Dead On A Rival

By David Benson

Detective Carina Quintana’s latest challenge takes on an unwelcome personal flavor in the harrowing Dead On a Rival. When the apparent accidental fall of a handsome Brazilian tycoon from a luxury cruise ship in the Caribbean interrupts Carina’s holiday with the edgy Alice, Carina is not the only one to wonder if murder might not be a more accurate description for what happened in this particular case of man overboard. Enlisted to investigate by the ship's captain and security officer, it is not long before Carina begins to wonder whether the gorgeous former super model the mogul dined with shortly before his death might have been responsible. But as she attempts to unravel the mystery back on land, an unscrupulous local politician threatens to uncover a secret that could cost Carina the coveted Miami Beach police chief job and tear her world apart. And in this high-stakes world of international corporate takeovers and big money players, catching the elusive killer and avoiding her own personal disaster will take every ounce of intellect and grit that Carina can muster, along with some timely help from former NYPD partner Pete Simpson.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Benson
• Release date: Nov 27, 2013
• ISBN: 9780988581524

David Benson

David Benson is a Senior Lecturer based in the Environment and Sustainability Institute (ESI) at the University of Exeter, Penryn, Cornwall. His research encompasses a range of issue areas at the interface between political and environmental sciences, most notably EU environmental and energy policy, comparative environmental governance and public participation in environmental decision-making

Book preview

Chapter 1

Carina Quintana perched on a barstool at the Open Range Saloon, an outdoor watering hole at the stern of the Scandinavian Princess, her back to the bar, on a warm January evening, watching the port of Ocho Rios, Jamaica fade into the distance and waiting for Alice to return from the ladies room. But instead of Alice it was Miami Beach Commissioner Liberal Larrimore’s portly visage that emerged from the multitudes swarming around the aft section of Deck 12 to stand before her.

Mah goodness, what a pleasant surprise, runnin’ into y’all like this, Chief Quintana, he said, the words fairly oozing off his tongue, an election day smile on his thin lips. Ah had no idea y’all was a cruiser.

Larrimore had been around Miami Beach for a few years but had managed to retain not only his slouching drawl but the prudish mindset of his small-town Georgia upbringing, both of which were generally unwelcome and borderline unbecoming on the Beach. Carina chalked his election the year before up to the combination of a smarter, but boring issues-focused opponent and Larrimore’s promise of a full-court press for property tax reductions that only forty-nine-point five percent of the electorate realized was undeliverable.

His melodious though misleading name had not hurt, either.

It’s actually my first time on a ship, Carina said, turning to pick up the lowball glass of Grey Goose and lime that sat on the bar behind her and swirling the ice cubes before taking a sip.

She could have added, as an adult. The real first time had been when she was eleven and the family her mother worked for had brought them along to provide baby sitting and other services. Instead of correcting herself, though, she took another sip of vodka and tried not to stare at the impressive belly that was barely concealed by Larrimore’ pink, palm tree laden Tommy Bahama shirt or the spindly white legs that protruded from his too-short white shorts.

Well then, ah surely hope y’all splurged for an outside stateroom so you can see the ocean all the time, he said. Birdie and ah are always sure to book an outside room, with a balcony, of course. But then, y’all have an ocean view from that fancy condo of yours, as ah hear it, so perhaps y’all decided to save your money. After all, we all have the same fahn view from up here.

Carina took yet another sip of vodka and wondered what was keeping Alice.

Actually, we’re in an owner’s suite on the Harbor level of the ship, she said evenly, putting her glass back down on the bar. It’s quite lovely. Separate bedroom, huge balcony, fabulous bathroom. And there’s a private swimming pool and courtyard, plus a dedicated butler and concierge. You should try it next time.

The pinkish hue that was a constant feature of his pale, blotchy face darkened and it took the commissioner a beat or two to steady himself, but he finally did.

A bit rich for mah blood, ahm afraid, he said. Ah suppose y’all must have some mighty fahn royalties comin’ in from that book of yours ‘cause Lord knows y’all aren’t doin’ it on the police chief’s salary.

