Read Kendel Lynn - Elliott Lisbon 02 - Whack Job for Free Online

easy to find. There’s the black market, international trade, smuggling rings…”
    He leaned in close and studied my face. “It’s an egg. I think even you can handle an egg. Now where’s Mrs. Goodsen?”
    “Only if you tell me what you know. And I can go with you.”
    “What happened to ‘awfully cooperative?’”
    “It’s a rolling scale. Based on your cooperative sharing. So what do you think?”
    He rocked back on his heels. “Nope.”
    “Okay, then. See you later.”
    I slowly fiddled with my purse as if getting settled. I found the key, pushed it into the slot, and revved the engine. I checked my mirrors, adjusted the rearview using micro movements.
    He tapped on my shoulder. “Fine. But I’m driving.”
    Yes! I did a quick internal victory dance and parked the Mini on the street, then trotted over to his racer. He held the wing door for me as I slid into the snug seat. More Cuban tobacco and tanned leather. Memories flooded back and my skin began to tingle.
    I pushed them aside. Business first. I needed Ransom to drive because we were headed to Haverhill Plantation. A residential encampment guarded by guards who took their positions seriously. As in no way I could talk my way past their united and armed front. But a man with a half-million dollar car and a shiny police badge could sail right through.
    The engine hummed and purred as we rolled down Cabana Boulevard. “How do you know she’s at Haverhill?” he asked after I told him our destination.
    “You underestimate my investigative abilities too quickly. Always judging me by the way I handled bloody wounds and germy situations. I’m every bit as skilled and determined as you, Nick Ransom.”
    “Uh-huh. Then from one professional to another.”
    “The scraper tray by the side door. It’s for cleaning your shoes after playing on clay courts. Jaime’s very big in the tennis scene. She hosts our annual Wimbledon party at the Big House in June.”
    “Why play at Haverhill and not Sugar Hill where she lives?”
    “They recruited her to their 4.0 division a couple years ago. Haverhill takes their tennis seriously.”
    He slowed at the gate and the uniformed guard looked like a soldier defending the palace gates. I think his gun was bigger than Ransom’s. Literally, not a euphemism.
    Ransom showed his credentials and the nice man wearing the nightstick and Glock issued a day pass. We followed the tree-lined road until it ended at Magnolia Drive. Large magnolias, crape myrtles and fat palms bermed both sides of the crossway. Homes across the street fronted a meandering waterway with over thirty-some acres of harbors winding around miniature residential islands.
    I’d once visited a home in nearby Savannah. Very minimalist. Short, flat roof. Sleek, steel windows. Minor adornments. Modernist architecture.
    These homes were the opposite of that. Over the top elegance with every possible ornate structural detail thrown in for good measure. Enormous columns, elaborate arches, oversized tile roofs, scrolling plaster niches, and a dozen other elements to make these estates feel at home as if perched on the Riviera.
    We turned left and crossed two tiny bridges to reach the Haverhill Yacht Club, which also housed the Tennis Club and the Beach Club. Ransom pulled beneath the green awning of the porte cochere, parked the car, and showed his badge to the young man at the door. It’s so much easier to get around with one of those things.
    The foyer resembled a large European hotel with pink marble floors and Tiffany glass skylights. We passed the restaurant, ballroom, card rooms, and entrance to the east and west wings leading to the locker rooms and lounge facilities.
    “Where should we start? This place is huge,” Ransom said. He started down the west wing and I grabbed his arm.
    “That badge only gets you through the door. No chance they’ll let you roam uninvited. Follow me, hot shot.”
    I walked through the French doors to the outside patio. Café