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He pulled up the database from the date of her arrival, accessed the log and found the name Louise Clark on the 5:00 p.m. ferry. The camera time stamped every photograph, and the shot would have been taken around that time. In case the clock was off—a common occurrence with surveillance cameras—Jack began his search with photographs after 4:00 p.m. He scrolled through photo after photo, and finally found what Louise Clark called her devil car. Her twenty-year-old clunker was easy to spot among the Bentleys, Porsches and Teslas.
He enlarged the screen and wrote down the name of the tag, double-checking the digits. He sure didn’t need to start this little treasure hunt with bad intel.
Remembering the happy hour in the clubhouse, he glanced at the time. He was already late. The phone would ring any minute and Dr. Diane Kirkman, the home owners’ association president, would demand his presence.
Entering Ms. Clark’s tag number into the Florida Department of Motor Vehicles database would have to wait.
Jack slipped into his blazer and walked to his cart deep in thought. He wanted to skip this cocktail party, another giant waste of time. He was expected to mingle with the socialite island residents, be available to answer any questions about security protocols, listen to them outbrag each other about their latest investments.
He’d much rather continue his investigation into Ms. Clark, but the answers would have to wait.
Lola was right. He couldn’t let it alone until he unraveled the mysteries of the new tenant.
Who was she? What was she doing on Collins Island? His gut told him something was going on with Louise Clark, something he needed to know about.
* * *
AT 2:00 A.M. Claudia dressed in black jeans and a black sweatshirt with a hoodie and tucked the Glock in her waistband. She moved to Villa Alma’s front gate.
A brisk northeast wind, the leading edge of a strong cold front sweeping into south Florida, whipped palm fronds. It would start raining in an hour, maybe less. Clutching the cool wrought iron, she scanned the street in front of the estate and saw no one. She looked up at a clear night sky with thousands of stars and heaved a huge breath.
The Weather Channel claimed this front would drop the temperature close to freezing, a rare event in Miami. There might even be frost by dawn. Hopefully that meant nobody would be out.
Good. Because she couldn’t stand it any longer. She felt like a bird in a gilded cage and needed to break out of her prison for a short time. She’d be back inside before the rain started.
She entered the security code and cautiously stepped outside with her back flat against the wall. The catch relocked with an automatic click when she closed the gate. Staying close to the wall, wary of anyone else out at this ungodly hour, she jogged toward the ocean.
As she neared, she could hear waves crashing on Collins Island’s private beach. The wind had also stirred up the surf.
She slowed her pace, breathing hard. God, but it felt good to get her blood pumping. She scanned the beach nervously, but quickly determined the area was deserted except for the hull of an empty beached boat. No one sat at the many lounge chairs and tables.
That’s what she had hoped. The moon was only the thinnest silver crescent, so it didn’t provide much light.
She’d be too obvious if she relaxed in a lounger. A line of coconut palms dotted the sand, and she collapsed in front of the thickest one hoping no one would see her from the street. She wouldn’t stay long. A few minutes.
She lowered the hoodie and stared at the water. The endless ocean stretched out before her, whitecaps bouncing on the waves.
She’d been miserable and lonely ever since Jackson Richards left late this afternoon. After her plunge in the pool, she’d stood by the gate for a long time, listening to the faint sounds from the happy hour in the clubhouse. People were laughing, talking, enjoying themselves. She’d longed to join the party, but of course couldn’t.
This was bad, very bad. She’d been in exile less than a week and was already going crazy. What would she be like at the end of a month? This is what Carlos had done to her. She’d become a pitiful recluse hiding on a deserted beach in the middle of the night. She used to love people. Now she didn’t trust anyone.
Not even the US Attorney who’d convinced her to testify.
She brushed away a tear. Yeah, great, Claudia. Just what you need, a pity party.
Her hatred for Carlos Romero threatened to swamp all that remained of the old carefree, fun-loving Claudia, the woman who wanted to help the hurting people of the world. That was why she’d become a nurse. Was there anything left of that person?
Sometimes she thought her quest for justice was all she had to live for, her belief that someone had to ensure Carlos was punished for his irrational violent rampage. Yes, she’d been stupid to marry him, but he’d lied to her. He’d pretended to be something he wasn’t.