After tracking down a wealthy Frenchman for multiple mayhem and murder and shooting him next to the Lake in New York’s Central Park, thereby saving both his latest victim and Pete Simpson’s life in the process, Carina had been urged by a Miami-based literary agent to write a book about the episode. It was not something she had ever considered doing but Alice had provided the needed encouragement and Carina had written Doctor Death’s Downfall: A Novel Tale, in less than three months. To her shock and delight it had spent several weeks on the New York Times nonfiction best seller list, the e-book sales were especially strong and the film rights had been optioned by a Hollywood studio.

You’re right. I’m certainly not doing it on what the City of Miami Beach is paying me, Carina said, smiling sweetly. And now I might also be able to buy that condo I live in, which I’ve been renting from the owner, by the way.

Uh-huh, ah suspect y’all must be in high cotton, girl, Larrimore said. It’s a wonder y’all don’t jes’ up and quit the police department altogether.

You’d like that wouldn’t you? Carina asked.

Larrimore smiled a lazy smile.

Well, ah best be gettin’ along, he said. Birdie’s sure to be wonderin’ where ah’ve wandered off to.

Carina retrieved her glass and took a long swallow of vodka as she watched Larrimore waddle across the deck to join a doughy looking middle aged woman in a sack-like sundress at a table near the railing.

Who was that? Alice asked as she sat down next to Carina and put a hand on her bare shoulder. "No, wait, let me guess. He’s got to be that, ah, asshole commissioner. I mean, he fits your description perfectly. What a toad. Any idea what he’s doing here? Other than making a case for baggy flannel pants and double breasted blazers, and against men?"

Carina smiled.

Apparently he and Birdie--

Birdie?

Carina frowned and nodded.

"Apparently, it’s like that of all the gin joints in all the world, he walks into mine thing," she said.

Alice smiled.

Actually, he told me they’re regular cruisers, Carina said. Luck of the draw, I suppose.

Hey, it could’ve been worse. He could have appeared on our first day out instead of our fourth. And it could have been a smaller ship.

Thank heaven for small favors, Carina said.

Alice gazed over at the table where the Larrimores sat drinking pale yellow liquid through straws from ice-filled highball glasses topped with tiny umbrellas. Then she turned around to the bartender and ordered a Tanqueray martini up with olives.

Wine just won’t cut it after that, huh? Carina asked, glancing at the half-full glass of Pinot Grigio on the bar.

Nope. I need a real drink and a real woman, Alice replied, and leaned over to kiss Carina on the lips.

Whoa, this is a family cruise, remember, not one of those Rosie O’Donnell things you used to go on.

It wasn’t a Rosie cruise and it was only once.

Whatever.

Anyway, it’s okay, there’s not an impressionable child in sight, Alice said.

No, just a few stern-faced moms.

Alice shrugged.

Hey, I’m guessing that the dads who noticed wouldn’t mind an instant replay, she said.

Carina smiled and sipped her drink. As she turned around and ordered another, the bartender put Alice’s martini down on the bar. Carina picked it up and handed it to her.

Have I told you yet today that you look fantastic? she said.

Alice wore a short black cotton mesh shift over a black bikini, the latticework fabric barely concealing the tattoos that covered much of her back and ran from her left shoulder all the way down her arm and also down her left side, stopping only when they reached a point halfway down her thigh. Her hair hung down her back in a single braid that ended at the hem of her shift and her short bangs were cut shorter than ever. Five small diamond earrings in each ear, her usual tiny gold nose ring, tortoise shell wayfarer sunglasses and leather sandals completed the ensemble.

We do it all for you, she said, smiling brightly.

Ditto, Carina said, picking up her nearly empty glass and holding it out in a toast.

She wore cutoff jeans and a bright yellow racer back top. It was an outfit that showed her slightly sun-kissed lush and toned body to great advantage, as well as uncovering the oft-hidden tattoo of St. Michael, the patron saint of police, on her left shoulder. Her sunglasses were reflective silver aviators and her shoes red Haviana flip-flops.

