Death's Door (17 page)

“About what?” There was an edge in her voice that confirmed his suspicion that she was holding back information.

“About Aspen.” He reached down and patted the dog on the floor near them. “I went out to Dicon Labs. There had been a fire there the night Erin was killed. The owners didn’t report the loss of any lab animals, but I nosed around.” She wasn’t a very good actress. He could see she knew about the fire, although she’d never mentioned it. “A woman admitted they’d been testing hair spray on eight dogs that were missing.”

“Why didn’t they report it?”

“Cosmetics companies hate negative publicity. Dicon has been singled out by animal rights groups in the past.” He waited for her to comment, but when she didn’t he continued. “One of the missing dogs was a male golden retriever.”

“You think it was Aspen.”

Paul nodded. “Erin had been involved with animal rights groups in the past.”

“I think she still was,” Madison responded in a tone that sounded hollow, distant, as if her mind was on something else. “Rob—he’s her former boyfriend—told me it’s what split them up.”

Paul decided to play his trump card. “Don’t you want her killer found?”

“Of course I do! How can you ask that?” There was the threat of tears in her voice and he knew all she’d been through today had worn her down. He hated pressing her but he couldn’t help unless he had the facts.

“Then tell me the truth about Aspen.”

Still she hesitated, seeming to search for words. She reached
down and stroked Aspen’s silky head. “I don’t want them to get their hands on him again.”

Paul listened while she explained about finding Aspen and the papers in Erin’s kitchen. Her murdered friend had never mentioned the dog, never told Madison that she was getting the retriever.

“Don’t you see? I
had
to save Aspen. He’s almost blind as it is from having stuff sprayed in his eyes.” Her voice was spiked with so much fury that he was positive she would have struck anyone from Dicon Labs had they been in the room. “Those insensitive jerks are guilty of animal cruelty. That’s why they won’t admit they were testing on dogs.”

“Probably, but what if something that happened that night caused Erin’s death?”

“If I believed that, I would have told the police all about Aspen.” She leaned closer to him, her expression earnest. “Look, I don’t know how much you know about animal activists, but last year several were arrested.”

“On the West Coast. L.A. and Oregon.” He hadn’t known this until he’d investigated the fire at the lab. He’d used the Internet to check on the better-known groups.

“Right. Now the groups no longer use last names. They have an agenda, carry it out, then disappear. If one person is caught, they can’t implicate the others. They’re careful not to leave a trail with phones or computers.”

He couldn’t help wondering if she had been involved. Erin must have been and, as her best friend, didn’t that mean Madison was also a member? Or did it? He didn’t want to accuse her of anything until he had proof.

“They must exchange some contact info or they couldn’t get together,” Madison continued.

“They communicate on the Internet.”

“Why am I not surprised? It works for child predators. They link up on the Internet often in chat rooms where they can make connections and still keep their identities secret.”

“I’m sure Erin intended to drive Aspen to a designated spot, hand him over to another activist who would take him to yet another place, until he was out of state and in safe hands.”

Madison sighed and threw up her hands. “Why didn’t she tell me anything?”

“I think you’re correct. The killer stopped Erin before she could transfer Aspen to the next person. I’m positive he didn’t kill her as a result of the raid at Dicon Labs. There must have been another reason or the murderer would have taken or killed the dog.” Paul looked at her pointedly. “It’s always helpful for the police to have all the facts.”

“I know.” She clenched her teeth in what he’d come to recognize as her stubborn expression. “I can’t let Aspen go back. They’ll torture him until he’s blind, then kill him.”

Paul couldn’t argue. If Dicon Labs had been developing a cure for something or a medicine, he might have debated with her. But he’d been out there. They produced nothing worthwhile unless you counted lipstick and hair spray, which he didn’t.

“Then you’d better do something about the chip in Aspen’s neck behind his right ear. It’ll ID him as a Dicon dog if the missing link thinks to have Aspen checked.”

