Palm Beach, Florida
“Go on in,” the muscle said, waving toward the door with his .44, a weapon that probably cost more than he did.
Frederick Rydell stifled a sigh. The quality of Guttierez goonhood had declined sadly since the death two years ago of that thuggish, though stylish, mobster Alfonso Guttierez. The organization had fallen to his moron nephew, Jorge Guttierez. Alfonso had had discreet, well-dressed security at the gate. Frederick passed through a metal detector and that had been that.
Jorge’s muscle had actually frisked him, rumpling Frederick’s Hugo Boss jacket, and had taken entirely too much pleasure in touching his private parts and between his buttocks.
Really.
Alfonso would never have hired this outlandish man-child with a backward baseball cap and oversized jeans with the dropped crotch.
Morgan, Alfonso’s personal bodyguard, had always been impeccably dressed, able to serve tea or shoot you between the eyes without breaking a sweat. This goon looked incapable of thought, let alone style.
Frederick opened the door to the suite of rooms Alfonso had used as a study and had to work hard to hide his shock. The two rooms were high ceilinged and elegantly decorated. Alfonso’s late wife had been a bitch of the highest order but a bitch with exquisite taste. And Alfonso himself was a thug with social ambitions. It didn’t really make any difference in Floridian high society if you made your money running drugs and arms and trafficking in humans. As long as you made a lot of it, you were in. Alfonso had had a lot of it and Chantal, the new wife, knew how to spend it.
Alfonso’s study wouldn’t have been out of place in a lord’s palace. It had been filled with superb antiques, exquisite rugs, decent art on the walls. And Chantal managed the staff like a general. Frederick had never seen the mansion less than perfect. Never even a fallen petal from the numerous floral arrangements.
Now it looked like pigs had rooted through the rooms, followed by the Huns.
After the deaths of Alfonso and Chantal, the staff had kept things going but Jorge had let the staff go, one by one, replacing the maids with the girls he fucked and who had no desire to pick up after themselves.
Frederick stopped on the threshold, willing his stomach not to rise. This was the worst he’d seen the rooms, a physical manifestation of the disintegration of Jorge’s personality.
The rooms smelled of sex, expensive whiskey and overwhelming perfume. Someone had vomited and someone had shat and not flushed, so there was an overlay of that coupled with disgusting smells of fast food. The French chef had been the first member of the staff to go.
Two of the sofas had been pulled askew, cushions on the ground. Pizza and takeout boxes littered the marble floor. One of the antique mirrors—fashioned by the same craftsmen who’d made the mirrors in Versailles, Chantal had told him—was cracked.
Frederick schooled his face to blandness but his mind was racing as he crossed the room. He stepped on a used condom and his throat quivered as his stomach shot up his gullet.
Jorge was sitting with his back to the huge two-inch-thick bullet-resistant windows that gave out on to a flagstone terrace that ran the width of the mansion.
“Party last night?” Frederick asked, keeping his tone light.
Jorge grunted. He was sitting in Alfonso’s chair, forearms on the surface of the Chippendale table that had served Alfonso as his main desk. A satchel sat next to Jorge’s right hand. As Frederick walked closer he could see that Jorge was keeping himself upright by his arms on the table. Frederick checked Jorge’s eyes, overly bright with pinpoint pupils. Christ, the man was wasted.
Jorge was going to talk business stoned out of his mind.
With an inner sigh, Frederick felt a pang of pity for himself pulse through his system. He’d earned a lot of money off the Gutierrez machine and now it was coming to a close. Like most good things, he supposed.
“So,” Frederick said, sitting down on one of Chantal’s antique chairs, noting with a repressed shudder that the seat cushion was stained. He couldn’t bear to think of what might have caused the stain. “Here I am for my monthly report.”
He’d had a not-unpleasant monthly appointment with Alfonso, to deliver ongoing reports. Frederick was the Gutierrez family’s computer expert and the confidential conduit for communication with the various international...dealers Alfonso had business with. Alfonso owned two hotels, three nightclubs and four restaurants in Florida, which, being Alfonso, were exceedingly well run and turned a tidy profit.
