“Nope.”
Everett got out and took the folders. “Yeah, me neither.” There was absolutely no room in the car for anything other than two people. He popped the trunk. The briefcase inside took up nearly all the space. He stowed the files and walked around to open the door for her.
“Not very practical for a business car.” Ivy slid in.
Everett started the car and gave it some gas. It purred; then roared with a throaty sound. “I didn’t buy it because it’s practical.”
He drove north. The morning sun stuttered as they drove up the tree-tunnel of Magnolia. Ivy saw the squat watchtower and Light House on the right as they crossed the Matanzas River on the Vilano Causeway.
“Are we going to the beach?” Ivy asked. They headed east across the Francis and Mary Usina Bridge.
“Vilano Beach,” Klein said. “The river side. Beranger’s compound is on Wahoo Drive.”
Of course it is, Ivy thought.
Vilano Beach was both the name of a little community and the actual long stretch of sandy beach St. Augustinians preferred. It was going to be a nice day, and traffic congested with sun and surf lovers. Everett took the back roads around the water treatment plant and headed for the western shore. Low, scrubby trees twisted by coastal winds surrounded them, growing from the damp soil. A few blocks later, the landscape opened to residential homes.
The Berangers’ home was not actually on Wahoo Drive, but on a narrow one-lane thoroughfare only named Private. Blacktop spread out around a low house perched over the river. Ivy caught sight of a private dock behind. The east wing of the home boasted what looked like a three-car garage, but closer inspection showed it to be a small loading dock. Klein put the Viper between two panel trucks.
Ivy got out and looked up. The only windows were narrow, and high up on the second floor. Bland beige stucco, a strip of rocks between the driveway and structure, and an old standing ashtray made the place utterly uninviting. “People live here?” she asked.
Everett grabbed his briefcase and led her around the building. It was an odd layout, the overall structure kind of H-shaped. In contrast, the west wing had a wraparound porch, big windows, coral trim pleasant against the beige, with lots of local landscaping. Beyond the porch, the land sloped down to a small sandy beach on the Tolomato, a private dock and boathouse complete with two boat lifts, and a view of low trees across the water.
They walked up the porch steps. Technically, probably the veranda steps, Ivy thought. Oak double doors faced north. They looked bound in iron, with matching door knockers in the mouths of wrought iron lions. Klein ignored the lions and pushed the doorbell. It clanged with four tones inside. Ivy admired the potted plants surrounding the entrance.
“May I help you?” The right-hand door opened soundlessly. A rail of a man in a formal black suit looked down his nose at them.
“Klein,” Everett said. “I’m expected.”
“Of course, sir. This way.”
When Ivy entered, she saw an open floor plan spread out beyond the foyer. Floor-to-ceiling windows let in the Florida sun, making the parlor, dining room, and kitchen gleam with hard highlights. Broad planked floors were almost shiny enough to look up her hand-me-up dress. Ivy smoothed the skirt of the navy blue number, her cousin’s second least favorite outfit.
Only their footsteps sounded as the butler led them across a vast family room. Opposite the kitchen, a hallway ran toward the east wing. Except when they entered, Ivy realized it wasn’t a hall, but a lengthy butler’s pantry. At the end, glossy woods and fine trim were replaced by sheetrock walls and industrial carpet. The interior of this part of the house matched the outside, she thought.
They entered a wide office, three people at desks speaking quietly on telephone headsets. On the back wall, an open door led to a more private office. A woman saw them enter, and came to greet them. She made Ivy, even in her cousin’s banker outfit, seem as undressed as if she were wearing her usual cutoff overalls.
Dove gray suit, all Jackie O, save a pillbox hat, low cut shimmering pink blouse, matching heels, the glitter of subtle (and yet expensive) jewelry and a mass of wavy black hair sauntered over.
“Mr. Klein,” the butler said, and eyed Ivy. “…and associate.”
She thrust her hand out at Everett. “Susan Miller-Day. I’m the coordinator of Beranger Imports. Please come with me. Thank you, Tanner.”
The butler turned, dismissed; then turned back. “Employees generally announce themselves at the east wing door.”
Klein gave him a hard stare. “Good for them.”
Tanner seemed nonplussed for a split second. Almost immediately, his nose stuck back up in the air and he glided off.
Everett gave Susan the up-and-down at the same time Susan gave Ivy the same. Ivy felt like she could not wash off the taint of dressing down for work every day. She plodded behind the two in her flat shoes and disfavored navy dress. Susan took a card from her suit jacket pocket and opened a door next to the offices. It led down a short hallway with concrete floors, florescent lights and unadorned sheetrock.
Voices came to them, raised in argument.
“Frankie, if I hear you say you wanna investigate this on an internal level one more time, I’m-a cloud up and rain all over you.” Gus Beranger.
The room the two men stood in hinted that this part of the home was once a comfortable place. Carved wood paneling and tiled floor spoke to this being a den, a man-cave, even a decent sized library. This illusion was dispelled by the half-open door. Steel, and nearly a foot thick, it sat in a steel frame. Hemmed in by the polished wood were doors, large and small, also of dull gray metal. Ivy finally relaxed a little. What better place to wear Blanche’s banker dress than in a vault?
A man in a security guard uniform stood at parade rest outside the door. He came to attention, eying Klein and Ivy. Susan must’ve given him the high sign, because he folded his hands behind himself again.
Beranger and Frankie stood at opposite sides of an island in the middle of the room. Frankie, J. Benjamin Franklyn, Ivy had learned from the stack of files, owned Eagle Security. Anger boiled behind his eyes even if the rest of his expression seemed calm. Gus Beranger turned as the trio approached.
“Thanks, Susie. We’ll take it from here,” Beranger said.
Susan gave a little bow of the head. Everett stopped her from leaving. “She’s got access. Let her stay.”
“Really, I have no part in the running of the Grand Auditorium,” Susan said. Her confident stance seemed to slump in the presence of the boss.
Ivy looked around the room. It turned out to be little more than a fancy gun locker. She saw a few pistols and rifles on display. They looked like antiques. Even without knowing a lot about firearms, she could pick out several vertical lockers that most likely housed other rifles. Several other doors, rectangular and square, gave her the impression of a safe deposit vault.
“Fine. She stays. To what end, I have no idea. Here.” Gus pointed to an open door of inch-thick metal. Instead of a combination lock, there was a square black screen. “This is where the tiara was kept.”
Everett stepped up, flipping the door back and forth. He pointed at the screen. “Biometric?”
“Same as on the outer door,” Franklyn said with a note of pride in his voice, “plus a keypad with a voice recognition password.”