Overdose in Paradise Read online

  OVERDOSE

  IN

  PARADISE

  PARADISE SERIES

  BOOK 16

  DEBORAH BROWN

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and/or legal right to publish all materials in this book.

  This book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without the express written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  OVERDOSE IN PARADISE

  All Rights Reserved

  Copyright © 2018 Deborah Brown

  Kindle Edition

  Cover: Natasha Brown

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  Contents

  OVERDOSE IN PARADISE

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Books by Deborah Brown

  About the Author

  OVERDOSE IN PARADISE

  Chapter One

  Opening the door of the Hummer, I set my feet on solid ground and breathed out a big sigh of relief. I gave myself a casual once-over, making sure all my body parts were in the same place they were when I left home.

  Heading south on the Overseas Highway through the Florida Keys, Fab had maneuvered the Hummer in and out of traffic like a woman possessed, leaving Tarpon Cove city limits in the dust, headed towards Marathon. It was a beautiful, clear day, the sun flickering off the water, and I barely had a second to enjoy it as we raced by.

  Smoothing down my skirt, I grabbed a sheet of paper from my purse and started across the gravel patch at the far end of the parking lot. “It’s too bad you couldn’t park any farther away from the entrance,” I grouched. “Especially with all the paved empty spaces.”

  Surprised not to get an answer, I turned and saw my best friend and the subject of my ire leaning against the front bumper. “Could you walk any slower?” I tapped my watch. “The line is getting shorter.” I tossed a glance over my shoulder at the dozen or so people filing slowly inside the building. “They’re going to lock the doors.”

  “I don’t like this place.” Fab crossed her arms, a militant look on her face. “I’ll wait out here.”

  Sure she will. How many times have I heard that before? “This is the visitor center, not the jail, and it’s not our first trip here for inmate visitation.”

  The county had spared no expense, bringing in a prefab building and dumping it on a piece of empty land across from the jail, then filling it with row after row of uncomfortable chairs and installing monitors for that up-close-and-personal experience with friends, relatives, or fellow criminals. Anyone with an outstanding warrant had better stay in their car and out of sight as they ran checks.

  Fab continued to glare.

  “Great idea,” I called her bluff. “Don’t expect a recap when I get back in the car.” I turned, hurried across the gravel—thankful I had on flats—and hustled up the steps.

  I was the last to go inside, and the deputy was about to close the door when Fab yelled, “Wait for me.” The deputy took one last glance outside while Fab hurried inside.

  “Madison Westin and Fabiana Merceau to visit Dr. Stan Ardzruniannos.” I shoved my ID across the countertop to the deputy.

  Fab handed over her ID.

  “Can you spell that?” He half-laughed.

  Knowing that I’d most likely be asked that question and they wouldn’t accept Stan’s preferred nickname, Dr. A, I’d memorized it. Shades of prepping for a school spelling test.

  “Last row against the wall.”

  The two of us passed through the metal detectors and went in the direction the deputy had pointed.

  It didn’t take long to locate Dr. A, whose face showed on the monitor outside his unit. He nodded, his dark-brown eyes locked on mine. I sat, lifting the receiver off the wall. Instead of grabbing a chair, Fab continued down the aisle, checking out each station.

  “I’m not sure how many visitors you’ve had, but just remember these visits are recorded.” This was the last place a prisoner should be talking about their case, with every word used against them. I smiled at the haggard-looking man, his black hair a disheveled mess, a first in all the years I’d known him. I plucked the piece of paper I’d brought in off my lap, a print-out from the local newspaper’s website, and held it up to show the headline: Local Doctor Arrested in Overdose Death. “You fared better in your mugshot than most.”

  Dr. A’s girlfriend, Nicolette Anais, had been found dead of a massive cocaine overdose in the living room of his beach house. Upon finding her, he had tried to resuscitate her before calling 911. The article included a picture of the dark-haired beauty, a former fashion model, it said.

  The first news accounts had cited the discovery of a large quantity of drugs as the reason for the arrest. The exact amount and kind had not been disclosed.

  “I’m innocent.” Dr. A held up his right hand. “I want you to know I don’t do drugs, sell them, or anything else.” He sighed. “Thank you for agreeing to help. You’re my only visitor thus far. I’d offer you something to drink, but this place lacks amenities.”

  “You don’t have to convince me of your innocence. I’ve known you and your godfather since I moved here, and neither of you are…” I grabbed my throat and made a strangling noise.

  He laughed. “I needed that. There have been zero laughs since the cops showed up at the hospital. I had just come out of surgery and they handcuffed me and walked me out in front of my colleagues. Now that was humiliating.”

  It surprised me that he hadn’t been arrested at the scene, when the cops arrived at his house and the coroner pronounced the woman dead, but had instead been allowed to go back to work.

