The Florida Files

CHAPTER TWO

JACK EVALUATED THE stranded woman with the rusted heap of a car and arranged his expression into a mask of professional concern. This fresh-faced young woman without a speck of makeup around sky-blue eyes was a rich man’s mistress? Pretty, yes, no question, but more wholesome than seductive.

She’d pulled back her long dark hair in a casual ponytail. Hardly glamorous. She wore loose-fitting shorts and a short-sleeve blouse that revealed no cleavage from her generous breasts. No flashy jewelry; just tiny gold ear hoops.

Louise Clark was not what he’d expected.

“Ms. Clark?” he asked.

Frowning, the woman stared at him, as if confused. Didn’t she know her own name? Was she a druggie? She didn’t look like one. In fact, Ms. Clark appeared to be exactly the type of woman he was normally all over.

He extended his arm to shake her hand. “I’m Jackson Richards, Security Director. Aren’t you Louise Clark?”

Her expression cleared, and Ms. Clark clasped his hand with both of hers as if she was drowning and he was her lifeline. “Yes, yes. I’m Louise Clark.”

She offered a killer smile which transformed her face from pretty into stunning, which explained Mr. Santaluce’s interest. Jack felt an unexpected stab of envy.

“Please forgive me, Mr. Richards,” Ms. Clark continued. “I’m embarrassed by the trouble, but my demon car chose this awkward moment to quit working.”

“No trouble at all, ma’am. Mr. Santaluce requested we make certain you get settled in your new home.”

“Oh, that was kind of him,” Ms. Clark said.

Kind of him? Jack reevaluated the scenario before him. His gaze swept over the rattletrap vehicle, noting a backseat heaped with plastic bags from a local grocery. Apparently Ms. Clark wasn’t planning on expensive dinners out with her lover. Hell, maybe she was a gourmet cook and that was what had attracted the man. A looker and a cooker? If so, a far better reason for jealousy.

“Will a jump start help?” Jack asked. “I’ve called our maintenance department for an assist.”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. This is the first time it hasn’t started. Usually it won’t stop running.”

“Maybe it’s time for a new car.”

“Wouldn’t that be nice. Maybe when I win the lottery.”

Jack forced a smile. “Yes, ma’am.” Damn, but Santaluce was one cheap sugar daddy. You’d think he’d want her driving a flashier vehicle onto his ritzy winter home.

The huge maintenance pickup truck approached, and Ms. Clark slid behind the wheel of her car. Jack retrieved jumper cables from the truck and hooked its battery to the clunker’s.

“Give it a try,” he yelled over the truck’s powerful engine.

The old car shook and rumbled to life. Jack let its battery run off the truck’s for a minute or two to allow a better charge, then disconnected the cables, handed them to the maintenance man and returned to speak to Ms. Clark.

“Thank you,” she said meaningfully. “Thank you so much.”

“No problem, ma’am. I recommend you get that battery checked out. It’s possible you need a new one.”

“But now that I’m here, I won’t need my car,” she said.

“I suppose not.” Jack nodded, but her words made no sense. Was the woman planning to never leave Collins Island? Considering the amount of food in her backseat—and no telling how much more in her trunk—maybe so.

Maybe Santaluce planned to keep her in the bedroom. Or maybe he’d had lured her here with promises of a shiny silver Porsche.

“Follow me,” Jack said, “I’ll lead you to your new home.”

On the short drive to the east end of the island, Jack considered Louise Clark, her rattletrap vehicle—which fortunately kept chugging along behind him—her mounds of groceries and the questionable business of one Rodolfo Santaluce.

The more Jack thought about Ms. Clark, the more his bullshit alarm sounded loud and clear. Something didn’t add up. Maybe Lola had assessed the relationship between Santaluce and Ms. Clark all wrong. Maybe the pretty young woman was indeed a paying tenant.

Jack stopped in front of Santaluce’s tall, arched, wrought-iron gate topped with the name, Villa Alma, in block letters, and Ms. Clark pulled next to him. Why would she drive that battered jalopy if she could afford the rent this spectacular villa would command? She wouldn’t. Yeah, she was moving in to the pool house, but he’d seen the so-called cabanas in these villas. A small family would have room to spare.

Clutching a slip of paper, Ms. Clark exited her car, punched a code into the alarm pad and the gate swung open. She turned and offered him another one of her brilliant smiles.

“Thanks so much for your help, Mr. Richards.”

“Let me help you carry in those groceries,” he offered.

Her smile faded, replaced by wariness. In fact, she looked afraid of him. Why was that?

“No, thanks,” she said. “I can manage.”

“Are you sure? I don’t mind.”