Or had she been too much in lust to see it? No, she’d watched him change. And he changed her with him, drumming his paranoid philosophy into her head night and day. Claudia swiped a tear from her face, her anger churning again. What kind of a life would she have after the trial? Would she ever return to the woman she used to be?
“Are you all right?”
CHAPTER FOUR
CLAUDIA LEAPED TO her feet and whirled. Her heart pounded. She felt for the weapon at her waist, but hesitated before yanking it out.
Before her stood an elegant, gorgeous woman of about forty smiling at her with what looked like sympathy. She held a wineglass in her long graceful fingers, one displaying a giant pear-shaped diamond. Luxuriant red hair framed her face, falling to her shoulders.
“You are weeping,” she said in softly accented words. Not Spanish. Maybe French.
“I—I—” Breathing hard, Claudia shook her head. She’d been feeling so sorry for herself that this sophisticated woman, obviously one of the wealthy residents out for a late-night walk, had snuck up on her. Her chic white slacks, which fit as if designed for her perfect body, likely cost thousands of dollars. She wore a loose, gauzy blouse, which looked pale yellow in the moonlight, tucked into the waist.
“I startled you, didn’t I? I am so sorry, cherie.”
“Yes,” Claudia finally managed to say. “I thought I was alone.”
“A woman should never come to the beach in the middle of the night to cry alone.”
Claudia swallowed, knowing she should turn and run, but said, “No?”
“Never to cry.” The woman held up her glass and took a sip of red wine. “Drink, yes. Of course that is always appropriate and far more effective in drowning one’s sorrows.”
Claudia felt a laugh threaten to bubble up. Maybe she was close to hysteria.
“My name is Marsali,” the woman said.
“I’m—Louise.”
“Would you like to join me for a glass of wine, Louise?”
“I really need to get back.”
Marsali swirled the liquid in her glass. “This particular bottle of Bordeaux cost my husband over ten thousand dollars, and it really is quite good. You must give it a try.”
“Ten thousand dollars?” Claudia choked out.
“Yes. But of course it is very old. Like my husband.” Marsali raised her eyebrows. “A woman as young as you, as lovely, who is weeping alone beneath the moon deserves to taste this spectacular grape. Please join me.”
Claudia hesitated, tempted. Lordy. When would she ever get another opportunity to taste such expensive wine?
She took a step away. No. What was she doing? This was too dangerous. “I really can’t.”
“Ah, cherie. Believe me, he is not worth your tears.”
“You think I’m crying over a man?”
“Are you not?”
“Yeah.” Claudia sighed. “I guess I am.”
Marsali smiled sadly. “I know the symptoms only too well.” She motioned toward a table a few feet away where Claudia spotted a bottle and another graceful wineglass. She was certain the table had been empty when she’d arrived at the beach.
“Please join me,” Marsali said again.
Almost convinced she’d already be dead if this woman were working for Carlos, Claudia walked with her new friend toward the table. “Are you expecting someone else?” Claudia asked, nodding at the second glass.
Marsali dribbled dark liquid into the second glass, ending the pour with a practiced twist. “I always bring two stems when I come to the beach with wine. A woman never knows when she might meet someone interesting.”
Still suspicious, Claudia reached for her wine, marveling at how light the glass felt in her hands, and knew it had to be real crystal. “To the next man in your life,” Marsali said, touching her crystal against Claudia’s with a musical clink.
“I’m done with men,” Claudia said, taking a careful sip, not wanting to waste a drop of the wine. She’d do the math later and try to approximate how much each swallow cost. The liquid flowed smoothly across her tongue. Wow. Delicious, but of course she was no expert.
“Done with men? Have you perhaps become a lesbian?” Marsali wondered in her charming accent.
Claudia almost choked. “No, no. It’s not that.”
“Then you must never think of being done with men, cherie, even in the blackest hour of the darkest night. Men make life interesting.” Her eyes swept Claudia’s face approvingly. “You have many males ahead of you to tame.”
“To tame?”
Marsali shrugged. “Men are wild animals that must be subdued. Some are slinky, sexy lions, some energetic bears. Unfortunately, some—like my current husband—are more like water buffalo. Definitely a challenge to domesticate. But all types have their uses and advantages.”
