The Palm Beach Murders James Patterson (ebook reader with built in dictionary .TXT) 📖

plenty of cheese, mushrooms, onions, ham, and the hottest peppers you have. You’ve got habanero sauce somewhere in this place, right?”

“Check the pantry behind you.”

As Quinn cooks and Otto searches, Kate shifts impatiently. “I don’t know what we’re waiting for. Let’s vote and get moving on this one.”

“Hold on a sec,” Theo says. “We need to know a little more. For starters, which agency is interested? The feebs? The CIA?”

“Nope,” Quinn says. “Private party.”

Which is unusual for the group. Their particular set of skills—creating elaborate stings to entrap those who believe they’re above the law—are usually in demand by various government agencies. Not ordinary civilians.

“Huh, that’s weird,” Theo says. “The girl’s parents?”

“I don’t want that to cloud our judgment,” Quinn says. “We always evaluate cases on their intrinsic merits alone.”

“What’s our objective?” Jana asks.

“We’ve been asked to find Paige alive—or catch her killer.”

“And she disappeared…?” Kate asks.

“Two nights ago. Friday evening.”

“So the trail is going cold fast,” Theo says.

The others consider this. Even Otto stops searching for the habanero sauce and turns to face the group. Meanwhile, Quinn finishes the three omelets cooking in three separate pans, then glides them onto waiting plates.

“What do you think, boss?” Kate asks.

Quinn says, “I think that Paige Ryerson is probably dead. I believe that I may know who did it, and I believe I know how the girl died. But right now I have no idea how to prove it.”

“So who did it?”

“No shortcuts,” Quinn said. “You find the evidence and bring it to me…then I’ll tell you. Shall we put it to a vote?”

“I’m in,” says Kate. “We either bring her home safe or give her a proper burial.”

“Sure,” says Theo. “I could stand a little island action.”

“Absolutely,” adds Otto through a mouthful of omelet.

“You wouldn’t have brought this case to us without good reason,” Jana says. “Let’s do it.”

“Actually, I don’t think we should take this one,” Quinn says. “But it’s four to one, so consider us officially engaged.”

The rest of them stare at Quinn, trying hard not to express their surprise. Their boss can be mercurial, but they’ve all learned it’s better to just roll with it. You don’t play chess with Matthew Quinn. You play five games of chess simultaneously, and you just have to accept that you won’t be able to see all of the pieces (or the boards, for that matter).

Instead of ruminating further, they simply eat the breakfast he prepared for them.

“What about your omelet?” Jana asks.

“I ate earlier,” Quinn says, pulling a file folder from the side of the omelet station. “Now here’s the plan.…”

Chapter 3

THEO (THE TRADER)

The flight down to Turks and Caicos is smooth as can be expected, and within minutes of clearing the gate I have a drink in my hand. (Which is kind of awesome, actually.) The sun is shining, the freezing snows of Boston are just a memory, and I’m carrying a bag full of bait that will hopefully catch a killer. What better way to spend a Sunday evening?

My target is the lifeguard—one Paolo Salese. The first one to dance with Paige Ryerson.

I’m looking forward to a spin around the dance floor with him, too.

A private car takes me to one of those sprawling resorts north of Grace Bay Road. This is where Paige Ryerson and her girlfriends stayed, and this is where Paolo works during the day, guarding the Olympic-sized pool. Usually, I’d expect him to be on the prowl at one of the five bars on the property. Most likely, the watering hole with the greatest percentage of underage ladies.

But not tonight.

Tonight there’s some serious global heat on Paolo the Playboy, so he’s probably going to fade into the background like a local. Takes me a few drives (and a few fat tips), but somewhere around 9:00 p.m., I find his location: a glorified shack bar not far from the beach, but far from the path that tourists care to wander. It’s the kind of place where the bar top can be lifted off its moorings and hidden away come daylight. The kind of place where guys like me (in a suit) aren’t usually welcome.

Like I give a damn.

Paolo’s hunkered over a shot of something brown and a cheap island beer. Guessing by the sticky rings on the wood beneath his arms, he’s had more than a few.

“Hey there, Paolo.”

Paolo spins, takes one glance at me, and tags me immediately. I’m wearing a suit and carrying an expensive leather valise, which means I’m one of Them. The Establishment.

“No comment,” he says, waving me away. As if he’d been harassed by Anderson Cooper all day. Then again, maybe he has. Paolo Salese is the prime suspect in the murder of Paige Ryerson, featured in media reports all around the world.

“Look, buddy, I’m not a journalist. It’s even worse—I’m a lawyer! Let me buy you a drink.”

Paolo shakes his head. “Piss off.”

I sit down next to him anyway and give him my best lawyerly pitch. (I actually am a lawyer, so I’m pretty good at this.)

“I’ve got a client who will pay half a million dollars for closure in the disappearance of Paige Ryerson.”

The look on Paolo’s face tells me that he may not know the definition of the word “closure.” So I try again.

“My client wants to know what happened. No strings attached. No blame, no fault…and certainly no cops or courthouses, you understand? Completely off the books.”

Paolo says nothing. Takes another shot of whatever amber fluid is in those glasses. I gesture to the bartender to give him another round.

“All I need,” I say, leaning in close, “is a body.”

The playboy lifeguard freezes in his tracks momentarily, then quickly recovers. Ah, body, that magical word. Makes everybody feel uncomfortable. I love deploying it at just the right moment.

“I don’t even need that much,” I continue. “Point me in the right direction, and it ends here. You walk away from this bar half a millionaire.”

Finally, he turns to look me in the eyes.

“Not interested. Now seriously…piss off.”

He