We Belong.”
Chapter Eighteen
My blaring cell phone woke me from a deep sleep, but I managed to catch it on the second ring, mashing it to my ear and upsetting ChaCha.
“Sophie Lawson,” I answered.
“Lawson, I need you.” Alex’s voice was tense on the other end of the line.
A delicious chill zapped down my spine and I sat up straight, glancing at the red glowing numbers on my alarm clock. It was three o’clock and Alex needed me. My whole body went on high alert; everything jumping to attention. Maybe this night was looking up, after all.
“Are you here? Where are you?”
“Do you have a pen?”
I fumbled in my desk drawer—my pen poised over the back of a plea to save the whales, or to avoid circuses or something.
“Take down this address.”
The little chill in my spine dropped below my belly button and worked itself into a full-on heat.
“It’s a crime scene.”
Everything dropped inside me. “Of course it is.”
“Romero called me. He said you and he had a little meeting on the dock a few days ago.”
“How come you haven’t answered any of my calls? Things are exploding—”
“Look, Lawson, I don’t have much time, and I can’t be on the phone. Romero called this in and I need you to look into it.”
I felt a lump forming in my throat, felt my eyes start to mist. “I need you.”
“I know you can handle it. I won’t be away forever. I need you to get down to the Paradise Hotel, 101 Folsom Street.”
I bit my lip. “I don’t have a car.”
I could almost see Alex’s eyebrow cocking. “What happened to your car now?”
I thought of my beat-up car, and the scrawling across the front windshield. “Nothing. I’ll just grab a cab.”
There was a quick knock on my door. When I opened it, Will was standing there, a big goofy grin on his face. His car keys were pinched between forefinger and thumb.
“Ready?”
“I can’t talk now, Will. I’ve got to get to—”
“One-oh-one Folsom.”
I blinked. “Were you listening in on my phone call?”
Will snorted. “Like I don’t have better things to do. Your angel boy told me I’d better help you out with this one.”
I gaped at Will. “I can handle a lot of things, Will, but you and Alex working together?”
Will just shrugged and ushered me toward the stairs.
The Paradise Hotel was a little slice of 1970s Key West, smack-dab in the left ventricle of the Fillmore District. Its thumbprint-sized pool was lagoon blue and surrounded by brightly colored homages to tropical birds and potted banana trees, whose enormous leaves were fraying in the cold ocean air. In its heyday the whole building was painted a cheery yellow and each door to Paradise a pale, tranquil turquoise. Now the yellow paint had hardened into something sallow and showed its age as it warped and peeled around what remained of the turquoise door frames. Some of the numbers were missing on the doors; the once-shiny doorknobs were grubby with black fingerprints and scratches from years of abuse, neglect, and drunken lock picking.
I saw a trio of uniformed officers staring blankly at a broken pot—its banana tree was severed on the concrete, soil scattered all around. Officer Romero turned finally and beckoned me over.
“Officer Romero,” I said.
“Hey, thanks for coming, Sophie. I called Alex, but—”
I nodded. “He’s on a stakeout.”
“Right.” Romero looked past me. “And you must be the private investigator?”
Will absolutely beamed. “That I am.”
“So what’s this all about?” I wanted to know.
“That’s what I’m hoping you can tell me.”
Officer Romero led Will and me to room 34, where a naked bulb flickered and buzzed outside.
“We got a call about forty minutes ago.” He jutted his chin toward the lady with the dog. She was listening to the officer in front of her; her wrinkled lips set in a hard, thin line. “She called in. Said there was a ruckus with her new tenant. Said it sounded like someone was being murdered out here.”
I shivered, though the early-morning air was unusually warm. “And?”
“And that’s it. She looked out her window and saw two people struggling. Said she couldn’t be sure it was her new tenant, but from the size of her”—Officer Romero’s eyes flashed—“it looked about right. The lady called the cops, and the first car was on the scene in less than three minutes.”
I nodded, impressed.
“And there was nothing here.”
“Nothing?”
Romero nodded his head. “Not a thing.”
“So what made you call Alex?”
Romero dug into his pocket and produced a business card wrapped in a plastic Baggie. I examined it under the flickering light.
“It’s yours.”
I nodded and Officer Romero went on. “It didn’t have a phone number, so I called Alex. He said that your firm was covering this case. I didn’t know that the FBI had an underworld division out here.”
I opened my mouth and then closed it again, dumbly, as Officer Romero prattled on. “So mobsters, huh? I thought that was, you know, purely a Jersey,
“Oh. Underworld. Like the mob. Yes”—I straightened—“yes, we’d appreciate it if you kept it quiet.”
Romero nodded, impressed. “Absolutely. We’ll clear out. You do what you need to do.”
Once Officer Romero stepped away, Will crossed his arms and grinned at me. “We’re detectives now. Underworld detectives.”
I rolled my eyes and speed dialed Alex, willing him to answer the phone.
“Good, Lawson, I’ve been waiting for you to call.”
“What is this all about, Alex? And why can you miraculously talk all of a sudden?”
I heard him suck in a deep, slow breath. “I’m on a dinner break. Do you want my help with this or not?”
I looked at Will, then looked at the broken plant and the flickering light. “Sure. Why did you think this was about us?”
“Because the woman staying in that room was Bettina Jacova.”
I paused. “Oh. But she didn’t check out?”
“No. The only thing the guys could find was that overturned pot.”
I balanced the phone on my shoulder. “So everything is gone, there’s no evidence. Why did you need me here?”
“The officers said they couldn’t
I nodded, finally understanding. “And you want me to make sure you’re not missing something.”
“Bingo.”
