Murder in Paradise (Paradise Series) by Deborah Brown

Author:Deborah Brown [Brown, Deborah]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Paradise Books LLC
Published: 2014-04-25T22:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 25

“This might not have been one of my better ideas,” I said. “They’re not doing business with the locals, wonder why they picked this neighborhood?”

“Let’s stay outside. We don’t step foot inside the office and we do our dealing in the parking lot, in plain sight of the street. My guess is if we screamed, no one around here would call the cops. You have your Glock on you?”

“I never leave home without my other best friend.” I flipped my skirt up. “I’m giving us some added insurance.” I hit speed dial.

“Who are you calling? Put the call on speaker.”

Creole answered on the second ring. “What’s up?”

“If I don’t call you back in ten minutes, we need help. Or if I do call back and tell you to feed the dog, I’m in big trouble.”

Dead silence. “Where the hell are you?” Creole yelled.

I gave him the address. “We’re at the car lot where Gabriel got his Beemer.”

“Leave there now, that’s a drug- and crime-infested neighborhood.”

“Remember: ten minutes.” I hung up. “One of these days, I fear there will be a price to pay for always hanging up on him, like strangulation.”

“Look they’re waiting for us.” Fab pointed to two men who slithered out of the office.

“Nice ride, ladies,” said the one in neck-to-ankle tattoos. They were both dressed in linen shorts and tropical shirts, leather loafers and blingy watches. The gaudy diamond rings could easily put an eye out. “I recognize you.” He pointed to Fab. “We have you on tape trying to break-in last night.”

The other one whipped out his gun. “Come on in the office.”

Fab’s Walther came out the same instant his did. “We’ll stay right here.”

“We’re not here for a gunfight,” I said. “We’d like to trade some mutually beneficial information and be on our way. In the interest of disclosure, I have to make a call in,” I looked at my watch, “eight minutes, or cops will arrive.”

“What kind of information?” The other one, the color of watered-down milk, must be from one of those abnormally cold Northern states; he’d never seen a day of sun, ever.

“Wouldn’t you like to have your Beemer back, license number SOUMIA?” I held up my cell phone in one hand. “Here’s a picture.”

The two men exchanged a look. “And you want what?”

“A look at the rental application.” Sweat trickled down my back, more from fear than the humidity.

“I’m not showing you crap. You tell me where my fucking car is and Oren here won’t shoot you.”

“You look smarter than that,” I said as I looked at my watch.

A black sedan with dark tinted windows blew into the driveway. In the moment of distraction, Fab shot the guy holding the gun in the shoulder, dropping him to the pavement. Two men stepped out of the car, looking fresh off a stakeout, bone-tired with beard stubble, guns drawn, and law enforcement badges hanging from the front of their jeans.

“Let’s play nice here,” one of the officers called out. “Carlos, your associate need an ambulance?”

“The hell with him, she’s got my Beemer and I want it back.

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