He held out a hand to shake. She looked at the list of Cast’s former clients. He was right. That would probably go nowhere.

  Taking just the fingertips of his hand in her own, she gave one quick shake. “All right. What’s this hot lead you have?”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “So, let me try to understand this,” Daisy said as they sat in the back of a taxi, headed for Victoria. “This other woman your brother was dating was also a hedge fund manager?”

  Peter Cast nodded, his arms folded so that she could see the military tattoo on his bicep a little more clearly. Something from the navy, she thought, though she couldn’t be sure. “No. But she used to make rounds with the wealthy. I’m not sure how he met her, but he mentioned her, once. She’s Seychellois—a native, he said. Her name is Maria Valjean.”

  “And did Susan from his office know about her?”

  He chuckled. “I think that might’ve been why both relationships were rocky. My brother was always the player of us two. He never wanted to settle down.”

  Peter was wearing sunglasses, now, and though he didn’t have the relaxed demeanor of Chris Broadbent, she had to admit his profile was handsome. Even handsome enough to be a “player,” if he so chose. It was the rough, bad-boy exterior, combined with the quiet, self-deprecating attitude.

  “No, you were just the stalker of the two of you,” she teased.

  He stroked the stubble on his chin and stared out the window. “Ha, ha. You are never going to let me live that down, are you?”

  “No.” She smiled.

  He turned to her, dipped his sunglasses, and fastened his ice-blue eyes on her. “You are one tough woman.”

  She felt a tendril of excitement, suddenly tickling its way down her spine. Were they flirting? When was the last time she’d flirted with anyone? Even with Zachary, their pseudo-“dates” had never felt this electric. This easy. The feeling made her face heat up.

  She was sure she was probably turning red, so she looked away. “What do you mean?”

  “The way you came at me, armed with your weapon? That was—”

  “It was a butter knife.”

  “You wielded it like a samurai sword,” he said, entirely serious.

  Now, she really did giggle like a schoolgirl. She cut it short and swallowed it back. She’d been half-embarrassed for Susan, for being an adult, giggling around Chris Broadbent. Now, here she was, reduced to the same behavior. She needed to get a grip.

  She muttered, “You should be grateful I didn’t stab your heart out,” as they reached the edge of the capital city. “Do you think jealousy is Maria’s motive?”

  “Could be. That’s what we’re going to find out.”

  They travelled even farther into the city’s center than Daisy had gone the previous night. The well-kept homes and fashionable resorts gave way to the row houses and small business she’d seen earlier and then they came to an area that the Seychelles likely kept off all their travel brochures. It was a run-down neighborhood, with decaying, graffiti-covered buildings with barred windows and strewn trash and garbage cans everywhere. Several people, sitting out on their front stoops, watched their car as it slowly meandered down the narrow street.

  The driver pulled up to a once-white building with a front porch covered in children’s bicycles and toys. The windows were covered in dirty screens, and one was boarded up entirely. Someone had scrawled graffiti on it. “That it?” Peter asked, hesitating.

  The driver nodded and Peter told him to wait. Daisy stepped out and followed Peter up a small set of steps to the doorway.

  When he rang the doorbell, there was immediate yipping of what sounded like a small, excitable dog. A moment later, the door opened, and a woman peered out. She was a beautiful, exotic mix of African and Asian, with almond-shaped eyes and long, dark spirals.

  “Yes?” she said, eyeing Peter. Recognition immediately sparked because she immediately drew in a breath.

  “Maria? My name is Peter. Peter Cast.”

  Her eyes went to Daisy, and she spoke with a heavy Seychelles Creole accent. “What do you want?”

  “I wanted to ask you about my brother, Howard.”

  “Your brother,” she said softly, shaking her head. She pushed open the door a little more, revealing a toddler on her hip, and a scruffy white pup that had been yipping earlier, and was now excitedly wagging its tail, eager for a pet. “I heard about what happened. I’m sorry, but I know nothing about it.”

  “You don’t? When was the last time you saw him?” Daisy asked.

