Malice In Miami E-Book

Barbara Venkataraman

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Reluctant family law attorney Jamie Quinn is loving life - and why wouldn't she? Her boyfriend Kip is back from Australia, her long-lost dad finally has his visa and she's about to start her dream job at an art foundation.

It all falls apart when Jamie is accused of stealing priceless art from a rare book collection. If she can't find out who framed her, she can kiss her dream job goodbye, and her law license too. Meanwhile, Kip has problems of his own. Now an environmental activist, he uncovers a deadly secret - one that just might get him killed.

Jamie's in trouble, Kip's in danger, and Duke Broussard has gone AWOL. How could Jamie's favorite P.I. abandon her at a time like this?

Leseprobe

MALICE IN MIAMI

JAMIE QUINN COZY MYSTERIES BOOK 6

BARBARA VENKATARAMAN

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

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About the Author

Copyright (C) 2021 Barbara Venkataraman

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2021 by Next Chapter

Published 2021 by Next Chapter

Cover art by CoverMint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author’s permission.

The only thing standing in the way of you being a hero is you.

Erin Brockovich

CHAPTER1

"For God's sake, Kip, just admit it. You're an adrenaline junkie!"

"I knewyou'd say that." Kip laughed, beguiling me with his dimples. "Come on, Jamie, you act like I'm bungee jumping into the Grand Canyon. It's not that dangerous if you know what you're doing--"

"--Which you don't!" I pointed out. "Why do you torture me like this? Don't you love me?" I batted my eyes, exerting all of my feminine wiles, which only made him laugh again.

He glanced at the old-fashioned clock on the kitchen wall. "Better get going." Kip took a swig from his Save the Whales mug.

"Why, big plans today? Maybe wrestling an alligator naked?"

Choking on his coffee, Kip squeaked out "Which one of us is naked?"

"Who do you think?" I said, slamming the dishes into the dishwasher. I turned to face him, hands on my hips. "Let's recap, shall we? I wait months for you to come home from Australia--where all your love and devotion was lavished on wombats who didn't appreciate it--and now you spring this on me? This…this…craziness."

He stood up and stretched, still waking up. "Which is the crazy part, working nights?" he feigned innocence.

I shook my head, flummoxed by my tree-hugging boyfriend's bizarre behavior. "I never knew you had this blood-thirsty Rambo, Die Hard, Call of Duty side to you and it scares the hell out--"

Suddenly, Kip rushed me like a defensive tackle, pulled me into a hug and spun us around. He set me back on my feet and kissed me. I ruffled his hair affectionately, locking my arms behind his back and squeezing as hard as I could.

"Are you taking me prisoner?" he teased.

"No. I'm showing you what you signed up for." Then I gave him a nip on his bare shoulder.

"Ow! Is this what girlfriends do now?"

"No," I said. "It's what pythons in the Everglades do. You'd better get used to it."

An hour later, Kip waved good-bye as he backed his Chevy Volt out of my driveway. Still in pajamas I returned the wave from the front stoop muttering, "This isn't over yet, buddy". Then I went back inside to start my morning routine: feed Mr. Paws his stinky food, scrub the coffee pot, etc. My body was on autopilot as my mind worked overtime. It was hard to believe that only a month before I had been dying for Kip to come home, praying my dad would get his visa, and deciding what I wanted to do with my life (if I could quit family law, all options were on the table). Now I had everything I wanted but was feeling stressed out. It wasn't supposed to be like this. Although I was thrilled to have Kip and my dad home and I couldn't wait to start my new gig as trustee for The Andrea Lowenthal Art Fund, nothing was going as planned. Let's just say there were a few issues, a couple of complications, and some major headaches. All I wanted was one day without a crisis, was that so much to ask?

In response to my rhetorical question the phone rang. I held my breath as I answered it.

"How bad is he today?" I asked.

"Oh, mi amor," Ana Maria whispered, voice fraught with emotion, "I think you should come see for yourself."

CHAPTER2

I was so anxious to see my dad it was a miracle I didn't have an accident on the way. Although it's a straight shot down Federal Highway from Hollywood to the city of Hallandale and traffic was light, the twenty minute drive seemed unbearably long. All I wanted was to be by his side. I knew I couldn't make up for the time we had lost but I didn't want to waste a minute of what we had left. As a lawyer who relied on words for a living I knew their power to persuade, incite, or heal--but how would I find the right words to help him? This was the most important case I'd ever argue, yet I had no memorandum of law, no precedent to back me up. I was working blind, a magician conjuring spells from thin air.