“Absolutely. I’ve been enough trouble already.” She waved a graceful hand, the one holding the code, which had been scribbled on some sort of preprinted memo pad with a letterhead. He could make out the word Hospital in large letters, but nothing more.

“I’m certain you have more important duties,” she continued.

Jack shrugged, disappointed. Important duties? This place practically runs itself.

His main function was to assess all possible security threats. Was Ms. Clark a threat to the security of Collins Island? Maybe. Something was off about her.

He definitely needed to learn more.

She looked at him with raised eyebrows, obviously expecting—no, wanting—him to drive away.

He didn’t want to go, but waved and motored west into the sinking sun, back toward the security office.

Lola had been right on about one thing. His day had been boring as plain white toast before Ms. Clark’s arrival, but now things were getting interesting. He had a project.

Of course, he should keep a watchful eye on Collins Island’s newest resident—which shouldn’t be too hard since Ms. Clark was easy on the eyes.

And it was, after all, his job.

* * *

CLAUDIA UNLOADED HER car and hid it in a garage at the rear of Mr. Santaluce’s estate. She quickly filled the refrigerator—empty but for three lonely Coronas—with perishable fruits, vegetables and dairy items. She’d run out of fresh produce before the trial date in four weeks, but that couldn’t be helped. She’d divide her meat into single portions and stuff the freezer later—after she’d locked herself in. At least she wouldn’t starve.

She left the Glock on the counter within easy reach while she worked. She’d keep her weapon close at hand, always loaded and ready to fire. She’d taken a course and knew how to shoot. She could usually hit the target, if nowhere near the bull’s-eye.

Closing the refrigerator for the last time, she took a deep breath.

Dear Mr. Santaluce had provided detailed instructions on the alarm system, but first she needed to confirm all openings were locked or otherwise secure.

She grabbed the gun and exited the cabana through the front door into twilight. A shiver caused her to hug her arms. Claudia inhaled deeply to calm herself, noting the cool, salty ocean breeze. Because of the wall, she didn’t have a view of the tantalizingly close Atlantic Ocean.

But no one had a view of her, either.

Maybe she could go out occasionally—late at night—and take a peek at the waves. Maybe not.

Claudia walked the villa’s grounds looking for any weakness, a location where someone could breach the eight-foot concrete wall. The activity helped settle her, reminded her of patrolling the pediatric unit on the night shift when her patients, poor sick kids, were all sleeping. She missed her job. How long would it be before she could go back to work?

She discovered there was only one gate, the one she’d driven through, and that it had an electronic lock and an alarm. Carlos’s henchmen would have to ram a truck through, making a ton of noise, definitely attracting the attention of that eagle-eyed security director. She doubted he missed anything.

She shivered again, wondering at her reaction to Jackson Richards, who in no way resembled her dark-headed, dark-eyed ex. Still, she’d had the same visceral reaction to him she’d had to Carlos: the urge to rip off his clothes. Unfortunately, she’d acted on that impulse with Carlos. To the horror of her family, two weeks after that explosive first meeting she’d married the jerk.

Within three months of the vows, she’d realized her deadly mistake.

Deciding all was secure, Claudia moved back to the pool area and eyed the impressive three-story main house. She had a key, but had no intention of entering Mr. Santaluce’s winter home. Her benefactor didn’t plan a Miami visit until mid-March, and she’d be gone by then. She didn’t want her presence to put his family in danger.

She pictured the angelic face of Rosa Santaluce, a sweet child who had suffered through way too many painful nights in the pediatric ICU. Her father had been there for most of them, suffering right along with his daughter.

For the thousandth time, Claudia felt a rush of gratitude toward the man she believed had saved her life by offering this refuge. The irony was he was thanking her for saving his daughter’s life.

Claudia paused by the well-lit pool, which reminded her of promotional brochures for an expensive resort with its landscaping, fountains and gurgling cascades. But that pool, right outside her front door, was also her biggest concern, since the island contractor came once a week to test the water and add the necessary chemicals. Santaluce had given her the schedule, so she could hunker down inside and make nary a peep so no one would know of her presence. Ditto with the lawn maintenance people.

But otherwise she’d be left alone. She could sit out here to study and use the pool to exercise. She just couldn’t show her face beyond the wall.

Inside the cabana, she repeated her patrol, checking each window, door and every possible entrance into the structure. When done, she armed the security system and stared at the blinking red light. If someone breached or she pushed the nearby bright yellow panic button, who would respond? The island security director? She hoped not. She was a woman who learned from her mistakes, and history had taught her she needed to avoid Jackson Richards as much as she avoided contact with Carlos or infectious bacteria.