It took her a second to realize he wasn’t going to give the police the info on Aspen. She threw her arms around him and rewarded him with a grateful hug. He wasn’t letting her quit that quickly. His eyes found her inviting mouth and noticed her lower lip was trembling slightly. He kept her in his arms and lowered his mouth to hers before she could say something to stop him.

For a moment Paul didn’t think he was getting anywhere. Her lips were warm and slightly open beneath his, but her arms seemed slack around his shoulders. He refused to give up; she wanted him. The way she’d behaved on the dance floor was proof positive. Gradually, his mouth moving against her lips, his tongue nudging its way inside, her arms began to tighten around him.

His body did a slow burn that worked its way down to his thighs, but he kept the kiss gentle, soft…encouraging. His tongue teased hers and he caught the uptick in the tempo of her breathing. He pulled back and gazed into her eyes. The smoldering glint told him all he needed to know.

Beneath her lightweight tank top, he felt her nipples tighten. He kissed her again, but this time there was nothing gentle about the way he slanted his lips over hers and plunged his tongue forward in an age-old mating ritual. His heart thundered against his rib cage and savage heat pooled in his groin.

What was wrong with him?

A kiss or two
never
aroused him like this.

She kissed him back, flattening her body against his as if she couldn’t get enough of him. Her soft fingers caressed the nape of his neck and slid into his thick hair.

Desire, dark and urgent, coursed through him, sweeping away all rational thought. He trailed kisses along the ridge of her cheekbone to her ear. Pausing there just long enough to flick his tongue, he pressed hot, smoldering kisses into the sensitive curve of her neck where he detected a lingering trace of the arousing floral perfume he’d come to associate with Madison. She rewarded his efforts with a shuddering sigh that sent his pulse into overdrive.

Had he ever wanted a woman this badly? Why this woman? Why now, when even a dumb schmuck like himself knew better than to get involved?

All the pent-up desire that he’d kept locked away since he’d met her suddenly released itself in his soul-shattering kiss. He slid his tongue into her mouth and rocked against her slightly. Her arms tightened around him and she kissed him back with an openmouthed, hot kiss, her tongue moving against his.

He eased his hand between them and found the soft rise of her breast. Hot damn! She wasn’t wearing a bra, a fact he’d noted earlier, but with all the contraptions women wore these
days he hadn’t been positive. His thumb found the taut nipple and caressed it.

She shivered and pulled back, breaking the kiss. He looked into her amazing blue eyes, just a scant inch from his. The irises were huge, shadowed by the sweep of her long lashes. He thought she might be about to say something to make him stop. To keep her from talking, he kissed her again, still stroking the nipple. A low moan rumbled in her throat. It sent another rush of heat to his groin. In a heartbeat, a rock-hard erection was pressing against his fly.

Aw, man, oh, man.
What she could do to him without half trying.

A sharp sound distracted Paul. What in hell? It took a second to realize Aspen had barked. He’d never heard the dog bark. Madison pulled out of his arms just as he glanced sideways and noticed Aspen was standing, hackles raised, growling at the shadowy area beyond the French doors that opened onto the pool. The retriever barked twice, a menacing sound that Paul wouldn’t have believed came from Aspen if he hadn’t been looking right at the dog.

A second later Garrison Holbrook emerged from the shadows calling, “Hello! Anybody home?”

Son of a bitch,
Paul silently cursed as he jumped to his feet. Talk about bad timing. “It’s okay, boy,” he told Aspen.

The retriever stopped growling but the top of his coat was still bristled skyward like a hedgehog’s. Aspen appeared to be just about as thrilled to see Garrison as Paul was.

Common sense kicked in. Time to get out of Dodge. He stood up, doing his best to conceal his erection. “I was just leaving,” he told Garrison. Over his shoulder, he said to Madison, “See you later.”

He walked to his SUV, his penis aching. She’d gotten him hard two nights in a row. A tragedy, sure, but he was going to have blue balls for a week. Just his luck.

How many men have been to the moon?

