Chapter 7 #3
Her heart blipped as if it had encountered a giant bubble in her bloodstream. A bubble of trouble. Named Dane. In love with her? Hardly likely. His heart was too battered, too incapable. She took a breath.
“I understand. What else did you have on your mind, Jean Luc?” She prompted him again because she knew he had something else to say, something to tell her. And she knew there was a reason he had called her and not Dane. He had both their cell numbers as well as the secure number.
“I found out one more fact about the man.” He stopped.
She waited. She was determined to wait him out, but it was hard.
She’d seen Dane do it—wait for people to talk—with unutterable patience.
Not her strong suit. She had no patience.
She was about to prompt him again, with more strength and volume, when he spoke.
“He speaks Portuguese.”
“How—”
“It’s a long story—I checked some surveillance cameras and spoke with some people. I am certain.”
“What does it mean? You think—”
“Maybe there is a connection with our Brazilian friends, but—”
“But there are a lot of people in this world who speak Portuguese.”
“Exactly, oui. At least you know one more thing about the man you look for now.”
“Yes.” Shana felt cold. She knew the room had gotten warm with the crush of people and the open terrace doors. But she shivered. “Thank you for the intel. We’ll keep you posted on what we find out.”
“I count on you. Au revoir.” Shana pressed the phone off and returned it to her bag. She needed to talk to Dane. And not via earbud.
She scanned the room. Looking for the man. And listening for Portuguese.
It was a challenge to keep vigilant in between begging off invitations to dance, endless questions about the recent shootout and how they’d taken down a notorious criminal at the Lucky Parrot, comments about the intrigue of a jewel thief in their midst, and conspiratorial winks.
This was the least “under” undercover assignment she’d ever worked.
She could be wearing a sign saying “I’m undercover looking for a jewel thief” and be less conspicuous.
After an interminable ten minutes, she spotted Dane laughing with Miss Dubois as he walked back inside from the terrace.
God help her for breathing easier. Miss Dubois gave Dane a peck on the cheek and a caress of his arms before detaching herself and heading toward the ladies’ lounge.
Dane looked around and then straight at her.
Shana spoke into her earbud and chirped Sassy.
“Angelique is on her way to the ladies’.
Make an excuse and follow her there. I need to talk to Dane. ”
Sassy wasted no time and once Shana saw her leave the kitchen she turned back to Dane to see him heading her way.
Her heart didn’t go pitter patter, but she felt it lighten—she’d be lying to herself if she didn’t acknowledge that her whole body and soul felt better in his company.
When she didn’t feel like a giant messed-up knot of tension, that was.
It was a fifty-fifty toss-up. She needed somehow to improve those odds or…
He’d reached her, and like a magician he turned a switch and lit her up.
“Why didn’t you follow her—”
“I sent Sassy. We need to talk.”
He smiled a devilish smile. “In person? Good. I have something to tell you too.” He took her elbow and led her to a nearby quiet corner—away from the food and drinks and dancing.
“Angelique’s escort is called Baylor Bellarine. We’ll need to confirm whether he’s Jean Luc’s dangerous man—”
“If he speaks Portuguese, then the odds are he’s the one,” she said. She saw the flicker, not fear, but instant alert, before he masked it.
“Explain.”
“I heard from Jean Luc.” She told Dane about their conversation.
“Let’s ask Gable what he knows about Bellarine.”
Shana spotted Mrs. Gable near the kitchen and they headed her way. She saw no sign of Angelique and no sign of anyone fitting the description of Bellarine—assuming their short fat middle-aged man was Bellarine.
“Can we intrude for a moment?” Dane touched Mrs. Gable’s elbow and she instantly turned all her attention to him as if her other guests had dropped through the floor.
Shana hoped to God that’s not how she herself looked to others at Dane’s touch.
She promised herself to double down on showing only her professional face.
“Dane, I’m all yours. This looks serious. What is it?”
“Tell me what you know about Baylor Bellarine.”
“Baylor… hmmm. I don’t remember off the top of my head—I think he’s the acquaintance of an art dealer from Boston that we know—a guest of a guest. I think.”
“What does he look like?”
“I’ve never met him.”
*****
Dane counted to ten inside his head but maintained his patience. It was clear the scrutiny of the guest list was not as thorough as advertised. His grade for the security company plummeted.
“Did you have him checked out?”
She shrugged. “My husband said his security man was in charge of that.”
“Let’s talk to your security man.”
“Now? In the middle of the soirée?” Mrs. Gable didn’t appear game. “I’ll trust you to speak with him—I’ll have him call you.”
“No—I want to talk to him in person. Now. Where is he?”
“At home I imagine.”
“That explains a lot. Never mind.”
