Deborah Brown - Madison Westin 06 - Revenge in Paradise by Deborah Brown Page A

suggested that before.” Fab looked skeptical.
    “It will be fun. I’m choosing the place for our first outing. Creole’s not going to agree to some flashy restaurant in South Beach where we have to do extreme dress-up.”
    Her blue eyes stared at me, unblinking. “I’m putting my foot down though. No drive-thru hamburger stands. The place has to have tables and chairs.”
    “I’ll talk to him about available dates and get back to you.” I liked the idea of a date night, dress-up tropical style.
    Fab opened the ashtray. “I’m happy you keep this full of quarters, I’d never remember until we were out of change.”
    We sat waiting for another car to back out, Fab tapping her fingers against the steering wheel. Someone on the opposite side came out and Fab zipped into that space ten feet ahead of a car going the right direction.
    “Why don’t you ask Harder for a parking pass?” I turned and looked out the back window. “I’m not getting out, unless the woman sitting behind us waving her middle finger moves along.”
    Fab leaned forward, pulling out her Walther and shoving the gun into the front of her jeans. “I’ll flash it and she’ll move along.”
    “Have you lost your mind? You can’t do that in the police parking lot.”
    Creole had a new, larger storage box installed—replacing the old one when the key disappeared—just for these occasions. I also knew and failed to mention to Fab that, at the same time, Creole outfitted the Hummer with a more sophisticated GPS. She had found the last one and drove over it several times. He harped on safety first, for which I should show more appreciation.
    Fab hopped out, walked over to the woman’s window, and rapped on the glass. Judging by the look on the woman’s face, she decided not to fight over the space. My guess was that Fab flashed her scary face. The car jerked into gear and disappeared down the aisle.
    We ran up the stairs and into the building, breezing through the metal detectors. Our passes were waiting at the check-in desk.
    Fab clipped hers to her scooped-neck top, fingering it. “I’ve never gotten one of these before.”
    “That’s because when you’re brought in for questioning you don’t get one. The handcuffs let everyone know your status.”
    Harder leaned against his office door at the end of the hallway, his arms across his chest. His suit pants were rumpled and he’d ditched his coat and tie. He looked better in shorts and a golf shirt; the suit made him look like a down-on-his-luck detective in a noir film.
    “I knew you’d show up.” He nodded to me, his brown eyes full of amusement. “But you, I wasn’t so sure,” he said, and stared at Fab.
    I tapped her in the small of her back, a reminder not to say anything inappropriate. “Hello, Chief.” I smiled, breezing by him, and took a seat in front of a large mahogany desk. The shelves behind him were filled with books on police procedures.
    Harder seated himself behind his desk. “Sit, Miss Merceau.” He motioned to a chair. “Your pacing gets on my nerves.”
    The only thing I liked about his new office was the large window, although the view of the parking lot didn’t hold my interest.
    “You said this meeting was personal, so that rules out the dead guy. What’s new?” I asked.
    “He’s still dead.” Harder laughed, clearly thinking his response funny.
    Fab kicked my foot. We stared at him, waiting, neither one of us wanting to be the first to speak.
    “This is about my god-daughter, Lizzie. She was engaged to marry this jerk, Dane Thorson, and two weeks before the wedding he disappeared.” He handed over a driver’s license photocopy. The man didn’t take a bad photo—black hair turning gray around the edges, arrogant smile.
    Fab leaned over from behind the picture, and snapped her fingers, pointing to the door. She and Harder only tolerated one another because of my friendship with the man and it stemmed from the days from before I knew her when he