Blood Orchid Page 7

  They cruised up A1A, and, through the darkened windows, Holly watched the expressions of people on the street as they drove through downtown. Nobody had ever seen anything like this in Orchid, she thought.

  Ham and Ginny were equally impressed with the car. “Pullman interior,” Ham said, referring to the two sets of facing rear seats. “Not as long as those things with hot tubs that people rent so they can get drunk and not have to drive, but long enough.”

  “How are you feeling, Holly?” Ginny asked. She looked sensational in a red dress that worked with her hair.

  “I’m perfectly all right,” Holly said, putting a hand to the side of her head. “It’s sore under there, but that’s all.”

  “I can’t see a bruise,” Ginny said. “And nobody who sees you in that dress is going to look at your head.”

  Holly laughed. “It’s Armani; I went down to Palm Beach and bought it . . . before the wedding.”

  “I didn’t mean to bring up a bad memory,” Ginny said.

  “It’s all right; I’ve learned not to be bothered by things like that.”

  “Any luck finding your burglar’s van?” Ham asked.

  “None,” Holly replied. “There are dozens, maybe hundreds, like it in the county.”

  They pulled up at Ed Shine’s house, and he came out and got into the car with them.

  Ham introduced Ginny. “Terrific car, Ed,” Ham said.

  “Thank you, Ham; I just got it—ordered it special, six months ago. They custom-made the stretched body.” He settled into a seat, then he opened an armrest and pulled out a chilled bottle of champagne and four flutes. “Let’s celebrate the car,” he said, pouring wine for everybody.

  The Yellow Dog Cafe turned out to be a low building squeezed between the highway and the Indian River, just south of Melbourne. The interior surpassed the exterior and they were given a corner table overlooking the river. Holly did not bring up the events of her day, and neither did Ham or Ginny.

  When they had ordered drinks, Ed raised his glass again. “This toast is for Blood Orchid,” he said. “We’ve now sold four of the existing houses and one building lot.”

  “Congratulations, Ed,” Holly said, raising her glass.

  They ordered dinner, and Ed took the floor again. “Now let me tell you the real reason for asking you here,” he said, “apart from the pleasure of your company. Holly, I want to offer you a job.”

  “A job?” Holly asked, puzzled. “Selling real estate?”

  “No, I’d like you to become chief of security at Blood Orchid.”

  “Barney Noble’s old job,” Ham said. Noble had been an old army acquaintance of Ham’s who had been up to his neck in the illegal operations at the place when it was still called Palmetto Gardens. He now resided at the Florida state penitentiary.

  “I never knew him,” Ed said. “But Holly, I’ve got a pretty good idea what you’re making in your current job, and I’ll increase it by fifty percent, plus a benefits package and a month’s vacation every summer. You can hire your own people, invent your own job.”

  “Well, Ed,” Holly replied, “that’s very generous of you, but I’m not sure there’s going to be a whole lot for a security chief to do, now that the activities on the property are legal and aboveboard.”

  “As I say, you can invent your own job. Tell you what, you think about it over dinner, and when we’re on coffee, you can give me your answer.”

  “All right.”

  Their dinner arrived, and they talked animatedly while they enjoyed their food. After dessert, when they were drinking coffee, Ed spoke up.

  “What’s it going to be, Holly? Will you join me?”

  “Ed, I want to thank you for your offer; it’s very tempting. May I be frank with you?”

  “Of course.”

  “I think I’d be bored. I love the activity in my present job; something is always happening. I think that no matter what sort of job I invented for myself, it would still be pretty much that of a security guard, gatekeeper, night watchman. The money is certainly attractive, but I’m pretty well fixed as it is. So my answer will have to be no.”

  “I understand,” Ed said, “and I accept your decision.” He turned to Ham. “That brings me to my second choice. Ham, how would you like the job?”

  “I wouldn’t like being second choice,” he said dourly, then laughed. “My problem is, I don’t want to work. I worked for thirty-odd years, and I’m enjoying not doing it anymore.”

