Flawless Danger (The Spencer & Sione #1) (35 page)

“That’s not true,” Sione disputed, leaning back in his chair.

He liked Spencer and wanted to know if something more could develop between them. But he wasn’t in love. At least, he didn’t think he was …

“Anyway, the reason I stopped by is that I found out the San Pedro cops positively identified the dead body they found a few days ago,” D.J. said. “I was right. It was Maxine Porter.”

Dragging a hand along his jaw, Sione said nothing. He wasn’t surprised at the news, but the confirmation still bothered him.

“I wanted to talk to Ms. Porter about that Xanax box Ms. Edwards gave her,” D.J. said. “But, of course, I can’t ask her. So, I’ll have to ask someone else.”

Apprehensive, Sione asked, “Who?”

“You’ll see …”

San Ignacio, Belize

Black Orchid Inn

It definitely was a sign
, Sione thought, staring at the “Do not disturb” sign on the door. They weren’t supposed to be there.

“We should go,” Sione said, kicking himself for letting D.J. pressure him into taking what his cousin referred to as a “field trip” to the Black Orchid Inn.

Housed in a colonial building showing signs of wear and tear, the Black Orchid Inn was a three-star bargain establishment. It catered to budget-conscious travelers who didn’t need a lot of frills and fancy amenities and only wanted a decent bed to sleep in after a long day of back-to-back excursions.

The Black Orchid Inn was where Carla Garcia, the girl in the yellow visor, had booked room 442.

“We just got here,” D.J. said.

“She doesn’t want to be disturbed.” Sione pointed to the sign and looked left and then right down the long hallway, which smelled like stale smoke and pine cleaner. The atmosphere in the building was slightly damp, suggesting a mold and mildew problem.

“We won’t take up much of her time,” D.J. said, knocking on the door. “We only have a few questions.”

Sione knew the questions D.J. wanted to pose to Carla Garcia. Questions he really didn’t want to know the answers to. Questions with answers that might be a direct indictment against Spencer.

“She’s not answering,” Sione said. “Maybe she’s sleeping.”

D.J. knocked a bit more forcefully.

“Or maybe she checked out.”

“She didn’t check out.”

“How do you know?” Sione asked, looking left, toward the door to the EXIT stairwell at the end of the hall.

“Friends,” D.J. said and pounded his fist against the door.

“We need to go,” Sione said, worried about the security cameras. “She’s not going to open the door.”

“I think you’re right,” D.J. conceded. “We’ll have to surprise her.”

“Surprise her?” Sione’s pulse jumped. “What the hell do you mean?”

D.J. reached into the front pocket of his Levi’s and pulled out what looked like a key card.

“Is that what I think it is?”

D.J. nodded and slipped the card into the entry slot on the door. “It is.”

“How the hell did you get that?”
 

“Friends,” said D.J., then pushed the door lever down, and opened the door.

“Wait a minute.” Sione stretched an arm in front of the doorway, blocking D.J. “If we go into this hotel room, we’ll be breaking the law.”

“Delivering fake passports is against the law, too,” D.J. said. “But you don’t seem to have a problem with that.”

Glaring at his cousin, Sione withdrew his arm.

“Well, well, well,” D.J. said, after slipping behind the door. “Looks like the surprise is on us.”

Stepping into the tiny entryway, Sione let the door close behind him as he scanned Carla Garcia’s small room. Late afternoon sunlight flooded the room, a hazy golden spotlight on the destruction and disarray. The place looked as though a bomb had gone off in it.

The bed was in shambles. The duvet and sheets were strewn across a mattress, which had been stripped bare, then flipped up, and leaned against the headboard. There were clothes all over the floor. The desk in the corner had been knocked over, and the accompanying chair had been turned upside down. All six of the bureau drawers had been pulled out. Two framed photographs, black orchids shot in black-and-white, lay on the floor, the frames broken, the glass shattered. A lamp had been smashed and left in pieces in front of a bedside table.

“What the hell?”

“Looks as though someone made a frenzied, chaotic search for something in Ms. Garcia’s room,” D.J. said, walking to the window and pulling back the drapes. “I’ll check the closet and the bathroom. You look around in here.”

“What the hell am I looking for?” Sione asked, confused, feeling as disheveled as the room appeared.