M
ADISON KNEW
she didn’t blush, but she could feel the heat rising up the back of her neck as Paul left and Garrison Holbrook stood between the French doors, watching her.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt. I…ah…saw the lights. Dad said you were staying in the guesthouse. I wanted to talk to you.”

“It’s all right.” She motioned for him to come in and have a seat. He stepped around Aspen and walked inside. “Paul helped me move my things here.” She knew this must sound lame. How much had Garrison been able to see before Aspen’s warning barks?

Garrison offered her a reassuring smile and quickly glanced around the room. It was an open floor plan with a living area and an alcove for dining. Most of the kitchen could be seen from where she was sitting. Only the bedrooms were down the hall and out of sight. She was glad she’d taken her stuff into a bedroom so her things weren’t cluttering up the place.

“If there’s anything you need,” Garrison told her, “dial five. That line goes to the staff office in the main house. They’ll take care of you.”

The whole setup reminded her of a luxury resort. Madison supposed she should be grateful but resentment crackled inside her. She didn’t want to be indebted to the Holbrooks. Someone,
probably a total stranger, was responsible for her predicament. Not being able to focus, to direct her anger, was frustrating.

“Everything’s fine,” she assured him as she reached down to pet Aspen, who’d settled at her feet. “I really appreciate all your family has done. It’s taken a load off me to have a few days more to find a place I can rent with a dog.”

Garrison studied her intently for a moment, then said, “I came out to see if you needed help setting up an appointment to be tested.”

“I assume I just need to call. Right?”

Garrison handed her a business card. “St. John’s Hospital is doing all the workups on the prospective donors. Dr. Miller is in charge of the team.”

“Isn’t it just a simple blood test?”

He hesitated for a moment. “They’ll run several tests. My father’s blood contains a rare antibody. You’ll need to get past that hurdle, then have a health screen and a complete physical. If the results show you’re anywhere near compatible, you’ll need a bone marrow test.”

“Why?”

“My father has an unusual immune system.” He shrugged. “I had the test. Your hip’s a little sore afterward, but it’s not bad. I thought I would be a natural, but turned out I couldn’t help.”

Madison’s thoughts clouded. She hadn’t realized there would be anything more extensive than a blood test required when she agreed to do this. No wonder Wyatt had offered her the guesthouse. He’d wanted to make certain she felt obligated to go through with the testing. She wouldn’t have backed out, not after seeing his company and coming to understand his value to society. Maybe it was irrational, but she felt pressured.

“They can probably get you in tomorrow,” Garrison said. “I’ll arrange for Carlos—he keeps everything running around here—to look after your dog.”

“I can’t tomorrow.” She had no idea what she’d have to do
to straighten out her credit mess. She planned to see Aiden first thing. She doubted he had anything to do with it, but she had to eliminate the possibility before going to the police. She also wanted to check with Mike Tanner. Paul’s father might have found out something that would help her.

“Why not?” There was more than just a hint of reproach in his voice.

“There are a few things I
must
do tomorrow. I’m not sure how long they’ll take.”

“My father stands a much better chance of surviving the sooner he gets the transplant. A complete workup on you will take about seven weeks. I know Dad seems healthy but I can see he’s going downhill.” His eyes telegraphed heartfelt emotion. “We have people who run errands, do things. Let me get someone—”

“No. I have to take care of this myself.” Madison knew she sounded stubborn, but she didn’t want to explain her predicament to him. The concerned expression on his face bothered her. She tried to put herself in his place. What if her father had desperately needed a transplant? Being secretive and defensive was an inappropriate reaction.

Just tell him the truth,
urged an inner voice. What could it hurt? Identity theft happened every day. He’d understand she would need to straighten it out immediately.

She began by explaining, “My best friend was murdered last week.”

“I know. I just read Mike’s report.”

She was a little surprised. Why hadn’t he read the report sooner? Maybe the details of a potential donor’s life didn’t matter. Perhaps his father had kept it from him. After all, Garrison and Savannah had been surprised when Madison appeared at the party.

