to move me out of the position. I spent my days tuning queries, adding indexes and building tables. I had a handful of clients who I interacted with, but mostly I stared at a computer every day.”

“Sounds thrilling, how could you leave?”

“Bingo. Then companies got the bright idea to ‘outsource’ or ‘right source.’ I call it ‘greedy bastards who want to squeeze every last cent out of the organization so they can take home their millions.’ To hell with the little people.”

“And folks tell me I’m too frank.”

“I despise corporate America. Our CEO bought another company, slashed and burned the headcount and walked away with three hundred and fifty million dollars. What did we get? Either a dinky severance package or a tripling of our workload to cover the responsibilities of the poor cusses the company laid off.”

“You’re one of the few who think law is an honorable profession. Don’t you think law is just as cold and cutthroat?”

“Law is what you make it. You can fight for the big asshole or the little guy. You have a choice—look, I’ve been at a company where an outsourced gig lost twelve million dollars and when they needed to blame the failure on somebody, they tried to hang it on the manager of the architecture team. Millions of dollars, thousands of work hours and they were going to blame the failure on a one-hour meeting—they actually tried to search for some email that indicated she approved the project. The scumbags…the irony is that it never made it to the architecture board.”

“Architecture board, is that like a dart board?”

“Sort of, except sometimes the dart tips are dipped in poison.”

* * *

Amanda maneuvered the
rental car through a herd of golf carts zipping along the roads in The Villages. “Why do we keep getting stuck behind Dawdling Dewey and Poky Pearl?”

Chad gripped the safety belt tighter every time she whipped around one of the souped-up carts, most of them populated by a smartly-dressed geriatric pair. He had never seen so many golf carts—as if The Villages were one humongous golf course. Every so often a line of carts would veer off the street and onto their own path, only to rejoin with the road a mile or two later.

“If these geezers moved any slower they’d go backward. Where’s the freewheeling, ‘seventy-is-just-a-number’ jet set I keep hearing about?” Amanda fell in line behind a golf cart with two gray-haireds. At least she didn’t tailgate or lay on the horn.

“Q-tips,” he said.

“What?”

“Q-tips. The couple ahead of us. They resemble the ends of a couple of Q-tips.”

A full-throated laugh escaped Amanda. “Stop it; I’m overdue for a bio-break.”

The cart turned off and another one took its place, occupied by a baldy and a red-head. “There are a lot of white-haired women, but a bigger percentage spends a wad on coloring and tints—now that’s a money maker, being a colorist in The Villages,” Amanda said. “You might consider it if the law gig isn’t for you.”

“Hmm … I don’t think that’s a possibility. I call colors black, brown and yellow. I wouldn’t be too swift at discerning ‘hues’ like mahogany, ash, cherry, birch, oak, walnut…”

“Are you talking hair colors or flooring options?”

“There’s a difference?” He spied a toned elderly couple pushing a small contraption. “What is that?”

“A pet stroller.”

He slapped his forehead. “Of course, everybody needs a stroller for their dogs—because walking them would be absurd—where are we? The Twilight Zone?”

“Welcome to The Villages: Disneyland for the Medicare set. You can play golf, tennis, softball—and if you’re not the athletic type, you can take classes in painting, ceramics, quilting…the only thing I don’t think you’re allowed to do is cook. There are scads of restaurants and they’re always packed. The Villages is a mecca for active, sociable seniors.”

“How often do you vacation here?”

“I don’t. I’ve made appearances for a few Christmases and on occasion Dad gets a whiff of a rumor that I’m flying down for a meeting or a conference and I’ll get a call asking when I’m arriving, so I arrange my schedule for a visit to keep the peace, but I rarely stay overnight. More than a day and my urge to murder Miriam might overcome my aversion to prison.”

They pulled into a town center with fleets of golf carts lined up on both sides of the avenue. Sports paraphernalia adorned many of them. Others resembled Bentleys or Rolls Royces. Seniors swarmed the streets—walking, bicycling, jogging. “I feel as if I’m entering the epicenter of ‘the hive,’ some nest where energetic oldsters are being spawned, like the hatching of spiders. There are so many of them,” Chad said.

“Yeah, it’s a good-sized swarm.”

They drove out of the bustling town and wound through row-after-row of immaculate houses interspersed with recreation centers.

Chad pulled out the print of the Carter painting. “Something’s bothering me. You’re certain, because of this picture, Harding’s involved with the Miami brothel we stumbled upon when following Winston Lamont.”

“Celeste had been surprised when he sold the portrait.”

“Maybe Harding got tired of it.”

“Cooper, his McCastle is bursting with artwork by this guy. Why would he sell one of his favorites?”

“But if it’s so precious to him, why would he move it to Miami when he lives in Chicago?”

“Hmm…good point.”

A chill blew through the car as Amanda pulled into the driveway of a small mansion. She shifted the car into park and stared at the front of the house. A one-story, cream stucco structure stood before them, with at least a half dozen palm trees in front. A figure appeared in the bay window and then faded into the house.

Chad’s phone vibrated. A text from his investigator. “Contact me ASAP.” An adrenaline rush hit him. “I’m okay staying out here. I’ll check in with the office and I need to make a few other calls.”

She nodded. “This shouldn’t take too long. When I’m done we’ll head back to Orlando for the night so we’re close to the airport for tomorrow’s flight.” She slipped out of the car and adjusted her white polo shirt and melon capris. “Here goes nothing.” She squared her shoulders and marched toward the house.

A soldier facing enemy fire.