Claudia stared at Marsali and wondered about her age. Maybe she was older than she appeared. No question a stunningly beautiful woman, but on closer look older than forty. And perhaps she’d undergone some top-notch plastic surgery around the eyes.
“How many husbands have you had?”
“Lloyd is my fourth legal husband.”
“Oh,” Claudia murmured, confused by her emphasis on legal.
“And you, Louise? Are you married?”
“Divorced.” Claudia grimaced at how bitter she sounded, and took another swallow of the wine, which really was extraordinary.
“Ah. Divorce is a nasty business,” Marsali said. “Could that be the reason for your tears?”
Claudia shrugged. “Not really. I was well rid of the bum, but can’t imagine going through that humiliating experience three times.”
“Agreed,” Marsali said. “Divorce is far too expensive.”
“But aren’t you—”
“I’m three times a widow,” Marsali stated with a dramatic sigh. “The tragic result of falling passionately in love with the money of older men.”
Claudia opened her mouth to offer sympathy, but closed it when the words registered.
Marsali grinned. “I wish you could see your face, cherie.”
“Sorry.” Claudia gulped more wine.
“There have been many generous men in my life. Believe me, I loved every single one, but of course I couldn’t marry them all.” Marsali shook her head, her hair swinging. “An intelligent woman must be careful before committing. It is fortuitous that we met tonight, no?”
“I’m sorry?” Claudia asked, confused again. Either that or the wine was going to her head.
“I suspect you are in need of some guidance.”
“You’re probably right about that.”
Marsali sipped her wine before speaking. “You are young yet. You see a handsome young man—a stud I think you Americans call them—and the hormones take over, no?”
Claudia laughed, thinking of Jackson Richards. Could this woman read her mind?
“And it is perfectly okay to enjoy yourself on occasion,” Marsali said. “But youth and beauty are your most precious assets. You must learn to spend them wisely.”
Spend them wisely? Claudia stared at Marsali, trying to process a philosophy alien to anything she’d ever considered. She’d never met a woman like this. Maybe she’d seen a few in movies, but thought they were mostly fictional.
“What did you gain from your marriage?” Marsali asked.
“Not a damn thing.” Claudia finished the wine and placed her glass on the table, her mood vastly improved even though they were discussing her disastrous marriage to Carlos. Was it the wine or the company? She grinned. “I wanted out so badly I gave him everything.”
“Oh, dear,” Marsali said with a disapproving frown. “Definitely a blunder. I wonder if it is too late to—”
A drop of cold rain fell on Claudia’s arm. Several more quickly followed. Claudia looked up. She’d been so engrossed in this illuminating conversation, she hadn’t noticed the wind had died down.
“Run for home, cherie,” Marsali squealed, gathering the wine and glasses. “Au revoir.”
Until we meet again. Wishing she could see the wonderful Marsali again, Claudia dashed for Villa Alma. But that couldn’t happen. She’d let her guard down and put herself in danger. Marsali had seen her face.
Too bad, though. It’d been nice having someone to talk to.
* * *
JACK WAS UP before daylight Saturday morning, stoked when he exited his apartment into a frigid morning. It had rained hard last night, and the plunge in temperature from the cold front resulted in a smattering of frost, a fricking miracle in Miami, something he hadn’t seen since leaving Ocala.
But now the sky was clear and bright blue. Wearing sweats for the first time in years, he jogged two glorious miles along the beach and completed an upper body workout in the island’s state-of-the-art gym, another perk of his stint as the security director. The downside was how much time it took to get anywhere off island because of the ferry. To be safe, he’d have to be in line at 7:45 to catch the 8:00 a.m. departure. Lola would provide bagels at the meeting, so breakfast could wait.
After a quick shower, he grabbed coffee at the Island Café and walked to the security office to run down Louise Clark’s tag number. He had maybe thirty minutes. He didn’t quite understand why he was in such a hurry. Learning about Ms. Clark wasn’t an emergency—or he hoped not, anyway. Yet his gut told him he needed to know the truth ASAP.
He brought up the Department of Motor Vehicles website and entered the tag number.
After a few prompts, the name Claudia Jean Goodwin materialized.