Golden Beach Towers was a fifty-five and over community overlooking the Intracoastal Waterway and not nearly as luxurious as it sounded. In fact, it was a faded ten-story building in need of repairs with no gold and no beach. I parked my Mini Cooper in a guest spot to appease the condo commandos spying on me from their breakfast nooks. As self-appointed watchmen they lived to catch scofflaws tossing boxes into the dumpster or snagging a reserved parking space. Their motto was: We don't like you either.

Riding the slow, creaky elevator to the seventh floor I braced for the worst. Selfishly, I wondered why every crisis had to happen so damn early. There was a reason I avoided morning hearings and morning appointments--I hated morning. My brain refused to engage before ten a.m. no matter how many shots of espresso I downed. I was much sharper at noon. Or at midnight.

When the elevator door opened I saw Ana Maria pacing the hallway. It still amazed me how she had been the key to finding my father--and how without my friend Grace's intervention we never would have met. Had I seen Ana Maria around town we would have smiled politely like the strangers we were and kept on walking. How was I to know she was my step-mom? I didn't even know my dad's real name back then. Life was funny that way. What wasn't funny was what Ana Maria was currently dealing with. She had sacrificed so much for my dad and now that he was finally here her life was no better.

She wasn't dressed for work, a bad sign, and the closer I got the more haggard she looked. It wasn't just the lack of make-up--no, the poor woman was exhausted. Her wheat-blond hair, usually so fluffy, lay flat on her head, as if staging a protest, and the bags under her eyes could qualify as carry-on. She rallied when she saw me. After planting the requisite peck on each cheek Ana Maria rested her hands on my shoulders like an unsteady dance partner and gazed up, her dark eyes misty.

"Thank you for coming, Jamie. You're a wonderful daughter."

"You don't have to thank me," I said, a little teary-eyed myself. "I'll always come. Does he know I'm here?"

"Yes, he's waiting for you." Her kind face was creased with worry. "He says it's urgent, that he must speak with you right away."

"Did he say why?" I asked before she opened the door.

Ana Maria didn't reply as she led me into their apartment and gestured towards my dad in the bedroom. I'm not sure what I expected, maybe that he would be under the covers in the fetal position. Isn't that what depressed people usually did? On the contrary, he was a whirlwind of activity. As the TV in the living room blared out the local news and the laptop on the dining table bellowed out a different story he was frenetically pulling clothes from the closet and tossing them on the bed. He was clad in a white t-shirt dribbled with coffee stains, rumpled shorts, one sock, and a toothbrush tucked behind his ear like a pencil, an alarming ensemble to say the least. I walked over to the laptop, closing the lid to silence it, and then picked up the remote and pushed the mute button.

"Hola Papi," I said, walking into the bedroom. "Planning a trip?"

He stopped yanking clothes off hangers and turned as if he'd just realized I was there. His relief was palpable.

"Jamie, my only child, thank God you're here! What if I never saw you again?"

He pulled me into a hug that was a little too tight. With my face squished against his chest I discerned that the coffee stain was fresh. If nobody was going to offer me a cup, at least I had the fumes.

I gently disengaged. "Why all the melodrama?" I joked, studying his worried face for clues. "Are you still having nightmares?"

Ana Maria had told me that since returning to the U.S. he had been having flashbacks to his first visit thirty-five years earlier. I guess being arrested and deported tends to stick with you--especially when you wind up at Gitmo. He sat on the edge of the bed, no longer manic, body slumped in defeat. I sat down beside him and put my arm around his lean shoulders.

"Talk to me," I said, "maybe I can help. I'm smart, you know. They say I take after my dad."

With a low chuckle, he raised his silver head with its untamable hair so like my own. "Don't you believe it," he said. "Your mother was the genius. But I know one thing." His eyes crinkled at the corners as he touched my cheek.

"What?" I played along.

"You got your good looks from your papa."

I laughed, as did Ana Maria, hovering in the doorway. "I can't argue with that," I said. "So, what's going on here?" I fell backwards onto the pile of clothes, arms spread wide like I was making a snow angel.

He jumped up from the bed, agitated once more. "I have to be ready, Jamie," he said, his voice cracking. "They're coming for me and there's nowhere to hide."

CHAPTER3

"Who's coming for you?" I asked sotto voce, hoping to soothe my father's imaginary fears.

Eyes wide with panic, he shouted "They're everywhere, Jamie, no one is safe!"

Ana Maria gave me a concerned look and went to comfort her husband. As a divorce lawyer for many years, I was good at talking clients off the ledge, metaphorically speaking. Some of my clients had legitimate fears and others were completely irrational, but when they had a meltdown there was no telling them apart. Whatever their issue, it was real to them and you had to play along. There was no secret formula or complex algorithm for solving the problem because logic played no part. The key was to keep talking until something clicked in their brain and they stepped away from the ledge.

