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  But for the mess at the table, everything seemed to be where it should be, though the décor confirmed the apartment as a bachelor’s. Black leather sofa. Enormous television.

  No sign of Ryan Finnegan.

  She took a moment to study the mess in the dining room. The thin layer of orange juice had dried into a shiny, sticky armor, though some of the liquid in the glass was still just that. Liquid. The broken shards of plate on the ground had dried egg stuck to it. She guessed that the mess had been that way for a few days.

  Charlotte hadn’t found Ryan dead. That was a step in the right direction. But she hadn’t found any sign that he’d left peacefully either.

  She exited and locked the door behind her.

  Outside, she walked past the gate with no particular concern. Condo gatekeepers didn’t care who left.

  She found Declan waiting for her next to his car.

  “How’d it go?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “Sasha there in the booth says it’s going to rain later today, she saw a Maserati earlier which she someday hopes to own, and her brother washes cars, like for reals. I have his card.”

  “Excellent. I’ll be sure to call the next time I need my Maserati waxed.”

  “Did you find who you’re looking for?”

  She shook her head. “It looks like he left in a real hurry and someone might have helped him along.”

  “Was there blood?”

  She laughed. “You’re so dramatic. You know not everything I investigate involves blood.”

  “No blood? Yeesh. You can bore me with the details at lunch.”

  Her gaze drifted across the street to an open-air restaurant called Shark Town Tiki Bar. The establishment was dark and dingy and, but for the name, didn’t deserve to be so close to the ocean.

  “Let’s eat over there.”

  Declan cocked an eyebrow. “Really?” He paused and Charlotte watched as his surprised expression morphed into one of suspicion. “Ah. You have a hunch your guy spent some time there.”

  “I do. It’s at his doorstep.”

  He nodded. “Makes sense.”

  They crossed the street and entered the bar. The yellowing polyurethane bar top trapped a sea of shells and beer caps beneath it, like a beach-bum dinosaur’s DNA sealed in amber. Charlotte sat and lifted her hands in the air as the sticky surfaces threatened to permanently claim her flesh. At the opposite end of the long bar, an older woman with a platinum helmet of hair sat drinking a pink cocktail. The bartender, a pudgy man in his mid-forties wearing a parrot-patterned short sleeve shirt, approached without smiling.

  “What can I getcha?”

  Charlotte forced a smile as her gaze swept over a row of cheesy, beach-and-bikini-based advertisements behind the bar. “Corona light?”

  The bartender nodded to Declan, who wore the same unconvincing smile Charlotte imagined she’d projected.

  “Same.”

  With a nod, the bartender walked in the direction of the platinum blonde to grab the beers.

  Charlotte leaned toward Declan and whispered. “You order a bottled beer because you’re afraid to use the glasses in this joint?”

  He answered without changing his expression. “Yep. You?”

  “Yep. Want to order some sushi?”

  He laughed.

  The bartender returned with two Coronas and Charlotte spoke before he could lumber away.

  “We were looking for my uncle and thought he might be here. Ryan Finnegan. Do you know him?”

  The blonde woman’s head swiveled. “Ryan’s your uncle?”

  Charlotte nodded. “You know him?”

  The woman flicked out a crimson tipped index finger like a switch blade and poked it in Charlotte’s direction. “You tell that bastard where to go for me.”

  Charlotte heard Declan mumble, “Oh boy,” behind her.

  “Do you know where my uncle is? He was supposed to be here but we knocked on his door and he didn’t answer.”

  The woman scowled so tightly it was as if all her features had scurried into the center of her face. “He was supposed to meet me, too. Maybe I shouldn’t be so offended seeing as he stood up his own niece.” She laughed bitterly to herself.

  “He was supposed to meet you today?”

  “A week ago.”

  Charlotte had the passing thought that the woman looked like she’d been sitting there waiting for a week.

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  The woman rolled her eyes. “The last time I saw him he was sneaking around my bedroom picking his clothes up off the floor, thinking I was asleep.”

  “About a week ago?”