  The woman shifted from foot to foot, barefoot, and nudged the excited pup away. “A couple months ago. He told me he was ending things, and I hadn’t seen him until I heard it on the news.”

  “He ended things?” Peter asked. “Did he tell you why?”

  She let out a sour laugh. “He didn’t have to. It was more mutual. He knew what I wanted, and it wasn’t something he could give. So, we parted.” She shrugged. “I had no ill will for him. I had another boyfriend, once, dealing with the same obsession. Men.” She rolled her eyes.

  “Obsession?” Daisy asked, confused.

  “Yes. With prostitutes. High-class escorts. He was infatuated with them.” She looked at the baby on her hip, then placed it down, kissed its head, and swatted its diapered backside. “You go play.”

  Then she leaned out the door and said, “He told me he had a sex addiction. A bad one. Spending hundreds of thousands a month on women. He said he couldn’t help himself, and that it was the only thing that made him happy. I got the feeling that there was something in his life that he’d done that he felt terrible about.”

  “What?” Peter asked. “Did he say anything to give you an idea of what it was?”

  She shook her head. “We didn’t really talk so much when we were alone.”

  Right. A sex addiction. This added an entirely new wrinkle to the case.

  “Where did he find these women? An escort service around here?” Daisy asked, her mind cycling through possibilities. Had Howard Cast met a woman for a tryst on the beach, and she’d robbed him and killed him?

  “It’s on the island. I believe on the north end. Very exclusive. I think it operates out of one of the ritzy hotels up there.”

  “The Grand Seychelles?” Daisy asked.

  Maria shrugged. “I don’t go there. I don’t have the money for that.”

  “Then how did you meet my brother?” Peter asked.

  “Your brother got around. Everyone on the island knew him. Rich, poor. He made it a point to know every person in the room. I met him at a party for a mutual friend, a year ago.” She shrugged. “We were very close for a while and then . . . we burned out. I knew he was seeing other women. And I want a father for my children. Not a man who plays around. I’ve had enough of those in my life.”

  “Where were you the night he died—three days ago?” Daisy asked.

  “I have three kids. They take up all my time. I was probably tucking them into bed when he was killed,” she said. “I know that’s not much of an alibi, but it’s all I can give you. I haven’t seen him in months. And I told you, I don’t go up to those fancy resorts. I wouldn’t know my way around that area at all.”

  Peter nodded and exchanged a look with Daisy, who shrugged. There were no more questions for Maria—just a thousand more questions about Howard’s background. A sex addict?

  As they said goodbye to the woman and turned back to the cab, Daisy sighed.

  “My thoughts exactly. Everyone on the island knew him,” Peter said, shaking his head. “So that means that any person on the island could be a suspect.”

  “Maybe . . . but it also gives us new leads. Did you know that, about your older brother? That he had a sex addiction?”

  He shook his head. “Complete surprise to me. But that whole thing about something in life that he’d done that he felt terrible about? That sounds like him. Howie did things, took risks, but when he made a mistake, it stuck with him. He might try to outrun it, but he never could. So maybe he was using women to dull the pain.”

  “The pain of losing all that money for his clients? But he was clearly seeing prostitutes for months, if not years. And he just lost all that money for his clients recently. Unless . . .” She took the steps down to the sidewalk and turned to him. “Unless there was something he was running from?”

  Peter shrugged. “So, where do we go now, Boss?”

  She gave him a sideways glance. “We?”

  “Yeah . . . we’re still partners, right?”

  She wasn’t so sure about that. She still wanted to work alone. And Peter Cast had exhausted his usefulness, providing that one lead that had not given them a suspect. She could easily have cut him loose.

  But, inexplicably, she liked having him around.

  So, she said, “I guess we should try to find out about that escort service.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  As they walked into the Grand Seychelles late that morning, Daisy made a beeline for the bar. The coffee had kicked in and done its duty, and now, she was raring to go, ready to take on the world.

