Trevar's Team 1 Read online

  “From the reports, I take it he’s been violent before,” I commented.

  “Yes. He’s been booked on assault and battery various times. He’s a vicious drunk. Put me in the hospital a time or two,” Sylvia glumly recalled. “Years ago, when we were on the road we both drank heavily. My past has had ups and downs. Mistakes.” She pensively sat back. “Plenty of mistakes.”

  “Most of us have regrets. But as your songs say, we go on.”

  “My biggest regret has been that I wasn’t much of a parent to my kid. I got sober and clean and became an anti-drug advocate. But my campaign didn’t work at home. My daughter is hooked.”

  “Debra,” I pulled her name up from my memory. Debra Grant was the product of Sylvia’s first marriage. That marriage ended just before Debra was born when her father died in a fatal auto accident. “She’s about eighteen now.”

  “Yes. She was raised by her father’s parents. I provided the money to take care of her, but I was on the road. I never had the opportunity to be a mother. But a few years ago, all that changed. She’s with me. I just hope it isn’t too late. Debra is going through everything I went through. Drugs, booze, and bad company. My salvation was that I became lesbian.”

  “Summer was an addict. And a dealer. She was on the streets at fifteen. But when she turned eighteen, she cleaned up. And your campaign against drugs helped influence her.”

  “Glad I helped someone. But my own kid isn’t having any of it.”

  Before I could respond, the limousine rounded the corner. Parking directly in front of the auditorium, the vehicle rolled to a stop. Rachel appeared quickly at the side of the limo. “Rachel, our third partner,” I introduced the women.

  “You’re all very sexy,” Sylvia purred. She seemed well aware Lilia had become agitated. “I’ll bet you keep that yacht rocking.”

  “We’re usually too busy on cases for a social life,” I explained. My glance was in Lilia’s direction.

  Summer forcefully opened the door with a quick swing. Her eyes reflected sadness that touched me deeply. The haters were there with their anti-gay chants. I braced as I stood to look out at the placard-carrying protesters. They mingled with fans and press.

  Summer spit out her anger, “The detractors are out in force.”

  I commanded Sylvia and Lilia, “Forget autographs and pleasantries. Follow closely behind Summer and Rachel. They’ll break the crowd for us. I’ll be right behind you.”

  There was a circle of pressing people. When we exited to begin snaking toward the doors, I heard Rachel’s voice commanding the crowd to move away. But the crowd rushed toward us.

  Summer suddenly flung her body toward a large man. My nerves tensed. Summer shouted in the man’s face. She slammed him against a wall. Growling loudly, she screamed at him, “Move now.” That was followed by what I presumed to be a groin kick as the man crumbled. Summer turned to check our clients. “Under control,” she stated as our entourage continued.

  Our pace quickened as we made our way through the doors, then down the hall to the dressing room. Concert representatives had greeted us at the door, assisting with crowd control.

  My sigh of relief came only when we were safely inside the brightly lit room. While the women’s makeup and hair were touched up, I took a moment to relax.

  “So far, so good,” Summer said. “That only leaves the performance and return trip.”

  Although Summer made it sound simple, I recounted the multitude of dangers in my mind. “Once the performance begins, it becomes infinitely more problematic.” We all realized that a bodyguard wasn’t faster than a speeding bullet. The fraction of a blink could change everything. I was knowledgeable about that. In fact, I was living proof of it.

  Once on stage, and at the curtain’s edge, I vigilantly observed all that I could. As Lilia preformed, Sylvia stood at my side. We watched together Lilia’s swaying hips as she sang. I wondered if the torrents of passion streaming through my body were visible to Sylvia. I hoped not. I was reminded I needed to be on constant alert.

  “I love to watch her, don’t you?” Sylvia quizzed with a provocative murmur.

  “She’s an excellent singer.”

  “Beryl, that woman is the most sensual I’ve ever met. And I’ve been around.” Her coquettish grin emerged. “Hands down, she’s the best.”

