BAD TIME TO BE IN IT Read online

  It sounded like Maureen. “Mick? I’m in trouble. Please help—”

  A man’s voice cut her off. “Listen Crome, it’s payback time. You took from me so I’m taking from you. I’ll be in touch.”

  His phone showed a text message. He tapped to open it up and stared at a picture of a scared Maureen with a gun to her head.

  Billy Idol’s “Eyes Without a Face” started playing, blowing a hole through the world.

  Chapter Three

  Belize City, Belize

  Blu Carraway couldn’t waste any more time with the man named Paco bleeding out at his feet. A gunshot wound to the femoral artery caused death inside of five minutes and the man was going fast. The women were still vulnerable even though Blu felt confident there were only the three adversaries. The stubborn man below him had been the last one standing.

  Blu slid the revolver down the waistband of his pants, retrieved his iPhone from a pocket, and selected a number from the recent call feed. Their driver, a contractor Blu used from time to time, answered.

  Blu asked, “The three bears eating their porridge?”

  “Affirmative.”

  That meant the women were safe in the car with the driver.

  “Can you see my location on the tracker?”

  “Be there in ten seconds.”

  It had been a tough couple of days. Blu had spotted the tail after they docked the yacht in the harbor and came ashore. And now the immediate risk was over and they could head out to sea again, although the reason for the attempted ambush eluded him.

  Blu said, “Come and get me.”

  He pressed end and the phone buzzed, signaling an incoming call. Blu looked at the display and answered. “Hey, Harmony.”

  She said, “You need to get back to Charleston. Now.”

  Tuesday morning

  DAY TWO

  After saying a brief goodbye to Jennifer Kincaid and her friends and handing them off to one of Jennifer’s father’s local bodyguards, Blu toted his gear from the G6 private jet to his black Nissan Xterra. The call from Harmony about Maureen’s kidnapping had not been what he wanted to come home to. And the phone call to Crome had not gone any better. He’d been in a rage.

  Blu and Crome both knew they had made many enemies over the years. This could be from any of them. Especially Crome, who did not hesitate to take things up a few notches to get whatever he needed. Blu preferred a little more finesse, but Crome never walked away empty handed.

  Lately, Crome had taken residence at a rental that overlooked the ocean on Folly Beach. The owner of the home, an old friend, gave him a reasonable rate in return for watching over the place while he and his wife traveled abroad.

  The neighbors probably didn’t appreciate the loud motorcycle, but otherwise Blu suspected Crome kept to himself.

  Blu had a key and entered through the front door. He and Crome had been brothers-in-arms for over twenty years. There were few boundaries.

  Crome sat on the back deck staring at the Atlantic Ocean drinking from a cup of coffee and not busting heads, his normal MO.

  He also preferred beer. And he liked to drink late into the night, even now in his forties. Yet here he was drinking coffee. The situation with Maureen seemed to have derailed him.

  A derailed Mick Crome was something Blu had never seen before. The man prided himself on being cool and collected without an Achilles heel—until now.

  Blu said, “How’s it going?”

  Ignoring the question, Crome asked, “How was Belize?”

  “Not bad.” Blu took a seat on a plastic chair next to his business partner.

  “Nice work for the money,” Crome said, “watching three twenty-year-olds sunbathe and shop all day.”

  Blu removed the pistol and holster from his belt and set the rig on the table between them. “So, how do you want to play this?”

  Crome looked over at him. “It’s my problem. Not yours.”

  “No wonder we get along so well,” Blu said. “I tried that line on Billie last year and she told me to go pound sand. I’mma tell you the same thing. Then we’re going to find Maureen and make an example of whoever took her.”

  “No need for you to get dirty on this one, Blu. I got a feeling karma’s come to visit.”

  Blu put his hand on his partner’s shoulder. “We’ll get her back.”

  He tried to shrug it off. “Damn right I am.”

  “No, my friend,” Blu said. “We are.”