  “You’re that thirsty, huh?” Peter asked her, running to catch up to her. “It isn’t even noon yet, you know.”

  “No, I don’t want a drink. I want to talk to one of the waitresses here,” she said, standing on her toes and looking through the windows, hoping to spot the young, pretty waitress, Mila. “You know Armando Sevilla, the Spanish client of your brother’s?”

  Peter nodded.

  “She told me when I spoke to her that Armando was a huge womanizer. And that when he wasn’t coming on to her, he’d brought along company from the cleaning service.”

  “Cleaning service?”

  “Yeah. I didn’t understand what she meant at the time, but now it makes sense. It’s got to be a front for an escort service. Right?”

  “Yeah. Makes sense.” He started to look too. “What does she look like?”

  “I don’t see her,” Daisy said, still scanning. Recognizing the bartender, she walked up to the bar. “Excuse me, Devon? Have you seen Mila?”

  From the look on his face, she wasn’t sure he recognized her. He said, “Sorry, it’s her day off. Anything I can help you with?”

  Daisy slid onto a barstool. “Maybe. The last time we were all talking, yesterday, about Armando Sevilla. She mentioned a cleaning service.”

  His eyes lit up. “Ah. The detective. Yes, I remember that.”

  “Do you know anything about that cleaning service? Who owns it, where it operates from?”

  His lips twisted, and he looked both ways before leaning in. “Yes, I know it. But you didn’t hear it here.”

  “I understand,” she whispered back. “What is it? It’s not a cleaning service, right? It’s an escort service?”

  “Yes. A very high-end one. We get a lot of wealthy men travelling here on business. And they need company. The service—it’s called Estelle’s Clean Sweep—provides the women. They fly them in from all over the world. Whatever a man wants, he gets. I’m talking sometimes $100,000 for a weekend. You can always tell an Estelle girl—they’re breathtaking. But very expensive.”

  And Howard Cast, apparently, was obsessed with them. “Did you happen to ever see Howard Cast with one of them?”

  He nodded. “Of course. I’m sure he was one of their best customers.”

  “That night, though?” Peter blurted, breaking into the conversation. “Did you see him with one of the girls the night he was killed?”

  “No, not that night. He was with Sevilla. But there were some women from the service here, in the lobby, that night.”

  Daisy raised an eyebrow. “For other guests?”

  “They were here for the opening ceremonies of the event, I believe. All the attendees wore something here.” He motioned to his neck. “A lanyard with their ID.”

  “Did you see their names?”

  He shook his head. “I didn’t get close enough to them. They didn’t come into the bar. But one had long, red hair, was very tall, and had an Eastern European look to her. The other had short, blonde hair, was small, and looked very petite. Both very beautiful women. Everyone noticed them at once.”

  “Do you know where this place operates out of?” Daisy asked.

  “I know,” Peter said. “I saw a sign for it, between here and Howard’s house. I thought it was strange that a cleaning service was operating out of a multi-million-dollar beachfront mansion. Now, I get it.”

  Daisy thanked the bartender and turned to him. “That’s great. What are we waiting for? Let’s go.”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa.” He held up his hands to stop her. “You can’t just go running in there, guns blazing, little lady. They’re an illicit operation. You can’t just go in there and order a redhead and a blonde, like you’re ordering from a fast-food stand.”

  “Whatever, I’ll figure that out when I get there,” she said, moving past him toward the front doors of the lobby.

  “Like you figured out your coffee order this morning?” he called after her.

  That stopped Daisy in her tracks. He had a point. “All right. Fine. What do you know about high-end escort services, anyway?”

  He gave her an innocent shrug. “Not much. But I do know that if they’re up to illegal activity, they’re not going to want a private investigator poking around.”

  She crossed her arms. “Okay. So, what do you suggest we do, then?”

  He looked around, focusing on a high-end boutique in the corner of the lobby that sold a variety of outrageously colorful, expensive outfits. A number of wealthy couples were standing out front, flaunting their wealth with vulgar, ostentatious clothing that screamed, “Look at me!”

