Takedown

CHAPTER 6

It seemed silly to be so upset by the video.

Alex had spent two years on active duty, and had seen things that would make most people want to curl up in a corner. And after years of that kind of conditioning, it should have taken more than a thirty-year-old wedding ceremony to get her going.

But as she drove toward town, she felt angry tears threatening to cloud her eyes, and had to will them away with everything she had.

It wasn’t her mother’s previous marriage that bothered her so much. It was that she had been lied to. All of her life. Told a story about a young college student who had left Iran right before the Islamic Revolution. But there had never been any mention of a dress and a veil and the handsome Iranian groom in that video.

Not one word.

Why would her mother hide such an important part of her past? Was she ashamed of it? Had she come here under a cloud of scandal?

And what about Alex’s father? Had he known and been part of the deception? Or had he been as clueless as Alex?

Her mind a swirl of questions, she turned the wheel of her rental car, and pulled into the parking lot of the Largo Inn. She had no idea why she had come here. She was running on autopilot right now and had only wanted to get away from that house and all of its memories.

As she parked the car, it occurred to her she wouldn’t have come to Key Largo if it hadn’t been for those e-mails from Thomas Gérard, looking to buy the Shimmy Shack for an unnamed client.

Could he be the one behind this? Or maybe the client?

She must have unconsciously been thinking it, because here she was at the very place Gérard had said he would be, her anger quickly building into all-out rage.

Easy, Alex. You need to relax.

If Gérard was in that bar, going in there with her finger on the trigger would not get her any answers.

Taking several slow, deep breaths, she shut off the engine and tried to center herself. Her friend Cooper had long been a proponent of meditation, a discipline he had adopted after their tour in Iraq. And in the months since they’d begun working together again, he had urged her to join him, telling her it was the perfect way to purge both mental and physical toxins.

Alex had bristled at the thought, assuming it was Cooper’s passive-aggressive way of telling her she was too tightly wound.

But maybe that was true.

Especially now.

Though she had no idea why Gérard would be part of some conspiracy to reveal the truth about her mother, she was far more likely to get information from him by taking the innocent approach than by rushing in and slamming his head against the wall.

With this thought in mind, she twisted the rearview mirror to make sure her eyes were clear, then popped open her door and climbed out.

Gérard had staked out a table near the windows overlooking a small man-made beach and the bay. The sky was full of the remnants of what had undoubtedly been a dazzling sunset that Alex had been far too preoccupied to pay any attention to.

Gérard was draped in his chair, a large tropical drink in hand, his feet up on the arm of the chair across from him. He seemed lost in thought as he stared out at the water, reminding Alex of those Shimmy Shack nights on the patio with her father.

Not that Gérard was anything like Dad. Far from it.

Seeing him looking so relaxed made her doubt he had anything to do with planting that treasure box. But it didn’t mean he wasn’t an unwitting accomplice.

He must have seen her reflection in the windows because he abruptly turned his head and gave her a wave.

“Ms. Poe,” he said, keeping it formal.

Taking his feet off the chair, he sat up, gesturing for her to join him. He looked a little drunk. Maybe more than a little.

“Alex,” she said as she approached. “Call me Alex.”

“All right, Alex it is. Have a seat, order a drink.”

She sat down and a waiter appeared out of nowhere, as if Gérard had him on private retainer. “What can I get for you, ma’am? Key Lime Colada? Mermaid Tail?”

“Jameson. Neat,” she said. “And tell the bartender to make sure he wipes the dust off the bottle before he pours.”

The waiter gave her a stiff half smile and went away.

“I think you upset him,” Gérard said, chuckling. He raised his drink. “They seem to enjoy pushing these fruity monstrosities — which, by the way, cost a small fortune.”

“I’m sure you’ve figured out by now that the Keys don’t exactly embrace frugality. If you’re looking for a cheap vacation, you’d better apply elsewhere.”

He smiled that smile of his. “Is this an attempt to persuade my client to raise his offer?”

“It probably should be, but I’m not greedy. And the sooner we get this done, the better. Have you spoken to him yet?”

“I sent the photos, but he hasn’t responded.” He took a sip of his drink and leaned forward, his eyes glassy. “But if you don’t mind, I’d rather save our business for the light of day. I’m not a fan of discussing such things once the sun goes down.”

Or when you’re half in the bag, Alex thought.

She looked out the windows and saw that the sun had indeed disappeared, the sky now a mix of deep purples and blues, with a sliver of moonlight reflected by the water. The beach below looked empty and inviting, even if the sand had been shipped in from farther north.

The waiter came back and set Alex’s drink on the table in front of her.

