Cassidy Kincaid Mysteries Box Set

streets felt much more unfriendly without her escorts, but Cassidy almost welcomed it, daring shadows to jump out at her so she could unleash her frustration, her growing anguish. Her mind was reeling from all the pieces of Reeve rattling around in her brain. The police station and the detective. The apartment. The neighbor with his chica. She wished she could push a button, and the images would fall into a hole somewhere and never return.
She bought a flask of rum from a shop at the edge of town and meandered through a gap in the shops to the beach. A breeze was blowing from the land, teasing strands of hair off her hot face. The sound of the waves combing the shoreline blocked out the noise and music of the town, and she started walking, away from it all, sipping from the flask now and then. Walking on the beach while watching the moon glow on the water and enjoying the rum’s smooth bite had the calming effect she was looking for, and soon she was back at the beach fronting Crazy Mike’s. She sat in the sand for a while and tried to piece together what she knew.
The conversation with the police officer felt like it was full of holes. Why hadn’t she asked for more information about the overdoses, or the name of the taxi driver whom Reeve had assaulted, or more about the clinic where Reeve may have been taken? She thought about the neighbor and Reeve’s girl, Jade. Was she a chica? Did prostitutes have boyfriends? That seemed weird—but she supposed it was possible. Prostitution was a job like any other, so that didn’t mean a girl couldn’t be in a relationship. The big question was if Reeve had stolen something and then run away, and someone had come looking for it. What would he have stolen? Drugs? Money? Or was the break-in just a run-of-the-mill burglary in an abandoned flat?
By the time she left the beach, it was well past midnight. She wondered if Mel was still at the bar. Would he know about the chica named Jade? Walking back from the beach, she missed the path that took her to the restaurant and found herself in the alley between the hotel and jungle buzzing with insect activity. She was trying to decide if she should continue out to the street and then loop back to Crazy Mike’s front entrance, or retrace her steps when a figure emerged from a path cutting through the jungle. It was a woman, and she was smoothing down her skirt before turning toward the street. Cassidy stepped fast, pulled forward by reckless curiosity. Hadn’t the man across from Reeve used the word “girls”—said that they sometimes “partied with the girls”? Had he meant chicas?
The woman turned sharply before Cassidy could say anything, and looked her up and down, her eyes blank.
“Uh, hey, I’m looking for someone,” she blurted, knowing the woman might just run away.
Sure enough, the woman turned and began walking.
Cassidy switched to Spanish. “Mi hermano. Él ha desaparecido.”
The woman stopped, turned back. “You got money?” she asked in English, her accent more Caribbean than the surfer Ticos.
“Yes,” Cassidy said, feeling in her pockets. She pulled out a wad of bills while calculating how much was left: about ten dollars.
The woman sauntered back and took the money, stuffing it into her bustier-like top. The woman’s eyes were steely black and expressive, and her full lips were a soft, petal pink. She had once been very pretty, Cassidy determined.
“Who is your brother?” she said, crossing her arms.
“His name is Reeve,” she said. “He disappeared two weeks ago. He was living in Tamarindo.” She pulled up the picture of him on her phone and flashed it at the woman.
The woman took a one-second glance at the photo and frowned. “Mebee I see him around,” she said.
“He might have hired . . . er . . . ” she didn’t know how to say it. Was chica a slur?
The woman shrugged again.
“His apartment has been broken into—I was just there—and everything is torn up.”
“Mebee he make bad enemies.”
“He had a chica girlfriend, Jade,” Cassidy said, searching the woman’s face for any sort of recognition, fearing she had offended by using the word.
“I work alone,” the woman said with a hint of pride. “I don’t know this Jade.”
In the time it took Cassidy to lament the fact that she had no picture of Jade, the woman disappeared into the night. Where did these chicas hang out? So they were independent, which meant no pimp, no brothel. How did they find clients? In the bars? Clubs? Cassidy had no clue how such a system functioned—it seemed so repulsive yet the practice was as old as time.
Had Reeve paid a girl to be his girlfriend? Cassidy had a sinking dread that Jade was linked to finding Reeve. But if that was so, then Reeve would never be found. Cassidy wasn’t an investigator. She didn’t know how to slip into the underbelly of society, hunting for people like Jade, searching for clues in Reeve’s trashed apartment. I’m over my head, she thought.
Mel was pouring beers from the tap when Cassidy arrived. The bar crowd had thinned out considerably: a couple was finishing their drinks, a group of rowdy surfers were still going strong, and a big table of kids apparently on a gap year were paying their bill. The lights were low and the candles on the tables flickered softly.
“Buenas tardes, muñeca,” Mel said, his serene eyes flicking her way when she slid onto a stool.
Cassidy’s hot skin did a little shiver. She remembered Eddie’s body dancing close to hers and regretted her lonely room. “Buenas tardes,” she replied.
Mel served up a tray of beers. “Tell them last call,” he told the waitress, who nodded and left with the tray.
“Una bebida?” he asked her, his hands on his hips. He was wearing a black linen shirt and had tucked a pencil behind his ear.
Cassidy