Slow Burn (21 page)

“What the hell are you doing out here on the streets? Get a job!” she shouted at him.

So much for being a good Samaritan, he thought grimly.

By afternoon there wasn't a drop of cloud cover in the sky. The sun was merciless; the humidity was worse. Danny's snitch had yet to make an appearance.

Just when he was about to give up and stroll the mile back to Bayside—where he'd felt safe leaving his car—he saw a skinny little black kid Danny had worked with on occasion. The kid saw him, too, and started to run.

David caught up with him two blocks down, right in the heart of the riot zone. He didn't dare think of what was going to happen to a a Hispanic caught running down a black boy here if he didn't have a good explanation.

“Spike, stop! What do you want to do? Get me killed?” he called, coming to a halt. He waited. His words had paid off. The boy stopped, his back stiff. “Keep away from me, man,” the boy said. But he turned around.

“I need to see Willie,” David said.

“You need to be careful, bro', that's what you need!” Spike told him. He was an incredibly handsome kid. Lithe, ebony black. At fourteen he was nearly six feet tall. David had still been Danny's partner when they first met up with Spike. He had been picked up for a minor infraction and was about to be booked when Danny, ever the crusader, stepped right into the fray. Naturally David joined him. Spike was the oldest of six children with different fathers and a hardworking mother who couldn't quite keep track of all the kids. Or pay for them. She lived in a three-room apartment right next to a crack house. But so far not a single one of the kids had gone bad, and Danny had been convinced that an arrest might turn Spike the wrong way.

Between them, David and Danny had gotten Spike off. And he'd stayed clean—and made a fair amount of money from keeping his ear to the ground and letting Danny know what he heard. David still checked on him now and then. He'd just started at Miami Edison. The kid was bright—he was in honors courses and carrying a 3.8 average. He was also bright enough to keep up his tough-guy image on the street.

Spike headed toward him, wagging a finger his way. “Keep to the streets, Delgado. I'll get word out to Willie. But listen up, man. Listen up good. There's word out that Ricky Garcia is on the warpath ‘cause the cops are bearing down on him and his operations again. They say he knows you're involved with all the misfortune comin' his way. So keep your eyes sharp, huh? And keep cool. Willie'll find you.”

Spike ran on. It wouldn't be good for him to be seen talking with David too long. David let him go. Still a little winded, he started jogging down Biscayne Boulevard toward Bayside.

Hell of a day.

And a hell of a week stretched out before him.

 

Jimmy Larimore followed Spencer home. She'd had her mind on one of her projects when she left work and had forgotten her handsome young watchdog.

She only realized he had followed her when she went upstairs and moved to close the drapes before slipping out of her clothing. She stopped when she saw him across the street, leaning against his car. He waved to her, and she waved back.

She called out for pizza that night. She ordered two small with the works, and when they came, she walked one across the street to him. He grinned and thanked her.

“You can come in, you know,” she told him.

He grinned again. “It's a great night. It's actually cooling off a bit. I'm fine.”

She left him with his pizza.

When she was about to go to bed, she pulled the drapes and looked outside one more time, expecting to see that Jimmy was still there.

He wasn't.

David Delgado was sitting in his car across the street. There was a man in the passenger seat, and David didn't see her watching him because he was talking with the man.

Spencer slowly closed the drapes.

Ten minutes after she crawled into bed, the phone started ringing. The sound was so loud she nearly jumped out of her skin.

“'Night, Spencer,” a male voice said softly when she picked up.

“David?”

“Yeah. I'm still outside your window. Were you spying on me?”

“Spying on you while you were spying on me.”

“Something like that.”

“Where are you now?”

“Still here. Cellular phone, remember?”

“Oh, yeah…”

“Go to sleep, Spence.”

“What about you?”

“I'll be here for a while.”

“Enjoying the cool night air, right?”

“Is that what Jimmy told you?”

“Yes, actually.”

“Were you trying to seduce poor Jimmy?”

“David, take a hike, huh?” she said sweetly, and hung up, carefully refraining from slamming the receiver down.

The phone rang again almost instantly. Spencer picked it up quickly. “What now?” she demanded.

Silence greeted her demand for several seconds. Then a throat was cleared and a man said, “Mrs. Huntington?”

“Yes?” she said carefully, slowly.

“My name is Vichy. Gene Vichy. Mrs. Huntington, the police are breathing down my neck.”

She held still for a moment. “Perhaps they should be,” she said at last.

“Your grandfather and I are members of the same yacht club, Mrs. Huntington. I thought that perhaps we could have a conversation there. We would meet by chance, of course.”

She moistened her lips. “Why?”

“Because I want to convince you of my innocence, of course. And perhaps…”

“Perhaps?”

“Perhaps I know some things that might interest you.” The deep, husky sound of his laughter chilled her. “I'll be there next Monday afternoon, just after lunchtime. Don't tell anyone, or I won't show. And make sure you're alone. If you're interested, of course.”

“Why Monday?”

“Good night, Mrs. Huntington.”

“Wait—”

The line went dead.

 

The week crawled by, even though Spencer was busy. She was constantly on edge, waiting for something to happen.

She never had anything resembling a real conversation with David. Jimmy Larimore waved to her each night when she closed the curtains, and then David relieved Jimmy sometime during the night. He called Spencer every night at eleven, like clockwork, though.

He always sounded tense as he asked brusquely if she was all right. She barely had time to answer before he hung up.

