Risky Business (5 page)

“Horribly,” Liz murmured. “She'll be home in a few weeks, and we'll spend the summer together. September always comes too soon.” Her gaze drifted off as she spoke, almost to herself. “It's for the best. My parents take wonderful care of her and she's getting an excellent education—taking piano lessons and ballet. They sent me pictures from a recital, and…” Her eyes filled with tears so quickly that she hadn't any warning. She shifted into the wind and fought them back, but he'd seen them. He sat smoking silently to give her time to recover.

“Ever get back to the States?”

“No.” Liz swallowed and called herself a fool. It had been the pictures, she told herself, the pictures that had come in yesterday's mail of her little girl wearing a pink dress.

“Hiding from something?”

She whirled back, tears replaced with fury. Her body was arched like a bow ready to launch. Jonas held up a hand.

“Sorry. I have a habit of poking into secrets.”

She forced herself to relax, to strap back passion as she'd taught herself so long ago. “It's a good way to lose your fingers, Mr. Sharpe.”

He chuckled. “That's a possibility. I've always considered it worth the risk. They call you Liz, don't they?”

Her brow lifted under the fringe that blew around her brow. “My friends do.”

“It suits you, except when you try to be aloof. Then it should be Elizabeth.”

She sent him a smoldering look, certain he was trying to annoy her. “No one calls me Elizabeth.”

He merely grinned at her. “Why weren't you sleeping with Jerry?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Yes, definitely Elizabeth. You're a beautiful woman in an odd sort of way.” He tossed out the compliment as casually as he tossed the cigarette into the water. “Jerry had a…fondness for beautiful women. I can't figure out why you weren't lovers.”

For a moment, only a moment, it occurred to her that no one had called her beautiful in a very long time. She'd needed words like that once. Then she leaned back on the rail, planted her hands and aimed a killing look. She didn't need them now.

“I didn't choose to sleep with him. It might be difficult for you to accept, as you share the same face, but I didn't find Jerry irresistible.”

“No?” As relaxed as she was tensed, Jonas reached into the cooler, offering her a beer. When she shook her head, he popped the top on one for himself. “What did you find him?”

“He was a drifter, and he happened to drift into my life. I gave him a job because he had a quick mind and a strong back. The truth was, I never expected him to last over a month. Men like him don't.”

Though he hadn't moved a muscle, Jonas had come to attention. “Men like him?”

“Men who look for the quickest way to easy street. He
worked because he liked to eat, but he was always looking for the big strike—one he wouldn't have to sweat for.”

“So you did know him,” Jonas murmured. “What was he looking for here?”

“I tell you I don't know! For all I know he was looking for a good time and a little sun.” Frustration poured out of her as she tossed a hand in the air. “I let him have a room because he seemed harmless and I could use the money. I wasn't intimate with him on any level. The closest he came to talking about what he was up to was bragging about diving for big bucks.”

“Diving? Where?”

Fighting for control, she dragged a hand through her hair. “I wish you'd leave me alone.”

“You're a realistic woman, aren't you, Elizabeth?”

Her chin was set when she looked back at him. “Yes.”

“Then you know I won't. Where was he going to dive?”

“I don't know. I barely listened to him when he got started on how rich he was going to be.”

“What did he say?” This time Jonas's voice was quiet, persuading. “Just try to think back and remember what he told you.”

“He said something about making a fortune diving, and I joked about sunken treasure. And he said…” She strained to remember the conversation. It had been late in the evening, and she'd been busy, preoccupied. “I was working at home,” Liz remembered. “I always seem to handle the books better at night. He'd been out, partying I thought, because he was a little unsteady when he came in. He pulled me out of the chair. I remember I started to swear at him but he looked so damn happy, I let it go. Really, I hardly listened because I was picking up all the papers he'd scattered, but he was saying something about the big time and buying champagne to celebrate. I told him he'd better stick to beer on his salary. That's when he talked
about deals coming through and diving for big bucks. Then I made some comment about sunken treasure….”

“And what did he say?”

“Sometimes you make more putting stuff in than taking it out.” With a line between her brows, she remembered how he'd laughed when she'd told him to go sleep it off. “He made a pass neither one of us took seriously, and then…I think he made a phone call. I went back to work.”

“When was this?”

“A week, maybe one week after I took him on.”

“That must have been when he called me.” Jonas looked out to sea. And he hadn't paid much attention, either, he reminded himself. Jerry had talked about coming home in style. But then he had always been talking about coming home in style. And the call, as usual, had been collect.

“Did you ever see him with anyone? Talking, arguing?”

