Accidental Bodyguard (3 page)

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.

Jack tensed.

“You can't keep me here,” Baldwin stated, clenching and unclenching his fists at his sides.

“Sir, I am requesting that you remain where you are,” Jack said. “You've been informed this is private property and that you are trespassing. We will render whatever assistance is needed, but if you attempt to leave this area, I will have no choice but to restrain you.”

“You and who else?”

“I don't need anyone else.”

“Right. You're going to shoot me?”

“Not unless you shoot first.”

Baldwin narrowed his eyes, obviously calculating. After another harsh curse, he rushed into Jack with his shoulder.

When he made contact, Jack grabbed Baldwin's wrist with his left hand, twisted hard and flipped the trespasser onto the sand. He pressed a knee into his kidney.

“Hey,” Smitty yelled, stepping forward.

In one smooth movement, Jack withdrew his Sig Sauer and leveled it in the center of Smitty's body mass. “Stay there,” Jack instructed.

Smitty halted. Ike's eyes widened.

“Is your Taser ready, Ike?” Jack barked.

Smitty shot his arms into the air and stepped away from Ike. “Don't tase me, man. I'll wait on the boat.”

Jack nodded. Smitty had obviously been tased before.

“How about you?” Jack asked, looking down at Baldwin who was still eating sand.

“Yeah, sure,” Baldwin muttered. He raised his head and spit. “Just let go before you break my arm.”

An hour later, the trespassers stood on the deck of the Miami Beach PD's patrol boat on their way back to the mainland. Jack sighed as he watched the boat's wake grow smaller. So much for his peaceful month on Collins Island. The wrecked Mako remained on the beach, an eyesore that he'd definitely hear about from the home owners' association.

Baldwin and Smitty had refused to make arrangements for the boat. They'd been given a week for removal, or a salvage crew would disassemble the vessel for scrap. For some bizarre reason, they didn't seem to care about the boat, which made Jack wonder about their motive.

What the hell were they up to? And what had been in those backpacks?

* * *

F
RIDAY
AFTERNOON
,
WISHING
the pool guy would get here already, Claudia tossed her textbook aside and padded in socks to what she now thought of as security central. She studied the static image of the front gate, but no one was visible. What time would the serviceman show? She'd closed all the window coverings so he couldn't see in while he worked. She'd been antsy all morning and wouldn't be able to relax until the pool maintenance was completed.

Not that she'd been doing much relaxing for the last four days. Her grand intention, her goal during her solitary confinement, was to study for certification as a physician's assistant, a job she considered the wave of the future in health care and one that paid far better than working the floors of a hospital. She had all the material she needed in old-fashioned hardbound books. No way was she venturing on the internet to leave a footprint for Carlos's bogeymen to trace, even though an excellent free course existed online to help her cram.

But every morning, after two hours of reading and taking notes, she'd grow restless and unable to focus. A walk around the estate released tension, as did a swim in that gorgeous heated pool. But going outside was off-limits today until the pool had been checked and proper chemicals added.

She glared at the television, which also provided an escape. She suspected by the end of her confinement she'd hate TV. Either that or she'd be one of those weird addicted viewers who couldn't miss an episode of
Hoarders
. But she didn't dare turn up the sound this morning.

Where was the pool guy? Alert for the slightest noise, she soundlessly returned to the sofa and grabbed her book. Not even a week, and already she longed to venture beyond the walls of Villa Alma. She'd seen photos of a gorgeous beach. The golf course—all of the holes with a view of the Atlantic—looked prettier than the one on Pebble Beach.

Claudia forced her attention back to techniques for taking a good patient history. She found the subject interesting. She really did. She wanted to learn how to— Her head jerked up at a noise outside. The gate opening?

She crept to the monitor. Yes, the gate stood wide open. A red-haired young man, maybe an older teenager, walked into the image carrying a yellow bucket in each hand. He wore shorts and a T-shirt, but soon disappeared off the monitor.

Claudia tiptoed back to the couch and slowly, oh so carefully, set her butt down. No one—especially not young maintenance men who might be susceptible to bribes—could know she was here. She considered Jackson Richards and his team a weak link, but had to assume the security of übersafe Collins Island was trustworthy.

But maybe not. Carlos had taught her you couldn't trust anyone. Ever.

She wrapped her arms around her knees and waited, forehead down, barely breathing. She couldn't see the screen from here, but testing a pool's water couldn't take long. She closed her eyes, her stomach churning. When the kid left, she'd planned to put on sunscreen, recline on a lounge chair and stare at a clear blue sky. She already had on her bathing suit beneath her cutoffs, so maybe a quick dip, too. That would be the—

The door to the living room swung open. The pool guy sauntered inside pocketing a key, focused on the kitchen.

Heart pounding, Claudia reached for her Glock. She rose and backed toward security central, raising the weapon with both hands. How had Carlos found her so quickly?

The pretend pool guy hadn't yet noticed her.

Never taking her gaze off the intruder, she pushed the panic button.

Nothing happened. A chill traced her spine. Had the lines been cut?

Whistling as if he hadn't a care in the world, Carlos's hit man moved into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door.

“What the—” He jumped back as if stung. He swung his head.

That's when he saw her. And screamed—just like a little girl.

Claudia stiffened her elbows. The gun was becoming heavy. “Hands up,” she said, amazed her voice sounded calm.