Once again, she couldn’t help wondering if the Holbrook children would inherit a lot of money when their father died.
Even if they would, she decided Garrison cared too much about his father to want him dead. Savannah might. Madison had only met the woman briefly and had no take on the beauty’s relationship with her father.

“I’m sorry about your friend.” His voice was so charged with sympathy that she wondered if he’d lost someone. “It must be really rough on you.”

If Garrison knew she was a suspect in the crime, he didn’t mention it. Once again, she was struck by how likable the man was. “It has been. And while I was taking care of Erin’s funeral, someone hacked into my bank account and withdrew the funds.”

“Oww! That’s terrible!”

“You’re telling me. It gets worse. They were able to tap the cash lines on my credit cards. They withdrew the limit on each card.”

“Do you have any idea how it happened?”

She shook her head. No sense in mentioning Aiden. She knew he was capable of deceit but he wouldn’t steal from her. Why bother? Aiden had gotten the best of her in the divorce. He had plenty of money.

“I’ll call Mike Tanner. I’m sure—”

“He’s already working on it. Paul’s been helping me. I have to report this to the police or it isn’t considered a crime. Then I have to talk to the bank and credit card companies and I don’t know what else, but I will be tied up most of tomorrow.” She stared down at the business card. “I’ll call the moment I have a chance.”

“Thanks,” he replied. “That’s all we can ask.”

He slowly rose and shook out the fold in one trouser. She realized Garrison took great care with his appearance. His stylishly cut hair was always in place and his expensive clothes were never wrinkled. Funny. It didn’t seem to fit with being a scientist.

“How many men have been to the moon?” he asked, the question taking her by surprise.

“A dozen,” she responded without having to think about it.

“Correct. Man has put more emphasis on space than they have on exploring the ocean on their own planet. Only two men have been down into the Marianas Trench. It’s over five miles deep. We have no idea what secrets it might hold.”

“Interesting,” she responded because she felt she should say something. His abrupt shift in conversation still had her off balance. “You told me your research is based on microorganisms found in the ocean. Right?”

“Yes. My father doesn’t agree that the future of medicine will be found in the ocean. Tonight we were
again
discussing what direction his foundation should take. It’s important to set up everything properly.”

“I guess there’s more to starting a foundation than meets the eye.”

“You bet. If you expect the work to continue in the direction you want, the foundation must have special directives and written rules.” He threw up his hands. “Lots of legal stuff. Lawyers get rich. So what else is new?”

He handed her another card. “Here’s my cell number. I’m going down to my place in the Keys. I have a small lab where I do on-site research. It requires a fair amount of diving.”

Madison decided he must be collecting fresh samples or something that would take him away from his father and his own work at the facilities they shared.

“Don’t hesitate to call,” Garrison continued, “if there’s anything I can do or if you have any problems.”

He headed for the French doors, stopped and half turned, asking, “Do you need money? I could—”

“No, no. Thanks, but I’ve got it covered,” she assured him even though she wasn’t sure what she was going to do for money until this mess was straightened out.

K
EITH
S
MITH LOOKED
over his shoulder. He’d been doing that a lot lately, he realized. He had the unsettling feeling someone was stalking him. Watching, waiting. It creeped him out. But whenever he turned around, expecting to catch someone—he couldn’t. Sometimes there were people nearby but they seemed to be going about their own business. At other times, no one was there at all.

An eidolon, he decided, pleased with his choice of words. Edgar Allan Poe and others of his generation had used
eidolon
instead of
ghost.
The word had gone out of use with the changing times.

Keith prided himself on his vocabulary. He considered himself to be self-educated, having been homeschooled by his mother before entering Brown, where his education was interrupted by his arrest for growing pot in his dorm room. His father had hired an attorney and Keith had been spared anything more serious than a terrifying night in jail, but his father had forced him to return to Florida.