“I never saw him argue with anyone. He flirted with the women on the beach, made small talk with the clients and got along just fine with everyone he worked with. I assumed he spent most of his free time in San Miguel. I think he cruised a few bars with Luis and some of the others.”

“What bars?”

“You'll have to ask them, though I'm sure the police already have.” She took a deep breath. It was bringing it all back again, too close. “Mr. Sharpe, why don't you let the police handle this? You're running after shadows.”

“He was my brother.” And more, what he couldn't explain, his twin. Part of himself had been murdered. If he were ever to feel whole again, he had to know why. “Haven't you wondered why Jerry was murdered?”

“Of course.” She looked down at her hands. They were empty and she felt helpless. “I thought he must've gotten into
a fight, or maybe he bragged to the wrong person. He had a bad habit of tossing what money he had around.”

“It wasn't robbery or a mugging, Elizabeth. It was professional. It was business.”

Her heart began a slow, painful thud. “I don't understand.”

“Jerry was murdered by a pro, and I'm going to find out why.”

Because her throat was suddenly dry, she swallowed. “If you're right, then that's all the more reason to leave it to the police.”

He drew out his cigarettes again, but stared ahead to where the sky met the water. “Police don't want revenge. I do.” In his voice, she heard the calm patience and felt a shiver.

Staring, she shook her head. “Even if you found the person who did it, what could you do?”

He took a long pull from his beer. “As a lawyer, I suppose I'd be obliged to see they had their day in court. As a brother…” He trailed off and drank again. “We'll have to see.”

“I don't think you're a very nice man, Mr. Sharpe.”

“I'm not.” He turned his head until his eyes locked on hers. “And I'm not harmless. Remember, if I make a pass, we'll both take it seriously.”

She started to speak, then saw his line go taut. “You've got a fish, Mr. Sharpe,” she said dryly. “You'd better strap in or he'll pull you overboard.”

Turning on her heel, she went back to the bridge, leaving Jonas to fend for himself.

I
t was sundown when Liz parked her bike under the lean-to beside her house. She was still laughing. However much trouble Jonas had caused her, however much he had annoyed her in three brief meetings, she had his two hundred dollars. And he had a thirty-pound marlin—whether he wanted it or not. We deliver, she thought as she jingled her keys.

Oh, it had been worth it, just to see his face when he'd found himself on the other end of the wire from a big, bad-tempered fish. Liz believed he'd have let it go if she hadn't taken the time for one last smirk. Stubborn, she thought again. Yes, any other time she'd have admired it, and him.

Though she'd been wrong about his not being able to handle a rod, he'd looked so utterly perplexed with the fish lying at his feet on the deck that she'd nearly felt sorry for him. But his luck, or the lack of it, had helped her make an easy exit once they'd docked. With all the people crowding around to get a look at his catch and congratulate him, Jonas hadn't been able to detain her.

Now she was ready for an early evening, she thought. And a rainy one if the clouds moving in from the east delivered. Liz let herself into the house, propping the door open to bring in
the breeze that already tasted of rain. After the fans were whirling, she turned on the radio automatically. Hurricane season might be a few months off, but the quick tropical storms were unpredictable. She'd been through enough of them not to take them lightly.

In the bedroom she prepared to strip for the shower that would wash the day's sweat and salt from her skin. Because it was twilight, she was already reaching for the light switch when a stray thought stopped her. Hadn't she left the blinds up that morning? Liz stared at them, tugged snugly over the window-sill. Odd, she was sure she'd left them up, and why wasn't the cord wrapped around its little hook? She was fanatical about that kind of detail, she supposed because ropes on a boat were always secured.

She hesitated, even after light spilled into the room. Then she shrugged. She must have been more distracted that morning than she'd realized. Jonas Sharpe, she decided, was taking up too much of her time, and too many of her thoughts. A man like him was bound to do so, even under different circumstances. But she'd long since passed the point in her life where a man could dominate it. He only worried her because he was interfering in her time, and her time was a precious commodity. Now that he'd had his way, and his talk, there should be no more visits. She remembered, uncomfortably, the way he'd smiled at her. It would be best, she decided, if he went back to where he'd come from and she got on with her own routine.

To satisfy herself, Liz walked over to the first shade and secured the cord. From the other room, the radio announced an evening shower before music kicked in. Humming along with it, she decided to toss together a chicken salad before she logged the day's accounts.

As she straightened, the breath was knocked out of her by
an arm closing tightly around her neck. The dying sun caught a flash of silver. Before she could react, she felt the quick prick of a knife blade at her throat.

“Where is it?”

The voice that hissed in her ear was Spanish. In reflex, she brought her hands to the arm around her neck. As her nails dug in, she felt hard flesh and a thin metal band. She gasped for air, but stopped struggling when the knife poked threateningly at her throat.