The hell with him. If he'd given her half a chance, she might have mentioned her meeting with Gene Vichy. Of course, Vichy had told her not to say anything, but how would he know?

David might show up anyway. He and his crew might follow her even more closely than they had been. He'd already added a third man; she had seen him a few times in front of the neighbors' house.

But the bottom line was that she would get Sly to take her to lunch at the yacht club, and then she could make some excuse to sneak away and find out what Gene Vichy knew. Or didn't know. And she would be safe, because there were always other people around at the club.

Apparently his wife hadn't been safe from him, though.

He'd never been proven guilty. The police had never managed to gather enough evidence for the D.A.'s office to indict him. Maybe he
was
innocent.

And maybe he had killed Danny, she reminded herself.

When Friday morning arrived she was delighted to look up from some building plans to find that Audrey had let her realtor, Sandy Gomez, into her office. Spencer greeted her with pleasure, asked Audrey for coffee and sat back while Sandy described her latest find.

“Spencer, you're going to kiss me when you see this place!” She waved a hand in the air. “All right, no kiss needed, dinner will do. It's perfect for you. It hasn't been touched. They haven't even had a cleaning crew in yet. The original owner from 1925 is just moving out. She's going into one of those Sun City places now. Spencer, you should see it! Tiles imported from Malaga. Architecture to die for. You may want it as a re-do for the company, or you may want it for
you.
”

“I'm sold, I'm sold.
When
do I get to see it?”

Sandy, a tiny, dark-haired whirlwind of energy, smiled broadly and dangled a set of keys before Spencer's nose. “Any time you want,
chica,
any time you want! I'm so certain you're going to buy this house, you keep the keys and just call me with your offer so I can write up the contract.”

Sandy was barely out the door before Spencer buzzed Sly to tell him that she was going to take off to see the house. He sounded as if he was in a bit of panic. “You're going to go now?”

“Yes, why?”

“Because—because…”

It wasn't like Sly to be at a loss for words.

“Ah!” Spencer said softly. “I think I've got this. David and his goon squad don't keep watch on me while I'm actually at work.”

“Not all the time,” Sly admitted. “I'm here,” he said quietly after a minute. “Jared is here. And Audrey may be tougher than any of us,” he said, trying to add a note of levity.

“Jared can come with me. He'll need to assess the place if Montgomery Enterprise is going to pick it up as an investment property.”

Sly hesitated for a second. “Fine. I'll call your cousin.”

“I can call him myself, Sly. Honest. I can handle it.”

“You let me know when you're back in the office.”

“Yes, sir,” she murmured, then hung up and buzzed Jared. He heard the excitement in her voice and promised to shelve his other work so he could accompany her to see the property.

Spencer drove, noting that the house was only about a block and a half away from Sly's home. Maybe the house would be more than just an investment—it might be a good place to live. It wasn't that she had fallen out of love with her own place, or that she wanted to forget Danny, ever. But maybe she did need to begin again. And Sly
was
getting older. He was in perfect shape, his wits were sharper than ever, and he certainly wouldn't want her taking care of him, but if she was to move just down the street from him…

“Looks good from here,” Jared said as she turned into the circular drive and stopped.

It did. More than anything, the old grande dame needed a good coat of paint. The codes in Coral Gables were strict; houses could only be painted certain colors. But it was impossible to tell what color this place had originally been painted. Something pink? Or peach? Mold had encroached over the face, vines had climbed to the arched balconies and wrought-iron railings, and they'd practically obliterated the four Grecian columns that stood sentinel over the massive front porch.

“Got the key?” Jared asked her.

She dug into her purse for the set of keys Sandy had given her, then passed them over to Jared.

They walked along a broken-tiled path to the front door. Amazingly, a little angel fountain in the courtyard was working, and the sound of the running water was pleasant and light. Jared turned the key in the lock and they stepped into the foyer. It was slightly dusty, but it was beautiful. A dome rose high above their heads, a curving staircase led to the second floor landing, and dual arches led in opposite directions, one toward the huge living room, the other toward the kitchen.

In silent agreement they moved into the living room.

It was one of the largest Spencer had ever seen, more of a ballroom than a simple living room. Arches at the rear led to a screened porch, and the beams high above still held traces of meticulous stenciling. A pair of French doors led out to a patio and an old, cracked and empty pool.

“Major restoration,” Jared warned.

“But that's what we do,” Spencer said. “And look at this living room!” She moved more deeply into the room and turned around. The ceiling was two stories high, and a landing on the second floor looked down on the room, just like a minstrels' gallery. She could even imagine a trio of musicians set up there for a party on a cool night. The French doors could be thrown open to the rolling greens of the golf course and the redone patio and pool.

“Jared! It's sensational!” she gasped.

“Spencer, you must be the only woman I know who can stand in the midst of spiderwebs and mud and call something sensational.”

She made a face at him. “You know what this place could look like.”

“And you know that you can triple its value if you haggle down the price just a shade,” he commented.

She shrugged, unwilling as yet to admit that she might want the house for herself. “I'd love to get closer to the stencils,” she said.

“Shall we go up?” Jared asked. He sounded bored. He'd seen enough to judge its worth. He wasn't hands on. He liked the deal-making part of the business, the buying and selling and hiring. Spencer liked the work itself. From this point on he was merely humoring her. They both knew that the house was a steal, and that its restoration would be a real feather in the Montgomery Enterprises cap.