Mrs. Gable nodded. “I see.”
“One more thing, Mrs. Gable—”
“Laura. Please call me Laura.”
“Who was the art dealer acquaintance of Bellarine?”
“Paul Tomkins. Why?”
“I’ll want to talk to him—is he here?”
“I’m not sure—there are so many guests.”
“Do me a favor, Laura? Find him for me. If he’s not here, get me his number. I need to call him.”
“I love a take-charge man—but you seem so direly serious, Dane. Is there something more going on? Is it that bad?”
She was as melodramatic as her husband. He wanted to tell her how bad it was—that he’d decided this was the most ridiculous assignment he’d ever taken and that if it weren’t for his dear partner—and his promise to a con artist because he figured he owed him—he would walk out the door.
Immediately after he had a healthy drink of top shelf tequila.
But he smiled instead of telling her all that and said nothing.
*****
“The art dealer is here,” Shana said. “I met him earlier. He’s also a neighbor. Funny she didn’t mention that and didn’t acknowledge that he was here.”
“I get the feeling their guest list is out of control. I’ll take care of Tomkins,” Dane told her. The bristle went through her like a long rub against the nap of a carpet. But then that seemed to be her standard reaction to Dane—when she wasn’t excited out of her mind.
“I’ll continue to look for our mark—Bellarine.” She turned and walked away, making sure to give him a good view of her bare back and swaying hips.
Shana headed for the kitchen to check out the staff. It was the one place she hadn’t been yet.
She pushed inside the swinging door to the full commercial kitchen off the ballroom and could have sworn she was in a hotel. Spotting Sassy, she motioned the girl over as she scanned the chefs and kitchen help. None of them was what she’d call fat, though a couple could be counted as middle-aged.
The girl scurried over to her with surreptitious looks around, stood too close, and whispered, “How’s it going out there? Anyone look suspicious?”
“No one except me and Dane,” Shana said. Sassy looked puzzled. “Never mind—who’s the short plumpish man over there? Is he American? French?”
Sassy turned and took an obvious look before responding. “That’s Chef Goody. He came over from Hyannis. He does all the parties in the neighborhood. He has a restaurant and catering business in—”
“Gotcha. Never mind. How about the short stocky man at the sink?”
“Manny?”
“You tell me?”
“He’s my mother’s cousin. He helps out Chef Goody on all his local catering events—”
“Okay. We’re good in here then.” Shana took a last look around. Everyone else was either too young, too skinny or female. She hoped to hell Jean Luc’s bad guy hadn’t gone on a diet recently. “Keep up the good work and keep your eyes and ears open.”
Sassy saluted and scurried back to her station prepping plates of veggies.
Shana turned to go back outside but before she pushed through the door she caught a glimpse of none other than a fat middle-aged man—and he was bald.
Bingo. He stood no more than two feet from her on the other side of the door and he had a phone to his ear.
She couldn’t quite hear him, so she pushed the door open a crack.
What she heard then caused her gut to turn leaden, then drop.
At the same time her heart jumped into piston-pumping mode.
The man was speaking Portuguese. It was unmistakable—the unforgettable language of the Brazilians from their last case.
Hearing it again now raised goose bumps on her flesh in spite of the heat in the kitchen.
She forced herself to concentrate and listen, but she couldn’t make out what he was saying, nothing distinct.
Then, putting aside the lump of fear, she pushed through the door and walked by him for a closer look from her peripheral vision.
She didn’t walk far. He stopped talking.
She took a deep breath. It had to be a coincidence.
The Tavares family cartel had been shut down.
All the major players were dead or in jail, thanks to her and Dane.
The man slipped his phone into his jacket and, without looking around, walked through the middle of the dancers and disappeared from view.
Shana automatically searched for Dane and flipped her earpiece on talk. She took another breath to calm herself, following the man as best she could. He had to be their man.
He was Angelique’s predator or her accomplice, but he didn’t have to be connected to the Tavares clan.
The odds were against that. It was just coincidental that he spoke Portuguese.
There was only one person left of the Tavares family—that she knew of—who had a grudge.
That would be Gabriele Tavares—if she weren’t locked up in a Brazilian insane asylum by now. The woman had been mad.
“Dane?” she prompted her communicator. “I spotted him. We’re headed toward the foyer. Meet me there.” Shana spoke and walked. “Ronnie—you there? Look for a short fat bald man wearing a plain black tux meant to blend in. I lost my visual. See if you can pick him up.”
“Got it—Roger—Over,” the kid answered.
She fought her way through the partygoers to the entry foyer hoping to find her Portuguese speaking man there. She hadn’t gotten a response from Dane, but she expected to find him ready to pick up their mark, waiting for her in the foyer.