“What do you want?” In terror her mind skimmed forward. She had less than fifty dollars cash and no jewelry of value except a single strand of pearls left by her grandmother. “My purse is in on the table. You can take it.”

The vicious yank on her hair had her gasping in pain. “Where did he put it?”

“Who? I don't know what you want.”

“Sharpe. Deal's off, lady. If you want to live, you tell me where he put the money.”

“I don't know.” The knife point pricked the vulnerable skin at her throat. She felt something warm trickle down her skin. Hysteria bubbled up behind it. “I never saw any money. You can look—there's nothing here.”

“I've already looked.” He tightened his hold until her vision grayed from lack of air. “Sharpe died fast. You won't be so lucky. Tell me where it is and nothing happens.”

He was going to kill her. The thought ran in her head. She was going to die for something she knew nothing about. Money…he wanted money and she only had fifty dollars. Faith. As she felt herself on the verge of unconsciousness, she thought of her daughter. Who would take care of her? Liz bit down on her lip until the pain cleared her mind. She couldn't die.

“Please…” She let herself go limp in his arms. “I can't tell you anything. I can't breathe.”

His hold loosened just slightly. Liz slumped against him and when he shifted, she brought her elbow back with all her strength. She didn't bother to turn around but ran blindly. A rug slid under her feet, but she stumbled ahead, too terrified to look back. She was already calling for help when she hit the front door.

Her closest neighbor was a hundred yards away. She vaulted the little fence that separated the yards and sprinted toward the house. She stumbled up the steps, sobbing. Even as the door opened, she heard the sound of a car squealing tires on the rough gravel road behind her.

“He tried to kill me,” she managed, then fainted.

 

“There is no further information I can give you, Mr. Sharpe.” Moralas sat in his neat office facing the waterfront. The file on his desk wasn't as thick as he would have liked. Nothing in his investigation had turned up a reason for Jerry Sharpe's murder. The man who sat across from him stared straight ahead. Moralas had a photo of the victim in the file, and a mirror image a few feet away. “I wonder, Mr. Sharpe, if your brother's death was a result of something that happened before his coming to Cozumel.”

“Jerry wasn't running when he came here.”

Moralas tidied his papers. “Still, we have asked for the cooperation of the New Orleans authorities. That was your brother's last known address.”

“He never had an address,” Jonas murmured. Or a conventional job, a steady woman. Jerry had been a comet, always refusing to burn itself out. “I've told you what Miss Palmer said. Jerry was cooking up a deal, and he was cooking it up in Cozumel.”

“Yes, having to do with diving.” Always patient, Moralas drew out a thin cigar. “Though we've already spoken with Miss Palmer, I appreciate your bringing me the information.”

“But you don't know what the hell to do with it.”

Moralas flicked on his lighter, smiling at Jonas over the flame. “You're blunt. I'll be blunt as well. If there was a trail to follow to your brother's murder, it's cold. Every day it grows colder. There were no fingerprints, no murder weapon, no witnesses.” He picked up the file, gesturing with it. “That doesn't mean I intend to toss this in a drawer and forget about it. If there is a murderer on my island, I intend to find him. At the moment, I believe the murderer is miles away, perhaps in your own country. Procedure now is to backtrack on your brother's activities until we find something. To be frank, Mr. Sharpe, you're not doing yourself or me any good by being here.”

“I'm not leaving.”

“That is, of course, your privilege—unless you interfere with police procedure.” At the sound of the buzzer on his desk, Moralas tipped his ash and picked up the phone.

“Moralas.” There was a pause. Jonas saw the captain's thick, dark brows draw together. “Yes, put her on. Miss Palmer, this is Captain Moralas.”

Jonas stopped in the act of lighting a cigarette and waited. Liz Palmer was the key, he thought again. He had only to find what lock she fit.

“When? Are you injured? No, please stay where you are, I'll come to you.” Moralas was rising as he hung up the phone. “Miss Palmer has been attacked.”

Jonas was at the door first. “I'm coming with you.”

His muscles ached with tension as the police car raced out of town toward the shore. He asked no questions. In his mind, Jonas could see Liz as she'd been on the bridge hours before—
tanned, slim, a bit defiant. He remembered the self-satisfied smirk she'd given him when he'd found himself in a tug-of-war with a thirty-pound fish. And how neatly she'd skipped out on him the moment they'd docked.

She'd been attacked. Why? Was it because she knew more than she'd been willing to tell him? He wondered if she were a liar, an opportunist or a coward. Then he wondered how badly she'd been hurt.