"Humor me, Papi," I said, reaching out from my nest of rumpled clothes to squeeze his rough hand. "I have no clue what you're talking about. But I wish I did."

He sat back down on the edge of the bed and hunched over, head bent toward his knees, the emergency crash position every airline promises will save us from a fiery death. No wonder nobody paid attention to the flight attendant anymore. If we're going down in flames we would spend our last few minutes reclining, listening to Beyoncé, thank you very much.

After several long minutes my dad raised his head, gave me a tortured look, and then uttered a word that spoke volumes.

"ICE."

Only someone living in a cave wouldn't know what he meant. ICE, the Department of Immigration and Customs Enforcement, was the cause of nationwide protests. Besides tearing families apart at the southern border, ICE officers were deporting undocumented immigrants who already lived here. Just speaking a foreign language could subject a person to attacks from people who blamed immigrants for their problems. The truth was, immigrants contributed to the economy, but facts didn't matter in this new alternate reality.

"I understand," I said, "These are scary times. But why are you concerned? You're here legally. You were sponsored by your adoring American daughter and followed all the rules to enter the country. Your lovely wife is a citizen too." I smiled at Ana Maria who blew me a kiss. "So what's the problem?"

My father shook his head sorrowfully as if I couldn't possibly understand. "They're raiding Greyhound buses, pulling people off."

I made him look at me. "Listen, under the Fourth Amendment those agents have no right to bother people riding the bus, but Papi--" I paused, curious.

"Yes, mi hija?"

"Since when do you ride the bus?"

"I don't."

"Then why are we talking about this?" Strolling over to the dresser I picked up Ana Maria's frilly hat and tried it on, admiring myself in the mirror. "What's really bothering you?"

He sighed. "It's the big picture. They're looking for any reason to deport people, even naturalized citizens."

I knocked the hat off and tossed it on the bed. "Citizens can't be deported."

"But it is happening to people with past criminal convictions, no matter how long ago."

Ana Maria sat next to my dad and laid her head on his shoulder. When I understood what he was saying my heart sank. Not only was my father not a citizen with the protections that provided, he also had a record. A Cuban dissident in his youth, he had been arrested and deported. Then I had a revelation that made me feel better instantly.

"When were you arrested?" I asked him.

"You already know that," he said. "When your mother was pregnant with you."

"A long time ago then. And it's not a secret, right?"

He shook his head, puzzled.

"And they let you into the country anyway?" I nodded and he followed my lead. "That means they can't kick you out for that. If you commit a new crime, that's another story," I teased. "Then I'll have to hide you. Maybe get you a disguise."

The fear and anxiety suddenly released their grip and my dad relaxed. A small smile appeared.

"Like I said, you're a genius, just like your mother!" He stood up and kissed me on the forehead. "Thank you, Jamie, I feel better now." He laid his hand across his heart right above the coffee spill. Suddenly noticing the time he remarked. "Shouldn't you girls be at work?"

Ana Maria smiled and gave him a little shove. "How can I work when you won't let me sleep, crazy old man? After I walk Jamie out, you and I are taking a long nap."

My dad climbed into bed and turned on his side, his face buried in the pillow.

"Good idea," he mumbled.

As we stepped into the hallway a pungent odor made me gag. "Yuck! What is that smell, boiled sneakers?"

Ana Maria laughed heartily, smoothing the tension lines on her face. "No, cariño, someone is cooking cabbage."

"For breakfast? Surely the commandos have a rule about that."

She shook her head.

"Why not?" I demanded, holding my nose in protest. "They have a rule about everything else."

She smiled mischievously. "Because they like cabbage."

CHAPTER4

An hour later I was across town at a diner with one of my favorite people. He also happened to be my new boss.

"I'll just assume you know nothing, Jamie Quinn," Herb Lowenthal said matter-of-factly, digging into his hash browns.

"Geez, Herb," I said, "Way to boost a girl's ego. And here I thought I was being too hard on myself." I sipped my fresh-squeezed orange juice and then raised my glass: "A toast! To my new career as a know-nothing!"

In response, Herb made a snorting noise followed by a raspy wheezing sound that made me believe he was choking. I hopped out of the booth and was about to start pounding him on his eighty-five-year-old back when he said: "What are you doing? Have you lost your marbles?"

I stepped back from the table, as confused as he was. "I thought you were dying," I said.

He started making the same noise again, his bushy white eyebrows wiggling like two dancing caterpillars and I realized what was happening. Herb was laughing!