  “There’s no accounting for taste,” she murmured. “I saw your brother had a lot of those clothes in his closet.”

  “Maybe.” He held up a finger. “But I think that gives me an idea.”

  “Oh, no,” she mumbled under her breath, knowing exactly where this was headed. She was already sure she was going to regret “partnering” with Peter Cast.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  After a short stop at Howard Cast’s house to dress up, Daisy felt like a clown on Halloween.

  But this wasn’t nearly as fun.

  She was dressed in a short, aquamarine sundress of elegant chiffon, off the shoulder, which bared too much cleavage. It was the only thing she could find to fit her. Everything else had been far too big. The shoes, size sevens, pinched her size-eight feet. The dangling white-gold and diamond earrings were probably real. Next to her, Peter was wearing white, custom slacks, a blue blazer, and a brimmed hat, effectively covering up his tattoos and military haircut. They both wore dark sunglasses.

  “I feel like they’re going to see right through us,” Daisy said, fixing the hem on her dress for the thousandth time.

  “Stop it. You have great legs,” he said with a grin, swatting her hand away from her dress. “Remember the story.”

  “Right. We’re married. Swingers. Looking for a girl to share for the night.” She made a face. She couldn’t imagine that lie actually coming out of her mouth. “Maybe you should do the talking.”

  “I told you. I already called. We’re golden.”

  Right. He had managed to poke around online and find a phone number for this exclusive private club, and all it had taken, when they asked who had recommended them, was a mention of Armando Sevilla. That was the ticket in. It was almost too simple to believe.

  “What name did you give them, again?”

  “The Smiths.”

  She stared at him. “Very original.”

  “Hey. It worked, didn’t it?”

  It did. Now, as the cab dropped them off at the gate and they looked up at a gorgeous, seashell-pink mansion perched on a cliffside, she couldn’t believe they’d made it that far. He pressed the button for the intercom. A voice said, “Name and purpose?”

  “The Smiths. We have a two o’clock?”

  There was a long pause, and Daisy shivered, pulling the borrowed silk wrap around her shoulders, then fidgeted from foot to foot, both feet pinching.

  Doubt began to creep in. The Smiths? Really? That’s a dead giveaway.

  Then there was a metallic clink, and the gates slowly started to open.

  Peter winked at her and wrapped an arm around her waist. “Come along, Honey.”

  She moved away from him. She didn’t care what the act was or how much she liked him. It felt strange, having another man touch her that way.

  Thankfully, he got the picture and dropped his arm, and they walked together to the front doors of the mansion. Before they could reach them, the double doors opened, and a beautiful, older woman in a smart, peach-colored suit greeted them. “Hello, and welcome. I’m Estelle. You are the Smiths?”

  Daisy nodded as she walked inside. It was her first time in a brothel, and she wasn’t sure why she expected it to look like a wild west saloon, with scantily clad women hanging from the rafters. Instead, as she walked into a circular, high-ceilinged foyer, she noticed lovely, exotic women dressed much like she had been before—normally, albeit a bit more fashionably. The few she saw were lounging on couches, reading, or sitting at a table, sipping tea. Tall and short, big and small, pale and dark-skinned, they were so very different, but each one of them was model-gorgeous.

  She found herself gaping as the woman went behind a podium and checked something on a computer. “You didn’t say what type you were looking for?”

  Daisy was speechless, but luckily, Peter filled in for her. He wrapped an arm tightly around her and said, “Well, I like redheads. Eastern European. But my wife here likes them smaller, petite, blonde.”

  Right. That’s what they were looking for. She scanned the dozen or so women there, her eyes landing on a petite blonde with an upturned nose, who was filing her nails on a fainting couch. “I thought there would be more of a choice. Is this all you have?”

  Estelle gave her a severe look. “That’s all I have this week for walk-ins. Every week, our girls that stay in residence change. But if you were interested in making an advance appointment, I can book an escort from our extensive collection of over five-thousand women from sixty-five countries.”

 

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