Beauty & the Beast: Vendetta

  “No, sir.” Roberto’s smile never faltered. “Would you prefer not to be upgraded? The honeymoon suite is quite luxurious. It has a beautiful view. You’ll see dolphins, maybe even whales. You have an in-room whirlpool bath and a Baja shower surrounded by plumeria and pikake plants, a movie and sound system, and all the furnishings are handcrafted from native Hawaiian koa wood. It’s often booked as much as a year in advance. It was sheer luck that it was available at such short notice.” He paused. “But if you don’t want it, I’m sure we can move you back into a room on par with Maui twenty-one.”

  “No, no, upgrading is good. Right?” Vincent turned to Cat, and she nodded eagerly.

  “Upgrading is great,” Cat replied. “I’m all for it.” She grinned at Vincent. “Double aloha.”

  “Triple.”

  Cat took the folder and looked inside. There were two wood-grain passkeys, one with Catherine embossed in gold and the other, Vincent. Catherine showed them to her husband. “I doubt we’ll ever be apart long enough to need a separate key, but just in case…”

  “Just in case,” he agreed.

  “I’ll escort you to your suite and introduce you to your steward,” Roberto said. “He’ll show you around your home away from home.”

  Vincent laced his fingers through hers. “Let’s explore paradise.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Rubbing her temple, Tess sat at her desk, ignoring the blister from the brand-new black heels she had bought during lunch, and scanned the case file lying open on the blotter. There were a lot of charges—possession of an illegal substance with intent to distribute, possession of stolen property, illegal possession of a firearm, and resisting arrest?

  Huh, Tess thought, raising her gaze from the document to the family seated before her. The “kid” who had been brought up on this raft of charges—the one Chief Ward wanted her to clear—was not a kid at all. He was an entitled, sulky, bad-mannered twenty-four-year-old. His parents had accompanied him into Tess’s office and were perched on either side of him, both leaning forward earnestly, waiting for Tess to wave her magic wand and make it all go away. The “kid” sat sprawled with his arms crossed, pointedly sighing and staring off into space as if this was all a gigantic imposition on his time.

  “Okay, see—” Tess looked at the file again “—Scott, I’m having a problem. These are very serious charges and from what I’m reading in the arresting officer’s report, all the evidence points towards your guilt.”

  “No, they trumped up those charges,” his mother—Mrs. Daystrom—cut in. She had been weeping when they’d walked in. The father looked no better. There were deep circles under his eyes and he kept twisting his wedding ring, a nervous tic. She had no idea how old they were but unless Mrs. Daystrom had had Scott when she was fifty, parenthood had significantly aged them both.

  “He was in possession of two kilos of pure cocaine,” Tess said. You don’t trump something like that up.

  “They planted that on him,” Mrs. Daystrom insisted.

  Tess glanced over at Scott’s father. He was staring at his son as if he had no idea who he was. His heartbreak was painful to observe. She could read his thoughts on his anguished features: Where did we go wrong?

  “Mrs. Daystrom, I know the arresting officer personally. He’s a good cop. He would never plant evidence on a subject.” Tess tried to be gentle.

  “Then you don’t know him very well,” the woman said shrilly. “I know my son. He’s not a drug dealer. And as for resisting arrest, I’d fight back too if I were falsely accused.” She reached to take her son’s hand but he slid his fists into his armpits. “It’s all over the news, how the police are-are corrupt.” She covered her mouth, then fidgeted with her hair. “I don’t mean you personally, Captain Vargas. Please…”

  “Unless you drop all charges right now, we’re going to sue for false arrest.” Those were the first words out of Mr. Daystrom’s mouth, and Tess could tell they had been rehearsed. The man’s cheeks were blazing red. He didn’t want to say them. He had been told to say them. “And I know Chief Ward will back us up.”

  Ward can’t possibly know the facts of this case, Tess thought. This is such an indefensible crock. He wouldn’t do that to me. She sighed inwardly.

  She looked straight at the kid, who was still avoiding eye contact. “Your parents are good, decent people. They’re going to bat for you. If this goes to trial and you need a lawyer, I’m sure they would spend every dime they have defending you. And your attorney might get you let off. But if you agree to lesser charges, I may be able to get the DA to—”

  “Hello, Brad,” the kid’s father said into his cell phone. Crap, that was Captain Ward’s first name. Mr. Daystrom stared down at his lap, utterly ashamed of himself. “We’re having a little trouble down here at the police station. Yes, she’s here. Sure.”

