The South Beach Search Page 2

  “Mostly yodeling,” she said, trying to make her voice as earnest as possible.

  He shook his head, obviously unsure whether she was serious. Good.

  “Don’t get your hopes up too high, though,” he said as he opened the Jag’s door. “I can’t make any promises.”

  After watching Reese drive away, Taki trudged back to the warmth of the spa. No matter how hard she tried to set things right with the universe, her karma always came back to haunt her. She tried to do the right thing, but maybe she was doomed to unhappiness forever.

  She’d planned to deliver the bowl to the ashram immediately after her last class. Why, why had she been so foolish to leave it in the Jeep? She should have taken it into the spa and stashed it safely inside her locker. Yeah, she had been worried someone would ask her about it, want to see it, and of course she didn’t want to talk about the challenge Guru Navi had given her and how long she’d waited for the package to arrive from Tibet after the blessing. But maybe no one would have noticed.

  She was just plain stupid. She deserved everything bad that ever happened to her.

  Inside the ladies’ locker room, after a long steam bath which she hoped would melt away lingering negativity, Taki tried to think about what to do next. Unfortunately, no amount of steam could halt her depressing thoughts.

  No point in visiting the ashram tonight. She could start over with another task, but where would she find the money to go back to Tibet? It had been a miracle she got there last time. With her lack of skills, she wasn’t likely to find another steamer captain willing to let her work her way across the Pacific Ocean. Although she had learned how to cook vast amounts of food for the always-hungry crew.

  Debbie approached while Taki towel-dried her hair, wishing her brisk movements could push a new idea into her brain. She’d been seasick for three months on the last voyage and really didn’t want to go through that again.

  “So what’s Reese going to do?” Debbie asked.

  “He thinks he knows who stole his briefcase,” Taki said. She wrapped the towel around her head to secure her hair. “Maybe the same person took my property.”

  “Did he call in the FBI?”

  “The FBI? Why would he do that?” Taki rummaged in her locker to find a comb.

  “Because that’s what federal prosecutors do when their stuff gets stolen.”

  Taki looked back. “He’s a federal prosecutor?”

  “Don’t you know anything?” Debbie shook her head. “He’s handling the Romero case. His picture is in the Miami Herald all the time. He’s—”

  An accented voice interrupted Debbie. “Taki, what happened with Reese Beauchamps?” Lourdes Garcia, the manager of SoBe Spa, paused by Taki’s locker with a worried frown. “Does he blame the spa for the theft? Do we need to notify our attorneys?”

  Taki shrugged. “He didn’t seem mad at the spa particularly, just the world in general.”

  “That sounds like him,” Lourdes said with a nod. “The man is so intense he gives me a headache.”

  “Intense, yes. And, man, those deep brown eyes...” Debbie exhaled slowly. “I swear he doesn’t miss a thing.”

  As she combed her damp hair, Taki remembered his penetrating gaze. Yeah, Reese Beauchamps did notice everything around him. And the eyes were the windows to the soul. Reese sure had gorgeous eyes.

  “When he works out with free weights,” Debbie continued, “I can barely concentrate on what I’m doing. He performs each rep as if his life depended on it.”

  Lourdes laughed. “He’s a perfectionist, all right. Type A for sure. Rumor is he’s running for office. With his conviction record, I’ll bet he ends up attorney general or a U.S. senator.”

  “Maybe even president someday,” Debbie added dreamily.

  Taki shut her locker door with a clang. “I just hope he finds my bowl.”

  * * *

  THE NEXT MORNING, Reese arrived at his office in the federal building in downtown Miami at 6:00 a.m., his usual time. Leaving his condo at five-thirty meant no traffic on the roads and an easy commute. Even better was the fact that there were few colleagues around to interrupt him with phone calls or casual chats. He got a lot accomplished before other employees began arriving.

  At 10:00 a.m. his secretary buzzed him.