Well, well, well.
Was this Louise’s real name, or had she stolen the vehicle? The tag matched the vehicle description so she hadn’t switched plates. He jotted down the address, which was in the southwest section of Miami near Louise Clark’s bogus addy.
So the woman in Villa Alma wasn’t who she said she was. He’d known something was off about her. She was either a thief or used a fake ID. Although another possibility was the Goodwin woman recently sold the car to Clark and the sale hadn’t yet corrected the website. Jack rejected that explanation. Clark claimed she’d owned her rusted car a long time.
Was she on the run from the police? Did Santaluce know she wasn’t what she seemed? Would he find warrants under the name Claudia Goodwin?
Needing a photo to confirm her identity, Jack entered Claudia Goodwin into a search engine and got hundreds of hits. He scrolled, found one for a nursing registry and clicked on the link, recalling the word hospital on the paper with the alarm code for Villa Alma.
Sure enough, a photograph of a smiling Claudia Goodwin stared back at him. Louise Clark was a registered nurse, and her name was Claudia Goodwin.
He itched to continue the hunt, but he had a meeting to attend. No time to sift through the links now to learn more about the woman residing in Villa Alma. How was he supposed to do his job with so many useless events crowding his schedule? And when had running down a license tag ever given him such a jolt of excitement?
He looked forward to discussing all this with the lovely Ms. Clark. And why was that? He knew she was a fraud, but her very presence in Villa Alma tugged at him with an insistence that he didn’t understand. He constantly searched for logical excuses to show up at that impressive front gate. He resisted the urge to invent a security concern so he could talk to her again.
She wasn’t a danger to Collins Island. He’d seen no evidence of criminal activity. Definitely no meth lab. Any threat was purely to Santaluce’s bank account. Jack shook his head. Yeah, and her being a gold digger didn’t hold together, either. Not with that hunk-of-junk car.
He needed to go back into the field and dodge bullets. The mystery of Louise Clark was making him bonkers.
Jack decided to leave Ike Gamble in charge while off island, so he finalized his instructions and returned to his apartment to retrieve his SUV. Driving the huge vehicle felt weird after motoring around in the tiny golf cart. Like a return to reality after spending a week in Disney World.
After an uneventful trip across the channel, Jake noted an agitated, red-faced man arguing with a Miami-side guard. The fool had no clearance from a resident, so he was denied permission to board the next ferry. Clueless people, especially tourists, thought they could take a free joyride over to Collins Island and party on the exclusive beach. Happened all the time, although this guy seemed especially pissed.
Jack waited for the outcome of the encounter to provide backup if his guard needed assistance. But the angry man finally gave up. He drove past Jack with a phone pressed against his ear.
Out of habit, Jack jotted down the tag number.
* * *
TWO HOURS LATER, Jack sat at a polished conference table in the Protection Alliance’s office with Lola and the four other operatives working in the south Florida area. Agents grumbled about the all-hands meetings, but Lola insisted on a monthly gathering to keep everybody grounded, especially the men and women working undercover or in other dangerous circumstances.
Jack suspected that Lola wasn’t just the office manager, but also the owner. Her position and source of authority remained murky, but no one argued with the fact that she was in charge.
He’d almost completed his report on Collins Island, detailing how the security department ran smoothly.
“What? No cougars this month?” asked Greta, a blonde German operative fluent in five languages, with a black belt in karate. “Too bad, Jack.” Everyone in the room laughed.
“Don’t get too used to the good life,” said Brad, an investigator who usually worked as a celebrity bodyguard. “It’s my turn to run paradise next month.”
“There’s one thing, though,” Jack said.
“Louise Clark?” Lola inquired.
Jack met her dark stare and nodded. Her pink spikes appeared especially pointy today.
Lola worked her keyboard and put Louise’s driver’s license up on the screen as Jack chronicled what he’d learned about her, the most damaging item being her fake name and ID. As he laid out the details, he wondered what set off his alarms.
“Not unusual for a beautiful woman to carry a firearm,” Greta offered.
“But why isn’t Santaluce with her?” asked Tony, another operative. He grabbed a grape from the fruit platter in the center of the table, eyebrows raised. “And why doesn’t she ever come out? Sounds like she’d hiding.”