  “She is lovely,” I agreed. Lilia’s sequined gown shined under the bright lights. She moved to the music’s beat. I felt Sylvia’s motion as she rocked from on foot to the other beside me. “Does she ever sing in English?”

  “Rarely. She’s self-conscious about her Spanish accent. I think it’s sexy.”

  “She doesn’t have much of an accent,” I noted.

  “No. But she’s such a perfectionist. Wants every bit of pronunciation on point. She wants our relation to be perfect as well.”

  “It seems very good.”

  “Most of the time.” Sylvia’s eyes closed for a moment. “But not all the time,” she confessed. “I have no idea what she sees in me. She’s much younger. Alluring—a true beauty. And she’s a saint to put up with me.”

  “You love her. And she must love you.”

  “Yeah. Sure she does.” As if addressing herself, she continued. “Lilia must love me. Not what I can do for her career. She’s a major star in Latin America. She’s got her own money. So I don’t know what else it would be. She must really care.”

  “Anyone who has the love of a good woman is fortunate.”

  “Love comes back to us in different ways. Maybe love returns when you don’t even deserve it.”

  “You’ve brought us all pleasure with your voice. You deserve love,” I reassured her.

  “But do I deserve her love?”

  “She must think so. There’s a legalese phrase—Quantum Valebant. It means as much as a product or service is worth. She must believe your love is worthy of hers.”

  Lilia took a deep bow. She walked toward us. Sylvia grinned, and then whispered in my ear, “I’m on now. Thanks. Thanks for reminding me how lucky I am.”

  While Sylvia made her way to the microphone, my glance perused the audience. They were spellbound. When Sylvia began her legendary theme song, the auditorium became a temple. She belted the blues. Electricity captured the hushed audience.

  Lilia passed by me. Her fragrant scent interrupted my thoughts. I smiled in her direction. “You were great. You have a lovely voice.”

  She ignored my compliment. Her eyes begged. “Please take care that Sylvia is safe. I’m frightened for her.”

  “Lilia, I don’t want anything to happen to her either. The world loves her.”

  “Not as much as I do.”

  Sylvia Grant’s lyrics were sung with what seemed to be a life unwrapping. Her torch threnodies were like a ceremony inside her heart. From a rasp to a rumbling howl, she sang her soul. Being within yards of her was far different from the concerts I’d attended in the past. This time, I more acutely felt the haunting pain reflected in her songs.

  Pain seemed an example of her life. She had used makeshift marriages, narcotics, and alcohol to hide her sexual orientation from a world of fans that she entertained. She wanted their approval. Adulation seemed to be as much of a drug as the others were. And although her fans were devoted to her, there were times they wavered. The press called her a lush, a has-been, deviate, and junkie. But most of her fans stuck by her. The press also acknowledged her genius, as well as the phenomenon of her career. Sylvia was worshiped.

  There was concern on Lilia’s face. “Will she be safe?”

  “I’ll protect her with my life,” I vowed. I continued to scan the stage area. It was as secure as we could make it.

  Throughout the remainder of the performance, and on the return trip to the Grant Estate, my promise to Lilia wandered through my thoughts. We safely delivered the women to Sylvia’s estate.

  “Glad that’s over,” I commented when the gate closed behind the limousine. I looked across the backseat at Summer and Ra
chel. “I was sure there would be trouble. I couldn’t have been the only one worried.” My statement wanted an answer.

  “Right,” Rachel replied with a sigh. “I was concerned. I always am.” She looked up at the roof of the limo and her eyes closed. “Always. But they’re safe and sound,” she enunciated as she gave a thumbs up sign.

  “Yeah,” Summer added. “See, Trev, things went okay. All your worry was for nothing. That feeling you get when there’s danger—it was a false alarm this time.”

  “I suppose it was,” I acquiesced. But I questioned why I didn’t feel as though it had been. I continued to feel impending danger. Only now, I felt even more powerless to throw myself between a client and death. If fact, I surmised, I was going in the opposite direction from where I believed the peril might be.

