The Witness (Miami Private Security #4)

8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Michael

“ Y our brother sounds like a real pain in the ass. Was he in the military?” I pulled the Smith Agency armor-plated SUV on to I-95 North. We called it The Tank. My theory was Smith bought it secondhand from the Secret Service. The rolling fortress was perfect for chauffeuring foreign dignitaries from less than savory countries around Miami. It seemed like overkill for this mission, but Smith insisted.

He also told me to take Noah Kennedy. We were both carrying 9mm Sigs under our jackets, a fact Sabrina was unaware of, but Smith had wanted us armed. Fucking ominous, if you asked me. This was south Florida, not Bogotá.

Smith had accepted that Sabrina’s mom was going to be coming to the office. But he wasn’t happy about it. To him, it was a distraction from the goal. He’d been on the edge of forbidding me to take Sabrina to Palm Beach Gardens until I pointed out there was no way I could pull a hysterical octogenarian out of a place like Silver Palms alone. I needed Sabrina on this mission, or security at the facility would call the cops on me.

“Gary wanted to be in the army but had flat feet or something. It’s been so long I don’t remember the details.” Sabrina sat in the middle of the backseat so she could chat with us.

“I know those kinds of guys. They all seem to end up as cops that wear mirrored aviator sunglasses and have porn-star-worthy mustaches.” Kennedy said from the front passenger seat.

I knew the type too—assholes. They were the cops that liked to hassle me for looking like I was in a motorcycle club even though those days were long past for me.

“Talking to Gary sounds like a job for Derek Sawyer. A Navy SEAL will instantly have his respect.” Kennedy had twisted in his seat to face Sabrina as he spoke.

“I love that idea.” Sabrina leaned forward and patted Kennedy on the arm. I agreed; Sawyer played the hard-ass operator as well as any Hollywood actor and had the real-world experience to back it up.

“You’re sure you don’t want to talk with him?” I caught her eye in the rear-view mirror for a split second.

“Maybe after your SEAL explains things and we have Mom. She and I can tag team him effectively.” She leaned back and sighed. “Our relationship as adults is strained. Gary is still pissed that I actually liked mom’s second husband. In his mind, I’m a traitor to our father’s memory. Mom was a widow, and we were grown. I was happy she found a second love. Vito Colasanti was a great guy. A bit rough around the edges, but he treated Mom like a queen. He’s the one that set her up at Silver Palms. Left her a nice nest egg, too.”

“I get it. Family is complicated.” My own included, I thought. “Kennedy, text and explain the situation to Sawyer. See if our favorite SEAL has time to make the call to Gary for us.”

“Roger that.” Kennedy bent over his phone and a few texts flew back and forth between him and Sawyer. He asked Sabrina for her brother’s phone number, which she had to think hard to remember without her cell phone. “Sawyer will talk to officer Dalton.”

“Thank you. Tell Mr. Sawyer I owe him. What does he like to eat? I’ll cook for him.”

“Strawberries.” Noah and I answered in stereo.

“That’s a new one. I’ll have to think about it. I’m not a great baker, but I guess I could try.”

“He is kind of a health nut too,” I added, thinking about how Derek had broken free of some of his restraints since Lee Vance and he had gotten together. But he was still a pretty clean eater.

“What about you guys, favorite meals? If I’m going to be hiding in your building forever, I might as well cook for everyone. It’s the least I can do.” I couldn’t see her shrug of resignation in the rear-view mirror, but it came across in her voice loud and clear.

I wasn’t so sure she should plan on being a long-term guest of the Smith Agency. John Smith was many things, but patient wasn’t at the top of the list. He was like a chess player with a queen holding his opponent’s king in check. Once he was sure it was a winning move, he’d go in for the kill. Sandoval’s days were numbered.

“I’m up for taco Tuesday every day of the week.” Kennedy threw out.

“What kind?”