  Ed nodded, then turned to Ginny. “Young lady, do you have any security qualifications?”

  “None at all,” Ginny said, laughing.

  “Then what am I going to do? Holly, is there anybody you can recommend?”

  “I think what you want is a retired police officer, somebody with some experience in running a department, and frankly, I don’t know anybody like that. There’s a state law enforcement journal. Why don’t you run an ad in that and snag yourself somebody who’s about to retire?”

  “Good thought,” Ed said, waving for the check. “I wanted to keep it local, but what the hell.”

  They drove slowly back to Orchid Beach, this time drinking from a bottle of brandy that Ed had produced from another hidden cupboard. They dropped off Ham and Ginny first.

  “Holly,” Ed said, “you sure you won’t reconsider?” They were on the way to Ed’s house now.

  “Ed, I really appreciate it, but I’m the wrong person for the job.”

  “Let me be the judge of that.”

  “I’m afraid I’ll have to be. I need to be really busy at this point in my life, and the Orchid department gives me that. I think you’re a great guy, and I know that working for you would be a pleasure, but . . .”

  “Okay, okay,” Ed said. “How about this: when I find somebody who looks good for the job, will you interview him or her for me? See what you think of their qualifications?”

  “I’d be glad to,” Holly said.

  The car pulled up in front of Ed’s house. He pecked her on the cheek and got out of the car. “Jaime, take Ms. Barker back to her home.”

  “Thank you for a wonderful evening, Ed. I needed it.”

  “You call me anytime you need anything,” Ed said.

  The car pulled away. Holly sank back in the soft leather and sipped her brandy. Ed’s job had sounded pretty cushy; had she made a mistake turning it down? She didn’t think so.

  16

  Holly awoke with the first hangover she’d had in a very long time. Not a bad one, and she was grateful for that, but she was a little fuzzy around the edges, and she was glad she didn’t have to work that day.

  Daisy seemed hungover, too, and she had just as good a reason as Holly. She had her breakfast and her walk, not run, in the dunes, then repaired to her bed beside the fireplace and went back to sleep.

  Holly went into the study and started going through desk drawers, trying to figure out what might have interested the intruder. Her checkbook was kept on the computer on an extension of the desk, and one needed a password, which was DAISY, to get in. Everything else in the desk was mundane—Post-its, paper clips, stationery, files on household repairs, tax stuff, brokerage statements. The guy might have learned something about her income or net worth, but what good would that do him? It wasn’t as though she kept large amounts of cash or bearer bonds in the house, and he hadn’t opened the upstairs safe. He’d certainly had an opportunity to take the TV or VCR or computer, and she kept her guns locked up, so he didn’t seem to be looking for booty, at least not the domestic kind.

  She tried to imagine what information or files she might have that somebody might want—for any reason at all—and she came up short. If everything in her personal files was published on the front page of the Orchid Beach Press-Messenger, she wouldn’t particularly mind everybody reading it. Certainly, she was not harboring some secret that somebody else wanted to know.

  The phone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “Holly, it’s Grant Early. How are you
?”

  “Very well,” she replied.

  “I just wanted to check in and confirm our dinner date. I’m picking you up at seven?”

  “That’s good, Grant,” she said, then she remembered she hadn’t made a dinner reservation.

  “Where are we going?” he asked.

  “Someplace good; I haven’t decided yet.”

  “You said a jacket and no tie would do?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I own a necktie, and I don’t mind wearing it.”

  “You can keep it casual, Grant.”

  “See you at seven, then.”

  She said goodbye and hung up. He had a very pleasant voice for an FBI agent, she thought.

  Grant Early was on time, and Holly wasn’t, which was unlike her, so she had to use the intercom to tell him to come in and sit down. Finally dressed, she came down the steps to find him kneeling and talking to Daisy, who was still in her bed. He stood up to greet her.

