Automatic Proposal

Scribbling down the address, she glanced over and saw the message light blinking. She thought about ignoring it, but knew better. No one was more persistent and demanding than a frazzled bride, and the last thing she needed was to compromise the Weddings Your Way front by allowing a bride to suffer a psychotic break.

The first two messages were from suppliers; the beads she’d ordered were finally on their way via overnight express, and the company in Ireland would ship the lace she’d been waiting on by the end of the week.

The last call was from Carmen Lopez, whose wedding was the following week. Julia smiled when she heard her say, “I hate to be a bother, but…” Carmen was a sweet woman who apologized with every other breath.

“My brother will be in your area this afternoon. I told him it would be okay if he stopped in for his fitting around three. If that’s a problem, you can call his cell phone.” Julia jotted the telephone number on her calendar. “Thank you and I’m sorry to do this on such short notice.”

Maybe something had been overlooked at Sonya’s place. Checking her watch, Julia decided she had just enough time to go over to the condo, do a second search and be back to meet Carmen’s brother for his fitting.

Grabbing up her bulky leather satchel, she dashed out of the building. In no time, she was behind the wheel of her Jeep, the wind blowing through her hair as she crossed the Rickenbacker Causeway and headed toward the oceanfront high-rise Uncle Carlos had given Sonya as a graduation present.

Carlos Botero was a generous man when it came to his daughter. Those qualities had extended to Julia, as well. Thanks to him, when her own father died, the Botero family had given her a home, paid her tuition at St. Francis de Salles High and then sent her to University of Miami. Had it not been for the kindness of Uncle Carlos, Julia was fairly sure she’d be working in a factory for minimum wage, sewing decorations on straw bags for the throngs of tourists roaming the streets of Little Havana.

Images of Sonya’s kidnapping flashed in her brain as she navigated the perfectly groomed street that ran parallel to the Atlantic Ocean. The air was heavy, building toward the inevitable midafternoon thunderstorm. The scent of freshly mowed grass filled her nostrils as she made a left into the secured entrance of the condominium. She would find Sonya, and somehow pay back a little of that kindness.

Pulling the scrap of paper from her purse, she pressed the four-digit code and listened as the metal gates creaked open in a wide, sweeping arc. Julia pulled into the first-floor garage and shoved her sunglasses up on her head, allowing her eyes to adjust to the shadowy interior.

Sonya’s cherry-red Porsche was parked in the spot where her unit number was stenciled on the wall. Julia pulled into one of the guest spots and cut the engine.

The heat was oppressive in spite of large fans mounted near the elevators. The garage smelled dank, and occasional patches of beach sand crunched beneath her shoes as she walked to the entrance.

Stepping into the elevator was like stepping into the past, and it had nothing to do with Sonya. It was the smell. The faint scent of men’s cologne that brought a vivid and immediate image to mind.

Luke Young. The scent was woods and citrus, and a single whiff was all it took for Julia to flash back to when she’d last been in his embrace. Shivering, she rubbed her bared arms. She liked to think that the only reason Luke continued to haunt her after all this time was because of the way things had ended six years ago. Or rather, not ended.

After the arrest of Esterhaus in the middle of what should have been their wedding, she’d been a total wimp. And a rude one at that. She’d never returned any of his calls. It wasn’t as if she could tell him the truth. The DEA had strictly forbidden her from revealing her role in the sting. Not even to Luke. As far as he knew, she’d just vanished. A jittery almost-bride who had come to her senses. Why did she still care what he might think of her?

A ding sounded, jarring her back to reality as the elevator doors slid open, revealing a beautifully decorated hallway. Sonya’s condo, if she remembered correctly, was at the far end of the corridor. She pulled a small zippered pouch from her purse as she approached. By the time she was at the door, she had two small jimmies at the ready.

It took just under seven seconds for Julia to pick the dead bolt, and about half that time for her to dispatch the bottom lock and turn the knob. Ironically, her ability to pick locks was a skill learned not during her years with the DEA or even as part of the rigorous training for Confidential. Rather, she’d mastered this particular ability as a young child. Much to the chagrin of her father.

Julia was only three years old when her family had climbed into makeshift rafts in the dead of night to escape from Cuba to the United States. Like many refugees, freedom had come at a high price. Her mother and older brother had drowned during the crossing, leaving Julia and her dad to build new lives in America alone. As a single father, Ricardo had taken Julia with him to work when she wasn’t in school. While he was busy landscaping the lovely lawns of the Miami mansions, Julia developed a fascination for the large homes. By the age of ten she didn’t let something like a locked door prevent her from satisfying her curiosity. She never took anything, she just looked, amazed at how other people lived.

“I was damn lucky I wasn’t arrested for trespassing,” she mused softly.

Once inside Sonya’s condo, she was still smiling at the childhood memory, and her smile broadened at the familiarity of the room she hadn’t visited often enough over the years. Sonya’s home was an extension of her personality. It was bright and cheery and full of color. It also smelled of metallic fingerprint dust left by the crime scene unit going over the place. The maid had been through as well. A good thing since Sonya would have freaked if she ever saw what a search team could do to the place.

“Where to start?” Julia muttered as she dropped her bag onto an upholstered, modern purple chair that looked more like a sculpture than a piece of furniture. Though Sonya had been gone a couple of weeks, the smell of sunscreen lingered in the room. Sonya was a stickler for protecting herself from the harsh UV rays.

