Trouble in Paradise (3 page)

Fab looked normal enough. Sexy, hard-bodied, and could hold
her own in any bar fight that she started. Lying stretched out on the most
comfortable piece of furniture in the house, the couch, her waist length brown
hair hung over the side. My old black cat, Jazz, was asleep on her chest. “I’m
staying for a while if you don’t mind. My boxes are stacked up in your garage.”

“Do you want a key or do you just want to continue to pick
the lock?” My friends never knocked. They pretty much always came around the
side of the house, slipped through the fence, and walked in from the pool area
through the French doors, whether they were open or not, locked or not.

Jazz jumped from the couch, landing on Grover. I thought
Jazz, who had cleared one hundred in people years, would hate the dog on sight.
Instead, he sniffed Grover a few times and now uses his back as a bed.

“Where did you get the boobs?” Fab asked. “They look perky.”

“Expensive bra and worth every penny.” I chuckled. Looking
over at Fab’s suitcases, I asked, “What about Marco?” He was her Drug
Enforcement Agency boyfriend who no one had ever met.

“He got a promotion that required him to live in D.C. I wasn’t
interested in going.”

I kicked off my heels and sat down. “When does he leave?”

“Two weeks ago. Our lease was up and the deadline had come
and gone for me to move or recommit.”

“You’re living out in the weeds by yourself and not one
word? Next time you say something about friends not sharing, I’ll remind you of
this conversation.”

“I’m not the only one in the ‘not sharing’ mode. You left
your holster in the drawer sans gun.”

“I shot some thug trying to hold up Brick today.” I related
the incident in vivid detail.

Fab shook her head in disgust. “Give me one good reason why
you didn’t blow his body parts all over the parking lot.”

Didn’t any of the people who had asked me that question know
about the relentless investigation, not to mention paperwork, when you kill
someone? “My gun wasn’t big enough.”

“He’ll be back.” Fab wagged her finger.

I rolled my eyes then turned and made my way into the
kitchen, with Fab on my heels.

“Why is there a shotgun on the kitchen counter? I’m pretty
sure it wasn’t there when I left earlier.”

“Payment for a job I did today.” Fab came into the kitchen.
“I scored with the pump-action and the two grenades in the drawer.”

“You couldn’t just take cash?”

“Old Mrs. Harcher had her wallet stolen. The thief crawled
through her kitchen window, and then went into her bedroom while she napped and
rifled through her purse. An easy job to track him. Amateur hour, and it didn’t
take long to figure out it was the punk kid next door.”

“Let me guess, you scared the hell out of him?” I smiled at
the image of her grabbing the kid by the scruff of his neck, shaking fear into
him.

“He made some snotty comment about my being a dumb girl and
he was looking to get lucky. My gun persuaded him otherwise and he got the
message. I enjoyed every second. The little weasel had been burgling all the
neighbors for several months. I sent him to Spoon for a regular job; told him
I’d better never hear his name again.”

I pulled open the kitchen junk drawer. “Get the grenades out
of my house.” I wanted to pick one up but decided that might be my last stupid
decision.

“I don’t think they work, they just look cool.”

“That’s not reassuring. Get rid of them.” I picked up the
rifle and racked it. “Don’t you just love the sound it makes?”

“It’s nice to know I’m not the only crazy one.” Fab gave me
one of her creepy, deranged smiles that I found amusing when directed at other
people.

“The guest bedroom is yours for as long as you follow the
rules.”

“This ought to be good,” Fab said.

“No wild parties.”

“Since you’re my only friend not much chance of that
happening.”

“I’m tired, see you in the morning.” I picked up Jazz and
started upstairs. “No loud sex either.”

I heard her laughing when I closed my bedroom door.

* * *

The sound of people yelling in the hallway woke me from a sound
sleep. I recognized the voices as Fab and Zach.

Zach and I met when he showed up one day looking for my aunt
after he’d been shot. She’d already passed away, unbeknownst to him, so  I was
the only option for first-aid. We slid into a relationship of sex, food and the
occasional game of pool, which led back to sex. After a big fight, he stomped
out of my life, making it clear he’d had enough of my endless risk taking. When
he showed back up, I was  happy to see him and forgot we were mad at each
other. I jerked him in the front door by his shirt, kissing him. After serious
make-up sex, I made the first concession.            “I promise to be more
careful with the chances I take, so you won’t have to worry. And I’ll try to be
totally upfront.”