“I’ve never met a taco I didn’t love.” Kennedy rubbed his flat stomach with one hand.

“Alright. I make a great pork shoulder; it will feed everyone. What about you, Michael?”

There it was again, that blip in my pulse when she used my name. It was a dangerous, if lovely, sensation. One that had no place in my work life, but that didn’t stop it from happening.

“My mom used to make these big pans of old school red sauce lasagna for family special occasions. Tons of cheese and meat. I haven’t had any half as good as hers in decades.”

“I’m sorry she passed away; food memories are a great way to—”

“No. She, ah, lives in Boynton Beach. She just doesn’t make it anymore.”

Lasagna was my sister’s favorite and thus, like everything else related to Marney, better off forgotten. My family had a gaping hole in it the size and shape of my sister. One that had been there so long we all knew the void was permanent.

“Sorry, my bad.” She reached over the seat and patted my shoulder.

I made a sound that was half a huff and half an uncomfortable chuckle, too distracted by her hand to come up with a more eloquent response while driving. Her touch made me think of doing more than shielding her from Sandoval’s henchmen.

“I can groove on some old school Italian. Maybe add a bit of ground bison or pancetta to make it super decadent.” She squeezed the spot where my neck met my shoulder one last time before letting go.

“I’ll buy the wine and make salad.” That sounded like a date. Me, Sabrina, and all the Smith Agency employees. Perfect. I was delusional.

“Deal.” Our gazes met in the rear-view mirror, and this time it was more than a blip. My pulse kicked into overdrive. I could easily fall for this woman.

The conversation about our favorite foods, the best meals we’d ever had, and her plans for Viande’s menu kept us all entertained as we drove north. The Sunday traffic on I-95 was light, and we rolled up to the security booth at Silver Palms in record time. Sabrina flashed the guard who knew her name a smile and told him a made-up story about her lost ID. He chuckled and wished her luck at the DMV as he gave us access to retiree paradise.

“Damn, this place is posh.” Noah whistled as we rounded the driveway’s center island overflowing with perfectly maintained landscaping and pulled under the gracious porte-cochere.

The sprawling four-story compound was built in Florida’s popular Mizner style. It looked like a super-sized mansion. Behind the building, golfers dotted the emerald green grass of the private course. Near the building entrance, a uniformed bellman waited to open our doors and a valet parker had a ticket at the ready to trade for the SUV.

“Hi Jaques, can we leave the car up here? We won’t be long. We're picking up Mom,” Sabrina rolled down the window to ask before the bellman opened our doors.

“Of course. No problem at all, Ms. Dalton.” The man’s rich Jamaican accent gave the answer a lilting singsong quality. “Pull into that loading zone.”

“Do they know everyone’s name?” I parked the SUV and cut the engine.

“Pretty much. The staff here is unbelievable. Silver Palms is like a five-star cruise ship that never leaves port. Wait until you see the inside,” Sabrina said.

The inside didn’t disappoint. Silver Palms had decorated for the holidays, and I mean all of them. Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, winter solstice. Fresh pine boughs, twinkling lights, tinsel, menorahs, and more festooned every available space in the grand hotel-like lobby and the adjoining wood-paneled cocktail bar.

In the bar, groups of mostly ladies sipped bloody marys and mimosas. They were dressed to the nines, from their perfectly styled white hair to their polished toes in their orthopedic thong shoes.

“When I get old, I’m moving here.” Kennedy did a full 360-degree turn to take in the lobby and bar as we waited for the elevator.

A table of older ladies enjoyed the view eyeing him front and back. One saucy minx even gave him a finger wave he returned. Given the chance, I was sure Kennedy would join their boozy brunch. He was our resident ladies' man and didn’t discriminate. All women were fair game when he was flirting.

I sighed and shoved his shoulder as the elevator doors opened. “Get in, Romeo.”