Julia could easily imagine her friend on that last morning, rushing around as she prepared to go to Weddings Your Way to finalize some of the details for her wedding to Juan.

Julia frowned as she gazed around the room. “Your fanatical neatness isn’t helping me, Sonya.”

There wasn’t so much as cushion out of place as she walked from the living room through the dining room, then into the kitchen.

The long, narrow room was equipped with top-of-the-line appliances in polished stainless steel. The cabinets were all glass-fronted, with the frames glazed white. The starkness was a perfect backdrop for Sonya’s colorful accessories. Julia was drawn to one item in particular, a ceramic soap dish perched at the edge of the sink. It was an amateurish creation, uneven and decorated with badly painted stripes, now used to cradle a sponge.

Lifting it, Julia ran her finger along the chipped edge before securing the sponge and flipping the whole thing over. There, etched into the back of the now-hardened clay, was “las amigas mejor”—best friends. Julia had ruined her nail file scratching the inscription before the dish was fired in the kiln as part of the required tenth grade art class. Sister Mary Intolerance had snagged the nail file and classified it as a dangerous weapon, and Julia had ended up in detention for a week. The punishment had been worth the crime.

“Why would you keep this?” Julia mused, wondering what the good sister would think of the gun in her purse or the backup weapon in the glove box of her car. Made the nail file seem pretty darn tame.

Putting the sponge holder back in its place, she began opening drawers and cabinets. Not much of interest. At the far end of the polished stone counter-top, she noticed a light blinking on the telephone’s base unit.

Lifting the receiver, she heard a series of rapid beeps, indicating waiting voice mail. She made a mental note to have someone make arrangements with the phone company to dump the messages when she got back to her office.

Finding nothing to inspire any immediate concern, she worked her way back to the master bedroom. Pushing through the double doors, she found herself embraced by a sea of turquoise, accented by splashes of deep coral. Sonya’s two favorite colors.

The room was dominated by a huge bed draped in silk. Matching tables bracketed the headboard, both sporting framed photographs of Sonya and Juan.

Julia rubbed her forehead, feeling her insides knot. Please let her be okay. Please.

Nothing in the massive closet had been disturbed. Likewise, the dressers were neat and organized. A small bookcase in the space that separated the bedroom from the spa-caliber bath gave her pause.

Julia found a tattered copy of The Secret Garden. Tipping it free from the shelf, she opened the book and grinned. “Thank you, Sonya. Remind me never to mock your predictability again.” As always, the pages were hollowed out, creating a small, snug home for Sonya’s diary.

Prying the smaller book free, Julia watched as a small scrap of paper fluttered soundlessly to the floor. The handwriting was familiar, as were some of the numbers on the paper. She just couldn’t place them.

A combination, maybe? There was bound to be a safe in the condo, behind one of the avant-garde paintings, or perhaps hidden in the floor.

Julia began checking the obvious places. Her hip bumped the nightstand when she searched behind the silk drape, knocking the telephone over. The cordless handset skittered across the floor.

Grabbing up the phone, Julia was suddenly inspired as she remembered where she’d seen the numbers before. Craig Johnson, Sonya’s chauffeur, had been hurt during the commission of the kidnapping. In his wallet, they’d found a business card with nine numbers on the back. To date, the MC team had been unable to make neither heads nor tails of them.

Retrieving the slip of paper, she read the numbers again. The last nine were identical to the ones they’d found on the chauffeur. A theory crystallized in her brain. She’d been thinking the numbers were related to a bank account, but what if Craig had jotted down a phone number? Or at least part of one? “Add an international code,” she said aloud. “Country, city… maybe?”

Testing her hypothesis, she pressed buttons, listening to a staticky series of clicks before a man answered. His voice was gravelly as he greeted her in Spanish.

Mentally, she translated the conversation. “Yes, sir. I’m calling from the United States. To whom am I speaking?”

“Ramon,” he said. The single word came out stern and guarded.

The name didn’t ring any bells. Julia asked, “How is the weather in Ladera today, Ramon?”

“Weather? Fine. Why? Who is this? What do you want?”

She had to think fast. “This is Julia and I’m with the Laderan-American Friendship League.” She rolled her eyes at her own lame explanation. “I got your number from the Boteros. They suggested—”

“I don’t know any Sonya Botero.”

“Really?” Then how did you know which Botero I was referencing, moron? “Because they said you might have some ideas about charities in your village that could benefit from our fund-raising efforts. We’ve collected close to ten thousand dollars and I—”

“I am a simple farmer. I have no charities.” The line went dead.

She considered calling back, but figured that would be a futile effort. No, she’d wait until she got back to the office and have Ethan Whitehawk, another Miami Confidential agent, check into it. He was already scheduled to go to Ladera, so it would be no problem for him to scope out whoever this Ramon was.

She hesitated before replacing the phone on its cradle. There was something weird about the phone call. Weirder than just Ramon-the-farmer supposedly pulling Sonya’s first name out of thin air. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe Ramon was a tabloid reader and he’d heard of Sonya because she was a rich American about to marry a Laderan politician. But that didn’t explain the odd clicks on the line.

Julia made another mental note. Check the line for a trap. Maybe someone had put a tap or a listening device on it.