Flawless Danger (The Spencer & Sione #1) (11 page)

“What about her?” Sione asked, focusing on a woman in khaki shorts and a white T-shirt with a yellow visor pulled down low, obscuring her eyes.

“Here’s a better picture,” D.J. said.

The next photo was the girl in the sun visor by herself, a head-to-waist shot of her walking toward the front entrance of the hotel. On her shoulder was Ms. Edwards’ pink beach bag.

The photo was a punch in the gut. A sucker punch. Sione wasn’t prepared for the onslaught of disappointment he felt.

He wanted proof that Ms. Edwards was innocent, not guilty. D.J.’s surveillance suggested that Ms. Edwards might be up to something criminal. Possibly. But Sione wasn’t ready to commit to a guilty verdict. The photos, while suggestive of guilt, weren’t exactly conclusive. There could be several conflicting, competing interpretations of what had actually happened.

“Are you sure that’s the same pink bag that Miss Edwards had when she got on the bus?”

D.J. scowled at him. “Did you really just ask that?”

“The photos don’t prove that she committed a crime,” Sione said. “We don’t even know what was in the beach bag. You think it was the money, but you don’t know for sure.”

“You’re right,” D.J. conceded. “But I do know something about the girl in the visor.”

“What do you know about her?” Sione asked, folding his arms as he stared at his cousin.

“Take a closer look. Recognize her?”

“Should I?”

“Keep looking,” D.J. said and then pulled a blue folder from the side pocket of his laptop bag. D.J. took out copies of the passports Sione had discovered in the Xanax boxes. He slid a copy of one of the passports across the granite countertop toward Sione.
 

Sione stared at the copy of the passport and then at the photo of the girl in the visor, magnified on the screen to two hundred percent. Another hit in the gut, but not as bad as the first one. The disappointment wasn’t as sharp either.
 

“So, the girl in the yellow visor is Anna Rivera,” Sione said, glancing at the name on the copy of the passport and back at the laptop screen.
 

“No, the girl in the yellow visor is Carla Garcia.”

“I don’t understand.”
 

“I followed the girl in the yellow visor to her hotel room, and then I did a bit of asking around and found out she checked into the hotel as Carla Garcia,” D.J. said. “I was able to take a look at the ID she presented to the hotel upon checking—”

“How?”

“Friends,” D.J. said, smiling. “You should make them often. They come in handy.”

“Go on.”

“After I got a look at her ID, I did a quick background check,” D.J. said. “Carla Garcia is unemployed at the moment, but six months ago, she was working in Houston at a payday loan business called Kwik Kash.”

“What does that matter?”

“Well, Carla Garcia doesn’t work there anymore because Kwik Kash burned to the ground,” D.J. said. “Suspicious circumstances. Might have been arson. I’m waiting on a call from a contact to get the details. But what I found interesting is that Carla Garcia has a criminal record. A minor theft charge. But still, people with criminal records don’t usually get hired to handle large amounts of cash.”

People with criminal records.
Like his ex-fiancée. Who was still leaving Sione messages, insisting Richard was determined to put her in the dirt because she’d refused to help him steal something from Ben Chang.

Ignoring the thoughts about his ex, Sione said, “Okay, so you’re convinced that the beach bag Ms. Edwards
accidentally-on-purpose
left on that bus contained money and a possibly fake passport?”

“I’m convinced that Ms. Edwards delivered money and a fake passport to Carla Garcia,” D.J. said.

“But why?” Sione asked, rubbing his jaw. “Who told her to make the delivery?”
 

D.J. said, “Maybe you should think about calling Jared.”

“Why would I call him?” Sione frowned, thinking about his cousin Jared Camareno, a by-the-book San Pedro police department detective.

“Because possession of a fake passport is a crime,” D.J. said.

“What if Ms. Edwards doesn’t know the passport is fake?”

“You should call the cops.”

“And tell them what?”

Frowning, D.J. said, “That Ms. Edwards has committed a crime.”

“We don’t know that for sure. Ms. Edwards’ behavior is suspicious,” Sione allowed. “But these photos are not concrete evidence that any kind of crime was committed. Don’t forget, we don’t know what was in that beach bag she left on the bus.”