  To their right, a set of stairs off the back deck led to the beach. Harmony and Tess crested the top of them just as Blu finished his statement. Harmony crossed her arms. “We all are.”

  Tess nodded. “That’s right.”

  Crome shook his head. “I don’t need you yahoos slowing me down.”

  That was definitely not the right thing to say to the young news correspondents who’d befriended them last year. Even if Harmony had gotten pissed off at Crome, showed her tail, almost got him beat up, and definitely got herself shot. But that was then. Now, the women and Crome and Blu were thick as thieves. Especially since the women had resigned from the Palmetto Pulse newspaper and had gone freelance.

  They made a hell of a lot more money now doing commercials and YouTube video news updates. Since they’d cut their teeth at places like the Pulse and were known by everyone in Charleston County, no one questioned their media credentials.

  Blu thought about hiring them, but realized having them around more than they already were probably wasn’t a good idea. At least as far as he and his girlfriend, Billie, were concerned. Things had cooled since Blu had proposed and Billie had left town before his Belize job, telling him she needed time to take care of her sick mother and think.

  “Now listen, Mick,” Harmony said. “I know you and Mr. Blu over here wouldn’t leave us hanging. We’re in this together. No one messes with any of us. And that is that.”

  Tess said, “So send us the picture and let’s get to work.”

  Blu was proud of them.

  The first stop Blu made after Crome took off to Myrtle Beach and the women left to track down their own sources was to Phineous Soloman, Charleston’s crackerjack photo analyzer. Blu watched the pale, lanky man work on the picture of Maureen in his makeshift office located in a rundown strip mall in North Charleston. His stringy hair and bad complexion didn’t help his appearance.

  “So what I can tell you,” Phineous said, “is that there’s nothing fake about it that I can find.”

  “Any observations?” Blu asked.

  “Yeah,” Phineous said, “whoever took the picture knew what they were doing—white walls, scared woman, gun to the head. No markings on the gun that I can find. You probably know it’s a Glock.”

  Blu leaned in. “Any birth marks on the hand holding it?”

  “None that I can see. It’s his right hand.”

  “You’re sure it’s a man?”

  “Not positive,” Phineous said. “I’d say maybe sixty-five percent.”

  “Scarring? Tats? Anything?”

  “Looks like he, or she, is a nail biter. Check out those ragged digits.”

  Phineous worked the mouse and keypad. He zoomed in on Maureen’s eyes. Then he zoomed in again, first on the left eye, which didn’t show anything. But when he moved to the right eye and zoomed in further, something in the glare came into partial focus.

  He said, “Might have something here.”

  “I thought that only worked in the movies.”

  Phineous smiled. “Digital photography is a wonderful thing. Give me some time and I’ll work on cleaning up the image. Maybe I can tell you something more later.”

  Blu patted him on the back. “Phin, you’re the man.”

  Not sure of what to do next, Blu called Harmony and Tess and they agreed to meet downtown at the Terrace rooftop bar.

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sp; Vaping while he waited, Blu looked out over Marian Square and thought things through. The statue of Francis Marian, the Swamp Fox, stood proud over the grass field. The last time Crome got this wound up he was popping four reds a day. There weren’t any signs he’d backslid into pills, but these situations could be tricky. And they could certainly mess with a man’s head.

  The women showed up, both beautiful but neither happy.

  Harmony said, “I’ve burned four chits and haven’t come up with anything.”

  Chits in their lingo meant favors. For some reason, both ladies had an endless supply of them all over the city, even after they stopped reporting the news in an official capacity.

  Tess said, “I talked to three people and got nowhere. I even talked to Darcy and still nothing.”

  Darcy was the wife of Brack Pelton, the owner of the Pirate’s Cove bar on the Isle of Palms. She worked for her family’s business, Wells Shipping, as head of their marketing and promotion efforts. But before that, she had been the most successful news correspondent in Charleston with sources all over the lowcountry. If she didn’t know anything, then it was safe to assume no one else in Charleston County did, either.

