Hotbed Honey (21 page)

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Authors: Toni Blake

BOOK: Hotbed Honey
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But she was shaking her head at him, vehemently now. "You're not going in there, Max."
"Yes, I am."
She released a heavy sigh. "Well then, you're not going in there without me."
Max just looked at her. Kimberly. Sweet, brave Kimberly, whose ability to handle this situation he wasn't so sure he trusted, even now. And whose heart seemed so big, bigger than he'd ever realized before. He wanted to tell her there was no way in hell she was going inside that building with him, but they were partners on this case. She'd seen him through this far. If she really wanted to come, he didn't think he had any right to tell her she couldn't.
"Are you sure you want to do that?" he asked.
"Completely."
They got out of the car and walked up a cracked, neglected sidewalk toward the large building, hanging close to the warehouses they passed just in case Carlo or anyone else was on the lookout from inside. Nearly there, Max pointed out a single entrance at the corner of the structure near the freight door Carlo had gone through.
Next, Max pulled a small flip phone from the pocket of his khaki shorts. "I'm calling Frank," he said. "As a precaution."
A moment later, Frank's answering machine picked up, complete with soft blues music behind his friendly message delivered in a cool tone of voice. "Hi there. You've reached Frank Marsallis's personal line. Leave a message when the music ends."
"Frank, it's Max. It's Sunday afternoon, just after
one o'clock
. Kimberly and I have tailed our suspect to a warehouse on
Lang Street
in the Garment District, with a faded sign that says Dormer and Sons over the door. We're going in to take a look around. I'll call you when we're out, but if you don't hear from me… Well, just make sure you hear from me, okay?"
Flipping the phone shut, he shoved it in his pocket and began to have second thoughts about letting Kimberly go with him. A minute ago he'd been strictly in professional mode, thinking of Carlo and how to bring him and his people down, thinking of the job and the sometimes dangerous life of a P.I. in general. But this case, he had known from the start,
definitely
held danger. And the more time he spent with Kimberly, the less he was able to keep anything about it professional. He turned to her as they walked. "Are you really absolutely sure you want to do this?" He tried to sound as casual as possible considering the weight of the question. "You might be of more use to me on the outside."
She looked deeply into his eyes before answering, and the warm, golden tone of hers struck him as both soft and incredibly bold at the same time. "I'm a better P.I. than you think, Max," she said very quietly.
The claim took him aback a little, made him feel sort of guilty. "Kimberly, despite the Carpenter case, I … think you're a fine P.I. Honest."
He'd started calling her Kimberly again, she realized, not Brandt. It was something she normally took little notice of one way or the other, but at the moment, it softened something inside her.
Still, she didn't think he sounded, or looked, truly convinced. And maybe it was silly at this point, but she still had the burning urge to show him, to prove to him, that she could work alongside him and do the same job he could and do it well. It was a matter of professional pride and it ran deep. In the beginning he'd been her mentor and then she'd let him down. What had happened back at the house just now with Carlo had made her feel as if she'd let him down again. She'd been unable to handle the situation, after all, and she'd been frighteningly close to crumbling. She had to make him see that she wouldn't let him down anymore.
"I intend to go, Tate."
He tilted his head and she waited for the argument she saw in his eyes, but he merely sighed. "All right, Brandt. All right."
A minute later, Max's hand rested on the doorknob and Kimberly stood behind him, ready to sneak in when the door opened. An eerie sense of danger bit into her spine. She'd told Max back in the car that this was crazy, yet here she was doing it herself, and it was too late to back out now.
"This would be easier in the dark," Max mused, "but we don't have that luxury. Stay low," he warned her. "When we get in, look for the nearest thing to hide behind and get there fast."
Max began easing the door open, peeking inside. Kimberly's heart beat a wild rhythm as pure fear gripped her, as she suddenly realized the full scope of what they were doing. What had seemed simply crazy a minute ago now seemed insane beyond description. Next, he took her hand and led her into the enormous warehouse where they could hear voices somewhere. He guided her silently across the floor until they were behind a forklift that held a pile of wooden crates.
Made it!
Kimberly thought, but she didn't really know yet if that was true. Stealthily, she leaned around to peer past the crates and felt her first real sense of relief to see that no one had heard them, no one was running to see who had just come inside.
Then she looked at Max, who gave her a short, unexpected hug that quickened her pulse even as it somehow reassured her. She'd done plenty of unusual work since she'd joined the ranks as a P.I., but she'd never done anything like this before, and she'd also never done anything that made her feel as if she was in this deep.
Her only comfort was being in it with him. Despite her fears, she was glad she hadn't waited in the car—she wouldn't have been able to stand not knowing what was happening to him inside.
Max took her hand in his as they moved along the enormous outer wall of the building under the cover of crates and steel drums. She studied the place as they made their way. It didn't look like the office of some grand jewelry-theft ring. It looked like a normal warehouse, dim of light and stacked with slatted crates, the word Fragile stamped on their sides. Above her, aging rafters loomed, from which hung bare lightbulbs dangling at the end of old wires.
Yet Carlo had come in here. "Shipping," she suddenly whispered."
