OUTSIDE LANES

  A MIAMI JONES PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR MYSTERY

  BOOK 18

  A.J. STEWART

  For everyone on my team.

  Especially Heather.

  CHAPTER ONE

  My mentor and friend Lenny Cox used to say that there isn’t a room you can’t get into when wearing a tuxedo. I hadn’t gotten into the Circle Ballroom at The Breakers because I was dressed like a penguin, but it didn’t hurt. And I wasn’t alone. Half the people in the room wore black tie, and the rest were trying to outdo each other with their colorful gowns. I hadn’t seen so many sequins since my Beneath the Sea Dance in high school.

  The Circle was all kinds of Palm Beach opulent: a thirty-foot dome ringed by fifteen-foot arched windows that let the late afternoon sunshine stream in. The view wasn’t waterfront—there was a glimpse of the ocean, which was as good as none in this part of town—but the foliage outside acted like a matte-painting background on a movie set. The eye was drawn to the crystal chandelier that hung from the center of what the Lady Cassandra assured me was a stylized gold-leaf sunburst.

  Of course, the Lady Cassandra was the reason I was here. Ron’s wife was usually the reason I went to anything at The Breakers, and always when it involved wearing a tux.

  Danielle stood next to me, looking like a billion dollars in a room full of people worth hundreds of millions. She had eschewed the sequins for a form-fitting dress with a vaguely Asian motif, and she was wearing the hell out of it.

  Ron swept in on Cassandra’s arm with a champagne flute in his hand and a winning smile on his blotchy face. He looked like he’d either had six or seven glasses of bubbles already or he’d gotten too much sun, but neither was the case. His gray hair was tinted turquoise from the blue carpet beneath our feet.

  “I do love Palm Beach,” he said.

  I smiled.

  “And free champagne.”

  I opened my mouth to reply, but Danielle put a gentle elbow into my ribs. The champagne only felt free because the ticket price to get in the door covered it and then some. Ron had assured me that the fundraiser would be good for business, and our accountant had confirmed he would write it off as a networking expense, but I hoped I never had to explain that to an IRS agent.

  Why exactly the US national swim team needed to raise funds was unclear to me. Most of them seemed to be in college, and a few bucks beer money over and above my scholarship had seen me through the University of Miami just fine.

  But here we were, folks who lived on the island and those of us who had to cross the Flagler Memorial Bridge to gain admission, boosting the coffers of the swim team in pursuit of gold medals in Paris.

  Most people looked different dressed in black tie, but swimmers even more so. I didn’t know many of the faces—no Michael Phelps or Mark Spitz—but my memory of those in the room was situational, and that situation usually involved them wearing Speedos in a pool. Fully clothed, they looked less like athletes and more like regular people—albeit tall people. The money was shorter and rounder, but everyone smiled like they were having the time of their lives. I had played sports in college and I did the boosters’ events that were essentially payback for getting a free ride to school. Talking to old folks about long-past athletic heydays wasn’t exactly the highlight of my life, and although I was now closer to the old guy than the athlete, I hadn’t forgotten the experience.

  The Lady Cassandra had cruised in with an empty flute, and Ron did his duty. Then she pulled Danielle and me from the corner of a room with no corners. She introduced me to a young woman who was built like an upturned rake—thin through the trunk and broad across the shoulders. She wore a sleeveless dress, which showed off strong arms that reminded me of Muriel from Longboard Kelly’s.

  “You excited for the trials?” I asked.

  “Yes, sir,” she replied. “Super pumped.”

  “We’ll be rooting for you.”

  “Thank you. We really appreciate your support.” She smiled the work of a high-end orthodontist, and I figured she would go far in whatever she chose to do after the swimming career petered out.

  “Impressive young lady,” said Danielle as the swimmer walked away.

  “You see those arms?” I said. “She could chop some wood.”

  “I don’t even know what to say to that.”

  I shrugged, thinking it didn’t require further comment.

  Ron introduced us to a few locals, and we enjoyed some more champagne and a shrimp mousse in phyllo pastry that might have been the best thing I’d ever eaten outside of a ballpark.

  I was wiping my hands with a tiny napkin when Ron introduced two athletes with cut-throat razor shaves and haircuts that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a Marine. They were both a good three inches taller than me, which put them near six four, and they matched the width of my pitcher’s shoulders. I could imagine either of them on the front of a cereal box.

  “Danielle, Miami, this is Ewan Rachelle and Greg Baxter.”

  A server swanned by with a tray of beers and bubbly. Danielle, Ron, and I swapped out our flutes. Ewan grabbed a beer. Greg waved the offer away and stuck with what looked like a club soda.

  “Don’t want a beer?” I asked him.

  He poked his tongue out. “Hate the stuff.”

  “Champagne, then?”

  “Not while I’m competing.”

  “Ewan and Greg are both freestyle and butterfly swimmers,” said Ron.

  “You guys did well in Tokyo,” said Danielle. “You have it in you again?”

  “Sure do,” said Ewan. He shot Danielle a wide smile. “You a swimmer?”

  “I’m in law enforcement.”