  “They probably chose to do it that way so you’d be less likely to cut and run.” I smiled at the man, who appeared to be the victim of a run-through-a-wringer and hadn’t bounced back. “I hear they offer educational classes in this place—crocheting, knitting… You should sign up to keep your mind off…well, everything.”

  “See these?” He held up his hands, wiggling his fingers. “They’ve been groomed for surgery, not knitting.” He narrowed his eyes. “How do you know suc
h classes are offered?”

  My cheeks heated up. “I hear stuff.”

  “Where did Fab go?” He craned his head.

  I scanned both sides of the aisle. “She’s down at the other end, visiting with another inmate.” I shook my head, wondering what she was up to—she had a soft spot for those incarcerated who were expecting a visitor that didn’t show. “When’s your bail hearing?”

  “Already had the first one; it was automatically denied.” Anger filled his face. “It didn’t help when my lawyer went into cardiac arrest.”

  “That headline made the next edition. You should get points for jumping into action to keep him breathing until the paramedics got there.”

  “Thank goodness he lived.” He grimaced.

  “You get a new lawyer?” I was almost afraid to ask, unsure how good a lawyer one could hire from behind bars. “Is the new guy trying to set up another bond hearing?”

  “Samuel Beaton, Attorney at Law. Doc hired him. He’s a friend of his who’s on the verge of retirement but was a big deal back when he had a full-time practice. Doc thought he’d be better than a public defender.” He huffed out a long sigh. “I spoke to the guy once, and after a short consultation, I entered a plea via video feed.”

  It would be mean to ask, Who? “I’ve never heard of him.”

  He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I don’t want to be a dick, but the man is old. Not to be ageist, but is he up on the law? I know doctors that have been around a long time and tune out the latest techniques—the know-it-all syndrome.” His frustration seeped through the screen.

  “I’m not here because I think it’s fun to flirt with men behind bars. I want to help.”

  “Up until I got arrested, I’d have thought my so-called friends would be lining up to offer help. It appears you’re my only one. I didn’t expect you to show up. Have I said thank you?” I nodded. “I don’t know why they arrested me, except that—”

  I shook my head at whatever he was about to say. “I’m here. Call it payback for all the times I called and you showed with no questions asked.”

  “You can’t imagine how frustrating it is to be in control of every facet of my life one minute, and the next, control nothing. I follow orders, no questions asked. Not doing so would downgrade my accommodations, and they’re already rock bottom as far as I’m concerned.” His frustration was building with every word. “I know your connections are far-reaching, so I’m asking you to get me an attorney that can get me the hell out of here.”

  “One first-class attorney coming up. One that will go to work and hopefully keep you from languishing behind bars. One who’ll keep you in the loop; none of this wait and wonder stuff.”

  “Sounds like you’ve got someone in mind,” he said hopefully.

  “Ruthie Grace, counselor extraordinaire.” Her slogan. “I’ll get her on the phone before we clear the parking lot, and if she doesn’t answer, I’ll stop by her office and make so much noise, she’ll open the door just to shut me up.” He shook his head in amusement. “I don’t suppose you have a bondsman on standby?” He frowned. “No worries there, either. It’s Fab’s connection, with a ‘no screw-you’ rate for friends. So you’re telling me that your lawyer’s planning to go into the hearing unprepared to post bond for your release?”

  “I don’t suppose it matters, since the prosecuting attorney’s opposing bail regardless of the restrictions.” He slapped his hand on the ledge. “Instead of telling Doc how completely ineffectual I find the man, I backed off. I chalked it up to my own ignorance, since I don’t know my way around a courtroom; thought maybe this is the way the process works. If I had a do-over, you’d be my first call.”

  Fab showed up, nudging me with her hip to move over and share the chair. She reached up and turned the receiver so she could hear.

  “How’s life?” Fab winked at Dr. A.

  “Just about as bad as you can imagine.”

  “You look good in blue.”

  “I’ll never wear this color again.” Dr. A’s nose wrinkled as he stared down at his prison uniform. “I’ve got matching shoes.”

  “Use your sense of humor to keep yourself sane in here,” I said.

  “Where did you to disappear to?” Dr. A asked Fab.

  “Tank, a roomie of yours, was waiting on his no-show girlfriend, soon to be ex when he gets out. Good citizen that I am, I seated myself in front of his monitor and chatted with him.” She lifted a brow, as though daring me to challenge her story. “Poor Tank, he’s here on a misunderstanding. The cops need to clear up who started the fight, who owned the weapons. I talked to him about putting his bulk to work doing something that won’t get him arrested, and how his first step needs to be disassociating himself from people with criminal tendencies and ones that don’t care about dusting it up with the law. I suggested that he think about turning his talents to legitimate bodyguarding—he’d be intimidating and, in most cases, wouldn’t need a weapon.”