  Maureen lived alone in Myrtle Beach since her son went off to the Navy. As far as Blu could tell, she and Crome were an on-again, off-again item, mostly due to Crome being Crome and wanting his sole legal relationship to be with his motorcycle.

  Blu said, “Phineous might be able to tell us something.”

  Harmony looked at Tess and then both eyed Blu.

  Tess said, “We are not going to visit, call, date, or so much as be in any kind of close proximity to Phineous Solomon. Is that clear?”

  Blu held up his hands. “No one’s asking you to.”

  “Not yet,” Harmony said. “But it will only be a matter of time before he does.”

  Tess nodded. “Just like the last time.”

  “Okay, now,” Blu said, “the last time all he wanted was to receive the check from you two.”

  “In person,” Harmony said. “Yuck.”

  “Don’t try to pimp us out again,” Tess said.

  “Yeah,” Harmony said. “Even if it is for Crome. We have our limits.”

  Chapter Four

  Tuesday

  Mick Crome rode fast and hard to Myrtle Beach and pulled into the gravel parking lot of Bert’s, the dive bar where Maureen worked. The day was hot, the sky clear of any shading clouds.

  He dropped the kickstand and leaned the bike onto it.

  Before he approached anybody, he had to get his head screwed on straight. Seeing the fear in Maureen’s eyes and knowing that it was because of him was something he had to put aside for the moment.

  Whoever took Maureen was egging him on. They might even be scoping out the place, waiting for him to show.

  His boots crunched on the gravel lot as he walked over to the building which consisted of two shipping containers welded together with the sides cut out. The smell of the ocean, even two miles inland, enveloped him.

  Bert Dorman, the owner who looked a lot like Crome except two decades older, approached. He had a thick mustache that trailed down the sides of his mouth and connected to a week-old beard. A biker do-rag held back long, scraggly hair.

  Dorman and Crome had ridden together in the nineties, raising hell all over the lowcountry. That was before Crome got serious with Blu about their investigation business. Well, really it was Blu’s business. Crome preferred it that way.

  He and Dorman shook hands with an arm-wrestler’s grip and then let go.

  Dorman asked, “You holding up?”

  “Not really,” Crome said. “When was the last time you seen her?”

  “She worked last night and then I get the call from you at noon.” Dorman put his hand on Crome’s shoulder. “I’m all tore up about it.”

  “Anything you can tell me? You see any strange characters here?”

  “Here? Hell, Crome. They’re all strange characters.”

  Crome scanned the lot. In addition to his motorcycle, it contained a thirty-year-old rusted out pickup truck, an ancient Saab, and a banged-up Toyota. None of them resting on blocks. Crome had a hunch they all ran and were the vehicles of Dorman’s wait staff.

  “What I can’t figure out is why?” Crome said. “And what they want. All I’ve got is this picture of her.”

  “Is the picture real?” Dorman asked.

  “A guy I know who’s good at that stuff is checking it out.”

  “You wanna beer or something?”

  Crome looked around one more time. “You got any coffee?”

  “Sure do.”

  Crome stopped at Maureen’s trailer next. Since her son had joined the Navy and moved out, they had gone about christening every room in the most adventurous way. That is, when she wasn’t pissed off at him for being a stubborn jackass.

  Her son was out to sea and Crome had no idea how to contact him. He’d leave that alone until he knew more.

  He used his key and went inside. Maureen didn’t have much, but she took care of what she did have. Even when her son lived there, he had to keep his room and the bathroom squared away. Moving through the unit, Crome tried to think of what it usually looked like and if there was anything different. But he kept coming up short.

  After walking through four times and getting more frustrated with each attempt, Crome sat down at the vintage metal kitchen table to think.

  Maureen was a smart woman. Life had dealt her a tough hand. She’d managed to make the most of it. If she had been taken against her will here, she’d have left clues.