You look fab, as usual, Alice said, but maybe we can get you some decent sunglasses in Grand Cayman tomorrow.

What’s wrong? These aren’t girly enough?

Alice smiled.

Let’s just say that without them no one would take you for a gay girl.

No one? Carina asked, smiling and running a hand through her cropped hair.

It takes more than that, Alice replied. So, tell me what makes Birdie’s hubby such an asshole, she said, unless talking about it’s going to upset you.

It won’t if I have another one of these, Carina said, signaling the bartender for another Grey Goose and lime. Anyway, he wants to push me out as chief.

"What? You’re kidding! After all the great things you’ve done? And please don’t tell me it’s because you’re gay. Not in this day and age in a place like Miami Beach!"

Carina sighed.

First of all, he’s from some town in Georgia where the prevailing sentiments aren’t necessarily as liberal as they are in Miami Beach.

Then how the hell did he manage to get elected?

A good question, but one for another time, Carina replied. Anyway, while he probably thinks being gay is more than enough reason to toss out the police chief, that’s not the main reason he wants me out.

Then what is?

Carina smiled a rueful smile and picked up her fresh Grey Goose and lime as soon as the bartender put it down on the bar.

Cheers, she said, holding out the glass and then taking a long swallow.

Cheers, Alice said, sipping her martini. Now, what is it?

Well, it seems Birdie’s younger brother’s been sheriff of that town in Georgia for something like ten years and he’d like to follow in good old Liberal’s footsteps, move down to Miami Beach, settle in and get himself a nice job with the local police force.

So can’t good old asshole commissioner just hand you the guy’s resume and put in a good word?

I’ve seen his resume. I’d never hire him.

So not-very-Liberal wants to throw you out and make his brother-in-law chief instead?

Carina nodded.

Alice let out a breath and drank some more of her martini.

But there’s no chance of that happening, right? she asked.

"There’s always some chance of almost anything happening. After all, I met you in a club, right, and I never meet anyone in a club. Hell, I hardly ever go to clubs."

Alice smiled and cupped Carina’s cheek in her hand for a moment.

"No one’s throwing you out, especially not that no one, she said. I guarantee it."

Carina looked directly into Alice’s eyes.

I told you about the drug scandal in the department a few years ago, didn’t I? she asked.

Not long after we met, actually, Alice replied. Your partner was in with some group of cops that got busted and went to jail for selling Oxy or something. You stayed out of it and didn’t.

I was investigated, though, and they made me testify at the trial, which didn’t exactly endear me to some of my colleagues.

It’s why you left and went up to work for the NYPD for a while, right?

Carina nodded.

Until your triumphant return, Alice said.

Carina smiled. What she had not told Alice and wondered if she ever would, was that her now-jailed former partner, who was single, childless and convinced he would die in jail, had given her the number of the Cayman bank account where his ill-gotten gains from the drug enterprise had been stashed. The money was now Carina’s, at least if the old saw about possession, in this case of the bank account number, being nine-tenths of the law was true.

Not that she could use all but very small amounts of it without attracting unwanted attention. It was the reason she regularly, and secretly, vacationed in Grand Cayman. In fact, she would be visiting CaymaNext Bank for the first time in months the following morning to check on the account and review the investment strategy.

And it was all before not-really-Liberal dick-wad’s time, Alice added.

But it gives him something to latch onto and look at, Carina said. And like most politicians he doesn’t seem to be bothered by using lies and innuendo when it suits him.

Wait, I know, Alice said. I could throw him off the ship for you. Problem solved.

Carina looked Alice up and down, seemingly sizing her up.

What? Alice asked, cocking her head.

Carina smiled.

I was just wondering how you would look in an orange jumpsuit, she said.

Alice took a sip of her martini.

Funny girl, she said. I didn’t mean I would go over there right now, in front of all these people, and do it, although it’s awfully tempting. I’d have to think about it and wait for the perfect time. I could even throw Birdie in for good measure.