“Maybe she’s working on a top secret cookbook and that explains all the groceries,” Brad said.
“Or maybe Santaluce is really a rich uncle providing her with a quiet location to study for that exam,” Greta suggested. “Are you sure you’re not just impressed by her ta-tas, Jack? You’ve always been a breast man.”
Jack leveled a glance at Greta. The razzing would only get worse if he reacted.
“Any chance she could be a twin?” This suggestion came from Tony.
“The different names could be because of marriage,” Greta said.
“Watch her, Jack,” Lola said, putting an end to the discussion. “If she does anything that could interfere with the serenity of Collins Island, you know what to do.”
“Understood,” Jack said.
An hour later, the meeting completed, Jack slid behind the wheel of his vehicle. He stared at the facade of the run-down strip mall that housed the Protection Alliance’s headquarters. The signage on PA’s door read Security in small, peeling black decals. No one would ever guess the amount of high-tech bells and whistles that lurked behind a tiny reception area with one ordinary desk and file cabinet.
Just like no one knew what was behind the beautiful face of Louise Clark.
Deception. It could be and often was a dangerous game. What kind of a game was Louise Clark, also known as Claudia Goodwin, playing? Most likely a con game on an unsuspecting wealthy man. Maybe bilking sugar daddies was her primary source of income. He considered the idea that had germinated while listening to a report from a fellow operative.
He ignited his vehicle’s powerful engine. Why not visit the address that the Department of Motor Vehicles listed for Claudia Goodwin? Maybe Louise did have a twin.
The odds were that he’d find nothing. He’d already determined the DMV address did exist, an apartment complex called Brasilia. The addy could also be a ruse, but what the hell. Brasilia was only a ten-minute drive away. He was off island. Why not take the opportunity to check it out?
He parked his SUV in a visitor space and walked into a lush courtyard, alert for anything unusual. But it was early afternoon, so quiet. Goodwin’s apartment number indicated the second floor, so Jack jogged up the stairs, and knocked on her door. No one answered.
He knocked again and yelled, “Ms. Goodwin?”
No response.
Jack tried the knob. It turned easily in his hand. Interesting.
He loosened the snap on the holster under his jacket, kept his hand near the weapon and pushed the door open, ready for anything.
He stared inside, evaluating the status of a thoroughly wrecked room. Was this vandalism or had someone been looking for something? Definitely not ordinary theft. The perpetrator of this violence either wanted something specific, something small since cushions had been sliced, or wanted to leave an impression on the owner of the possessions.
Was Claudia Goodwin, also known as Louise Clark, that owner?
How long ago had the apartment been ransacked? He stepped inside and used his elbow to flip a switch, noting that the electricity hadn’t yet been turned off. He moved to the refrigerator. Using a paper towel, he opened the door and checked for expiration dates. Skim milk was only a day gone.
Whoever abandoned this place had only been gone a week to ten days. Rent wouldn’t be due until next week, the first of the month. Management likely didn’t yet know about the condition of this apartment.
His gaze fell to a magazine on the floor with a smiling woman wearing nursing scrubs on the cover. He squatted and read the label. Claudia Goodwin, this address.
Jack moved into the bedroom and found slashed nursing uniforms on the floor.
In the bathroom, he found toothbrush, toothpaste and over-the-counter meds. Something had been written in lipstick on the mirror but smeared so it couldn’t be read. His gaze swept the small tiled room and zeroed in on traces of blood inside the toilet bowl.
Not a good sign. Had Louise killed someone, deserted her home and run to hide on Collins Island?
He used the paper towel to swipe the blood. He might need to get DNA from the sample.
Thoughts churning, Jack departed, using another paper towel to close the door behind him.
When he got to the bottom of the stairs, he heard a frail voice call out, “Young man.”
Jack turned toward the sound and found an elderly woman standing at the doorway of an apartment leaning on a walker. Her thin hair, weathered face and shrunken body told him she was pushing ninety.
“Yes, ma’am?” he asked.
“You went inside Claudia’s apartment, didn’t you?” she asked with a suspicious tone.
“Yes, ma’am,” Jack replied. “I’m looking for her.”