  “You’re always telling me that you don’t have people skills, and here you’re making friends in the joint.” I smiled lamely.

  “We’re all misunderstood in here.” Dr. A frowned. “Tank’s the biggest guy here—several hundred pounds of muscle—and no one looks cross-eyed at him. He’s even a favorite with the guards.”

  “Do you have money in your commissary account?” The light overhead flashed, signaling two minutes left.

  “It’s embarrassing to have to ask, but would you front me a few bucks? That way, I can get a package of cookies or something to disguise the taste of the crappy food. Doc will reimburse you.”

  “That won’t be necessary. I like the idea of you owing me.” I hurried to get some reassurance in before the phone shut off. “Don’t worry. I’m determined that you get a stellar attorney, and I’ll use my connections to make it happen.”

  Dr. A stood when the phone went dead. We waved through the glass.

  “This place is depressing,” I said. “I’d forgotten how much.”

  “Hurry up.” Fab jerked my sleeve. “We don’t want to get caught in the crowd and have to rub shoulders on our way out.”

  I practically had to run to keep up with her.

  Chapter Two

  Fab had worked out her aggression on the road coming down, and the return trip stopped short of making me want to puke. I flicked my finger at an exit sign. “I want to stop by Ruthie Grace’s office. I decided against a phone call and thought I’d surprise her. Fingers crossed, that’ll make it harder for her to turn down my request to meet with Dr. A.”

  “I hate to point this out to you, but being such a good friend…”

  “I’ll bet,” I mumbled.

  “You’re not on the lawyer’s favorites list.” Fab careened off the highway.

  “That’s not news. As many times as we’ve offered our services, she’s consistently turned us down. My ace in the hole is Mother. They’re friends, and don’t think I won’t exploit that angle.”

  “Maybe Brad can put in a good word.”

  “Don’t you dare tell Ruthie that Emerson is dating my brother. She’s sized him up and found him wanting. Defending someone against murder charges will do that.”

  “I like the daughter better. Too bad we can’t use her.”

  Emerson Grace, whose specialty was family law, was definitely a family favorite after she expedited my brother’s case, getting him permanent custody of his daughter and accelerating Mila’s transition out of a foster home.

  Fab pulled up in front of Ruthie’s office, which was located at one end of a strip mall of offices, her daughter’s office at the other end.

  “First time I’ve seen the blinds open.” I pointed. “If she has a client, I’ll wait.”

  Fab and I got out. I was disappointed to find the door locked. I’d left my lockpick in my purse…not that I’d use it. It wouldn’t surprise me if, in addition to not finding it amusing, she had me incarcerated.

  While I knocked, Fab pressed her face to the window. “Just
so happens Ms. Grace is seated behind her desk.” She groaned. “She looked up and, after making eye contact, went back to reading the stack of papers in front of her. So she knows we’re here.”

  I knocked again, knowing it wouldn’t do any good with the stubborn woman.

  “A dollar…no, make it ten, that I can get Ms. Snootsy to open the door.” Fab held out her hand.

  I smacked it away. “I’ll pay up when she invites us in.”

  Fab ran back to the car and climbed in the back, getting out with a megaphone in hand. I covered my face and laughed.

  “Ruthie Grace,” Fab bellowed, “open up.” A guy on the sidewalk turned, shook his head, stepped into the street, and stuck out his thumb.

  The door flew open. Ruthie, anger etched across her face, stood barefoot in the doorway. “You’ve got two seconds before I have you arrested for a noise violation.”

  “Can we come inside?” Fab asked via the megaphone.

  “No.”

  Before she could slam the door, I put my hand up, stopping it midway. “Just hear me out. I’ve got a client for you. High profile. And he can pay.”

  “Have him call me and we’ll discuss his case.”

  “He’s in jail, and I’m willing to bet that you don’t accept collect calls. I’m here because he’s a longtime friend and deserves the best representation.”

  Ruthie motioned me inside. “I’ll write the information down, and if I’m interested, I’ll go for a visit. Does this person have a lawyer?”

  I followed her in, and Fab closed the door, standing guard.

  “Samuel Beaton.”

  “Never heard of him,” Ruthie stated flatly.

  The door flew open, Fab barely managing to jump out of the way and not get hit. Emerson crossed the threshold, out of breath. “My assistant informed me there was a ruckus going on down here, and I didn’t want to miss a minute.”

  Ruthie and her daughter couldn’t be more different style-wise—Ruthie a throwback to the sixties with her loose flowing hair and caftan, some annoying scent burning in the pot behind her desk, Emerson the height of fashion in a suit, killer heels, and conservative bun.

  “It’s just these two in need of an attorney for one of their criminal friends,” Ruthie grouched.