Kiss of death

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

WHITNEY STOOD NEXT to Adam and gazed at the trunk of Miranda’s Volvo.

“I don’t smell anything,” Adam said, his voice almost a whisper.

They’d driven to San Diego’s Lindbergh Field in Adam’s Rava. It hadn’t been difficult to find the metered parking space where her cousin had parked her car. They’d pulled up behind the vehicle and had gotten out, leaving all the dogs in the SUV.

“Smell?”

“A dead body-”

“Okay. I get it.” Her stomach did a slow backflip as she imagined Miranda crammed into the trunk. Please, God, don’t let Miranda be in there, she silently prayed. Whitney’s neck muscles quivered as she watched Adam insert the key she’d found in the kitchen drawer of the cottage into the trunk.

The lid flew open.

Whitney braced herself and peered inside. “It’s empty.” Thank you, God. Miranda must be alive somewhere, she decided.

Adam asked, “Feel better?”

Whitney managed a nod and leaned toward him slightly. She suddenly felt light-headed. Relief or fear? Both. She was relieved that Miranda wasn’t in the trunk of the car, but after finding out her cousin had worked as a stripper, Whitney’s anxiety had increased. Had Miranda’s job gotten her into so much trouble that she’d lied to her only living relative and fled?

Suddenly, Whitney recalled the way Miranda had acted the night she’d left. Miranda had hugged her fiercely…almost as if she had been saying goodbye forever. Something about Miranda’s “wedding” story had bothered Whitney from the beginning. At the time, she’d attributed her misgivings to a boyfriend who didn’t want to meet his fiancée’s only relative. Now she wondered if she hadn’t been picking up subtle clues that her cousin was lying.

“Are you okay?” Adam asked.

For an instant she wavered, her blue eyes flickering with uncertainty. Then she drew herself together and nodded. “I’m fine. Just worried about Miranda, is all.”

He slipped his arm around her and brought her close. A little lurch skittered from her heart downward until she felt it in her toes. She was tempted to rest her head against his shoulder but didn’t. Be strong, she told herself. You’ve been through a lot. Don’t get involved with another man so quickly.

He placed a comforting hand on the back of her neck. Her body flushed with hot awareness. Despite all the problems she’d had with Ryan, despite common sense telling her to slow down, despite everything-she wanted Adam Hunter. It was as simple as that.

His mouth met hers, warm, sweet, and her lips parted. One large hand wove through the hair at the back of her neck while the other hand found its way to the lowest reaches of her back and urged her closer and closer until her whole body was flush against his.

Push him away, she ordered her body, but she was powerless to resist temptation. He teased her lips apart with the tip of his tongue. She returned the kiss, her tongue greeting his. The contact sent a bolt of pure pleasure through her entire body and her pulse went haywire, throbbing in intimate, sensitive places.

She ran her hands over the strong muscles of his back and shoulders, enjoying the sensation. The woodsy scent of his shaving cream filled her lungs as she clung to him. She knew better than to keep kissing him, but she didn’t have the willpower to stop.

How long had it been since she’d kissed a man with so much passion? She honestly couldn’t remember the last time. Don’t think about Ryan, she warned herself. Live in the moment.

At the sound of an engine, they reluctantly pulled apart. A security officer drove around the corner in a patrol car. Whitney stepped out of Adam’s embrace, a little embarrassed.

“Something wrong?” the man asked.

The airport had closed for the night. Lindbergh Field was located near residential neighborhoods and flights were terminated before midnight to control noise. At this hour the parking lots were deserted. Whitney had no doubt they appeared to be very suspicious.

“No. We’re just checking for Whitney’s cell phone.” He put his hand on her shoulder. “It isn’t here. She must have left it somewhere else.”

“I see,” the man responded, but his tone said he had his doubts.

Whitney and Adam got into the SUV. Opening the door awakened the dogs. Lexi spotted the security patrolman. The retriever decided she was a watchdog. Lexi’s barking incited the others, and a second later they joined in.

“No. Bad.” The stern tone of Whitney’s voice was enough to silence Lexi, but the others kept barking.

Adam turned around. “No!”

The dogs stopped barking. Jasper meekly lay down. Whitney doubted Adam had ever raised his voice to the little dog before this. He started the car and drove away slowly. The security car followed them until they arrived at the pay booth.

Whitney waited until they were on the freeway before suggesting, “Why don’t we go to Saffron Blue? Maybe the other girls or the manager knows something about Miranda.”