  2

  LET ME OUT of here, please… I mumbled through my sleep to the emptiness of my yacht’s stateroom. Dreams always tended to exhume my past.

  The substance of my dreams often reflected fear and frustration. I was glad to be awakened by the telephone’s ringing. Although I’d tossed and turned most of the night, my subconscious mind was being unlocked by the reality of a nine o’clock morning phone call. That aura of sleep dissolved when I reached for the receiver. I was cocoon-wrapped in a sheet as I began to sit. Midway through my attempt, I realized I was talking with a distraught Lilia Franco.

  Words were rushed and with great exigency. She asked, “Beryl, have you heard?”

  “Heard what?” I responded. “I’m just waking up.”

  “Sylvia…” her voice quivered.

  “What about Sylvia?”

  “She’s been murdered. Please help me. I’m being held for questioning.”

  “Lilia,” I paused, attempting to gather my thoughts. “Lilia, are you at the Palm Beach Police Station?”

  “Yes. After they had interviewed me, they told me I might need an attorney. Last night you said you are an attorney.”

  “Lilia, listen closely. If they attempt to question you again, tell them that I’m representing you. No more interrogation without my being present. They know better than to question without your Miranda warning.”

  “They did warn me at first. But I’m innocent and thought they would believe I could never have harmed Sylvia. After the interview, it was apparent that I need representation.”

  “I’ll be there in half an hour. And tell them nothing.”

  My partner’s staterooms were down a small hall. They had left, presumably to do their morning jog. I collected my smartphone and rapidly text the news. Jaw-dropping news, I considered. There was both Sylvia’s demise, along with the fact that Trevar Investigators was now representing Lilia Franco.

  Although I was not a practicing attorney, I was still a member of the Florida Bar. However, if Trevar Investigators were able to bring the true killer to justice, my defense attorney skills wouldn’t be required. I ended the communiqué by telling Summer and Rachel that I was on my way to police headquarters to assist Lilia Franco.

  With a click of the TV remote, I speedily began my morning rituals. I breezed through a shower, dressed, and went through the galley. At the refrigerator, I stopped only long enough to grab a bottle of orange juice and a power bar. As I twisted the juice bottle’s top, I heard the first news bulletin being broadcast. Sylvia Grant’s body was found a few hours ago in her home. She had been bludgeoned to death. Police were questioning family, friends, and employees.

  Passing by the mirror as I exited the hull, I made a rapid perusal of the reflected image of my weary face. Long blonde curls surrounded a tanned, tired face. My light blue eyes seemed faded. My usual one-hundred-watt smile was dimmed. My spirit, along with my average height and trim frame, sagged. I realized last night that I’d had a queasy feeling about the assignment. And I’d spent an uneasy night attempting to refute that instinctual alarm. My mirror’s likeness confirmed work had continued long after leaving the legendary singer. I now knew it was with good cause.

  Florida was known for being the home of orchids and alligators. Trevar Investigators determined cases in those exact terms. An orchid case was clean, neat, safe, and the check cleared. Alligator cases took us through the jaws of a mean gator to find resolution. While Lilia was the very essence of an orchid, my inside voice warned me of this case’s gigantic, snapping teeth.

  By the time I reached my metallic lavender Firebird convertible, I had realized I was chained to a bad dream. Sylvia Grant’s song had indeed been shut down. Her living voice was forever silenced. The radio station’s newscast blazed with a flurry of speculative reports.

  My auto weaved through the sleepy morning Palm Beach traffic. Before I arrived at the police station, Lilia had been released. I was glad she had awaited my arrival inside. Sneaking her out a side entrance would be easier than attempting to wade through the throng of paparazzi that was gathering at the entrance of the Spanish style police station. In true Palm Beach style, the multi-million dollar building remained one of the more elegant in the nation. It impressed out-of-towners. And Lilia Franco was definitely an out-of-towner when it came to crime.

  We took a side door. I escorted her to my car. Her sorrowful face was so serene that I wanted to kiss her. “You’re safe now. I’ll get you home,” I said.