To his credit, he skipped the lecture. “I can’t always be
available to come to your rescue.” He sighed. “Don’t you have enough to keep
you busy with The Cottages?”

I left the question unanswered and kissed him instead. Sex
was a great conversation derailer. I couldn’t be the stay-out-of-trouble
girlfriend that he wanted. Fab was right; I’d become addicted to the adventure.

“Don’t point that at me!” Zach yelled. “What in the hell are
you doing here anyway?”

“I live here!” Fab yelled back.

After a slight pause, “Don’t get comfortable,” Zach said.

“I suggest you knock next time or I may shoot you, you know,
by accident,” Fab warned, still yelling.

Zach opened my bedroom door and slammed it in response. “You
let her move in?” His deep blue eyes were shooting sparks.

I wanted to laugh but I didn’t dare. “Take off your clothes,
get in bed and you’ll forget she’s here.”

“I thought we talked about less drama in our relationship
and how in the hell will that happen with her living here?”

“Catch.” I took off my Miami Dolphins workout shirt and
threw it at him.

“I feel manipulated.” He already had his shoes off, his
jeans dropped to the floor, followed by his t-shirt.

I knew every inch of Zach Lazarro’s hard, tall, muscled body
and never grew bored watching him strip naked.

He crawled onto the bed, like a cat. “You can forget the
foreplay chit-chat.” He pulled me on top of him, wrapped his arms around me,
and kissed me hard.

Zach and Fab left early the next morning. I didn’t hear any
screaming so they must’ve left at separate times. When Zach introduced me to
Fab, becoming friends hadn’t been part of his plan. Both of them are private
investigators. Zach owns AZL Securities, handling security for A-list companies
and corporations. Fab freelances at cash-only jobs, an exclusive list of mostly
shady clients. In the past, Zach had used Fab on some of his cases. She excels
in lock picking and, with no fear of heights, she can sneak into a building via
the roof. Long before I met either one of them, they used one another for sex,
which was how Fab described the relationship, but they didn’t get along outside
the bedroom. Neither one spoke about the other.

Grover barked and ran to get his leash as soon as I reached
for the shell bucket. He knew that meant we were going to the beach to run and
play on the sand; he barely tolerated my bending down every other step to pick
up seashells. In the past, I never considered dog ownership. I liked dogs as
long as they belonged to other people.   

A few months back, driving down the Overseas Highway, I
slammed on my brakes, the beater truck in front of me slowed suddenly, after
which a dog went flying out of the passenger side window. He bounced onto the
shoulder and rolled into the grass, as the truck sped away. Positive he was
dead, I pulled to the side of the road and hesitated, not sure of what to do
with a dead dog; but knowing that leaving him there wasn’t an option.

Opening the door, I heard him yelping and saw him struggling
to get up on all fours. Another driver stopped and, between the two of us, we
loaded him into the back of my SUV and I raced to my vet. Grover, so his
nametag suggested, ended up staying there for two days; he needed treatment for
dehydration and malnutrition. A much needed bath and haircut to shave away
matted hair which revealed, to my dismay, abrasions showing abuse. Grover had
completely snagged my heart, and his owner never looked for him, which didn’t
surprise me. If he had, I detailed the events in a police report I filed to
ensure Grover’s safety in the future.

Grover and I arrived at The Tarpon Cove Cottages, a ten-unit
motel that I had inherited from my Aunt Elizabeth. Laid out in a three-sided
u-shape overlooking the Gulf of Mexico, each individual cottage is painted a
different color, and an abundance of tropical plants and colorful annuals in
flowerbeds run along the sides of the units. Grover waited patiently for me to
open the door so he could jump out and sniff the flowers.