  “Yeah. He forgot his phone. I told Pete to tell him I’d meet him here to give it to him. I couldn’t call him ‘cuz—”

  “You had his phone. Who’s Pete?”

  She nodded toward the bartender.

  “I’m Pete,” he said, digging in his ear with his middle finger.

  “This is where we hooked up, so I thought Pete could relay the message.” The woman said relay the message as if she were translating a fancy foreign phrase.

  Charlotte turned to the bartender. “You know Ryan?”

  He shrugged. “He comes in a couple times a week for a rum and Coke. I don’t know him other than he hates flat Coke. Got a real stick up his butt about flat Coke.”

  Charlotte nodded. Fascinating factoid, but she doubted Ryan’s distaste for flat Coke would blow the case wide open.

  “So, neither of you have seen him for a week?”

  Pete nodded. “’Bout that. I told him Sally had his phone. He told me to tell her he’d meet her here.”

  “And he never showed.”

  Sally leaned down to grab her purse, nearly toppling from her bar stool as she stooped. She aborted the mission and took a moment to steady herself, before fishing for the large bag’s handles with her sandal-clad foot. She hooked the straps with her toes and lifted the bag high enough off the ground to grab it. Probing inside, she produced a cell phone and slid it down the bar toward Charlotte. It went wildly left, but Pete caught it.

  “There’s his stinkin’ phone. If you see him, tell him we’re through.”

  Pete handed Charlotte the phone and she pushed a few buttons.

  “What kind of phone is that?” asked Declan, peering over her shoulder.

  “Old. Very old. And very dead.”

  “Where are you going to find a charger? Do you need to go back to his apartment?”

  Charlotte chuckled. “Pineapple Port is a retirement community. If I can’t find a charger for this there, it doesn’t exist.”

  Chapter Nine

  Mariska pulled open her kitchen drawer, revealing a sea of black phone charger cords. A few had plugs large enough to serve as doorstops.

  “One of these should work,” said Mariska.

  Charlotte tried four before she found a strange gap-toothed prong that fit Ryan’s phone perfectly. “That’ll do it. I knew as soon as I saw his phone you’d have something that worked.”

  “It isn’t the same as mine.”

  “No, but it was personally signed by Alexander Graham Bell so I knew I had a shot.” Charlotte glanced at Mariska’s own ancient flip-phone and Mariska tucked it to her chest protectively.

  “My phone works fine.”

  “When I send you photos they show up as Chinese characters. That’s not how that’s supposed to work.”

  Mariska grunted. “Want some sausages and peppers? Declan, have you had my sausages and peppers?”

  Declan looked up from where he sat beside Charlotte. “I have. And I’d love to, but we need to get to Jackie’s club—”

  Charlotte’s elbow jerked against Declan’s ribs and he stopped short with a tiny oof.

  Mariska’s brow wrinkled. “Did you say Jackie’s club?”

  “Uh, hm? I think I left my car running. Just a second...” Declan grabbed his keys from the counter, flashed Mariska a smile and dashed from the house.

 
Mariska watched him go and then focused her curiosity on Charlotte. “Did he say Jackie’s club? What does that mean?”

  Charlotte sighed. “You know I can’t tell you or you’ll tell everyone.”

  “I will not.”

  “You told me what I was getting for Christmas every year, days before I could open my presents.”

  “You wanted to know.”

  “Of course I wanted to know, but you’re supposed to not tell me.”

  “I didn’t let you have them until Christmas.”

  “I got my ten-speed bike on Thanksgiving.”

  Mariska huffed. “That doesn’t count. It was too big to keep hidden. You were a very inquisitive little girl.”

  Charlotte sighed. “Fine. I’ll tell you, but only because if I don’t you’ll go around asking about Jackie’s mysterious club until everyone in Pineapple Port is trying to figure out what you’re talking about.”

  Mariska’s expression didn’t change, so she continued.

  “Jackie has a secret dance club.”

  Mariska’s eyes grew wide. “At her house?”