  He got up and went outside. The short, gravel drive was empty.

  Where was her car? It wasn’t at the bar and it wasn’t here.

  The nine-acre island Blu called home was surrounded by marsh and changed in size depending on the tide. His great grandfather had bought the land for next to nothing and built a life on it. Each generation of Carraway men had married and produced a son. Blu was the first to challenge the tradition—he was divorced and so far had no son. Well, really he was the second. His father had broken the tradition by going out and marrying a Cuban woman. Blu’s mother had escaped Castro’s Cuba as a child and had made her way with her family to Miami on a flimsy boat. Blu’s father met her there, they’d fallen in love, and he brought her to Charleston. They traveled now, living off a small inheritance from her father.

  A small herd of wild horses called Carolina Marsh Tackeys, a breed indigenous to the lowcountry, had come with the island and never left even though there was no fencing. Blu filled the water trough for the horses with a garden hose and watched his daughter park her ancient Suzuki Sidekick beside his truck. She’d taken care of things at his house while he was out of town.

  Hope’s twenty-one-year-old smiling face beamed at him and his heart lifted.

  She got out of her vehicle. “Hi, Dad.”

  The less intelligent of the Tackeys, a pair named Dink and Doofus, left the trough and blocked her path. From a survival standpoint, these two wouldn’t stand a chance. The fight-or-flight instinct had not developed in them. On the other hand, intelligence could be measured many ways. They stood guard to collect the entrance fee—treats. Dink’s brown mane had a few new tangles in it. Doofus’ dirty snow coat looked cleaner, most likely due to an earlier gallop through the surf.

  The temperature crested ninety-five, causing Blu to wipe sweat off his face.

  Hope gave each horse an apple and came over and hugged her father. “How’re you doing?”

  It wasn’t just a surface question. Hope wanted to know about Billie.

  “I’m okay,” he said.

  After eyeing him for a minute—she was his daughter, after all, and therefore inclined to investigate—she let it go. “How’s Mick?”

  Blu had called her from the private jet on his
return from Belize and told her about the kidnapping and to be careful.

  “Tougher question,” he said. “Holding it together, but he’s wound up real tight.”

  So tight that since Blu returned from the security detail, he hadn’t seen his partner take a drink.

  While the horses chomped on their treats, Hope retrieved a satchel from her truck. The Latin skin she’d inherited from Blu gleamed in the sunlight. With her long, curly hair, high cheekbones, and button nose, she was eye-catching and, to Blu, beautiful as only a daughter could be to her father.

  She held the bag up. “I brought sub sandwiches. Want to eat on the back porch?”

  “Sure.”

  They set up on the porch underneath a spinning ceiling fan. Blu had refrained from installing air conditioning in his house, although his tolerance to the heat waned as the years ticked on. While the mosquitoes ignored Blu, they devoured everyone else. Hope sprayed on a layer of bug repellant before she sat.

  Unwrapping a sub, she asked, “How can I help you and Mick find Maureen?”

  “I don’t want you to help at all,” Blu said and realized he shouldn’t have.

  “With all due respect, Dad, I didn’t ask if I could help. I asked how I could help. The difference is subtle but I figured you’d pick up on it.” Hope had her mother’s beauty. From him, she’d gotten her eyes and skin. And also her doggedness. Sometimes it was like arguing with himself, and how could one do that?

  Not very well, as he’d found out over the years.

  “I’m sorry it came out that way,” he said. “You know it’s not that I don’t think you could, it’s that—”

  “It’s that you’re afraid something will happen to me. I get it.”

  “You say you get it. And I think you do on some level. But…” He paused and gathered his thoughts. “It was like last year when Harmony and Tess helped me and Mick. They were smart and driven. But I lost sleep over worrying about them and they aren’t even my flesh and blood. I’m asking you, for my sake, to stay on the sidelines. If I put you in any danger again…let’s just say I don’t want to.”