While D.J. opened the accordion doors to the closet and peeked inside, Sione made his way around to the other side of the bed. Hesitating, he picked up the duvet and bed linens from the floor. A small gecko scurried across the stained pile carpet. Cursing under his breath, he dropped the linens on the exposed box spring. He didn’t want to look for anything.

He didn’t want to figure anything out. He didn’t want to speculate. He didn’t want to try to make sense of why Carla Garcia’s hotel room had been ransacked. He didn’t care what the culprit had been searching for.

He just wanted to get the hell out of room 442 and away from the Black Orchid Inn. He wanted to get back to the Belizean Banyan, back to the invoices and the payroll and all the other mindless administrative tasks that distracted him and kept his mind off things he didn’t want to think about.

“Jackpot!” D.J. called out. “Take a look inside.”

Sione turned, just in time to catch the pink beach bag his cousin pitched toward him. Recognizing the Belizean Banyan logo on the bag, his heart raced. Remembering the photo of Spencer holding the pink bag, he opened it. Inside were bundles of money and a passport.

Sione’s speeding heart dropped into his stomach. He felt himself careening toward a conclusion he didn’t want to deal with. Whoever had trashed the hotel room had been looking for something, but not the Xanax box.

The fake passport and money had been left behind.

Despite the way Carla Garcia’s hotel room had been tossed, it wasn’t the work of some robber. Whoever had broken in hadn’t been looking for some
thing
. They’d wanted to find some
one
. Carla Garcia.

It wasn’t a stretch to conclude that the person looking for Carla Garcia had first gone hunting for Maxine Porter. Someone who hadn’t been interested in the fake passport and money, but instead had killed Maxine Porter, chopped off her hand, and left it behind.

Sione reached into the bag, took out the passport, and opened it. The name was RIVERA, ANNA, and the thumbnail photo was of the dark-haired Hispanic woman.

“We have a problem …” D.J. called from the bathroom.

Sione dropped the passport back into the beach bag, tossed it on the box spring, and headed into the bathroom. “What is it?”

“Take a look in the bathtub,” D.J. said and stepped aside so Sione could enter.

Apprehensive, Sione stared at his cousin. “What the hell am I going to be looking at?”

“Nothing you haven’t seen before.”

Sione went into the bathroom and looked down into the tub.

A severed hand.

Cursing, he stared at the small, dismembered appendage, tiny and delicate, blood coating the stiff fingers. A clean chop from the wrist, just like the hand found in Maxine Porter’s condo.

“A right hand,” D.J. said. “I’m thinking female. And I’m also thinking you should tell Jared about Spencer’s connection to Maxine Porter, Carla Garcia, and Karen Nelson.”

Sione took a deep breath, trying to focus and put things in perspective. The right thing to do would be to tell Jared what he knew—and not just what he knew about Spencer’s deliveries to the three women. He should tell Jared his suspicions about who had killed Maxine Porter, which were more than just suspicions. He was certain he knew who’d left the severed hand in Maxine Porter’s closet. But if he told Jared, his cousin would ask a whole lot of damn questions, and Sione didn’t have any answers to give him. Not any truthful answers, anyway.

“We don’t know that Spencer and those women have a connection,” Sione said.

D.J. said, “We know that Spencer delivered money and a fake passport to both of those women.”
 

“Spencer made the deliveries,” Sione said. “But she doesn’t know either of those women. Why do I need to tell Jared about a connection that probably doesn’t even exist.”

“I don’t understand you,” D.J. said. “Why the hell are you protecting this woman?”

Sione looked away for a moment and then back at his cousin. “I’m not protecting Spencer.”

“Spencer Edwards is bad news, and you know it,” D.J. said. “But, still, you crawl into bed every night with a woman who probably knows who killed Maxine Porter and Carla Garcia.”

Sione shook his head, trying to control his anger. Every word out of D.J.’s mouth since he’d opened it had pissed him off, but when his cousin had used the phrase c
rawl into bed every night
, Sione wanted to put him in a damn chokehold.

The words suggested a lurid, physical relationship that didn’t exist. He and Spencer shared a bed, and they made love in it, but they didn’t have mindless, meaningless sex. And he wasn’t interested in inconsequential lovemaking. Sione wanted things to be different between them.

