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to motion Maddox to follow him down the corridor. They stopped in front of a closed door with a brass plaque engraved with the number 312. “She said to send you in alone.” Kipler looked queasy, obviously not happy about that directive.
Maddox entered the hospital room. It was a semiprivate room, all the hospital offered, but the bed nearest the door was empty. He crossed to the second bed, where Celia Shore lay propped on pillows, bandages wrapped around her head and wrists. The bed sheets hid her ankles but he guessed they were probably bandaged, as well. Her eyes were closed, her expression placid, but Maddox was pretty sure she wasn’t asleep.
“Tryin’ to read my mind?” he murmured.
Her eyes opened slowly. “Just resting.”
And trying to present a pretty picture to the grubby islander, Maddox added silently. He hid his cynicism and pulled up the armchair stashed in the corner of the room. “Your cabana boy said you wanted to see me.”
Her lips quirked. “I take it Charles didn’t make a good impression?”
He ignored the question. “I hear you can’t remember how you ended up on the beach.”
“I remember nothing since transferring planes in Miami.”
“Mr. Kipler traveled with you?” He tried not to imply anything with the question.
“We had business to discuss.”
And a phone conference just wouldn’t do, Maddox supposed, getting a little clearer picture of the kind of woman he was dealing with. “What would you have done if Chuck out there hadn’t been able to make it?” Maddox asked.
“That wasn’t a possibility.”
Maddox felt sorry for Charles Kipler all over again.
“What I came here to do was business-related. I wanted Charles nearby if I needed him. That’s what he’s paid for.” Celia gave him a pointed look. “You don’t have to approve.”
The woman might or might not be psychic, but she was perceptive. He’d been trying hard not to show his distaste for her attitude. “Fair enough. Unlike Chuck, I don’t have to be here, though. So tell me what you wanted to tell me and we can be done.”
“I saw you leaving with a woman this morning at the beach. I need to know how to contact her.”
Maddox sat back in the chair, surprised. “Why?”
“I wanted to thank her for her aid this morning.”
Maddox wasn’t quite buying that excuse, but he played along. “I don’t know her that well. She’s a tourist.”
“You normally put your arm around tourists you don’t know well?” Celia arched a perfectly plucked eyebrow.
“The heat got to her. I helped her get somewhere cool.”
“Aren’t you the Good Samaritan?” The other well-shaped eyebrow rose to join the first. “Where’d you take her?”
“I’m not at liberty to supply you with that information.”
“I can make it worth your while.”
He chuckled. “Lady, I’m not for sale. Tell you what I’ll do, though. I’ll try to find her for you and tell her you want to see her. Then it’ll be up to her. That work for you?”
He could tell she wasn’t entirely pleased. Probably wasn’t used to being at the mercy of other people’s whims. But she finally nodded her assent. “I’ll be released from the hospital tomorrow. If I don’t hear from you or your tourist friend by then, I’ll have Charles contact you with our location.”
“So you’re staying on the island?” he asked, surprised.
“Yes. I came here for business. I intend to keep to my schedule as much as possible.”
Maddox stood. “Well, I really am glad you’re feelin’ better. I hope the police can find out what happened to you.”
“Thank you. And despite what you seem to think, I am grateful for your help this morning.” She turned her head toward the window and closed her eyes, ending the conversation. He took the hint and left the hospital room.
Outside, Charles Kipler was pacing in front of the door. “Everything okay?”
“Everything’s spiffy, Chuck.” Maddox gave a polite nod and headed for the elevators.
Out in the parking lot, the Harley was where he’d left it. The guard in the kiosk gave a wave, and Maddox waved back before straddling the bike and strapping on his helmet.
He headed south toward the St. George, trying to figure out how to approach Iris the Jet-lagged Tourist with Celia Shore’s request. From what little he knew of Iris, she’d probably volunteer to camp out in the woman’s room just in case she needed help. Fortunately, he could assure her that Celia had Chuck the Cabana Boy to fetch and carry.
Maybe he was wrong about Iris. Maybe her friend had finally turned up and Iris was out on the beach right this minute catching some sun. Maybe she wouldn’t give a damn that Celia Shore wanted to talk to her.
But his gut told him he wasn’t wrong. Iris had Goody Two-shoes written all over her.
As he slowed at a crosswalk on Seville Street near the club district, he heard someone call his name. He turned and saw Claudell standing in the doorway of the Beachcomber.
“Mad Dog!” Claudell flapped a bar towel at him to get his attention.
Maddox drew the Harley to the curb. “What now, Claudell?”
“Woman come lookin’ for you. Name Iris.”
Anticipation fluttered through Maddox’s chest, catching him by surprise. Ignoring it, he pulled off his helmet. “You didn’t take any of her money, did you?”
“No, sir. I figure you wanna see a pretty girl like that. I tell her you probably at the Tropico.”
“Damn it, Claudell, you sent that girl to the Tropico?” Anxiety washed into Maddox’s gut on a wave of acid.
“You know them guys not gonna give her no trouble. She safer down there than up at the Tremaine.”
Claudell was wrong. Iris wasn’t safe alone anywhere, not in her fragile condition. “If she gets hurt, I’m comin’ after you, Claudell.”
Stomach clenching, Maddox whipped back onto the street, weaving through the haphazard traffic congesting Seville. A couple of blocks down, he took a left, heading into a seedier part of the club district.
FROM THE OUTSIDE, the Tropico looked like a dive. Flaking paint on the clapboard facade suggested that at some point, the place had been painted a lively mango-yellow, but the color had long since faded under the tropical sun. A single wood door sagged off-kilter in the storefront, about as uninviting an entryway as Iris had ever seen.
Figured a guy like Maddox would frequent a place like this.
The street was dark and growing darker, a dilapidated two-story building across the street casting shadows on the scene. A glance at her watch told her it was nearly four. She was running out of time before the cocktail party. Taking a deep breath, she opened the sagging door and stepped inside the bar.
The bar’s interior looked as disreputable as the outside. A scuffed wooden bar took up the far end. Rickety shelves lining the walls behind the serving area were laden with dusty, half-full bottles that looked to be on the verge of tumbling off the shelves and shattering on the grungy concrete floor.
Several customers—all men—turned at the sound of the door opening. Most of them wore jeans and faded T-shirts stretched over bulging muscles or bulging bellies. Tattoos darkened their arms and necks and even faces.
It was a biker bar, Iris realized with a combination of fascination and dismay. Who knew there were biker