Upstairs, we followed Sabrina to her mother’s apartment and stepped inside. It was like stepping inside a gold and pale peach jewelry box. Fancy wallpaper, chandeliers dripping with crystals, and artwork in thick gilt frames.

“Mom, we’re here,” she called out.

A lady I assumed was Sabrina’s mom came around the corner using a cane and dragging a sizable wheeled suitcase. She was petite like her daughter and wore a flowing caftan that brought to mind 1970s loungewear. “Sabrina, thank God. I was so worried.”

The two women shared a long embrace, the tender moment shattered by an awful screech from a seriously pissed off bird.

“You’re fucking late!” In a gilded cage on the other side of the room was a blue and gold macaw with his feathers puffed out. He pointed one sharp black talon in my direction, like I was the tardy arrival. Birds creeped me out. Their beady eyes and sharp beaks were a huge hell no from me. And that this one talked was next level uncomfortable.

Sabrina and her mother ignored the bird, turning to introductions.

“Mom, this is Michael Steel and Noah Kennedy. They are from the security company I mentioned. They are helping me with the ah, misunderstanding. This is my mother. Minerva Colasanti.”

We all shook hands. Minerva informed us we were to call her by her first name, as Mrs. Colasanti was her deceased husband’s mother. For a small woman, Minerva’s handshake was steady and her gaze penetrating. I decided the cane was more affectation than necessity.

“Don’t even try that dimple and wink on me, young man. I know your type,” Minerva admonished Kennedy when he tried the you two are sisters aren’t you routine. Her bullshit meter was intact and fully functioning, no question.

“You’re all packed?” Sabrina eyed the suitcase big enough to hold a dead body.

“There are two more bags in the bedroom and, of course, we need to box up Captain Morgan.”

“Damn, I knew I liked you, Minerva. Are you a Daiquiri or Dark 'n' Stormy kind of gal?” Kennedy asked.

“Neither. That’s my husband’s parrot’s name.” Minerva hooked her thumb over her shoulder at the big gold cage.

The thought of being locked in The Tank with a bird that size gave me heebie-jeebies. I could handle gunfire, bar fights, and Miami drivers, but I drew a line on car travel with a super-sized murder chicken.

“No way.” I said it before I could stop myself.

“No how! No how!” The bird sang out. On this, he and I agreed.

“See, he wants to stay.” I threw up my hands, hoping this would be the end of the story.

“Not a bird guy?” Sabrina asked.

I winced. “Not even a little.”

“He’s coming or we’re staying here. You can tell me all about the misunderstanding that landed you on the local news and had FBI agents visiting my home.” Minerva flounced to the cream loveseat and plopped down, arms crossed, waiting.

Sabrina looked at me, her eyebrows raised so high they almost touched her hairline. Fuck my life. I was about to agree to take the damn bird with us; I knew it.

“Is the traveling box secure?” I wondered if it could be strapped to the roof or if that might be an animal welfare situation.

“What kind of irresponsible parrot owner do you think I am?” Minerva’s icy tone made clear how I’d offended her.

“Point taken. Alright, I guess Tweety rolls with us.” I rubbed a hand over my beard and tried not to envision a parrot plucking out my eyeballs with his long, curved beak. Or the look John Smith would give me when the Captain arrived at the office.

“Thank you. Now Noah, would you be a dear and grab the dog crate in the hall closet? Keep it out of Morgan’s view. He can get a little flustered.” Minerva stood, smoothing her dress and walking with a determined stride toward the bird while making cooing noises. She left her cane leaning on the sofa.

I moved behind Sabrina and bent to whisper in her ear. “I’m already regretting this.”

She leaned back until she was almost pressed to my chest. Her chin lifted, and she looked up at me. We were almost touching, the barest hint of space separating her back from my front. It would be easy to rest a hand on her hip and tuck her against me. Too easy to drop my head and press a kiss to her lips. So tempting.

“Hush, the Captain can smell fear.” A hint of a smile played about her lips.