Carina laughed and leaned over to hug her.

Don’t let asshole see that, Alice said when they parted. "He might just decide to throw us over the side."

Carina finished her drink, slid off her barstool and took Alice’s hand, and they started walking away from the bar. Carina hoped the Larrimores were watching.

No, I’m guessing he has something a bit less physically demanding than that in mind, she said.

Chapter 2

João Pedro Soares stood against the stern railing on Deck 12 of the Scandinavian Princess at midnight, a lowball glass containing an inch of very old Scotch balanced precariously on the railing’s polished surface, his back to the now-closed Open Range Saloon. Beside the glass, a navy blue cashmere sport coat was draped over the railing. He gazed out as a nearly full moon danced on the churning waters of the huge vessel’s wake, the light of Ocho Rios harbor long-faded from view.

He was tall and handsome, in his mid-forties with a full head of dark hair that he slicked straight back and a build that encouraged European cut shirts and flat-front trousers. His shoes were bespoke and his watch had cost more than the house in which he had grown up, in Moji das Cruzes, twenty-five miles east of Sao Paulo, where his father worked in a factory and his mother cared for the children of professors at the nearby university. Later, her job enabled him to attend the university, which led to the discovery of his intrinsic understanding of the nuances of business and finance, a scholarship to the Stern School of Business at NYU and an entrée into the world of investment banking, first in New York and then in London before his return home.

From a fortress-like office on the top floor of the tallest building in downtown Sao Paulo, he now ran one of the largest and most successful companies in Latin America. Its vast holdings encompassed several of the larger factories in Moji das Cruzes, including the one in which his father had labored, and dozens of others stretching from Belize to Chile. But the crown of his organization was Banco SP de Brasil, which he and a handpicked cadre of trusted associates had built from scratch into a regional powerhouse.

Docemente.

That was how he always thought of it, so sweet. But now, that Belgian bastard Ludo Verbeke wanted the bank, and most of the rest of Soares’ holdings, too, so he could get an easy foothold into the region. It was why Soares had taken this cruise, to get away and think. Not about how to prevent it from happening, he still owned way more than half his empire and could make sure it did not. Rather, to think about how to deal with his inner circle, a few of whom were unhappy to have their wealth locked up in shareholdings of a private company rather than more liquid assets and were mesmerized by the promise that Verbeke would buy them out mainly for cash.

O atarraxe, Senhor Verbeke! he said aloud at the pounding wake. Screw you!

Soares frowned and took a sip of his drink.

Embora, primeiro coisas primeiro, he said aloud.

And first there was the former fashion model, ten years his junior, to think about. He had met her after dinner the previous evening in the ship’s champagne bar. She was exquisite and he was aching to get her into his bed, but she had made it clear that that would not happen quite so fast. There would at least be a lovely dinner, she had told him, smiling seductively as they left the champagne bar, and more conversation. He had walked with her to her suite and suggested they meet the next night at the elegant French restaurant. She had agreed and they kissed at her door, her fragrance lingering as he stood in the hallway after she had gone inside.

Between obsessing about her and brooding about Verbeke he had barely slept. He finally got out of bed at six, did a strenuous workout in the gym, showered and had the concierge reserve a table for that evening. Still agitated, he had signed up for an afternoon of zip-lining and river tubing in the Jamaican White River Valley. It had taken the edge off for a while, but as he stood at the railing, waiting for her to return, his pulse began to come more quickly.

So where was she, this exquisite girl who ten minutes earlier had said she wanted to make love right there, her back against the railing in the cool sea breeze, and who had then left to first go to the ladies room?

Had he turned around he might have spied her, standing inside, behind one of the glass doors leading to the outdoor bar, watching him. She waited two more minutes and when still no one had walked past she removed her high heels and stepped outside, leaving the shoes next to a chair, and silently began threading her way through the unoccupied bar tables to where he stood.