“We don’t know that Carla Garcia is dead,” Sione said.

“I’m sure that’s her hand in that shower,” D.J. said, jerking his thumb toward the bathroom. “And I’m sure the cops will find her body dumped somewhere. What I’m not sure is why you want to be with a woman who associates with people that deal in fake passports and cut off women’s hands after they kill them?”

Sione glared at his cousin. “You know what your damn problem is?”

With a mirthless laugh, D.J. said, “I get the feeling you’re gonna try to tell me.”

“The only reason you don’t trust Spencer is because you just don’t trust women.”

Shaking his head, D.J. gave him an incredulous glare.

“You’re suspicious of all women,” Sione said, “because of what’s going on with you and your wife. Micah told me you’re getting a divorce.”

D.J. scowled, his arms crossed. “That’s none of your damn business.”

“And my relationship with Spencer—”

“Oh, you’re in a relationship with her, now?”

“—is none of your damn business,” Sione said, stepping closer to D.J., getting in his face, itching to put his fist in the center of it. “But you listened pretty intently when Micah told you that I
crawl into bed
with her every night. But he couldn’t tell you why because I didn’t tell him that I am only trying to keep her safe. I’m trying to make sure she doesn’t end up like Maxine Porter or Carla Garcia!”

“If you really want to keep her safe,” D.J. said, “then tell her what you know about the Xanax boxes and convince her to come clean to Jared.”

San Ignacio, Belize

Belizean Banyan Resort - Owner’s Casita

With a cup of coffee, Spencer sank down into the Banyan wood rocking chair on the wide porch in front of John’s casita. This morning, after she and John had made love, after the last kiss and the last shuddering release, guilt and apprehension had plagued Spencer as she remembered
Step Three
. Cocooned in John’s arms, peace eluded her. All she could think about was finding that damn envelope so she could move on with her life.

A new life with John maybe—hopefully. A life where they would develop a morning routine of early morning lovemaking and then a hearty breakfast. They would talk about their plans for the day and discuss the tree house expansion, which Spencer never tired of hearing about and was anxious to see implemented. Then John would head off to work. She would walk him out to the porch, give him a kiss, and watch him head off down the path toward the administration building. When he was finally out of sight, Spencer would sink into the rocking chair and allow herself the luxury of enjoying the jungle.

Setting the coffee mug on the small table next to the chair, Spencer sighed. She had to let go of this silly fantasy about this new life with John, a life where they had met under different circumstances. She couldn’t pretend she hadn’t met John because of the favor she had to do for Ben Chang.

The favor would always intrude on her solitude, hanging over her happiness like a dark cloud. Her time with John had been, so far, wonderful, but she was wary of becoming complacent.

Life was like one of those beautiful, sunny days when all she could see stretched before her was blue skies and fluffy white clouds … and then she would look over her shoulder and see those large, looming thunderclouds. Foreboding and ominous, they seemed far away, tricking her into thinking there was enough time to bask in the sun. Too soon, the rain would come.

Weary and disillusioned, Spencer headed back into the casita to look for the damn envelope.

Thirty minutes later, she stood in the middle of a small study, a mahogany-paneled room lined with bookshelves, her gaze roaming from the desk at the back of the room to the couch in front of the desk to the chair in the corner.

The first bedroom on the second wing of guest rooms she’d searched had been a bust, and she wasn’t holding out any hope of finding anything in the study. Fighting panic, Spencer dropped down onto the chair in the corner, trying to summon the will or the guts or whatever the hell she needed to continue the search.

One last bedroom, and then the living room, the den and the library. Four more rooms to search. Four more chances to find the envelope. What if she didn’t? What the hell was she going to do? Start the search all over again? Ben was convinced the envelope was in John’s casita. What if it wasn’t?

She would never be able to convince Ben that she hadn’t found the envelope because it wasn’t in the casita. Ben would assume she hadn’t looked long enough or hard enough; he’d accuse her of trying to escape the consequences of her mistakes, and then—

He would burn her grandmother’s house down.

She rose from the chair, picked up the accent pillow, and tossed it over onto the couch. Just as she had with the couch, Spencer lifted the bottom cushion seat.