But they were fronts for what earned Alfonso the real money—drugs, prostitution, people trafficking. All activities Alfonso managed at a remove with Frederick’s help. He never got his hands dirty, directing everything via secure computer, which was Frederick’s lookout. Vast amounts of money exchanged hands via bitcoins on the darknet, and every month Frederick visited Alfonso, he was treated to a superb brandy while delivering his report, and watched as 25K was deposited in his account in the Caymans.
Everyone was happy.
Since Alfonso’s death, the businesses, legal and otherwise, had been going to hell. Very quickly. Frederick would have left long ago if it weren’t for the fact that Jorge was desperately looking for Anne Lowell, Chantal’s daughter, Alfonso’s stepdaughter. Right after Chantal and Alfonso’s wedding, Anne had fled from her family, disliking everything about her mother’s new household. Anne had come from an upper crust family in Boston and hadn’t mixed well, to put it mildly.
She’d been gone years before Frederick’s association with Alfonso, and no one would have given Anne Lowell a moment’s thought if it weren’t for the fact that Chantal had died an hour after Alfonso, as his main heir. And then Anne had been Chantal’s main heir.
So she had inherited most of the estate, the above-ground one anyway, and Jorge had gone wild. Alfonso’s brother had sent his only son up to Miami to learn the business, and Jorge thought he had it made for life. But Alfonso soon understood his nephew’s weaknesses and had made sure to leave everything to Chantal. Who would probably have wisely put Frederick in charge.
Alfonso had never said a word to Frederick about his succession. Alfonso had been a very healthy self-disciplined fifty-year-old and Frederick had looked forward to many more years of happy association with an empire efficiently run by Alfonso. But that happy scenario had come to a crashing halt when a drugged-up teen slammed straight into Alfonso’s Porsche.
Frederick often wondered whether the teen had been hopped up on Alfonso’s product. Alfonso had had a great sense of irony and would have appreciated it.
Frederick had been sorry for Alfonso but above all, sorry for himself. Alfonso’s death had put a serious crimp in Frederick’s plan to sock away five million in the Caymans before forty.
“Give me your report,” Jorge said sullenly, slurring the words. With a sigh, Frederick complied, knowing that Jorge understood one word in ten. Concepts such as bitcoins, Tor, arbitrage, currency conversion flew right over his head.
Only one thing mattered to Jorge—Anne Lowell.
Jorge had somehow got it into his head that if Anne Lowell died, everything would become his. Magical thinking, of course. Anne Lowell would certainly never leave anything to Jorge in a will. Jorge had no concept of the legal issues pertaining to estates and succession. Somewhere in his drug-addled mind, a dead Anne Lowell equaled a magical return to prosperity.
Frederick did nothing to disabuse him of the notion. An obsessed Jorge was going to pay the monthly retainer forever, though he had no clue how to do that online. It was strictly cash, in a satchel. Frederick had upped his price to 50K a month and had stopped looking very hard. He’d found Anne Lowell. Twice. It wasn’t his fault Jorge was an idiot.
In college, majoring in computer programming, Frederick had had to take a course in creative writing and had been unexpectedly good at it. He loved movies and often thought he had the makings of a decent scriptwriter in him. Lately he’d been observing Jorge and his antics, thinking he could turn the s
ituation into one of those tragicomic TV series everyone loved so much, like Breaking Bad.
Jorge and his minions trying to be crime lords, but fucking everything up. Frederick even had a title for the series. Code Name: Moron.
It was so annoying, being paid in cash. The bills were probably all laced with cocaine. Jorge pushed the satchel of cash over to him and then fixed baleful bloodshot eyes on Frederick. “You find the bitch yet?”
“I’ve found her twice for you,” Frederick said, as he’d said many times before. “And both times your goons botched it.”
Either she was very, very clever or very, very lucky. Twice they’d killed the wrong girl. Now she’d completely disappeared.
And he’d stopped prioritizing her. Let Jorge stew in his juices.