Catlike she crouched down behind him and tightly grasped his ankles. He seemed not to notice, at least not immediately. By the time he did notice, tensed and glanced over his shoulder, she began to stand, her grip resolute, leverage in her favor, and the motion propelled him up and over the railing.

She watched as he sailed soundlessly outward, then down, smacking the water perhaps thirty or forty yards behind the stern of the fast-moving ship and disappearing into its seething wake.

She looked around the empty deck, picked up his glass and tossed it into the water. She slid his sport coat off the railing and let it fall, as well, then turned and retraced her steps. Back inside she slipped on her shoes and smoothed her dress. As she began walking to her suite two decks below, there was no alarm or other sign alerting the crew or passengers that a man had gone overboard, and she believed there would not be one.

The fall had likely killed him, she thought, but even if it had not it could be a day or more before anyone even realized he was missing. By then they would be hundreds of miles away and he would surely be long dead.

Ludo Verbeke was waiting inside when she opened the door to her suite, relaxing on the brocade sofa, reading a magazine. His legs were crossed and a crystal tumbler with a trace of what was almost certainly Jack Daniels’s sat on a table next to him. He turned when he heard the door open.

There you are, my dear, he said, the hint of an accent discernible in his measured speech. Discarding the magazine and standing, he added, I was beginning to become concerned.

He was a tall, sleek man of fifty-five with close-cropped graying hair, penetrating blue eyes and a strong jaw. As she approached him Davie gazed approvingly at the black Armani suit and open neck white silk shirt he had chosen for their après-murder liaison.

You should know by now that nothing happens quickly when Latins are involved, even dinner, she said, allowing him to take her into his arms. But then again, she whispered into his ear, her hand gently stroking his crotch, there isn’t anything worthwhile that’s improved by being done quickly.

No, of course not, he said, when they parted.

And my fee? she asked, smiling.

In a velvet box on the nightstand, he replied, quite a nice diamond necklace from Harry Winston. I think you will like it.

She smiled again.

So now you’ll make a play for his companies again? she asked, bending down to take off her shoes.

No, he said. Now that they are rudderless I think I will wait for the turmoil to brew and let them to come to me.

Chapter 3

Carina gently extricated herself from Alice’s sleepy embrace, slid off the king size bed and tiptoed to the bathroom. Twenty minutes later, dressed in tight jeans and a sleeveless silk blouse, her hair still damp from the shower, she handed her onboard ID card to a crewmember for scanning and boarded a tender for the short but slightly rocky ride from where the ship was anchored offshore to the North Terminal in downtown George Town.

Her plan was to walk to CaymaNext Bank on Sheddon Road, take care of her business there, buy a present for Alice and join her back on the ship for a late breakfast before setting off together to roam the island’s high-end shops. But as she stepped off the tender, a familiar voice called out her name. She put on her sunglasses and gazed across Harbour Drive. On the second floor terrace of Breezes by the Bay restaurant, Liberal Larrimore stood waving at her.

Mornin’ Chief Quintana, he shouted again.

He wore a variation of the ill-fitting beach outfit in which Carina and Alice had seen him the previous evening. He should wear the pressed khakis, golf shirts and blazers that he wore to City Hall all the time, she thought, as she stopped and, without smiling, waved.

C’mon up here and join us, girl! he shouted as the other patrons and a number of people on the street glared at him as the ugly American he seemed to be doing his best to be.

Carina crossed the street and got as close to him as she could before looking up and responding in quieter tones.

Thanks but I’m only alone for a little while and I need to do some shopping.

Larrimore broke into a big grin.

A surprise for that pretty little gal of yours? he asked, still way too loud. Well, y’all go on and do what you need to. We’ll be seein’ you after a while, ah suppose.

Carina managed a quick smile, turned and strode off rapidly toward Sheddon Road. Once she had turned left onto the busy street of shops and banks she continued on for half a block and stopped, turning around to make sure that Larrimore had not followed her. He was nowhere in sight but she waited for a moment more before continuing on to CaymaNext Bank.

The private bank was on the south side of the street and a familiar feeling came over