As she took a sip, Gérard said, “Not that I’m complaining, but why the change of heart?”

“Change of heart?”

“About having a drink with me.”

“I don’t suppose you’d believe I just got in the car and started driving and this was where I wound up?”

He smiled again and lifted his glass in a toast. “So you’re a free spirit. A woman without purpose.”

“Only on my bad days,” she said.

He laughed but then studied her. “Unless my instincts are fuzzy, there’s something troubling you. Did the intruder come back?”

She shook her head. “The only thing troubling me is that I don’t know who your client is. That’s the real reason I’m here.”

“But I’ve already told you. He prefers to remain anonymous.”

“And I prefer to know who I’m doing business with.”

He paused. “So then this really is an attempt to raise the price.”

“No,” she said, “it’s an attempt to find out who wants my house and why he had you contact me. Why now instead of a year ago? Six months?”

Gérard shrugged. “As far as I know, he wasn’t in the market then. And I’m not sure why this is so upsetting to you.”

He was right. She was upset and it showed. She was handling this like a ham-handed amateur, but interrogation had never been her specialty. She was the grab-and-go girl who left such things to the experts.

She took a deep breath. “Look, I’m sorry. It’s just that being back at that house has been very painful for me, and call me old-fashioned, but I feel uncomfortable selling to someone I’ve never met.”

“So you’ve changed your mind?”

“No, I just want to know who he is.”

“Believe me, Alex, if I could tell you, I would. But I signed a confidentiality agreement and I’m a man of my word. I can relay your concerns to him when he calls, but I doubt he’ll budge, even if it means losing the property. He’s very private.”

Alex sighed. Why was she pushing this poor guy? He seemed to be telling the truth and she wasn’t about to get anything out of him like this. Maybe his emails and phone calls were just some weird coincidence, and maybe the person she should be interrogating was whoever had broken into the house.

It certainly wasn’t Gérard.

She drained her glass and got to her feet.

He looked up at her. “You’re leaving?”

“I’m sorry,” she said again. “Here you were enjoying the view and I come along and start bullying you like some psycho cop. I’ll let you drink in peace.”

“But I told you, I prefer not to drink alone.”

“Trust me, you don’t want me for company right now.”

“On the contrary,” he said. “That’s exactly what I want.” Now he got to his feet. “But if you aren’t interested in drinking with me, what do you say to a walk on the beach?”

Though he wobbled slightly as he held out a hand, he was so damn charming in tone and demeanor that she couldn’t help but forgive his excesses. That Clive Owen vibe was working overtime right now, and despite the anger and confusion this trip had already wrought, she found herself giving into him.

“I guess I could use some air,” she said.

There was something soothing about beaches at night.

Back in Baltimore, before their involvement with Stonewell International, Alex and Deuce would sometimes grab a six-pack and drive out to Rocky Point after a hard day’s work. They’d spend half the night camped out on the sand with several of their cop and bail enforcement friends, drinking beer and swapping war stories in front of a fire. The park was technically closed after sunset, but the beach patrol was more than willing to extend a bit of professional courtesy to their public-safety brethren.

At some point in the night, Alex would usually find herself alone and walking barefoot along the water’s edge, letting the cool breeze off Chesapeake Bay remind her that the world was not always about bail jumpers and chases down blind alleyways and bondsmen with tight purses. Sometimes you had to let go of all the bullshit and revel in those small moments of escape.

She figured it was no different tonight. As she and Gérard worked their way down a set of wooden steps to the beach outside the Largo Inn, she decided to allow herself to let go for a moment. To be that free woman Gérard had spoken of.

He said, “So, what do you really do for a living?”

Alex stifled a smile. She’d known he hadn’t believed her. “I told you. Same as you, only I hunt people instead of properties.”

“You’re with the police?”

She shook her head. “I’m a fugitive retrieval specialist. Or what the people in the cheap seats call a bounty hunter.”

He looked surprised. “That seems an usual profession for…” He paused, as if he were afraid to finish the sentence.

“For what?” she said. “A woman?”

They were walking on the sand now, the beach curving along the coastline, dotted by clusters of dark palms, an ocean breeze rendering the late summer humidity almost bearable. Gérard had sobered some, but still could have benefitted from a cup of coffee or two, although his drunkenness was more endearing than obnoxious.

“Not at all,” he said, stopping. “What I meant to say was…for someone so beautiful.”

From anyone else this would have seemed like a well-practiced line, and it probably was. But Gérard came across as sincere instead of smarmy, and Alex had to admit she liked the sound of it. Maybe it was the Irish whiskey talking, but if he kept it up, she might let go completely.