  “Agent Rivas is on line one.”

  “Thank you, Joanne.” Reese had alerted Javier Rivas, the lead investigator on the Romero case, within hours of the theft. Hoping Javi had developed leads overnight, Reese grabbed the receiver and leaned back in his black leather swivel chair.

  “Give me some good news, Javi.”

  “Sorry, Reese. I’ve got nothing for you.”

  “There’s really no sign of Izzo?”

  “Not a whisper.”

  “You checked all his haunts on South Beach?”

  “Romero’s favorite thug is either dead or in hiding.”

  Reese turned and looked over the sparkling aqua water of Biscayne Bay eight stories below. Winning the headline-grabbing Feldman case last year had earned him this office with a view, but he’d vacate the prized space tomorrow to keep Carlos Romero—a domestic terrorist with a violent, if murky, cause—behind bars.

  “Izzo must know we’re looking for him.”

  “Probably,” Javi said. “The bureau will stay on it, but without something else to go on, it’s pretty much a waiting game. He’ll poke his head up eventually.”

  “Probably when he commits another crime.”

  “Was anything besides your briefcase stolen, something that might end up with a fence?”

  “Maybe,” Reese said after a pause. “A woman who works at the spa had some sort of Tibetan artifact taken from her vehicle. She insists it’s old and rare.”

  The image of Taki, her long blond hair blowing in the evening breeze, blue eyes tragic with unshed tears, hadn’t been far from Reese’s thoughts since last night. Neither had strong, slender legs encased in black leggings flowing into a slim waist and perfectly formed breasts straining against her pink halter top.

  He remembered with vivid detail the goose bumps that dotted her graceful arms as she’d tried to warm herself in the chilly evening air.

  All of this going on in his head scant minutes after discovering that someone had stolen his cell phone, the device that coordinated the details of his way-too-complicated and overscheduled life.

  And the photocopy of Claudia Romero’s journal in his briefcase, with detailed trial notes on every page.

  Javi’s hard voice brought Reese back. “Izzo is no antiques dealer. I doubt he would know anything about Tibetan antiquities.”

  “You’re probably right. He could have broken into the spa employee’s Jeep to throw us off track. The loss of the bowl upset the woman badly, though.”

  “Or it could have been pure convenience. This wouldn’t be the first time Izzo pinched something he could dispose of easily.”

  “We need to find him and ask him,” Reese said.

  “Man, talk about bad luck. First your witness disappears and now your briefcase. Do you think Romero was fishing? Searching your vehicle in hopes of finding a lead to his ex-wife’s location?”

  “Maybe. They want to find her as badly as I do.”

  “Probably more,” Javi said. “I’ll send agents to major fences and Miami pawnshops and see if they come up with the missing bowl. I need a description. A photo would be better.”

  “I’ll call the spa.”

  Several hours later, Reese nodded at his secretary, confident his instructions would be carried out as ordered. Joanne was the best assistant he’d ever had.

  “And those grand jury subpoenas need to be served today,” he ended.

  Joanne nodded as she rose. “Yes, sir. Oh, I’m sorry, but I can’t find a number for this Tak
i person. There’s nothing listed, and the number she put down on the police report is for SoBe Spa.”

  “Did you try the spa?”

  “Yes, but she only teaches on Monday and Thursday nights, and the manager—” Joanne consulted her spiral-bound notebook “—Lourdes Garcia, wouldn’t give me Taki’s home number.”

  “Did you tell her the U.S. Attorney’s Office needed to contact their employee?”

  “Of course, but that didn’t make a difference. They have a strict policy not to give out the instructors’ numbers to anyone.”

  “Get Ms. Garcia on the phone.”

  Irritation gnawed at Reese when Joanne alerted him she’d reached Ms. Garcia. He wasn’t used to a roadblock over something as simple as a phone number.