I slid back into my side of the booth. "That's some laugh you have there, Herb. I thought you needed the Heimlich maneuver. From now on, whenever I tell you a joke I'll be ready to perform CPR, just in case." Then I held up my hand like Diana Ross or one of the Supremes. "Stop! That's not funny."

Then we both laughed. "The bottom line," I said, taking a bite of toast, "is you saved my life and I was ready to save yours. I get points for that."

"How many points do you want?" Herb chuckled. "You can have them all." He signaled to the waitress to bring more coffee. "Let's talk about your training."

"Huh?" I responded, eloquent as always. "What training?"

Herb slurped his coffee in a way Miss Manners would have frowned upon. "Oy, did you think you could hobnob with art experts with no training? Ha! Good one, Jamie Quinn."

I leaned back in the booth. "There was no training requirement in our contract. Unlike my iPhone agreement, I actually read it."

Herb looked pleased. "Oh, it's in there alright. It's the last paragraph, where it says and other related duties. That's why I pay those shyster lawyers the big bucks, no offense."

I shrugged. "None taken. At least you didn't call me a blood-sucking leech, bottom-feeder, or ambulance chaser." I speared the last grape in my fruit salad.

With a sly grin, Herb said, "I didn't call you anything, Jamie Quinn. You're a rare breed, the honorable lawyer."

"Sure, I'm a unicorn," I agreed, "one of a kind. So, what's this training I have to do?" The waitress took our plates and left the check with a quick thank-you to Herb, a regular at The Bagel Joint.

"I made you a list," Herb handed me a large envelope. "You can open it later." With his puff of white hair above each ear he looked like a Keebler elf handing me a cookie.

"Thanks, I guess. This better not take as long as law school. I can't afford to study art for three years."

Herb reached over and patted my hand with his liver-spotted one. "Sure you can, I'm paying you to study. And it will only take a few months--six, if you take your time. Now let's talk about your wardrobe."

I sat up straighter in my casual sundress. "What about my wardrobe?"

"How many evening gowns do you own?"

"The same number as you," I shot back.

"Then it's time to go shopping, Jamie Quinn."

CHAPTER5

And then he says how many evening gowns do you own? Gowns, plural! I was in my office texting with Grace a short while later.

Thanks for the lesson, Mrs. Grammar Person, she teased. Plurals are a difficult concept for me.

That explains how you lost count of your shoes, I joked. One more pair and you'll have to rent a storage unit. Between texts I was organizing files on my desk.

I can always keep some at Nick's house, Grace replied.

Yeah, right!Your boyfriend is more of a clotheshorse than you are. I bet his suits are alphabetized from Armani to Versace, with some Gucci in between.

Funny! Speaking of shoes, you can't wear Keds with your evening gown, you know.

You mean my hypothetical evening gown? I corrected her. No heels, I won't wear heels for anyone. I'm too much of a klutz.

And you hate them.

That too, I admitted.

Why do you need evening gowns anyway? Isn't running a foundation mostly paperwork?

You'd think so, I wrote, but apparently I have to attend fancy galas with donors, blah blah blah.

Ooh, can I be your plus one? I love parties!

Grace really did. She loved dressing up, eating dainty canapés, chatting with strangers, whereas I was a dedicated homebody who kept having adventures she wasn't looking for--like run-ins with the Russian mob, art forgers, and crooked politicians. I was a magnet for trouble like Jeff Bezos was a magnet for money. Too bad we couldn't switch.

You can go in my place, I offered magnanimously.

I would, but you're the face of The Andrea Lowenthal Art Fund.

And I thought this would be my dream job

It still is and you know it, Grace replied. Hey, what's happening with Kip? Did he go back to his job at the Parks department?

I felt my stomach knot up. I wasn't ready to talk about this. Nope, not exciting enough for him, he said it felt like a step backward. I'll keep you posted. Now, get to work, counselor.

If I must. Billable hours are the bane of my existence.

I thought Nick was? Lol

No, Grace replied, he's the bane of yours. Your number one frenemy.

I sent her a winky face and signed off. I really did have a lot to do. My law practice wasn't going to wind itself down no matter how much I procrastinated. Yes, I could have sent my clients to another lawyer but nobody wants to switch horses mid-race, and it would have cost them a bundle to bring a new lawyer up to speed. Also, I was their security blanket. I'd held their hands when they cried, coached them through court proceedings and, most importantly, I knew all their secrets. If I abandoned them now that would make two people in their life who had dumped them and I just didn't have it in me.