Another semester and he’d had a degree in English lit from Citrus College—not that it did him much good. Being a high school English teacher paid squat, a fact his father used as a verbal bludgeon, reminding Keith every time he came home for dinner.

Keith looked over his shoulder again at the shadowy doorways on the side street not far from Calle Ocho, the heart of Miami’s Little Havana. Calle Ocho was a string of small shops like a strand of cheap, unmatched beads, but…aah…the smells. The aroma of sweet Cuban coffee and
coquito,
coconut candy sold from pushcarts, mingled with the heady scent of cigars smoked by the old men playing dominos in sidewalk cafés while reminiscing about Cuba.

Here, blocks away from the main drag, his nostrils were assailed by the overpowering odor of rotting garbage that spewed from Dumpsters in nearby alleys and urine from
druggies who lived behind the rusty trash bins. Rats scrabbled between cans, their red eyes catching the ambient light. The stagnant air brought out flies in full force, and they buzzed alongside thousands of no-see-ums that blanketed Miami.

Little Havana was a world unto itself, Keith thought, a world apart from the Miami once ruled by WASPS like his father.
I inhabit a parallel universe, too,
he decided, with a surge of pride. His mother had always told him the determining element in his life was his superior intelligence. His net worth proved her right. He’d like to tell his father—throw it in his face—that he was earning a bundle. But it was best not to rattle his father and disappoint the mother he loved. Neither would approve of the way he really made his money.

Gambling was his first love and always had been. As a kid, he’d bet on marbles, on the number of chips in a bag, on the number of milk cartons a friend could stack before they toppled. He’d won then, and he won now.

He was a winner because he was lucky and he was good at math. He was a whiz at cards because he knew the odds, and he was smart enough to count cards, not just rely on his luck. He played cards whenever he could; it was his bread and butter. It paid for the coke. He gambled on the ships that were nothing more than floating casinos and he played online.

But lately, he’d been going in for live action. Horses and dogs were okay, but cockfights were where the real excitement was. It was a blood sport, with cocks battling to the death with feral savagery.

It probably wasn’t like that in the barnyard. Cockfights there—the real deal—were for supremacy and the sole right to the brood of hens. Here cocks were fitted with silver talon extensions that were razor sharp. One cock was certain to die. It usually collapsed in death throes, to the delight of the mob of cheering spectators.

The winner wasn’t as lucky. It was removed from the ring,
usually fatally injured. But no veterinarian was waiting nearby. The cock slowly bled out in a silent, painful death. If it survived, the cock was bred and its male offspring trained to kill.

Cockfights were illegal, of course, but that added to the excitement. He ventured another look over his shoulder at the elusive shadows. He saw a couple of men, jabbering in Spanish, coming his way. Not eidolons. Flesh-and-blood men who were probably headed to the same backstreet warehouse he was.

Keith slowed down and let them pass. They sauntered by, dressed to the nines, the way many Cuban men did. Neither bothered to look at Keith. Men never paid much attention to Keith, but women did.

Thick sandy-blond hair, big blue eyes and a bod that sported pecs and abs worthy of a fitness commercial drew women wherever he went. He knew he had a great personality to go along with his looks. He was famous for his jokes. He didn’t have to rely on potty gags, either. His humor was always witty, sophisticated.

His father never laughed at Keith’s stories, but then his father didn’t have a sense of humor. His mother had been the one to encourage him as far back as he could remember. His father was straighter than Cochise’s arrow. It didn’t matter. The way things were going, Keith would have the last laugh.

He turned the corner and followed the men to the warehouse door. A bull of a man who looked like a creep from a horror flick was leaning against the wall, guarding the single side door to the building. The bouncer. Keith wasn’t concerned; Eduardo had given him tonight’s password. The men entered and an explosion of noise billowed out, then was cut off when the door closed behind them.

“Media noches.”
Keith said the phrase that meant a sandwich of ham and cheese with pickles. It was called a midnight sandwich because Cubans who loved to party traditionally had them on their way home, closer to dawn than midnight.