  “No, out in the woods thirty minutes or so from here. It’s a disco for older people.”

  “Why didn’t she ever tell me?”

  “She didn’t want anyone in Pineapple Port to know. Remember, her husband was a slum lord—she doesn’t want her neighbors thinking she’s shady, too. Plus neighbors are a pain.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Charlotte sighed. “You know. It’s a bar. There’s always complications when alcohol is involved. She didn’t want her neighbors to get into fights and end up mad at her. I imagine she didn’t want you all plying her for free drinks, either.”

  Mariska’s chest puffed. “I would never expect free drinks.”

  “Mm hm. Anyway, she’s apparently having a little trouble and she asked Seamus for help, who in turn asked Declan.”

  “And you’re going, too? What kind of trouble?”

  Charlotte nodded. “Nothing big. Silly stuff.”

  Mariska frowned. “Well, you be careful. Those dance clubs are full of drugs.”

  “You think if I go there they’re just going to pelt me with drugs?”

  “You never know.”

  Charlotte checked Ryan’s phone. The ancient piece of equipment wasn’t a speedy charger. She unplugged it from the wall.

  “Do you mind if I take this plug?”

  “No.”

  “Thanks.” Charlotte gathered up the cord and headed for the door.

  “Keep an eye on your cocktail if you drink at the club. Don’t drink any rooskies,” Mariska called after her.

  Charlotte paused. “It’s rufies, and this is exactly what Jackie was afraid of. I’m sure the club isn’t scary. It’s a disco for old people.”

  “Oh.”

  Charlotte barely had the time to put her hand on the knob to leave before Mariska called out again.

  “Stay away from the dirty old men!”

  Chapter Ten

  Mariska crawled onto her bed to peer out the window facing the street. She heard the toilet flush and her husband, Bob, stepped out of the bathroom.

  “Did I hear Charlotte?” he asked.

  Mariska nodded and watched as Declan and Charlotte pulled from her driveway and drove away.

  “What are you doing?”

  Mariska crawled backwards off the bed. “Nothing.”

  Bob turned and strolled from the bedroom, muttering under his breath. “I swear you get weirder every day.”

  Mariska opened her flip phone and dialed Darla.

  “Hello?”

  “Darla, Jackie has a bar dance club disco.”

  “What?”

  Mariska cast a furtive glance down the hall. She made a little cave with her hand over her mouth and the phone to be sure Bob couldn’t overhear.

  “Jackie has a bar dance club disco,” she whispered.

  “What’s a bar dance club disco? And why are you whispering?”

  Mariska heard the familiar creak of the front door. Bob had wandered outside to do his afternoon chores. Creeping deep into the living room, farthest away from the garage where most of the afternoon chores occurred, Mariska lowered in her comfy Laz-E-Boy.

  “Charlotte told me Jackie owns some sort of dance club disco with a bar out in the forest.”

  “You mean a booze bar? That kind of bar? Out in what forest?”

  “I don’t know. She said it’s out in the woods.”

  “You mean out in the swamp.” Darla fell silent and then continued, sounding more irritated than she had a moment before. “Why wouldn’t Jackie tell us she had a booze bar in the swamp? That sounds like a hoot.”

  “Charlotte thinks she doesn’t want us to think poorly of her.”

  Darla snorted. “I think poorly of her because she didn’t tell me she had a booze bar. I could have saved a fortune on drinks.”

  Mariska pursed her lips, realizing Charlotte might have had a point about neighbors expecting discounts.

  “When is it open?” asked Darla.

  “I don’t know. Charlotte and Declan are on their way over there now. Jackie needed something and they’re helping Seamus do whatever it is.”

  “Hm. We should go there.”

  “But they’d see us.”

  “That’s the point. We’ll confront Jackie for keeping her secret.”

  “Confront her?”

  “Not mean-like. We’ll just go when we know she’s there, so she can’t pretend it isn’t there, because we know it’s there and there are witnesses.”

  Mariska considered Darla’s logic. “And it’s daylight now so it might be easier to find...”