What was similar about two such different-looking men that caused her to become tongue-tied with desire? Had to be some trait hidden underneath their physical appearance, something she sensed intuitively and her treacherous body reacted to. Carlos was much smaller than Richards, but slick and sneaky as a fox. Richards was built more like a gladiator with his powerful shoulders and arms. While he worked with her car, she’d had the odd sensation he controlled a capacity for extreme violence.

Just like Carlos.

So she liked aggressive males? Dear God, what was wrong with her? She couldn’t be trusted around men. For some sicko reason, she was attracted to dangerous types, the ones your mother warns you to stay away from.

Her stomach cramped at the thought of her mom. It’d been three days since she’d contacted any member of her family, and she knew they were sick wondering where she’d vanished to. She’d sent a text to her dad that first night—with hands shaking so badly she couldn’t control the tiny keyboard—telling him she was okay but had to disappear until Carlos’s trial. Then she’d smashed that phone under the tires of her demon car and purchased a prepaid throwaway the next day.

A noise from the kitchen made her whirl and raise the Glock—but she relaxed her stance, realizing it was just the motor of the huge Thermidor refrigerator switching on in the eerie silence. She’d hadn’t yet learned the rhythms and sounds of her new home. She’d probably lie awake all night listening, wondering if anyone lurked outside her protective wall.

Claudia wandered into the living room and collapsed on the plush sofa, placing the gun on a table beside her.

No one could know where she was. She loved her family, but they were all a bunch of gossips—especially her two sisters—and she might as well put an ad announcing her location in the Miami Herald. For sure there’d be a flurry of traceable emails and texts, and hints of Collins Island would probably even leak to Facebook. Everyone dreamed of living on this ritzy isle. Julie, her eldest sister, would insist on a visit.

Of course that could never happen. Carlos’s very own domestic terrorist group—at least that was what the US Attorney called them—the Warriors for Self Rule, might even be watching her family in hopes they’d lead them to her. She prayed that wasn’t true, but she wouldn’t put it past Carlos. His terrorist friends had killed Moochie to warn her. She wouldn’t underestimate them again.

The next month would be the most difficult in her life, but it was her own fault for allowing lust to overcome common sense and the advice of the people who loved her. No, she had to go through this alone. She’d find a way to make contact eventually, but the less her family knew, the safer it was for everyone.

And she couldn’t get sick. She didn’t dare go to a doctor, hospital or even a clinic and use her insurance.

Carlos’s Warriors had expert hackers among the faithful.

* * *

THREE DAYS LATER, Jack still wondered about the enigmatic Louise Clark who’d disappeared behind the walls of Villa Alma and hadn’t emerged once. He knew that for a fact because he’d reviewed the surveillance camera on the front gate. Not even a solitary walk on the beach.

What was she doing in there? Writing a book?

He didn’t have access to the feed from any security cameras inside the compound. If they were even turned on.

He’d expected Santaluce to arrive on the island by now. So far that hadn’t occurred, although Santaluce’s assistant phoned to confirm Ms. Clark had moved in. When Jack had inquired about the arrival of the villa’s owner, he’d been informed that information was on a need-to-know basis, as if Santaluce was part of some covert op.

No question something funky was going on, and as the security director he needed to know what.

So where had Ms. Clark lived before arriving on Collins Island?

Jack booted up the computer. Every visitor had to provide proof of identity to board the ferry, and the guard always scanned that ID into a database. Curious about what he’d find, he clicked the file for the date of her arrival. When her driver’s license appeared on the screen, he zoomed in.

The address was in the southwest part of Miami-Dade County, a settled, middle-class area, full of homes that held their value even through the recession. So why the junker car?

He placed the address into a search engine, and discovered it didn’t exist. He confirmed the digits to be sure he hadn’t made a mistake. He ran the address through Miami-Dade County’s database and got the same results.

The address on her driver’s license was fake.

Was the license itself?

Jack studied the image. If it was a phony, it was a damn good one. Made by people who knew what they were doing. He needed the license itself to confirm its authenticity.

Well, well, well. Jack leaned back in his chair, considering. His instincts had been right on, as usual. Ms. Clark wasn’t what she seemed. Did her appearance on Collins Island have something to do with Mr. Santaluce’s “questionable” business?

Was she cooking meth behind the walls of Villa Alma? Or doing something else equally dangerous?

He entered her name into a search engine and hundreds of results materialized. But Clark was as common as Smith. He narrowed the options to Florida, waded through them, but didn’t find the Louise Clark living in Santaluce’s cabana. So that likely wasn’t her real name, which explained the woman’s confusion when he’d first addressed her.

He called Lola in the Alliance office.

“Yeah, Jack?” she answered in her throaty voice.

“I’m going to email you a driver’s license. Run the image through our facial-recognition program and see if you get a hit.”

“Something going on?”

“Maybe. I don’t know yet.” He hit the send button.