“Yeah, you’re right. We don’t. I think there was money and a fake passport in the bag. But maybe it was tubes of lip gloss or granola bars.” D.J. shrugged. “So, I’ll continue to keep my eyes and ears open. Eventually, she’ll slip up and reveal herself to be the liar that I’m sure she is.”

San Ignacio, Belize

Belizean Banyan Resort – Manager’s Office

Numbers swam and floated before Sione’s eyes. For the past hour, he’d been trying to review the latest cash flow projections Truman had given him, but he couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t stop thinking about his ex-fiancée and her crazy allegations. He’d tried to convince himself that her claims were baseless and not worth the time and mental energy he was wasting worrying about them.

But he couldn’t.

His ex claimed his father had visited her in prison, and it was time to find out if that was true. Quickly, before he had a chance to talk himself out of it, Sione called her attorney again. When the receptionist answered, he hesitated but then forced himself to ask for Walter Perales.

Minutes later, the attorney was on the line. Heart slamming, Sione stumbled through the perfunctory, polite greetings as he tried to think of how he would phrase his request.

“Mr. Tuiali’i,” Walter Perales said. “I actually had you on my list of people to call about—”

“I already know,” Sione cut the attorney off, anxious to get to the nature of a call he really didn’t want to make.

“You already know?” Perales sounded confused. “Did the prison notify you?”

“What are you talking about?” Sione asked, confused. “What would the prison notify me about?”

“You said you knew,” Perales said. “I just assumed maybe an official from the prison had told you.”

“No one from the prison called me about anything,” Sione said. “Why would they?”
 

“Mr. Tuiali’i,” Perales said. “I know the two of you were no longer on the best of terms, but …”

“But, what?” Sione clutched the receiver, his heart slamming.

“She’s dead.”

“Dead? Did you say ... ? Wait a minute,” Sione said, even though he needed more than a minute. “What are you talking about? How could she be dead? I just talked to her a few days ago.”

“I was informed of her passing yesterday afternoon,” Perales said. “The warden called me. There was a riot, then fighting broke out. It turned into a huge brawl, and several of the prisoners were seriously injured. Along with four other women, she was stabbed.”

Sione closed his eyes and tried to breathe, to concentrate, to figure out what he could say to dispute the attorney’s story. It couldn’t be true. She couldn’t be dead.

“I just received a preliminary report from the prison hospital,” Perales said. “There will be an autopsy, but what I know so far is that some sort of homemade weapon pierced her lung. She was transported to the infirmary with the other victims. The doctors did surgery, but she died on the operating table.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Mr. Tuiali’i, I know this is difficult news to hear,” Perales said. “Unfortunately, riots and fights among prisoners are not uncommon, which is why I was working so diligently on her case, trying to get her out of—”

“So, she was stabbed by another prisoner?” Sione asked, troubled by the subtle indictment in the attorney’s tone, a sly reminder of the promises he hadn’t kept to his ex. He couldn’t help but wonder if her death was his fault. If he’d believed her and hadn’t been so quick to think she was just trying to trick him, would she still be alive?

“Yes, it is my understanding that she was stabbed by a fellow inmate,” Perales said. “But please understand that she was not specifically targeted. She was merely in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

The wrong place at the wrong time. A ridiculous platitude meant to pacify, Sione guessed. The attorney’s trite explanation of the reason for his ex-fiancée’s death pissed him off and made him feel even guiltier. Maybe she wouldn’t have been in the wrong place at the wrong time if Sione had kept his promise.

“Mr. Tuiali’i, unfortunately, I’m going to have to cut our conversation short,” Perales said. “I have a meeting in a few minutes, but I will call you if I get any additional information.”

Mumbling a goodbye, Sione replaced the receiver and then sat back in his chair. He took a deep breath and then another one. His ex-fiancée was dead. He didn’t know what to think or how he was supposed to feel.

The emotions churning within him were strange and confusing, hard to identify. Impossible to control, the disbelief and shock threatened to devour him. But the guilt was worse. Impossible to ignore, Sione worried it might consume him.

Richard wants me dead.

