“How is she going to retaliate if she’s in jail?”
“Can you say any more about the suspect?”
“Well, she’s been in the news a lot lately. I can tell you that. Now that’s all I can say.”
Joyce ambled along, pushed through the gate of her picket fence, and shuffled toward her front door.
Paris stepped into frame. “An arrest is expected shortly. We’ll keep you posted as this story develops. I’m Paris Delaney, and you heard it from me first.”
We watched the segment as we sat in the surveillance van a few houses down from Brock Madison’s Palm Haven estate. Wrapped to look like an AC repair company, we could sit there all day and all night without drawing much attention. The van was tricked out with every imaginable gadget. There were large flatscreen displays, 8-K cameras, laser listening devices, a mini fridge for drinks and snacks, and a portable restroom for those long stakeouts.
Isabella monitored Tiffany’s calls and texts and fed them to us. It wasn’t exactly legal.
After an hour in the van, Jack was pretty antsy. There were certainly more glamorous things to do besides a stakeout.
It was in the afternoon when Tiffany left the house. She hopped into a convertible Maserati, pulled out of the driveway, and sped off.
I slid behind the wheel of the van, cranked it up, and banked a U-turn. I kept my distance and followed the convertible.
Tiffany zipped through town without a care in the world, her raven hair blowing in the breeze, the Florida sun beaming bright. She pulled into the parking lot of a fast-food restaurant and made a call.
We pulled into the lot across the street and waited. I don't think she noticed us.
Isabella gave me a heads-up that Tiffany was on the burner phone. We had a visual on the target, and the GPS data matched. It was the same phone Trent had been communicating with her over the last several months.
Isabella piped in the call, albeit with a few-second delay.
“Who’s this?” a deep male voice answered.
“It’s me,” Tiffany replied.
“Who’s me?”
“Aw, my feelings are hurt. Has it been that long that you don’t recognize my voice?”
“What do you want, Tiffany?”
“Well, I was just thinking about you.”
“Were you?” he said, full of doubt.
“You’d be surprised how often I think about you.”
I recognized the voice. It belonged to Gavin Carver.
"What do you want?" Gavin could see right through her bullshit.
"I know things have been difficult for you. I feel terrible about the way things turned out. I have an opportunity for you."
"What kind of opportunity?”
"The financial kind.”
Gavin was silent for a long moment. "Seems like you’ve been in a little trouble recently. You know the cops came by here asking questions.”
“I'm not in any trouble," Tiffany said.
Gavin scoffed again, knowing better. "So what's this financial opportunity?”
