minutes after discovering that someone had stolen his cell phone, the device that coordinated the details of his way-too-complicated and overscheduled life.
And the photocopy of Claudia Romero’s journal in his briefcase, with detailed trial notes on every page.
Javi’s hard voice brought Reese back. “Izzo is no antiques dealer. I doubt he would know anything about Tibetan antiquities.”
“You’re probably right. He could have broken into the spa employee’s Jeep to throw us off track. The loss of the bowl upset the woman badly, though.”
“Or it could have been pure convenience. This wouldn’t be the first time Izzo pinched something he could dispose of easily.”
“We need to find him and ask him,” Reese said.
“Man, talk about bad luck. First your witness disappears and now your briefcase. Do you think Romero was fishing? Searching your vehicle in hopes of finding a lead to his ex-wife’s location?”
“Maybe. They want to find her as badly as I do.”
“Probably more,” Javi said. “I’ll send agents to major fences and Miami pawnshops and see if they come up with the missing bowl. I need a description. A photo would be better.”
“I’ll call the spa.”
Several hours later, Reese nodded at his secretary, confident his instructions would be carried out as ordered. Joanne was the best assistant he’d ever had.
“And those grand jury subpoenas need to be served today,” he ended.
Joanne nodded as she rose. “Yes, sir. Oh, I’m sorry, but I can’t find a number for this Taki person. There’s nothing listed, and the number she put down on the police report is for SoBe Spa.”
“Did you try the spa?”
“Yes, but she only teaches on Monday and Thursday nights, and the manager—” Joanne consulted her spiral-bound notebook “—Lourdes Garcia, wouldn’t give me Taki’s home number.”
“Did you tell her the U.S. Attorney’s Office needed to contact their employee?”
“Of course, but that didn’t make a difference. They have a strict policy not to give out the instructors’ numbers to anyone.”
“Get Ms. Garcia on the phone.”
Irritation gnawed at Reese when Joanne alerted him she’d reached Ms. Garcia. He wasn’t used to a roadblock over something as simple as a phone number.
“But, Reese, you surely understand our policy not to give out the instructors’ addresses or phone numbers,” Lourdes told him when he’d explained the reason for his request. “I might normally make an exception considering the circumstances, but Taki insists on her privacy. She’s one of the most popular members of our staff.”
“If I give you my office and cell number, will you call her and leave a message?”
“Certainly. She rarely checks voice mail, though—something about negative energy—so it might take a while to reach her. If I don’t hear from her, I’ll make sure she gets your message on Thursday.”
“It’s important, Ms. Garcia.”
He heard her release a long breath. “Everything is important to you, Reese.”
* * *
INSIDE THE ELEVATOR at his condo, Reese dropped his new briefcase and pushed the button for the twentieth floor. As the car lurched upward, he glared down at the stiff black leather, thinking the miserable bag was much heavier than the one stolen. And he’d liked his old case, a gift from his mother. It’d been well-made, and he’d used it since law school.
Reese was glad to be home. His condo was decorated by a woman he’d once dated. He often wondered if the antiseptic white-on-white living room reflected what she thought of his personality. He’d found her a bit boring, too, though, and their romance had been brief. He didn’t have time to date.
After depositing the attaché by a cream-colored sofa, Reese opened his vertical blinds, the sound a quiet whoosh. Five miles in the distance, the lights of South Beach glittered across Biscayne Bay. He searched for the blue zigzag neon strip that identified SoBe Spa. Was Taki conducting one of her classes? No, not until Thursday, according to the manager.
He turned away from the stunning view. He had two hundred pages of trial transcript to review and could never get any serious reading done at the office with all the interruptions. He’d pop the take-out pasta from Risotto’s into the microwave, sip one glass of Napa Valley Cabernet, then work until his eyes gave out.
Three delicious bites into garlic-laced linguini, his cell phone rang.
“Reese Beauchamps,” he said, his attention still focused on page twenty of the Romero versus Romero divorce transcript.
“Hi, Reese Beauchamps,” a soft feminine voice replied. “This is Taki. I got an urgent message to call you.”
Reese placed his fork across his plate and sat back. He glanced at the caller ID display. Private.
“Have you found my bowl?” she asked, her voice anxious.
“Sorry, not yet. I need more of a description.”
She released a sigh. “Would you like a photograph?”
“If you have one, that’d be great.”
“Oh, I’ve got lots of photos of my bowl, but I’d much rather have the real thing.”
“Because your mortal soul is in danger without it, right?”
He waited through a long pause before she answered. Why wasn’t her phone number available? Well, Lourdes Garcia said she valued her privacy. Nothing wrong with that unless you had something to hide.
“My soul was in danger before I got the bowl. The bowl was supposed to correct that problem.”
“A bowl can rescue your soul?” Reese suppressed a laugh. “How is it going to do that?”
“By repaying a karmic debt.”
Amused by Taki’s serious tone as she babbled her New Age nonsense, Reese tried to recall what the personal trainer had said to her in the spa’s parking lot. Something about a blot on her soul?
The woman might be easy to look at, but she was as nutty as psychics who predicted the future over the phone. Karmic debt? How would she know when the debt is repaid?
“Never mind. Where is your office?” she asked, now businesslike.
“In the federal building, the U.S. Attorney’s Office.”
“You’re not the United States attorney, are you?”
“Only one of many assistants,” Reese answered, thinking she didn’t sound at all impressed.
“I’ll drop off a picture tomorrow.”