  He raised a brow as he held out the phone to Tess. As she took it, Scott smirked. Beside him, a tear slid down his mother’s face. Mrs. Daystrom knew that Scott was guilty.

  “Yes, sir,” Tess said into the phone.

  “Vargas, how’s it looking?”

  “Depends,” she said evasively. If she were the squirming type, she’d be squirming now. Scott’s parents were studying her as if she were a bug under a microscope.

  “On?” Ward asked.

  “This is a serious case, Chief.”

  “He has no priors.”

  Neither did the Son of Sam. And he was a serial killer.

  “Sir,” she said, but she wasn’t going to go into it with these people in her office.

  “You should be an expert at this. You covered for your partner Detective Chandler enough times,” Ward bit off.

  Tess was livid. “Chief Ward—”

  “Scott Daystrom’s a good kid. Whatever happened, he just got swept up in it. I’m sure this will be an object lesson. Make it right, Vargas.”

  Or else. That’s the part he wasn’t saying. He didn’t need to. She wasn’t an idiot.

  But she also wasn’t empowered to do anything about it. A report had been filed. Evidence had been bagged and tagged.

  And despite all that, I did make cases go away for Cat. He wasn’t wrong about that. But nothing was ever proven. My official record as a police officer reflects that. And he wants me to get dirty for this self-absorbed moron who doesn’t give a damn about what he’s putting his parents through.

  No way. I will make it right.

  “I’m hanging up, Vargas. I don’t want any more calls from Jack Daystrom. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Clear,” she repeated as neutrally as she could. She hung up the phone and rose. “Mr. and Mrs. Daystrom,” she said, “you need to get your son a lawyer. A good one.” Which means, unfortunately, an expensive one.

  “Wait, what?” Scott blurted.

  “Oh, you’re awake. Nice you could join us,” Tess said hotly. “You’ll be staying with us tonight.” She picked up her office landline phone. “Miller to my office, please.” She hung back up. “He’ll get you set up.”

  “But Brad said—”

  “Brad is not the captain here,” Tess interrupted. “I am.”

  She hoped they couldn’t see that she was trembling, both with anger and, okay, call it apprehension if you didn’t want to go as far as fear. Which had changed, her or the job? Everyone was making side deals, bending the rules. Breaking the law. That wasn’t what she’d signed up for. Protect and serve, not swerve. Well, it ended now.

  There was a rap on her door. It opened, and Officer Miller stood in the doorway—all six feet and four inches of him. An amateur bodybuilder, he was bald, bulgy, and very intimidating.

  “Please make our guest comfortable for the evening,” Tess told him.

  “Hey, wait! Wait!” Scott cried. His head whipped toward his mother, expecting her to intervene as no doubt she always had. “Mom, stop her!”

  “Scott!” Mrs. Daystrom got to her feet. Mr. Daystrom stood up and pulled out his cell phone again.

&n
bsp; Tess said, “Move it, Miller.”

  Miller expertly whirled Scott in a half-circle, cuffed him, and marched him out of Tess’s office in an efficient, professional blur. His parents stood aghast.

  “Sit down, both of you,” Tess ordered them. “Now.”

  To her relief, they complied. She planted her hands flat on her desk and leaned forward, staring into their glassy eyes, willing them to get what she was about to tell them.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Daystrom, I’ve been a police officer for a long time,” she began, “and I’ve seen it all. Please listen to me when I tell you that if your son does not face the consequences of his actions now, he’ll have to later. And by then, he’ll be in deeper. And there will be nothing left of the son you raised and loved. I guarantee it. He will be a criminal. And he will either die on the streets or rot in jail.”

  Maybe she was laying it on too thick. Thing was, in her gut she knew she was right.

  Mrs. Daystrom burst into fresh tears and sank back into her chair. She couldn’t hold back the dam; what had to be years of disappointment and frustration welled out of her. Mr. Daystrom went to her side and put his hands on her shoulders.