Gérard was silhouetted against the backdrop of the bay as they looked at each other for a moment that was probably a lot shorter than it seemed. In a movie, he would try to kiss her now and she would resist but finally give in, despite her conflicting emotions. And the boyfriends and husbands in the crowd would undoubtedly be squirming in their seats, wondering what the hell kind of flick they’d agreed to see.

But Alex was no ingénue, and the man who emerged from the shadows of the palm trees six seconds later, pointing a gun in their direction, proved this was no chick flick.

“Down on your knees. Both of you.” The guy was wearing gloves, a ski mask, and a very ugly attitude.

Alex glanced at Gérard, and then at the hotel, which was farther away than she’d realized.

The mugger took a step closer. “Nobody can see us down here, bitch. Now get on your fucking knees.” He turned to Gérard. “You, too, asshole.”

Alex had learned long ago that you don’t mess around with a guy with a gun, especially at almost point-blank range. If things escalated, she’d do whatever needed to be done, but a few bucks and some credit cards were not worth getting shot over.

She sank to her knees and gestured for Gérard to do the same. But instead of complying, Gérard’s gaze took on a look she didn’t like.

Oh, shit.

He had been about to make a move on a woman he barely knew, and now had to prove himself worthy, the proverbial knight in shining armor.

Before she could stop him, he crouched slightly, as if he were about to kneel, then sprang forward like a soccer goalie diving for the ball. Judging by the mugger’s reaction, he hadn’t expected the move any more than he’d expected to use the gun. He let out a yelp as Gérard wrapped his arms around him and knocked him to the sand.

The gun went off, and the shot came perilously close to giving Alex an unsolicited tracheotomy. She fell back with a grunt, then scrambled to her feet just in time to see her inebriated hero trying to wrestle the gun from the mugger’s hand.

The mugger lost his grip and the weapon went flying into the darkness as he and Gérard tumbled into the water, the mugger’s hands disappearing from view.

Gérard suddenly groaned in pain and rolled away as the mugger jumped to his feet, holding a blade.

“Stay back,” he told Alex, adjusting the mask that had come askew. “Stay the fuck back!”

Alex glanced at Gérard, who was still moving but clutching his side.

“Thomas? Are you okay?”

He groaned again. “…I’m cut.”

Alex looked up sharply, the anger she’d stifled earlier coming back full force. The mugger must have recognized the threat, because the eyes behind his ski mask went wide.

“Stay back!” he said, his voice wavering. “Or I’ll cut him again!”

If Gérard was hurt, she didn’t have room to argue, but she didn’t have to let the mugger know that.

She took a step forward, keeping her voice level. “You’d better run, you son of a bitch, or I’ll tear your head off.”

The mugger stood there for a moment, the hand with the blade trembling. Then, without warning, he heeded her advice and took off running, disappearing into the darkness down shore. Alex briefly considered chasing after him, but knew she couldn’t. Instead, she moved to Gérard and pulled him away from the water.

“…Is okay,” he grunted, the stress of the moment bringing out more of an accent. “I will be okay.”

She pushed him against the sand, checked his shirt, and spotted a tear in the fabric near the upper right rib cage. She ripped open the shirt and checked the wound. It was a fairly long slice but didn’t look deep, thank God. A couple minutes with a medic and he’d be fine.

“I think you’ll live,” she said. “But we need to notify the police and get you some medical attention.”

“No…no police.”

“But— “

“He was an amateur. He was scared. I don’t think he’ll be trying this again.”

“I can see you haven’t been around too many perps.”

Gérard shook his head. “The police will never catch him and will only make our lives miserable for the next few hours.”

He was right about that, even more so where Alex was concerned. As soon as they found out what she did for a living, the questions would likely change in both character and tone. Alex had a decent relationship with the cops in Baltimore, but there was no telling how local law enforcement felt about bounty hunters.

Looking at the wound, Gérard said, “It doesn’t seem too bad. Leave me and I’ll be fine. I have a first-aid kit in my room.”

He sat up, groaning again as blood seeped from the wound.

“At least let me patch you up,” she said. “I’ve had a little experience in the field.”

He shook his head. “I almost got you shot and I’ve already taken up too much of your night with my drunken foolishness.”

“I insist.”

He looked down at the blood on his hand and relented. “All right. You might have to help me up.”

“Hold on for a second.”

She pulled her cell phone from her pocket, switched it to flashlight mode, and made a quick sweep of the beach until she found the discarded gun. There were children staying at the hotel, and she didn’t want them to find it.

“All right,” she said. “Give me your hand.”

Twenty minutes later, she was in his bed.