Had his father arranged for his ex’s death in some staged prison fight? More importantly, did he want to know? He should want answers about his ex-fiancée, shouldn’t he? He should demand answers. If his father had set things in motion for his ex-fiancée to be killed, then Richard should be arrested, tried for the crime, and then appropriately punished.

Exhaling, Sione dragged a hand down his jaw. He wanted answers, but finding out the truth would require interaction with his father. And that was something he wasn’t willing to do.

San Ignacio, Belize

Belizean Banyan Resort

After two days of raining as if it might not stop for forty days and forty nights, the sun was out again. It was a lovely afternoon with brilliant white clouds in an expansive blue sky.

Spencer had spent the final rainy hours this morning at the hotel spa, trying to relax as hot stones were placed down the spine of her back. Her mood was too self-defeating to enjoy the circular stimulation of the smooth stones against her skin. Mystical music and heady incense couldn’t make her forget, even for a few moments, the favor Ben was forcing her to do.

She couldn’t stop kicking herself for deciding to “date” Ben. Maybe she never would. Maybe she shouldn’t. Maybe the self-condemnation and self-loathing was necessary, and it would help her escape the doom of repeating the past.

After the massage, Spencer had gone back to her casita, changed into a tiny powder blue string bikini, and made her way to the pool area. It was a nice afternoon. Too damn nice for manipulation and deceit, but what choice did she have? She had to get this damn favor for Ben over and done with so she could move on with her life such as it was, or even could be.

She found an unoccupied chaise lounge beneath an umbrella near the deep end of the pool and stretched out on the soft, downy cushion. Thank God, the sun was out again.

The rain had thrown a wrench into her program. After she’d pitched a fit about a banker’s box full of Xanax instead of the confidential training manuals she’d been expecting, the resort owner had promised to question his employees to find out who had delivered the box. Continuing her ruse about the missing manuals, Spencer had decided she would visit the resort owner for an update on the progress of his inquiry.

Unfortunately, the rain had come down in violent torrents, as though Belize was in the throes of an angry monsoon season, and she’d been stuck inside. Weather-related confinement had given her a vicious case of casita-fever. Bored out of her mind, she’d spent most of the forty-eight hours watching old movies on cable, distracting herself with an Audrey Hepburn marathon. When she wasn’t watching television, she was on the phone with her sisters, rehashing everything that had happened during her tour to the Mayan ruins. Because of the rain, Spencer hadn’t seen the resort owner. Hopefully, today she would run across him or into him. Whatever. She needed to get on with getting close to him.
But not too close.

Across from her, near the shallow section, dozens of hotel staff scrambled around, setting up tables and festooning the area with decorations suggestive of a luau—Hawaiian print tablecloths, tiki torches, and flowered leis.

Spencer wondered if some newly married couple was having their wedding reception at the resort later tonight. Absently, she started to imagine what sort of wedding reception she might want. If she ever got married, which she probably wouldn’t. Wary of the strange, pointless feelings, Spencer slipped an arm into the bag next to her lounge chair and pulled out her cell phone, thinking she might call Rae or Shady.

“Ms. Edwards?”

Heart in her throat, Spencer gasped, dropped the cell phone, and then flipped over on her back. Standing above her, blocking the sun, was Sione Tuiali’i. Spencer sat up on the chaise, breathing deep, immediately embarking on a desperate search for her towel, painfully self-conscious, for some reason, in her tiny baby blue string bikini, which made no damn sense. Hadn’t she been hoping he would see her in the bikini, hoping he would respond in a way that would indicate his interest in her, which might help her get close to him?

“Sorry I startled you,” he said.

Shaky, Spencer looked up into his beautiful hazel eyes, momentarily unable to speak, acutely aware of a sly swirling between her legs.

Sione bent down, picked something up, and then extended a hand toward her. “Here’s your phone.”

Spencer snatched the phone from him, irritated by her response to the tall, impossibly muscular resort owner. If she was going to complete
Step Two
, then he needed to be hypnotized by her. She couldn’t be scatter-brained and awestruck by him.

“I see you’re taking advantage of the nice weather.”

“Well, the sun came back out.” Spencer shrugged, staring toward the pool, watching the slight ripples caused by the sultry breeze. “So I figured why not.”