  “Linda,” he said, “oh, honey. Honey, stop.” When he looked at Tess, she saw naked desperation and nights pacing the floor and worrying. “Please, look what this is doing to her. It’s killing her. I’m calling Chief Ward again and if he doesn’t fire you—”

  “I’m not backing down,” Tess told him. “I’m the only hope your son has.”

  “Are you insane?” he cried. “Fine. That does it.” He got out his phone.

  Then Mrs. Daystrom wrapped her hand around his forearm. “No, Jack,” she said through a torrent of tears. “She’s right.” She nodded at Tess. “I know you’re right.”

  “You’re letting her bully you,” Mr. Daystrom said.

  “Just like Scott has been bullying you both.” Tess picked up a box of tissues and held it out to Mrs. Daystrom. The woman grabbed a handful and buried her face in them.

  “This will ruin his life,” Mr. Daystrom said. “He’s not some juvenile delinquent. He’s an adult.”

  Bingo. “Get him a lawyer and work with the system. He has to know there is one before it’s too late.”

  She walked to her door and opened it. Scott’s father’s lips parted but he made no sound as he gently helped his wife to her feet. She was hunched over, carrying the weight of this family’s pain on her shoulders.

  “Showing remorse would be very helpful when he goes before the judge,” Tess said.

  Lost and frightened, the couple began to shuffle out. Tess kept her heart where it belonged—out of this case. What they had been doing to Scott was called enabling, and she would have no part of it.

  As Mrs. Daystrom crossed the threshold, she looked up at Tess. She said, “When Scott was seven, he wanted a BB gun. We said he was too young and he had this terrible tantrum. He said he was going to beat Santa Claus up.”

  “So you got him a BB gun,” Tess filled in.

  “No.” She wiped her eyes with the tissue. “We didn’t. He cried and carried on for days. I couldn’t wait for Christmas vacation to be over.” She kept her gaze on the tissue as she folded it into squares, then into tinier ones. “It was so exhausting.”

  Your son is twenty-four years old, Tess thought, but she understood. She got it. Being a parent was twenty-four seven, fifty-two weeks a year. It never ended. You got tired. You gave in once. And then another time. Pretty soon capitulation was your new normal.

  Or you did everything right, and your kid still grew up to be the Son of Sam.

  “I’m calling Brad,” Mr. Daystrom muttered, but Mrs. Daystrom shook her head.

  “No, Jack. You’re not.”

  She turned to Tess, swallowed hard, and sighed.

  Tess shut the door after them. Her shoulders sagged. Her blister hurt. Her head hurt. Her heart hurt. Stupid heart.

  Then her cell phone rang. It was JT. Yay. A ray of sunshine in a field of gloom.

  “Hey,” she said, “I sure hope your day is going better than—”

  “Tess,” JT said over her, “Princess Mochi is missing.”

  * * *

  Before Roberto escorted Vincent and Catherine to their suite, he took them on a tour of the amenities on their deck, which contained a handful of staterooms. Vincent was astonished. There was a grotto-like pool carved from lava rock with a love seat positioned beneath a misting waterfall. Drinks could be ordered from an underwater keypad and delivered poolside. They could share couple’s massages on thickly padded tables positioned beneath hanging trellises of orchids. Even now, his-and-hers custom massage oils were being blended according to a profile they both filled out. Then a waitress brought them mai tais and black lacquer platters of coconut shrimp and sushi, and Roberto announced that it was time to go to their suite.

  When they got there, a short blonde man in the ship’s colors of coral and navy was bent over, closely inspecting their card lock. Vincent assumed he was their steward, but when the man straightened, Roberto frowned at him and said, “May I help you?”

  “I’m Lars,” the man said in a heavy Scandinavian accent. “Is this the Kukui Suite?”

  Roberto relaxed slightly. “No. K-u-u-i-p-o,” he sounded out. “Kukui is one deck down.”

  “Oh.” Lars touched his forehead. “I’m sorry. I was confused.”

  “That’s no problem,” Roberto said smoothly. “These are the Kellers. Our honeymooners.”

  “That’s wonderful,” Lars said. He shook Vincent’s hand. “Much happiness to you both.”

  “Thank you,” Vincent said.

  “Off you go to Kukui, then,” Robert prompted. “You wouldn’t want to keep your guests waiting.”