"What?" Max asked, just as soft.
"Carlo said he worked in shipping." She motioned to a stack of crates. "Maybe this is a legitimate business and he just works here."
Max looked skeptical. "I don't think so. He high-tailed it here too fast. And besides, I just have a funny feeling—call it a P.I.'s sixth sense—that we're extremely close to some answers."
Over the last few years, Kimberly had developed that same sense herself, and despite her suggestion, she had to agree. In the distance, she still heard faint voices that reconjured her fears. She and Max were in real danger from more people than just Carlo.
"What now?" she whispered.
"Now we investigate a little."
It sounded impossibly dangerous. "How?"
Max pointed to a nearby crate on the floor. It looked neatly and recently packed, the top still open. "Let's see what these guys ship."
He silently reached inside and pulled out a heavy glass pitcher made of creamy white ceramic, the inside stuffed with wads of newspaper that would keep it from breaking in transit. Setting it aside, he dug through the straw in the crate, uncovering more of the same. But when he started to return the first pitcher, they both heard the slight jiggle in the bottom of it.
They looked at each other briefly before Max reached inside, gently pulling out the newspaper. When he uncrumpled it, Kimberly fought to hold in her gasp—a ruby-studded necklace lay nestled within the newsprint. "They must smuggle the stuff out in these things," Max whispered, "using the glassware as a front."
"What do we do with it?" she asked, her eyes still glued to the shimmering rubies.
Max hesitated, then stuffed both the newspaper and the necklace back inside the pitcher. "We leave it where we found it … for now. I'm not done investigating yet."
"But isn't this enough to take to the pol—"
He lifted two fingers to her lips, gently quieting her, and she quickly understood why.
"Beautiful stuff, isn't it?" The voice belonged to Carlo.
Kimberly froze, but soon realized that he wasn't talking to them—yet he stood just beyond the crates they now crouched behind, speaking with another man. She rose just enough to see several diamond necklaces dangling from the fingers of a paunchy, older guy next to Carlo.
"Sure is," the man agreed. "The boss is gonna love it."
Carlo laughed. "Now, you know the boss doesn't have an eye for this stuff. It's all just sparkly shiny money to him."
The fat man lowered his gravelly voice. "So, how'd you do this weekend?"
"Not so well," Carlo said with a sigh. "Guy caught me messing with his wife and I had to split. And you know the boss's golden rule—never let anybody see you take it. Couldn't swing that this time, so I came away empty-handed."
The other man shook his head. "The boss ain't gonna like that, Coletti. Your little habit of playin' around with rich wives cost you a heist."
Carlo gave an arrogant shrug. "It's the first time I've ever messed up. The boss shouldn't have any complaints about me."
"So," the man said, a toothy grin spreading across his face, "how
was
the woman?"
"Totally hot," Carlo bragged. "And totally crazy about me."
"How far did you get before you got caught?"
Carlo smiled. "All the way," he lied. "Even without any jewelry, it was worth the effort."
The two men snickered and, next to her, Kimberly felt Max go tense. She squeezed his hand to calm him. He returned the gesture and she didn't know if he'd gotten her silent message, but she liked the small, warm charge of energy it sent melting through her body even in the midst of danger.
After chatting a minute more, the two men went their separate ways, leaving the area quiet again. "What now?" Kimberly asked Max.
"We keep investigating."
"What else are we looking for? We already found some stolen jewelry."
But Max's reproachful glance said,
Be the P.I. you know you can be. Do what it takes to solve this case and bring these crooks down.
"I'm ready," she said staunchly beside him.
"Ready for what?"
"Ready to investigate. Ready to do whatever it takes to send these guys to jail."
He blinked and looked at her, apparently having heard the return of the more capable Kimberly in her voice.
"Don't look so shocked, Tate," she said. "It doesn't become you." Then she studied the scene around them. "Now, I'm thinking that door over there looks like it might lead into an office of some kind. See the desk and file cabinet through the glass? I don't think anyone's in there. It might be a good place to locate some paperwork that could be used as evidence, or for keeping stolen property before it's packed up and smuggled out. What do you think?"
He grinned, clearly impressed. "I think you're right, Brandt."
Still holding hands, they cautiously made their way to the door Kimberly had indicated. After peeking around a barricade of steel drums, Max motioned her forward. She moved to the door and opened it, her heart beating frantically, then slipped inside. Max followed.
Together they began rifling through paperwork—Kimberly handling the cluttered beaten-up desk, Max digging in the file cabinet.
A moment later Max was by her side, silently pointing to a rumpled bill of lading clutched in his fist. She saw the skewed numbers instantly. Someone had paid Dormer and Sons over half a million dollars for a hundred vases!
"Not all the invoices are like this," Max whispered, his voice barely audible. "Some of their business must be legit. The rest they must run through their system, pushing it off as extremely expensive glassware."
Their eyes met in triumph, then Max folded the piece of paper and crammed it in his pocket, obviously ready to go to the police.
But it occurred to Kimberly to ask, "Crooks make out invoices for their stolen goods?"
Max shrugged. "I guess thieves need a way to track their profits just like anybody else, especially in an operation as big as this one appears to be. Now let's get out of here," he whispered.
They were making their way toward the office door when Max stumbled. The metal waste can he'd tripped over toppled with a metallic-sounding crash that echoed up from the concrete floor.

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