  He nodded like this impressed him. “You’re in great shape.”

  I waited for the for your age but it didn’t come.

  “So are you.”

  “In the pool five hours a day, six days a week. We can eat anything we want.” He held up his beer.

  “That so?”

  “In theory. You sure you’re not a swimmer? You’ve got swimmer’s arms.”

  “Only occasionally, in the surf.”

  “I knew you were an athlete.”

  “No, just a cop. My husband’s the athlete.”

  He glanced at me like it was hard to believe.

  “Not swimming,” he said.

  “Baseball,” I said.

  Ewan smiled with one half of his face like he’d heard of the game but wasn’t completely familiar with it. He turned his attention back to Danielle.

  I grinned. It wasn’t the first time that some guy had hit on my wife. She was attractive and fit and held herself with the confidence of a person who was trained to use a firearm.

  As I waited for the next volley to be played, the other swimmer, Greg, spoke to me.

  “You’re that guy,” he said.

  “What guy?”

  “The old baseball player. You’re a PI now, right?”

  Unlike most professional service folks in South Florida, I didn’t have my mugshot on a billboard and I didn’t do television ads, so I furrowed my already creased brow. “Says who?”

  “You did the thing with the arena.”

  “I did what?”

  Greg was about to speak when his buddy Ewan tapped his shoulder. “Coach wants us for something.” Ewan smiled at Danielle, and Greg touched my arm.

  “Do you have a card?”

  “A what?”

  “A business card.”

  I didn’t but the thought occurred that it was the kind of event where such a thing might be useful. I pointed at Ron. “See that guy? He’s my associate. He’ll have a card.”

  Greg nodded and was dragged away, but he broke off to briefly speak to Ron, who then shot me a look like I’d lost my puppy again. He gave Greg a card, and the swimmer strode away. Ron excused himself from whoever he had been in conversation with, walked over to me, and slapped a half dozen cards into my palm.

  Now the IRS agent would be placated.

  Danielle and I ate a few more hors d'oeuvres and sipped a little more champagne. We chatted with a few people we knew and a good number we didn’t. I noticed some of the younger crowd—the athletes—gradually moving out of the room. They weren’t staying at this hotel—those who needed the benefit of fundraising didn’t stay at The Breakers. I imagined they were slinking off to somewhere more their speed, somewhere off the island.

  That was my plan as well.

  I confirmed the plan with Danielle and tapped Ron on the shoulder midstory to say I’d see him tomorrow. Danielle swallowed the last of her flute and handed it to the woman at the door whose job was to prevent the well-heeled from escaping with the glassware.

  I put my hand in my pocket and offered Danielle an elbow. She shot me the half smile that sets me off every time and threaded her arm through mine. I felt like Gene Kelly as we sauntered through the lobby toward the taxi rank out front. I wasn’t about to sing, and I’m too heavy to chance an ankle injury with a heel kick, but my mood was joyful as Danielle leaned against me.

  “Mr. Jones!”

  I turned slowly to the voice. My mood and a few glasses of bubbles dictated my pace.

  “Mr. Jones,” repeated the tall athlete who had gotten our business card from Ron. “Can I speak to you privately?”

  “I’m in the office tomorrow, kid. You’ve got my card.”


  “I can’t tomorrow. I have heats. It’ll just take a second.”

  I glanced at Danielle, and she shrugged.

  “Don’t go anywhere,” I said, like she was my date and might skip out on me if a better offer came along. It was a thought that always kept me on my toes.

  I gestured for him to follow me back into the opulent hall that was the lobby, then I pushed the doors open to the Mediterranean courtyard. We stood in the failing light of the evening.

  “What’s your name again?”

  “Greg, sir. Greg Baxter.”

  Now that I could give him the once over properly, he looked a little older than a few of his cohorts, certainly not college age. His golden hair was shaved along the sides and gave his face a granitelike edge that his high-cheekbones didn’t need.

  “What can’t wait until tomorrow, Greg?”

  “I don’t know where to start.”

  “At the end.”

  “I’m being blackmailed.”

  They weren’t the words I had been expecting, so I took a moment to process them. “For what?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What is the blackmailer asking for?”

  “I don’t know exactly.”

  “What do they want you to do?”

  “Quit.”

  “Quit what?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “This is a very nonspecific blackmail threat. How do you know that you’re being blackmailed? Did you get a letter or something?”

  “A letter?”

  “It’s a piece of paper that comes in a thing called an envelope.” I had left my wife standing outside in a very sexy dress, so the sass was almost inevitable.

  “No, it came via Shoosh.”

  “Shush? Like be quiet?”

  He spelled it for me. “It’s a messaging app.”

  “Okay. What did this message say?”

  He took out his phone, did some poking and swiping, and then held it up to me. It looked like a text message.

  Quit Now Or I’ll Tell Everyone

  What You Did . . .

  “Quit what?” I asked again.

  “I’m not sure exactly.”

  “Swimming?”

  “Maybe.”

  “They’ll tell everyone what you did. What did you do?”

  “Nothing.”

  “It’s generally pretty hard to blackmail a guy who’s never done anything.”