  “We meet at last,” he said, offering a hand. In her cop’s habit, she ran his description through her frontal lobe: he was six feet, a hundred and seventy, tanned, with thick, close-cropped, iron-gray hair, a straight nose and a firm jaw, pale blue eyes.

  “At last,” Holly said. He looked like a runner, she thought—very fit. And he was expensively dressed, in a linen jacket, cream silk trousers, and alligator loafers. For a moment, she forgot this was supposed to be business. “Would you like a drink, or would you rather have one at the restaurant?”

  “If you’ve booked, let’s go on,” he said.

  “We’re going to a little French place up the road,” she said. “They have a bar.”

  He led her outside to a silver Mercedes SL600 convertible, which surprised Holly. She fastened her seat belt. “Have FBI agents had a big salary increase?” she asked.

  He laughed. “Nope. Until last week, this belonged to a Colombian gentleman who got out of the country just ahead of us. We confiscated everything. I’m undercover, remember?”

  “I like your disguise,” she said.

  “Oh, I still own a gray suit and a white button-down shirt, like all the other agents,” he said, smiling and revealing very good teeth.

  Holly directed him to the restaurant, and they were seated immediately.

  “Drink?” he asked.

  “A three-to-one vodka gimlet,” Holly said to the waitress. “Straight up and shaken, very cold.”

  “Make it two,” Grant said. “I’ve never had one, but Harry Crisp told me to trust your judgment in all things.”

  “That’s funny,” Holly said, “since Harry almost never does.”

  Their drinks came, and they sipped.

  “Mmmmm,” Grant said, “that’s perfect.”

  “It is, isn’t it?”

  “Harry is a fool not to trust your judgment,” he said, “but you have to understand why.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s a Bureau thing,” Grant said. “The Bureau doesn’t like to rely on outside information or advice until it can corroborate everything to its satisfaction. It goes all the way back to Hoover: The thinking is that nobody could possibly know more than the Bureau about anything. That’s why we’ve always been so lousy at things like running snitches.”

  “I went to a lecture at the FBI academy in Quantico on running snitches, and a DEA agent taught it,” Holly said.

  “My very point. There probably wasn’t an agent in the Bureau who could have done it as well. Harry’s like all other agents, only more so, since he made agent in charge.”

  “Come to think of it,” Holly said, “he was a little more amenable to advice before he got promoted.”

  They looked at the menus and ordered.

  “So, Grant, why are you undercover in Orchid Beach?” she asked.

  “If I told you that, then I wouldn’t be undercover.”

  “In that case, you’re already not undercover, since I know who you are. Is Grant Early your real name, by the way?”

  “It’s Grant Early Harrison,” he replied. “Early was my mother’s maiden name.”

  “That makes it easy to remember, doesn’t it?”

  “And anybody who called the Miami office and asked for Grant Early would just get a, ‘Who?’”

  “Where are you living?”

  “I rented a house on the beach, a few doors north of you, through an agent. I didn’t even see it until yesterday.”

  “So what’s your cover? What did you tell the agent?”

  “I made a bundle with an Internet company and sold out before the collapse of tech, Net stocks—the company exists, and they’d back me up if anybody checked. I’m thinking of permanently locating around here, and I wanted to rent for a while first to see how I like it.”

  “How long is your lease?”

  “Three months, with an option to renew. It’s a very nice house, well furnished. The owners are traveling in Europe for a year.”

  “Is it as nice as the Mercedes?”

  “Yep.”

  “Good for you. Looks like the way to live well in the Bureau is to go undercover.”

  “Not necessarily. My last assignment was as mate on a charter fishing boat out of Key West. I had to grow a beard, which itched, and I smelled like fish for eight months.”

  She laughed. “You got a nice tan, though.”

  “I get that walking down the street in Miami; it’s genetic.”

  “Did the clothes belong to the Colombian gentleman, too?”