Jorge pounded a fist on the desktop. He was sweating like a pig. The side of his fist left a sweatprint. “Find that bitch! Find her now!” Jorge’s attempt at being tough was beyond pitiful. “I’ll give you a bonus if you find her before May 1.”
Yeah, right.
Still, something was very wrong. Frederick had heard rumors that Jorge was deep in the hole with some very bad guys. Alfonso had left some well-run businesses but Jorge was crapping all over everything around him. He couldn’t get it out of his head that finding Anne Lowell and killing her would—poof!—make all his troubles disappear.
Jorge was a cretin who wanted to run with the big boys and was in way over his head. Not that Frederick gave a fuck. He planned on cashing in 50K a month until someone smoked Jorge.
A dead Anne Lowell was not going to solve any of Jorge’s problems. But Frederick wasn’t about to say that.
Frederick would find Anne Lowell again, sooner or later, though he wasn’t putting any effort into it. Who cared? As long as he was being paid, Frederick would keep at it on a low-level priority basis. Nobody could hide forever in a country with fifty million surveillance cameras.
Pity. Anne Lowell was, by all accounts, a charming, kind young woman who didn’t deserve getting whacked by a lowlife like Jorge.
But hey.
Chapter Two
Portland
This is a big mistake, Lauren Dare thought. A huge, potentially disastrous mistake.
The show was as terrifying as she’d thought it would be. Why oh why had she accepted Suzanne’s invitation?
Lauren sighed. She knew why. Because Suzanne had insisted so strongly and just wouldn’t take no for an answer. Because Suzanne had threatened to simply cancel the show if Lauren wouldn’t at least show up. No matter that the show was important to Suzanne’s career.
The drawings, pastels, gouaches and watercolors up on the walls were Lauren’s. She’d illustrated Suzanne’s brilliant interior designs, that was all. Lauren didn’t want—couldn’t have—her name on the program in any way and had made that abundantly clear, without explaining why. Suzanne had reluctantly accepted. But Suzanne had been adamant—if Lauren’s name couldn’t be on the program at least she’d attend the opening.
Suzanne was across the room, signaling her to come over, but Lauren didn’t dare. Suzanne had a gleam in her eye and there was no guarantee she wouldn’t let slip who had actually made the illustrations to someone she thought might be important to Lauren’s career. Suzanne was almost visibly vibrating with the need to praise Lauren in public.
She didn’t understand that Lauren didn’t have a career. Couldn’t have a career.
Bless her. Suzanne meant well but it could cost Lauren her life.
She shouldn’t be here at all. Being here was insane, a gesture crazy beyond belief. She was still alive at twenty-eight against all the odds because she didn’t do things like this. Hadn’t put herself in the public eye in any way in two long, dangerous years. She’d stayed alive for the past two years by being invisible. And her Portland life for the past year was supposed to be all about keeping her head down.
So why was she here?
Affection, that was why. Her downfall. She had simply been embraced by Suzanne...
Glorious harp music began playing, notes beamed straight down from heaven.
...and Allegra. Both charming, lovely, talented women who hadn’t taken no for an answer when it came to becoming her friends. A stone heart would have crumbled and Lauren’s heart wasn’t made of stone. Oh no.
Her life would have been immensely easier if it were.
And it wasn’t just Suzanne and Allegra who had bound her in silken ropes of affection. No, there was also Claire Morrison, their friend and the wife of a homicide cop. She’d horned in too. Friendly and smart like the others, warmhearted and funny. Simply irresistible.
And Lauren hadn’t resisted much, had she?
It was unforgiveable. Lauren was alive because she kept her head low; she didn’t make friends; she wasn’t noticed in any way.
So she shouldn’t be here, at a big social and media event. It was insane, and dangerous.
A trick to not making an impact, to not being noticed, was to keep moving. She’d arrived deliberately late by taxi, rebuffing offers of all three women to pick her up, and slipped in unnoticed, dressed in a dark, simple gown she could move easily in and ballerina slippers, no heels.
Because you never knew when you might have to run.