  “But, Reese, you surely understand our policy not to give out the instructors’ addresses or phone numbers,” Lourdes told him when he’d explained the reason for his request. “I might normally make an exception considering the circumstances, but Taki insists on her privacy. She’s one of the most popular members of our staff.”

  “If I give you my office and cell number, will you call her and leave a message?”

  “Certainly. She rarely checks voice mail, though—something about negative energy—so it might take a while to reach her. If I don’t hear from her, I’ll make sure she gets your message on Thursday.”

  “It’s important, Ms. Garcia.”

  He heard her release a long breath. “Everything is important to you, Reese.”

  * * *

  INSIDE THE ELEVATOR at his condo, Reese dropped his new briefcase and pushed the button for the twentieth floor. As the car lurched upward, he glared down at the stiff black leather, thinking the miserable bag was much heavier than the one stolen. And he’d liked his old case, a gift from his mother. It’d been well-made, and he’d used it since law school.

  Reese was glad to be home. His condo was decorated by a woman he’d once dated. He often wondered if the antiseptic white-on-white living room reflected what she thought of his personality. He’d found her a bit boring, too, though, and their romance had been brief. He didn’t have time to date.

  After depositing the attaché by a cream-colored sofa, Reese opened his vertical blinds, the sound a quiet whoosh. Five miles in the distance, the lights of South Beach glittered across Biscayne Bay. He searched for the blue zigzag neon strip that identified SoBe Spa. Was Taki conducting one of her classes? No, not until Thursday, according to the manager.

  He turned away from the stunning view. He had two hundred pages of trial transcript to review and could never get any serious reading done at the office with all the interruptions. He’d pop the take-out pasta from Risotto’s into the microwave, sip one glass of Napa Valley Cabernet, then work until his eyes gave out.

  Three delicious bites into garlic-laced linguini, his cell phone rang.

  “Reese Beauchamps,” he said, his attention still focused on page twenty of the Romero versus Romero divorce transcript.

  “Hi, Reese Beauchamps,” a soft feminine voice replied. “This is Taki. I got an urgent message to call you.”

  Reese placed his fork across his plate and sat back. He glanced at the caller ID display. Private.

  “Have you found my bowl?” she asked, her voice anxious.

  “Sorry, not yet. I need more of a description.”

  She released a sigh. “Would you like a photograph?”

  “If you have one, that’d be great.”

  “Oh, I’ve got lots of photos of my bowl, but I’d much rather have the real thing.”

  “Because your mortal soul is in danger without it, right?”

  He waited through a long pause before she answered. Why wasn’t her phone number available? Well, Lourdes Garcia said she valued her privacy. Nothing wrong with that unless you had something to hide.

  “My soul was in danger before I got the bowl. The bowl was supposed to correct that problem.”

  “A bowl can rescue your soul?” Reese suppressed a laugh. “How is it going to do that?”

  “By repaying a karmic debt.”

  Amused by Taki’s serious tone as she babbled her New Age nonsense, Reese tried to recall what the personal trainer had said to her in the spa’s parking lot. Something about a blot on her soul?

  The woman might be easy to look at, but she was as nutty as psychics who predicted the future over the phone. Karmic debt? How would she know when the debt is repaid?

  “Never mind. Where is your office?” she asked, now businesslike.

  “In the federal building, the U.S. Attorney’s Office.”

  “You’re not the United States attorney, are you?”

  “Only one of many assistants,” Reese answered, thinking she didn’t sound at all impressed.

  “I’ll drop off a picture tomorrow.”

  “Thanks. That’ll help.”

  “What will you do with it?” she asked.

  “The FBI will show the photo to fences and pawnshops and hope for a hit.”

  “Oh. Pawnshops.” After a moment she said, “Listen, thanks for trying to find my bowl. Lourdes says you’re a busy man.”

  “You’re welcome,” Reese said, deciding it best not to tell her he hoped the bowl led him to Izzo, Romero’s top hit man. One way or another, he’d make sure this goofball got her bowl back.