  “Good point. We don’t want to end up hip-deep in alligators.”

  “I thought the pythons ate all the alligators.”

  “I think it depends on the day of the week.”

  Mariska sprang to her feet and then sat again, realizing she still didn’t know where the club was. “Tell you what...I’ll pick you up in fifteen minutes. I need time to find out where the club is exactly. What should we wear? Should we wear dance clothes?”

  Darla laughed. “Dance clothes? Like what? A tutu?”

  “No, I was thinking maybe I should wear something nicer than shorts though.”

  “Hmm. I see what you’re saying. She might have afternoon dancing.”

  “I wonder how we can find out what to wear.”

  “We’d know if she invited us.”

  “Exactly. I think we should wear something a little warmer because she probably has the air conditioning up so the dancers don’t get sweaty.”

  “That’s a good point.”

  “Okay, I’ll see you soon.”

  Mariska disconnected and scurried to the bedroom to put on her stretchy slacks. They looked nice and she could move in them, just in case she had to dance. She swapped her every day scoop-neck tee for a matching flowing black-and-white blouse, and, feeling too staid, added a chunky bright lime necklace. Slipping into shiny black flats, she opened her underwear draw and felt beneath her bras. Her fingers touched plastic and she retrieved the object she’d hidden there.

  Her smartphone.

  Day to day she still used her flip phone—still suffered Charlotte’s ribbing for owning such an archaic piece of technology—because she didn’t want Charlotte to know she’d bought a smart phone.

  More specifically, she didn’t want Charlotte to know why she’d bought a smart phone.

  The fancy phone sprang to life and Mariska clicked on the locator app.

  She’d bought it, because smart phones could track your loved ones.

  Mariska smiled as the glowing dot representing Charlotte appeared on her screen.

  It had taken Mariska two tries, fiddling with Charlotte’s phone when she wasn’t looking, but she’d managed to connect the two phones.

  She could find Charlotte anywhere.

  If that girl thinks she’s going to become a private detective wit
hout someone keeping an eye on her, she has another thing coming.

  Mariska touched up her makeup, grabbed her purse and headed outside.

  Bob sat on the cement fiddling with the golf cart battery. He looked up at her as she opened her car door.

  “Where you going all gussied up?”

  “Darla and I are going shopping.”

  He rolled his eyes as she slid into her Volkswagen and waved at him through the window.

  Chapter Eleven

  It was time to quit.

  Stephanie couldn’t live with her own hypocrisy anymore. She’d made a little progress. She’d been determined to turn over a new leaf of sorts, but she couldn’t kid herself any longer. Momma’s serial killer DNA was having too much fun working for Louis. Killing bad people for a bad person wasn’t putting the “heal” in double-helix any time soon.

  She had to stop.

  Declan wouldn’t consider her current occupation in the gray area as a win. She wished she could stop thinking about him. She’d realized too late there was something about that tall, dark handsome man—their history, the way he knew her—she needed him. He kept her stable.

  He’d always been her favorite pet. Pets weren’t supposed to stray. Like a good dog, he was noble. One only had to meet his do-gooder, wannabe detective girlfriend to know he was attracted to the light. Once he’d run around the jungles of Columbia battling drug cartels with her—now he preferred loping around with Princess Sunshine and the Golden Girls.

  Sad. I need to save him from himself.

  She’d thought working for Louis culling a rival drug crew could make her rich and satiate her bloodlust. No one could hold it against her for killing drug dealers, right? She was a white hat, now.

  But what had started as a tiny itch at the back of her brain was becoming impossible to ignore.

  Killing low-level drug peddlers was like shooting fish in a barrel. She’d killed more losers in the last two weeks than she had the whole year previous. That would be the opposite of progress.

  But was it all bad?

  She smiled to herself, remembering the wreath of fingers she’d hung on the door of the last surviving rival kingpin’s captains. It was a small wreath. Sixteen digits, generously spaced. The urban legends she heard about herself had it described as a full-sized wreath, but that would take a lot of fingers.