And that’s when she met his eyes and broke out in a smile because she simply couldn’t help it. Another reason she’d stayed on in Portland way over her new life’s sell-by date.
Morton Jackman. Jacko.
He was her star pupil in her weekly drawing classes, though there was little she could teach him beyond the basics. He was a natural. Somehow he was always around, giving a hand in closing up at the community center, offering to drive her to the supermarket when her car broke down, fixing her leaky faucets and cleaning out the grout. Putting in fancy new locks in her doors.
She had no idea why he stuck around her so much when she clearly made him uneasy. Spooked him, even.
Though she should be the one spooked. And she had been, the first time they’d met. Suzanne had sent Jacko to pick her up for their first business meeting. He worked for Suzanne’s husband, who ran some kind of fancy security company, though Jacko looked precisely like the kind of guy a security company was designed to protect against.
He was pierced, tattooed, his head was shaved and his muscles had muscles. He looked like trouble. Your worst nightmare, come to life. And yet...
Morton “Jacko” Jackman had the soul of a poet, though he’d probably punch in the face anyone who said so.
Lauren had never seen anyone respond the way he did to fine art and classical music. As if they had been designed precisely for him. He understood and reacted to art instinctively, in a way no education, however advanced, could teach.
And though not an untoward word had been spoken, though they barely ever touched beyond a handshake, Jacko had somehow become part of her life, too.
Well, she was going to stick with Jacko because sticking around Suzanne was dangerous. At any moment Suzanne could spill the beans over who had created the artwork on the walls and there would be a fuss, the spotlight of attention would turn to her and blood would be spilled. Hers.
Jacko could be counted on not to say anything, simply because she’d asked him not to. Jacko wasn’t the kind of guy to accidentally spill anything.
She swerved and walked straight to him, happy to see a friendly face.
Well...friendly. That might be going a bit far. He wasn’t unfriendly around her. He was just stiff and formal. But she liked him in spite of himself and he made her feel safe.
No one would touch her—could touch her—while Jacko Jackman was around. He didn’t do it deliberately but there was a definite don’t mess with me vibe around Jacko that was like a protective force field. Lauren recognized that she liked having him around partly because she relaxed in his presence. No need to be tense or worry about the outside world. He did that for her.
As she walked toward him, she could see white all around his dark eyes. She sm
iled at him, placed a hand on his big arm.
“Hi, Jacko.”
He swallowed. “Ma’am.”
Lauren rolled her eyes. Being with Jacko was always interesting. He was fun to tease, like pulling the tail of a dangerous tiger you knew wouldn’t bite. “Lauren, Jacko. Not ma’am. I’ve told you a thousand times. Unless you want me to call you sir. Do you want me to call you sir?”
“No, ma’am.”
She stepped closer and his eyes opened even wider. “Jacko, how long have we known each other?”
“Four months, three days and seven hours. Ma’am.”
Wow. That was actually...true. She had to think about it for a minute but he was right. “So don’t you think you could bring yourself to call me Lauren? Considering the fact that we’ve known each other four months, three days and seven hours?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Lauren.”
“Lauren. Ma’am.”
She sighed again and looked around the room. No one was paying her any attention at all, which was precisely what she wanted. Nobody was paying much attention to what was on the walls, either, which was cool. Everyone was completely taken up with the hot hors d’oeuvres making the rounds on platters and the excellent champagne an army of servers was pouring into glasses. Allegra’s music made for a gorgeous backdrop to the sounds of happy people drinking and eating and gossiping.
She hadn’t really had a chance to see her work up on the walls. The work was hers but Suzanne had framed and hung the drawings and watercolors, and Suzanne had a wonderful eye for color and balance. Now that everyone was eating, drinking or listening to Allegra would be a good time to look at what was on those walls.
She leaned close to Jacko and was surprised to find that he smelled really good. It wasn’t something as overt as a cologne. It didn’t have alcohol overnotes. So it must be soap. Citrusy and fresh. And his own smell. Mmm.
“Jacko, will you walk around with me while I look at the drawings? I haven’t had a chance to see them framed and hung.”