Esperanza Diaz, his closest friend, is in trouble. Murder trouble. The victim is one of Myron's own clients, and the case seems to be watertight. It's inconceivable that Esperanza is involved, but she is refusing to deny it. So, in order to help his friend, Myron must battle for her freedom - against her own wishes...
Myron lay sprawled next to a knee-knockigly gorgeous brunette clad only in a Class-B-felony bikini, a tropical drink sans umbrella in one hand, the aqua clear Caribbean water lapping at his feet, the sand a dazzling white powder, the sky a pure blue that could only be God's blank canvas, the sun as soothing as rich as a Swedish masseur with a sifter of cognac, and he was intensely miserable.
The two of them had been on this island paradise for, he guessed, three weeks, Myron had not bothered counting the days. Neither, he imagined, had Terese. The island seemed as remote as Gilligan's - no phone, some lights, no motorcar, plenty of luxury, not much like Robinson Crusoe, and well, not as primitive as can be either. Myron shook his head. You can take the boy out of the television, but you can't take the television out of the boy.
At the horizon's midway point, slicing toward them ad ripping a seam of white in the aqua-blue fabric, came the yacht. Myron saw it, and his stomach clenched.
He did not know where they were exactly, though the island did indeed have a mane: St Bacchanals. Yes, for real. It was a small patch of planet, owned by one of those mega-cruise lines that used one side of the island for passengers to swim and barbecue and enjoy a day on their 'own personal island paradise.' Personal. Just them ad the other twenty-five hundred turistas squeezed onto a short stretch of beach. Yep, personal, bacchanallike.
This side of the island, however, was quite different. There was only this one home, owned by the cruise line's CEO, a hybrid between a thatched hut and a plantation manor. The only person within a mile was a servant. Total island population: maybe thirty, all of whom worked as caretakers hired by the cruise line.
The yacht shut off its engine and drifted closer.
These Collins lowers her Bolle sunglasses and frowned. In three weeks no vessel except the mammoth cruise liners - they had subtle names like the Sensation or the Ecstasy or the G Spot - had ambled past their stretch of sand.
'Did you tell anybody where we were?' she asked.
'No.'
'Maybe it's John.'
John was the aforementioned CEO of said cruise line, a friend of Terese's.
'I don't think so,' Myron said.
Myron had first met Terese Collins, well, a little more than three weeks ago. Terese was 'on leave' from her high-profile job as prime-time anchorwoman for CNN. They both had been bullied into going to some charity function by well-meaning friends and had been immediately drawn to each other as though their mutual misery and pain were magnetic. It started as a little more than a dare: Drop everything and flee. Just disappear with someone you found attractive and barely knew. Neither backed down, and twelve hours later they were in St Maarten. Twenty-four hours after that they were here.
For Myron, a man who had slept with a total of four women in his entries life, who had never really experienced one-night stands even in the days when they were fashionable or ostensibly disease-free, who had never had sex purely for the physical sensation and without the anchors of love or commitment, the decision to flee felt surprisingly right.
He had told no one where he was going or for how long-mostly because he didn't have a clue himself. He'd called Mom and Dad and told them not to worry, a move tantamount to telling them to grow gills and breathe underwater. He's sent Esperanza a fax and gave her power of attorney over MB SportsReps, the sports agency they ow partnered. He had not eve called Win.
Terese was watching him. 'You know who it is.'
Myron said nothing. his heartbeat sped up.
The yacht came closer. A cabin door in the front opened, and as Myron feared, Win stepped out the deck. Panic squeezed the air around him. Win was not one for casual drop-bys. If he was here, it meant something was very wrong.
Myron stood. He was still too far to yell, so he settled for a wave. Win gave a small nod.
'Wait a second.' Terese said. 'Isn't that the guy whose family owns Lock-Horne Securities?'
'Yes.'
'I interviewed him once. When the market plunged. He has some long, pompous name.'
'Windsor Horne Lockwood the Third.' Myron said.
'Right. Weird guy.'
She should only know.
'Good-looking as all hell,' Terese continued, 'in that old-money, country-club, born-with-a-silver-golf-club-in-his-hands kinda way.'
As though on cue, Win put a hand through the blond locks ad smiled.
'You two have something in common,' Myron said.
'What's that?'
'You both think he's good-looking as all hell.'
Terese studied Myron's face. 'You're going back.' There was a hint of apprehension in her voice.
Myron nodded. 'Win wouldn't have come otherwise.'
She took his hand. It was the first tender moment between them in the three weeks since the charity ball. That might sound strange-lovers alone on an island, the sex constant, who had never shared a gentle kiss or a light stroke or soft words - but their relationship had been about forgetting and surviving: two desperate souls standing in the rubble with no interest in trying to rebuild a damn thing.
^
^
^
^
'What happened, Win?'
He did not answer, choosing instead to sit o a chaise longue and ease back. He put his hands behind his head and crossed his ankles. 'I'll say this for you. When you decide to wig out, you do it in style.'
'I didn't wig out. I just needed a break.'
'Uh-hmm.' Win locked off, and a realization smacked Myron in the head: He had hurt Win's feelings. Strange but probably true. Win might be a blue-blooded, aristocratic sociopath, but hey, he was still human, sort of. The two ma had been inseparable since college, yet Myron had run off without even calling. In many ways Win had no one else.
'I meant to call you,' Myron said weakly. Win kept still.
'But I knew if there was a problem, you'd be able to find me.' That was true. Win could find a Hoffa needle in a Judge Crater hay-stack.
Win waved a hand. 'Whatever.'
'So what's wrong with Esperanza?'
'Clu Haid.'
Myron's first client, a right-handed relief pitcher in the twilight of his career. 'What's about him?'
'He's dead,' Win said.
Myron felt his legs buckle a bit. He let himself land o the chaise.
'Shot three times in his own abode.'
Myron lowered his head. 'I thought he'd straightened himself out.'
Win said nothing.
'So what does Esperanza have to do with this?'
Win looked at his watch. 'Right about now,' he said, 'she is in all likelihood being arrested for his murder.'
'What?'
Win said nothing again. He hated to repeat himself.
'They think Esperanza killed him?'
'Good to see your vacation hasn't dulled your sharp powers of deduction.' Win tilted his face toward the sun.
'What sort evidence do they have?'
'The murder weapon, for one. Bloodstains. Fibers. Do you have any sunblock?'
'But how...?' Myron studied his friend's face. As usual, it gave away nothing. 'Did she do it?'
'I have no idea.'
'Did you ask her?'
'Esperanza does not wish to speak with me.'
'What?'
'She does not wish to speak with you either.'
'I don't understand,' Myron said. 'Esperanza wouldn't kill anyone.'
'You're quite sure about that, are you?'
Myron swallowed. He had thought that his recent experience would help him understand Win better. Win had killed too. Often, in fact. Now that Myron had done likewise, he thought that there would be a fresh bond. But there wasn't. Just the opposite, in fact. Their shared experience was opening a whole new chasm.
Win checked his watch. 'Why don't you go get packed?'
'There's nothing I need to bring.'
Win motioned to the house. Terese stood there, watching them silently. 'The say good-bye to La Derriere and let's be on our way.'
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