We rarely use the vacancy sign. Four of the cottages are
inhabited by an assortment of eccentric tenants that my aunt had rented to. The
neighbors refer to them as ‘weirdos.’ The remaining cottages fill with tourists
and snowbirds that come and go by the week. It took a couple of complaining
guests to make me realize I lacked the patience to sit behind a desk, so it was
an easy decision to hire a manager, Mac Lane. Mac, short for Macklin, named
after a grandfather so far down the line no one alive remembered him. Mac came
to interview wearing a shoulder holster under an ugly sweater. She’d just come
from The Arms Room, a gun range of which I was a member. She produced her
concealed carry and convinced me she could handle crazy all day long.

Mac had dragged a beach chair out to the barbeque area, and
now sat with her feet propped on the table, her latest novel, ‘The Devil’s
Mistress,’ in her lap. From her vantage point, she could see the entire
property, which made her happy; she didn’t like being the last to know
anything.

“Where did you find those sunglasses?” I asked her. They
were huge, purple with crystals around the frames, covering three-quarters of
her face. Mac’s outfit was color coordinated to match her sunglasses. Her
enormous boobs looked like they’d gasp for breath if they could, as they were
stuffed inside a children’s top. 

“I got them at Heaven’s.” Mac turned her head side to side.
“Dingo has fun stuff. Besides, incognito looks good on me.”

“Dingo sells drug paraphernalia and gift items for stoners,”
I reminded her. All of Dingo’s customers wore large sunglasses and caps pulled
down while inside his store. “What’s going on?”

“It’s quiet today. Liam’s lying out by the pool, playing
games on his phone.”

Liam is my favorite tenant; fourteen going on thirty, full
of himself in a fun way, never in any trouble and didn’t call for rides home
from the jail.

Mac picked up her book and sighed.

I thought Mac was acting weirder than usual; nervous, and
not making eye contact. 

I wandered over to the recently renovated pool area, with
its new chairs and loungers, the cushions permanently attached this time so
they don’t disappear down the street. Months back I replaced the ugly old cedar
fence with a wrought iron one that gives an unobstructed view of the Gulf. A
tiki bar wrapped with white Christmas lights fills the far corner. I refuse to
replace the bar stools since, short of anchoring them with concrete bolts,
they’d disappear like their friends the cushions.

“What are you up to?” I opened the gate, sitting down next
to Liam. I swear he was taller than a few days ago. He’d taken up cross-country,
and his thin frame had filled out with muscle.

“I’m looking at pictures on this dating website.” He held up
his cell phone.

“How are you going to explain that you’re a teenager when
your date shows up?”

“It’s not for me.” Liam laughed. “I’m looking for my mom.”

“If you don’t believe anything else I tell you, this would
be the time to listen: Julie’s not going to like this.” His mom, Julie Cory,
another favorite tenant, is a voice actress who regularly entertains me with
different characters she constantly makes up. She recently booked a morning
cartoon show. “I thought Julie was dating someone.”

“He creeped Mom out. When he walked through the door, he had
‘one date’ written on his forehead. Kevin fixed her up with a guy that ran his
own crime scene cleanup business. They weren’t all murder victims though, some
of them suicides, but all dead.”

“She’s a good catch, she’ll find someone soon.”

“It would be nice if the guy wasn’t a bag of trouble.” Liam
shook his head. “Thanks for your help in getting rid of the last one. Mom never
said anything but I know she was relieved that he left one day and never came
back. I asked Slice to make sure he didn’t steal anything on his way out.”

“Thank goodness for friends like Slice.” Slice recently
partnered with Zach at AZL with the title ‘Chief Muscle,’ in charge of keeping
corporate clients safe. His sheer size is intimidating enough; a solid wall of
brute force. Even more menacing, though, is the scar that runs down the side of
his face to the top of his collarbone.

“What are you looking for in a potential boyfriend?” I
brushed his blond hair out of his eyes.

“You know… doctor, lawyer, Indian Chief.”

“Indian Chief?” I nudged his shoulder. “Where are you going
to find one of those?”

“Last weekend, Mom took me to the Everglades for a swamp
buggy ride. Turns out it’s on tribal land. Chief Chester filled in for his two
brothers who were home puking. He took us for an extra-long ride, told the best
stories, and he and Mom got along good. Afterward he sprung for hot dogs at the
Swamp Coach.”

“Don’t tell me you contacted him.” I groaned.