“No. The girls will be so busy right now that they won’t take time to spit on you. Most people don’t realize it, but strippers earn nothing but tips.”

“Really? I had no idea. I assumed…” She’d never given strippers much thought until she discovered what Miranda had been doing. The screen in her mind played a sleazy bar filled with smoke and lecherous men. Cheap-looking women with teased hair and bobbling silicone breasts flaunted their bodies on a stage beneath a blaring spotlight.

“Forget your assumptions. This is an upscale club with a hundred-dollar cover charge. The police receive calls to Saffron Blue occasionally. Usually it’s a fight in the parking lot. Jared Cabral doesn’t put up with troublemakers. His bouncers kick them out at the first sign of trouble.”

“Jared Cabral owns Saffron Blue?”

Adam turned off La Jolla Parkway onto Torrey Pines Road. “Yes. Cabral owns eight clubs-last I heard. Southern California, Arizona and Vegas. All cater to upscale clientele. Gambling’s legal in his Vegas clubs. The others have illegal high-stakes games going most nights in a private room.”

“Illegal gambling and fights. I suppose there are drugs around, too.”

“Undoubtedly, but Cabral keeps illegal activities outside so he won’t be busted.”

A shudder passed through her. “I can’t imagine why Miranda would be working there. She had plenty of money from the insurance policy.”

“Don’t be too sure. If it was in a bank or a brokerage house in the U.S., the money would have shown up on the Total Track report.”

She moistened her dry lips and tried to think clearly. How could she have lost touch with Miranda like this?

“It’s been, what? Almost fourteen years since Miranda received the money?” Adam didn’t wait for a response. “She could have spent it on school, rent, vacations, jewelry, clothes and stuff.”

“I don’t think so. Miranda was working part-time to pay the rent when she was attending junior college. That’s what she told me when she paid some of Mom’s medical bills. She acted as if she still had most of the money.” Whitney thought a moment. “What she gave Mom was less than five thousand dollars.”

“Miranda certainly didn’t spend it on a fancy car. That Volvo was new in the late eighties.”

“She didn’t buy a lot of clothes, either. I helped her pack. She had a few nice things, but nothing extravagant.”

“Do you know how long she lived in my uncle’s cottage?”

“About two years. We talked at Christmas and birthdays so I knew when she moved from her little apartment in Mission Bay. The cottage came rent-free if she took care of Jasper when your uncle was away.” Whitney was silent for a moment, thinking. “You know, Miranda was always the frugal type. It wasn’t like her to have squandered the insurance money.”

Sirens behind them interrupted their conversation. Adam pulled to the curb, and the dogs who’d fallen asleep jumped up to see the fire engines whiz by.

After the last fire trucks passed, Adam asked, “Was Miranda the type to work as a stripper?”

“No way.” Whitney released an audible sigh. “I guess I didn’t know her as well as I thought. Anything’s possible. She could have spent the insurance money.”

Adam drove away from the curb. “Tomorrow I’ll go to see Cabral. He may be able to shed light on Miranda’s disappearance.”

They rode toward their street in silence. Ahead, Whitney saw an orange glow above the trees, lighting the dark sky.

“Looks like there’s a house on fire.” Adam sounded concerned.

Whitney knew fire was a real danger in San Diego. In the last several years, fires that started in the brush-filled hillsides had rampaged out of control and destroyed many homes. It was early summer and the hills were still green. It seemed to be too soon for a brush fire, but anything was possible.

Adam braked suddenly as they rounded the corner. Fire engines and police cars blocked their way, red and blue lights flashing. Smoke filled the air and made it difficult to see exactly what was on fire. It was too close to be the hills. If it wasn’t their place, it had to be a home nearby.

A police officer held up his hand to stop them. Adam rolled down the window. Warm smoke billowed into the car.

“Do you live on this street, sir?”

“Yes. We’re at number 265.”

“The small house behind yours is burning. Do you know if anyone was in there?”

Was? Her heart slammed against her rib cage in painful thuds. Suddenly it became difficult to breathe, and she could barely think. Thank heavens, they’d taken the dogs with them. Things could be replaced, she reminded herself, living beings could not.

“No one’s in the cottage.” Adam cocked his head toward Whitney. “She lives there alone.”

“Park your car,” the officer told him.

“I can’t believe this,” Whitney cried. “Thank God I have the dogs with me.”