As they pulled down the narrow drive, Jonas glanced toward Liz's house. The door was open, the shades drawn. She lived there alone, he thought, vulnerable and unprotected. Then he turned his attention to the little stucco building next door. A woman in a cotton dress and apron came onto the porch. She carried a baseball bat.

“You are the police.” She nodded, satisfied, when Moralas showed his identification. “I am Señora Alderez. She's inside. I thank the Virgin we were home when she came to us.”

“Thank you.”

Jonas stepped inside with Moralas and saw her. She was sitting on a patched sofa, huddled forward with a glass of wine in both hands. Jonas saw the liquid shiver back and forth as her hands trembled. She looked up slowly when they came in, her gaze passing over Moralas to lock on Jonas. She stared, with no expression in those deep, dark eyes. Just as slowly, she looked back at her glass.

“Miss Palmer.” With his voice very gentle, Moralas sat down beside her. “Can you tell me what happened?”

She took the smallest of drinks, pressed her lips together briefly, then began as though she were reciting. “I came home at sunset. I didn't close the front door or lock it. I went straight into the bedroom. The shades were down, and I thought I'd left them up that morning. The cord wasn't secured, so I went
over and fixed it. That's when he grabbed me—from behind. He had his arm around my neck and a knife. He cut me a little.” In reflex, she reached up to touch the inch-long scratch her neighbor had already cleaned and fussed over. “I didn't fight because he had the knife at my throat and I thought he would kill me. He was going to kill me.” She brought her head up to look directly into Moralas's eyes. “I could hear it in his voice.”

“What did he say to you, Miss Palmer?”

“He said, ‘Where is it?' I didn't know what he wanted. I told him he could take my purse. He was choking me and he said, ‘Where did he put it?' He said Sharpe.” This time she looked at Jonas. When she lifted her head, he saw that bruises were already forming on her throat. “He said the deal was off and he wanted the money. If I didn't tell him where it was he'd kill me, and I wouldn't die quickly, the way Jerry had. He didn't believe me when I said I didn't know anything.” She spoke directly to Jonas. As she stared at him he felt the guilt rise.

Patient, Moralas touched her arm to bring her attention back to him. “He let you go?”

“No, he was going to kill me.” She said it dully, without fear, without passion. “I knew he would whether I told him anything or not, and my daughter—she needs me. I slumped as if I'd fainted, then I hit him. I think I hit him in the throat with my elbow. And I ran.”

“Can you identify the man?”

“I never saw him. I never looked.”

“His voice.”

“He spoke Spanish. I think he was short because his voice was right in my ear. I don't know anything else. I don't know anything about money or Jerry or anything else.” She looked back into her glass, abruptly terrified she would cry. “I want to go home.”

“As soon as my men make certain it's safe. You'll have police protection, Miss Palmer. Rest here. I'll come back for you and take you home.”

She didn't know if it had been minutes or hours since she'd fled through the front door. When Moralas took her back, it was dark with the moon just rising. An officer would remain outside in her driveway and all her doors and windows had been checked. Without a word, she went through the house into the kitchen.

“She was lucky.” Moralas gave the living room another quick check. “Whoever attacked her was careless enough to be caught off guard.”

“Did the neighbors see anything?” Jonas righted a table that had been overturned in flight. There was a conch shell on the floor that had cracked.

“A few people noticed a blue compact outside the house late this afternoon. Señora Alderez saw it drive off when she opened the door to Miss Palmer, but she couldn't identify the make or the plates. We will, of course, keep Miss Palmer under surveillance while we try to track it down.”

“It doesn't appear my brother's killer's left the island.”

Moralas met Jonas's gaze blandly. “Apparently whatever deal your brother was working on cost him his life. I don't intend for it to cost Miss Palmer hers. I'll drive you back to town.”

“No. I'm staying.” Jonas examined the pale pink shell with the crack spreading down its length. He thought of the mark on Liz's throat. “My brother involved her.” Carefully, he set the damaged shell down. “I can't leave her alone.”

“As you wish.” Moralas turned to go when Jonas stopped him.

“Captain, you don't still think the murderer's hundreds of miles away.”

Moralas touched the gun that hung at his side. “No, Mr. Sharpe, I don't.
Buenas noches.
”

Jonas locked her door himself, then rechecked the windows before he went back to the kitchen. Liz was pouring her second cup of coffee. “That'll keep you up.”

Liz drank half a cup, staring at him. She felt nothing at the moment, no anger, no fear. “I thought you'd gone.”

“No.” Without invitation, he found a mug and poured coffee for himself.

“Why are you here?”

He took a step closer, to run a fingertip gently down the mark on her throat. “Stupid question,” he murmured.