“I know you’re bored, Jack, but don’t go looking under rocks for trouble.”

“Noted.”

After a pause, Lola said, “I’ve got it. Louise Clark. Isn’t this the new tenant?”

“Right, but she doesn’t exist. Neither does the address.”

“So Santaluce has her under wraps. What’s she done?”

“Nothing, but my radar is lit up.”

“Ouch. Never a good sign,” Lola said, her tone now serious. “I’ll let you know what I find.”

Jack scrolled through the security feed until he got to the camera on the front of Villa Alma and froze the image. No sign of the new tenant. What was going on behind that imposing gate? He decided to pay a little visit and see what response he got from the lovely Louise.

When he arrived at Villa Alma, he exited the golf cart and rang the delivery bell, staring up into the security camera. After a few moments he heard a breathy “Yes?” on the intercom.

“Ms. Clark?” he inquired.

“Yes.”

“It’s Jackson Richards, Security Director.”

“Yes, Mr. Richards?” she responded, politely impatient.

“Just a courtesy call to see if everything is all right.”

“Everything is fine, Mr. Richards. Is there some problem?”

“None of my staff has seen you since your arrival, and we wanted to make certain you were okay in there.”

After a pause she said, “Thank you for checking, Mr. Richards, but please don’t concern yourself with me. You probably won’t see me around much.”

Thinking it awkward to have a conversation with a camera, Jack said, “I wanted to let you know there’s a weekly happy hour on Friday night in the clubhouse for all residents.”

“Thank you, but I’m here for some rest.”

“Happy hours can be restful.”

“Yes. Well, if there’s nothing else, I need to go.”

Go where? Do what? Jack’s phone sounded the alarm for an emergency text. He found a message from Ike Gamble: CODE 99.

An unknown boat was attempting to land on the island’s private beach.

Jack saluted to Villa Alma’s camera and remounted his golf cart. He needed to handle this situation but wasn’t overly alarmed. A beach landing wasn’t exactly a common problem, but every so often someone—usually a local cruising around Biscayne Bay under the influence of too many beers—decided to check out Collins Island on a whim. People were curious about the good life, and since there was no bridge from the mainland, a boat was the only method to arrive. The interlopers usually zoomed away with huge rooster tails when waved off.

And if they didn’t, they’d soon regret it. The developers had positioned huge rocks a hundred feet offshore to prevent any unsanctioned vessels from approaching. The rocks were submerged but clearly marked and on all nautical charts as a hazard.

But when Jack approached the beach he saw a thirty-foot Mako had been driven hard onto the sand, leaving an ugly trench in its wake. The white hull rested on its side and huge gashes from the rocks marred the fiberglass.

What? Damn fools. Unlikely that boat would ever float again.

Ike Gamble, assigned today as a roving guard, was involved in a heated confrontation on the beach with two thirtysomething bearded men wearing backpacks. Jack alerted the Miami Beach police, then jumped from his cart and hurried to assist Ike.

“I’m sorry, gentlemen,” Ike said forcefully. “As I’ve explained, this is a private island. You’ll have to remain with your vessel.”

“The hell with that,” the larger of the men said, and brushed past Ike. “Come on, Smitty.”

“Hold it.” Jack extended both arms, displaying the shoulder holster beneath his jacket.

The man cursed and stopped moving.

“Ike, use your phone to record this,” Jack called out. “Just in case the surveillance cameras don’t have a good view.”

“Got it, boss.” Ike raised his phone.

“What’s your name, sir?” Jack asked pleasantly, lowering his arms.

“Jeff Baldwin.” Baldwin met Jack’s gaze with a hostile stare.

“Didn’t you see the hazard warnings, Mr. Baldwin?”

“Didn’t see any warnings,” he spat out in a manner that made Jack’s alarm bells loudly sound off. This man had deliberately steered his boat over those rocks and onto the island. Why? Did he hope to pull some sort of scam on the wealthy residents with an expensive lawsuit? Others had tried it, and failed. Maritime law was clear on the subject.

“That’s hard to believe, sir,” Jack said. “There are at least ten markers on the other side of the rocks. Maybe you’ve been drinking? The Miami Beach Police are on their way.”

Baldwin shot a glance to the buddy he’d called Smitty, who waited beside Ike. Smitty appeared nervous. What did these guys have planned?

“I need to find a phone,” Baldwin said. “I’ll need help to move the boat.”

“Don’t you have a cell phone?”

Baldwin raised his chin. “What if I don’t?”

“Then I’ll let you borrow mine,” Jack said. “You’re not leaving this beach until the police arrive.”

“But you can’t arrest me, can you, hotshot?” the man sneered. Baldwin again glanced to Smitty, who gave a quick nod.