They parked, jumped out of the car and followed the officer up the street. Murky, acrid-smelling smoke curdled the air. Firefighters in neon-yellow suits blocked her line of vision. She couldn’t see up the driveway to the small cottage. Adam’s hand was on her arm, and he guided her forward.

“Hunter,” called a man in slacks and a sports jacket. Apparently he was with the police and knew Adam.

“What’s going on?”

The man in a sports jacket and a polo shirt walked up to them. “This is your place?”

“Yes,” Adam replied. “Why are you here?”

Whitney registered the subtle change in Adam’s voice. His expression was different, too. What was there about this man that disturbed him?

“Neighbors reported the blast.”

“Blast?” Whitney choked out the word, her mind reeling at the scene before her.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“Wh-Whitney Marshall. I live in the cottage.”

“I’m Dudley Romberg with homicide.” He studied her for a moment, then asked, “Do you know anyone who would want to kill you?”

“No. Of course not,” she managed to say, her stomach roiling.

“Someone threw a pipe bomb through the bedroom window. It caused the fire.”

“Ohmygod! Why would they do that?” She caught Adam’s eye. In a heartbeat the answer hit her. Miranda. The bomb had been intended for her cousin. This news, coupled with the earlier revelation that Miranda had been a stripper, crippled Whitney’s ability to think clearly.

“What makes you say it was a pipe bomb?” Adam asked.

“The broken window. The first fire unit to respond called Reserve Officer Wells. He’s with the Naval Explosive Ordnance Disposal Center at Miramar Air Station. He’s right over there.”

“Let’s talk to him,” Adam said to her.

Adam guided her up to a tall, gaunt man with pewter-gray hair in a military brush cut. He had his back to them, watching the fire. The flames weren’t as high as they had been when they’d driven up, but the cottage was still burning.

“Officer Wells,” Adam said, and the man turned to them. His face was ruddy from the heat of the fire. “I’m Adam Hunter. This is my home. I understand that you think a pipe bomb caused the fire.”

“There’ll have to be a post-blast investigation to confirm my analysis. The first responders took Polaroids of the scene.” He handed three pictures to Adam.

Whitney looked over Adam’s shoulder at them. When the photos had been taken, the fire was burning at the rear of the cottage. The front, now a smoldering ruin, hadn’t been burning. The black-and-white photo clearly showed the shattered window.

“See-” Wells pointed to the picture “-no glass on the outside.” He motioned for Adam to look at the next photograph. “Notice the mailbox?”

Whitney saw that the mailbox at the path leading up to the cottage was buckled in two.

“Pipe bombs are simple to make,” explained Wells. “Instructions are all over the Internet. You just need a length of pipe, blasting powder, a power source-usually a nine-volt battery-and end caps for the pipe. The end caps fly off when the bomb detonates. They shoot out like they’d been fired from a rifle. A cap hit the mailbox. One of the firefighters was alert enough to spot it and notice there wasn’t any glass on the ground the way there would have been if heat from the fire inside had caused the window to explode.”

Dudley Romberg walked up to them again. The detective asked her, “Where were you when the fire started?”

“At the airport,” she said.

He shook his head slowly. “Lucky you. If you’d been in the house, you’d be dead. Seems the pipe bomb was full of shrapnel. If the explosion didn’t get you, flying shrapnel would have.”

“Like the bombs in Iraq that kill so many people.”

“Exactly.” Adam’s expression was more than grim.

“Don’t go anywhere,” Romberg said. “I’m going to need to talk to you.”

He walked away. Adam waited a moment, then said, “Now we know why Miranda hightailed it out of town. She was mixed up in some serious shit. Someone wanted her dead.”

“I can’t imagine why.” Fear sent hot blood pumping through her veins. “At least the dogs were with us. No life was lost. That’s what really matters, isn’t it?”

He slid his arm around her shoulders. “You bet. That’s what matters, but we need to find out what’s going on before anything else happens. Don’t tell Romberg that Miranda was working at Saffron Blue.”

“Why not?”

“I want to talk to Jared Cabral first.”

“Won’t Romberg know? All your friend had to do was ask around the station.”

“True, but Romberg’s a few beans shy of a full burrito. Around the station they call him Dudley ‘the dud’ Romberg. It’ll take him a while to ask if the beat cops know your cousin. Meanwhile, I’ll get first crack at Cabral.”