  “Thank you for coming to my rescue,” she spoke solemnly. “I feel so lost.”

  “Lilia, I’m going to try to help you.”

  When I turned onto Royal Palm Way, she announced, “I’m staying at The Breakers.”

  “I understand it might be difficult to stay at Sylvia’s now.”

  “I left last night after an ugly scene at Sylvia’s. That’s when I arranged for a suite at The Breakers.”

  I drove in silence. The Breakers Hotel was a palatial, world famous masterpiece. The Palm Beach landmark had an exterior inspired by the Villa Medici in Florence. Its interior reflected Italian Renaissance artistry. We made our way past the Florentine fountain located at the hotel’s entrance. I suddenly heard the scurry of footsteps on the marble floor. Their distinct echo bounced around the Belvedere towers and arches. Members of the paparazzi had spotted us and were galloping toward us.

  “Come on,” I shouted, grabbing Lilia’s hand as we rushed to a waiting elevator. My body stretched across the doorway to block the press before they entered. When we reached her floor, we made a beeline for her suite. I gave a sigh once we are safely inside. “There is something to be said for being in better shape than tabloid photographers. The hotel will get rid of them and watch for them from here on.”

  Her smile was only a flash before reality extinguished it. “Sylvia didn’t object to the paparazzi. She said it was part of her job. I think she often enjoyed their attention.”

  Lilia motioned for me to sit. The suite was opulently decorated. A chandelier’s glow reflected from mirrors. With dark wood furniture, the private living room might have been used for a motion picture set. Lilia Franco’s aristocratic demeanor belonged in these surroundings.

  “I miss Sylvia,” Lilia’s face was softened by sorrowful, yielding eyes. Dark mahogany hair draped her shoulders. She was dressed casually in a sherbet-pink camisole, tan slacks, and sandals. She had obviously been rousted by the police at an early hour. She was not dressed for a police station visit. Nor was I.

  “The world misses Sylvia,” I responded. “You loved her very much, didn’t you?” I’d refrained from saying that I’d noticed Lilia’s disapproval of the attention Sylvia was paying me. I wanted to express my condolences before asking what the fight was about. “I’m very sorry.”

  “Yes.” She lifted a tissue to her eyes. Daubing the tears that formed redness in her eyes, she said, “She meant everything to me. The police say I’m a suspect. Can you help me?” There was an enormous pain in her voice.

  “Lilia, when there’s been a murder, everyone is a suspect. That’s police procedure. They never exclude anyone. And, of course, I’ll help you. To begin with, I need to know everything you can
recall about last night after we left Sylvia and you.”

  “As I mentioned, we had a disagreement.”

  “About?”

  “You. Sylvia often flirted with lovely women. It was designed to make me jealous.”

  I fidgeted. “I had no idea her behavior might cause a fight.” I discounted the word lovely. I was cute maybe, in an oddly plain way. Not in the least—in any way was I Florida glamorous. “I thought she was just being flirty to a fan. I didn’t think it might trouble you. Or that it might cause a fight.”

  “Nor did I. But she was often most difficult. When she drank, she was.”

  “I thought she’d given up booze and drugs,” I quickly interrupted.

  “She had periodically resumed drinking. Because she was a spokesperson for the anti-drug and alcohol campaigns, everyone around her protected her from bad publicity when she drank. Her friends and family sheltered her. I confess that I was part of the cover-up. For the greater good, they said.” Tears seeped from Lilia’s eyes. “When she became drunk, there was little I could do with her. The rumored reports of her alcohol abuse, the disturbances, they were all true.”

  “Was there a witness to the fight?”

  “No. The maid had taken the evening off to visit her family.”

  “What about Sylvia’s daughter?”

  “Debra often stays with friends.”

  “Was that because she didn’t get along with her mother?” From what Sylvia had told me, she disapproved of her prodigal daughter. Sylvia obviously had lied to me about her own blemished abstinence. Having been raised by alcoholic parents, I understood the drinker’s deception.