I had five clients left and two were scheduled for uncontested final hearings. Two more would probably settle in mediation but, as any divorce lawyer will tell you, the devil's in the details. A simple dispute over Thanksgiving visitation could turn into the Wars of the Roses, bitter as the Houses of Lancaster and York fighting over the British throne. If you think I'm exaggerating, watch the movie The War of the Roses where a nasty divorce turns into a cage match. Spoiler alert, they take 'til death do us part literally.

In my remaining case, a man named Fred had hired me for his second divorce from his first wife. That's right, he married the same woman twice. Not only that, he had deeded back to her the property I'd won for him the first time. I only agreed to take his case (again) because he was a poor thing and I felt sorry for him. When I asked him why on earth he had remarried her, he said: She promised to be a good wife this time. I warned him, Fred, if you marry her a third time you're on your own.

That afternoon, I was researching Fred's case when my suitemate, Nelda Santos, a worker's comp attorney who could always make me laugh, stopped in my office.

"Hey, sweetie," she said with her slight Brazilian accent, "if you're not too busy (she pronounced it bee-zy), could you help me with something?"

Nelda was so cheerful you knew it before she even opened her mouth. Her lemon yellow suit and bright floral blouse were like a Caribbean sunrise, her bejeweled glasses sparkled, and she started smiling as soon as she entered the room--any room. She probably smiled in her sleep. No wonder her clients loved her. What's not to love?

"I could use a break," I said, pushing away from my desk. "What's up, Miss Nelda?"

She seemed a bit unsure. "I need help moving some boxes. They're too heavy for me."

I followed her down the hall to the conference room where, for some reason, the door was closed. Before I could remark upon it Nelda had flung the door open to a loud chorus of "Surprise!" Gathered around the table were Nicole (our receptionist), as well as Nelda's paralegal, her secretary, and her new associate Henry, a recent law school grad we called baby lawyer. On the table was a coconut cake (my favorite) with the words Best ofLuck, Jamie! in pink icing.

"It's not my birthday, you know…" I offered.

Nelda gave me a hug. "We know, but we're going to miss you around here!"

I shook my head. "No, you're not."

"Sure, we will!" said Nicole.

"You won't miss me," I said, "I guarantee it."

"Why not?" Nelda asked.

"Because I'm not going anywhere."

CHAPTER6

"But you're closing your practice." Nicole seemed confused and a tad disappointed. Our relationship was complicated.

"True," I said, taking a seat at the head of the rectangular conference table. "But I still need somewhere to work and my house is way too much fun. A fridge full of snacks, a comfy sofa, a hundred TV channels--I'd be fired within a week. I mean, I have a real boss now and he's already making weird demands, like go buy some evening gowns, Jamie. Don't even ask."

"Then you're staying?" Nelda squealed, clapping her hands.

"Yup, you're stuck with me. How can you miss me if I won't go away?" I slid a paper plate from the stack and picked up the knife. "I'm ready to do the honors--especially since this confection has my name on it."

After we demolished the cake and I licked the last bit of frosting off my fork I stood up. "You guys are the best! What's our excuse for throwing a party next week?"

I was almost out the door when Nelda stopped me. "Jamie, I'm so happy you're not leaving. Do you have a minute? I could use your help."

"Moving heavy boxes? I fell for that once."

She laughed and shook her head and her gold hoop earrings caught the light. "For real, this time."

I sat next to her, my hands flat on the table. The others had gone and we were alone. "Whatever you need, Nelda." I hoped it wasn't a problem. Any more crises and I'd have to put a siren on top of my car.

"Practicing worker's comp is routine, as you know. Someone gets hurt on the job and if the employer or the insurer tries to weasel out of paying, the attorney steps in." She hesitated.

"This is about a case?" I prompted her.

"You've heard of Florida Sugar?" she asked.

"Who hasn't?" I replied. "They've paid off politicians on both sides of the aisle so they can pollute Lake Okeechobee with impunity. Kip hates them. He said they have a legal cartel and we pay twice as much for sugar as the rest of the world."

Nelda nodded. I'd never seen her so serious. "I represent some workers who were injured by chemicals sprayed in the fields. It's tough to prove, but we have a strong case."

"They're lucky they found you," I said. "Is there more to this story?"

In response, she took out her phone and showed me a photo of two tiny babies with dark curls and big problems. One had a foot that twisted inward and the other was missing an ear.

I gasped. "Oh my God, what happened to them?"

Nelda laid her phone on the table. "Their mother was exposed to chemicals while she was pregnant."

"That's terrible! And why do you need me?"

"There's also a paternity issue," Nelda said, her voice low with anger.

"Does she know who the dad is?" I leaned forward.

"Yes, but he is not on the birth certificate."

"Who is it?" I asked.

"Eduardo Matteo. The owner of Florida Sugar."