  He listened to the dial tone after she hung up, strangely dissatisfied at the prospect of spending the next three hours reading the messy details of the divorce between Claudia and Carlos Romero.

  * * *

  AFTER DISCONNECTING WITH REESE, Taki lay on her bed and gazed at the multitude of angels suspended from the white ceiling overhead. Surrounded by soft light from flickering candles, the colorful winged ceramic and papier-mâché creations looked as if they were flying as they swayed on thin filament wires.

  As friends added to her collection, Taki hung her glorious angels one at a time, hoping the hovering guardians would protect her from the negative thoughts in the world.

  She really needed the angels’ protection tonight. Why did she feel this odd, wild connection to Reese Beauchamps? Goose bumps popped up along her arms as she pictured his handsome face, his soulful dark eyes when she’d met him last night.

  And why did the sound of his deep voice excite her in an unsettling physical way? It made no sense to be attracted to an intense, detail-focused lawyer. One who made fun of her bowl and the whole concept of karma.

  Disturbed by her thoughts, Taki brought her fingers to her temples and applied gentle pressure. Hadn’t Guru Navi warned her about judging others? Reese was just upset, as she was, about the loss of important property. Guilt, her constant companion since childhood, weighed upon her, almost pressing her into the mattress.

  There had to be some reason he stirred such strong emotions. Maybe her suspicion that she’d known him in another lifetime was the answer. She closed her eyes, deciding he’d likely made her life miserable for centuries. No doubt the man had a lot to answer for.

  A light, cool wind rustled through the open window, tinkling her mobiles and sending the angels into flight. Her home had no heat, but she didn’t need any. Where she grew up, this temperature was considered balmy. To her, South Florida’s weather seemed heavenly tonight.

  She inhaled deeply, taking in clean air, then stretched her arms high overhead, enjoying the breeze as it brushed across her overheated skin, her thoughts circling back to Reese. Since last night, she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him. It was possible his obvious position and power reminded her of what she’d gladly left behind, what she continued to run from.

  She turned on her stomach and lifted her shoulders, stretching along the front of her body. She needed to clear her mind. She refused to think about greed and selfishness, the things her father’s end
less parade of lawyers knew best.

  The bowl’s disappearance was already beginning to affect her. She needed to find it as soon as possible. She’d do a short practice and meditate until tranquil.

  Tomorrow she’d look for her bowl by visiting pawnshops herself.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Office of the United States Attorney for the Southern District of Florida.

  TAKI GLARED AT the gold leaf letters adorning the heavy wooden door to Reese Beauchamps’s office. Of course she wasn’t actually experiencing déjà vu. She had already been here once today, at 9:00 a.m., when she’d left two photographs of her missing Tibetan bowl with a receptionist before setting off to the pawnshops.

  She pushed open the door. What an adventure that had turned out to be.

  At the sixth musty, crowded, depressing store she visited, she found a man who thought maybe someone had possibly come in with something that looked like her bowl yesterday. A bit vague, sure, but she’d been thrilled and pressed him for more info. But he put her off, telling her to come back later and talk to his boss.

  “I’d like to see Reese Beauchamps,” Taki told the same pale, pregnant receptionist from this morning, having decided it best to relay the information directly to Reese. While she normally avoided lawyers like flu germs, she hoped his authority might encourage the pawnshop owner to talk.

  “Do you have an appointment?” the woman asked. She placed her hand on her swollen belly and winced as if in discomfort.

  “No. But I have valuable information I’m sure Reese will want. Please let him know I’m here.”

  The receptionist lifted arched eyebrows at the use of his first name. “Your name again, please?”

  “Taki.”

  “Taki...?”

  “Just Taki. How far along are you?” she asked.

  The woman rubbed her abdomen and sighed. “Six months, but I have nausea like I’m six weeks. If it doesn’t stop, I’m going to have to go home.”