  “I’m worried, is all.”

  “About what? You’ve never done anything that could be used against you, so you can’t be blackmailed.”

  “What if it’s some crackpot? I’m swimming for a place on the national team this week. The Games in Paris. I don’t need this distraction.”

  “I’m sure you don’t, but here’s the thing, kid: you’re lying to me. There isn’t a person on earth who gets to be your age without doing anything. You might not have robbed a bank, but you’ve likely stood a girl up on a date or filled your dad’s whiskey bottle with tea to replace what you drank with your buddies in the basement or any number of stupid things. Not really blackmail material, but nevertheless, things you might wish you did differently or might be a little ashamed of, or hell, you might not care about because you’re a psychopath. But telling me you’ve never done anything is baloney. And I can’t work with baloney.”

  “Okay, Mr. Jones. Sure, regrets, I’ve got a few.”

  I was about to sing the next line, but I saw in his expression that he wasn’t quoting Old Blue Eyes.

  “But I can’t imagine what this is about,” he said. “And I’m concerned someone might go all Tonya Harding on me.”

  “Do you have a real chance to make this team?”

  “I was on the last two, so yeah, I’ve got a shot.”

  “So someone might want your spot?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Or someone on another team might want you off it.”

  “Possible.”

  I looked at the fountain in the middle of the courtyard. “But you can’t come to my office tomorrow?”

  “I’m competing. The hundred free.”

  “Where is this happening?”

  “Here.”

  “The Breakers?”

  “No, I mean Palm Beach. Well, West Palm Beach. It doesn’t feel like the same place over there.”

  “It’s not. So which pool?”

  “The Palm Beach Arena.”

  “The basketball arena?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “There’s no pool there.”

  “Then it’ll be a short event.”

  “Okay. Let me do some research tomorrow. You’ll be there the day after? I’ll drop by. If I think there’s something, we can discuss what I can do.”

  “Just keep an eye on me,” he said. “That’s all I ask.”

  When a group of other swimmers appeared at the door, Greg flinched. “I’ve gotta go.”

  “So do I, so do I.”

  Greg joined them, and as they walked away, I wondered what a group of swimmers was called. A school?

  I found Danielle chatting with the valet. She smiled as I approached and did a little loop with her finger, suggesting she wanted me to offer my arm again. It felt like the thing to do when wearing a tuxedo. She took my arm for the short walk to the taxi.

  “Home?” I asked.

  “I feel like another drink,” she said.

  “You wanna go back inside?”

  “The free drinks are done.”

  “They have a bar here.”

  “An expensive bar.”

  “I got my allowance today.”

  She kissed me. “I’ve had my fill of champagne. I was thinking Longboard’s.”

  I opened the car door, and she slipped into the taxi. I glanced across the old dame of a building, the last burst of sun lighting the forecourt, then followed her into the cab, once again thinking, Miami Jones, how did you get so damned lucky?

  CHAPTER TWO

  I hadn’t studied this hard in college.

  Back then, I was answerable to a fiery coach with a penchant for handing out suicide runs until his athletes threw up, so I focused on my football and my baseball. There were textbooks on my dorm room desk, and I attended classes and seminars and all that kind of stuff, but I rarely burned the midnight oil before a final.

  This was different. This wasn’t just something I cared about—it was something Danielle felt passionate about. Becoming a foster parent had never been on my radar until I became one for a brief time, almost by accident. But once it was out in the open that Danielle couldn’t have any of her own, we realized we wanted to welcome into our home kids who needed one.

  I had been told not to worry. It was just procedure. Boxes had to be ticked to make sure the state wasn’t putting kids into worse places than they were taking them out of, so there were background checks and visits and rules.

  And a test.

  Pressure was something that I had gotten comfortable with. Playing baseball, even in the minors, was constant stress. The events, the training, the whole damned thing was based around a chronic underlying tension punctuated by points of intensely applied pressure.

  But the thought of this exam was tying my guts in knots. I wasn’t going to let Ron know that I was nervous about it, though I suspected he could read it in my face. He was that kind of guy. I think the new buzzword was emotional intelligence, but I would just call him a people person. He got folks, understood them, and more often than not accepted them, warts and all.

  I was sitting at my desk like a reputable person does. I was wearing sneakers, not boat shoes, and my feet were on the floor, not kicked up on the desk. I wore big boy pants and a button-up shirt. It wasn’t exactly a tuxedo, but palm trees were nowhere to be seen. It was a serious shirt for serious work, sky blue and pressed by a dry cleaner who Lizzy had on speed dial or whatever people used now.

  A massive ring binder lay open on my desk. Apparently, all the information was available online, but Lizzy had decided that I learned better when I read things on paper, so she printed the entire curriculum, then collated and indexed it and put it into the binder. Her meticulousness gave me an unfair advantage, but I wasn’t above taking the help. I had to pass this test.

  I had been poring over the pages for an hour when my concentration was interrupted by a tap at my door and Lizzy appeared. She had done something with her hair—bangs?—and wore the usual amount of industrial-strength makeup. She was from the if one garlic clove is good then fifty must be better school.