  “No, of course not.” Lars scooted away.

  Roberto watched him go, his forehead mildly furrowed. Then he said to Catherine, “If you will do the honors, Mrs. Keller?”

  Catherine inserted her key into the lock and the door opened to a trill of birdsong. Vincent enjoyed the ripple of happiness that showed on her face and wished they were alone so he could carry her over the threshold. Instead, he closed the door and fell into line as Roberto led the way.

  “Unbelievable,” Vincent murmured as the man turned and faced them. There were flowers everywhere—hanging from the ceiling, in large wooden vases and urns, surrounding several couches and chairs upholstered in Hawaiian fabrics. Between them a coffee table was loaded down with roses. a champagne bucket filled with ice and a bottle, a basket of fruit, cheese, and a row of golf-ball-sized chocolates. Catherine was gaping at it.

  “That’s your truffle bar,” Roberto announced. “Please sample them and put your preferences on this tablet.” He went to a wooden chest beneath a plasma screen TV hung between woodblock prints of sea turtles and dolphins and handed the tablet to Catherine. “Every night, you’ll have a turndown service, and your steward will leave two of your favorite truffles on your pillow. This is included in your upgrade,” he added smoothly.

  “Which has been taken care of,” Vincent underscored.

  “Yes, sir.” Roberto gestured to the table. “That controls the sound system, the TV, room service, movie selections…” He trailed off and held up a finger. “If you’ll excuse me…”

  Then he glided across the large room to a wooden door, which he opened. He peered in. “Hello?”

  “Hello?” a man’s voice echoed.

  Roberto walked through the doorway. Vincent and Catherine followed close behind. They entered a bedroom dominated by a circular bed hung with fabric matching the woodblock prints that framed the plasma screen. On the other side of the draperies, a slight man with jelled raven-black hair and sideburns stood over one of Vincent’s suitcases, which was situated on a luggage stand. Vincent tensed.

  “Oh, Paul, it’s you.” Roberto smiled. “I thought you were going to meet us.”

  Paul carried a stack of Vincent’s underwear to the open drawer of a wooden bureau and careful
ly arranged it as if he were handing the most precious objects on earth. Vincent bristled with a tiny surge of beast reaction—that was his underwear, thank you very much, and he and Catherine had just had all their stuff pawed through by a disinterested thief the night before—

  Catherine glanced at him and raised her brows. She mouthed, Calm down. His eyes must be beginning to glow. He exhaled and gazed down at the floor, seeking a more zenlike state.

  “I was hoping to finish unpacking for the Kellers first,” Paul replied. “To surprise them.” He straightened and held out his hand. “I’m Paul, your steward. I’ll be taking care of you during the entire cruise. Night or day, please press the S on your tablet for me. If I’m not available, one of the other stewards will come. But most of the time, it will be me.”

  “Thanks,” Catherine said, stepping forward. She gazed into the drawer. Paul opened the one next to it with a flourish and she murmured, “Oh. Looks like you put all my clothes away first.” Her cheeks blazed. Vincent grinned, remembering the surprise items she, Tess, and Heather had shopped for. Catherine turned to Paul, managing an awkward smile. “How… thoughtful.”

  “Every night, I’ll turn down your bed,” Paul said, “unless you type in a request not to be disturbed.” He moved to the nightstand, opened it, and pulled out an impressive booklet. “This explains all the commands available on your tablet. It’s very simple, really.” He set it down. “Let me show you the whirlpool and the shower. The bathroom suite is truly spectacular, the nicest one on the entire ship. Once we’re finished, there are lovely tropical beverages and macadamia nuts waiting for you on your private lanai.”

  Paul and Roberto spent another fifteen minutes or so acquainting Vincent and Catherine with all the features of their suite. Vincent pulled out a small envelope from his jacket and handed it to Paul; it was the custom to tip your steward every day. He gave Roberto a small cash tip and the two left the honeymooners alone.

  “Wow. Paradise is spectacular. But crowded,” Vincent said as they sat on their lanai—a stone-decked patio with a two-person chaise lounge, two tables and chairs, gorgeous potted plants—orchids, plumerias, anthuriums—and an incredible seaside view of the harbor.