  “Nope; they’re my own. I’m fortunate in not being entirely dependent on my Bureau salary. I try to hide that from my colleagues by dressing the way they do on the job. They’re suspicious enough of me already because I’m a bachelor.”

  “Me too,” Holly said, sipping her gimlet. This really did not feel like business.

  Dinner came, and they talked as if they had known each other for a long time. This is a date, Holly thought, any way you slice it. Thank you, Harry Crisp.

  17

  They lingered over coffee and brandy, and Holly hadn’t enjoyed herself so much for a long time. This was different from last night’s dinner with Ed Shine: her companion was an eligible male of the proper age and more than proper mien. She found herself thinking improper thoughts.

  Grant paid the check with a black American Express card, which, she noted, had his cover name emblazoned upon it. He linked his arm in hers as they walked to the car, and when they were inside and headed south on A1A, he made his move. “Would you like to stop and see my new place, have a nightcap, maybe?”

  Yes, she certainly would, Holly thought. “I’m afraid tomorrow is a school day,” she said. “Rain check?” She’d had a fair amount to drink, and she didn’t trust herself.

  “Sure.”

  She was glad he sounded disappointed. “Anyway, you don’t want to take this undercover thing too far, do you?”

  “There’s Bureau time and my time,” he said, “even when undercover.” He reached over and squeezed her hand. “This is definitely my time, and Harry Crisp doesn’t get a report—at least not an honest one.”

  “Why couldn’t you give Harry an honest report?” she asked. “It’s not as though we did anything but have dinner.”

  “Oh, I’ll report that—this time—since Harry made the date for us, but I won’t tell him what I was thinking all evening.”

  She laughed. “I’m glad I don’t report to Harry,” she said.

  “Why? What were you thinking?”

  “There are some thoughts a girl doesn’t share on a first date.”

  “It is a first date, isn’t it? Doesn’t feel like one, though.”

  “This is getting terribly close to a line,” she said. “Pretty soon you’ll be telling me we met in a past life.”

  “No, we didn’t do that; I’d remember. But I’ve probably had more past existences than anyone you know.”

  “Tell me about some of your past existences,” she said.

  “Let’s see, I told you about Key Wes
t, didn’t I?”

  “You reeked of fish for eight months.”

  “Yes. I did nearly a year with a white supremacy group in Arkansas.”

  “You?”

  “I had longer hair and another itchy beard. Then I did six weeks in northern California with a motorcycle gang and a couple of weeks as a drug pilot, between Colombia and the Bahamas.”

  “Only a couple of weeks?”

  “They were on to me; I got the hell out by the skin of my teeth.”

  “What else?”

  “I did some bush flying in Alaska, ostensibly fishing trips for rich businessmen, but the business they were in was highly illegal.”

  “How long you been flying?”

  “Since I was in high school; flying was my first great love.”

  “I took my first lesson yesterday.”

  “Good for you! You’ll love it!”

  “I think I already do. And my first day out, I landed on the beach, or at least, my instructor did.”

  “Lose the engine?”

  “No, we were flying past my house, and I spotted a van parked outside that shouldn’t have been there. I got there just in time to take a pistol upside the head. Daisy, my dog, got an anesthetic dart for her trouble.”

  “I’ve never heard of anybody using a dart on a dog during a domestic break-in,” Grant said.

  “Neither have I. The guy got past my alarm system fairly easily, and earlier, my phones were tapped.”

  “You’re dealing with a pro,” Grant said, “or pros.”

  “Looks that way.” She didn’t tell him how worried she was about this.

  “Do you have any idea who’s behind this?”

  “Not a clue; I’m completely baffled.”

  He stopped talking and seemed deep in thought.

  “You think this might be connected with what you’re working on?” she asked.

  “I don’t think Harry would want me to speculate about that.”

  “Oh, come on, Grant; you don’t have to tell me everything. Maybe you can suggest something about who to take a look at.”

  Grant shook his head. “I’m afraid not.”