The South Beach Search. Sharon Hartley
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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.”
“Thanks. That’ll help.”
“What will you do with it?” she asked.
“The FBI will show the photo to fences and pawnshops and hope for a hit.”
“Oh. Pawnshops.” After a moment she said, “Listen, thanks for trying to find my bowl. Lourdes says you’re a busy man.”
“You’re welcome,” Reese said, deciding it best not to tell her he hoped the bowl led him to Izzo, Romero’s top hit man. One way or another, he’d make sure this goofball got her bowl back.
He listened to the dial tone after she hung up, strangely dissatisfied at the prospect of spending the next three hours reading the messy details of the divorce between Claudia and Carlos Romero.
* * *
AFTER DISCONNECTING WITH REESE, Taki lay on her bed and gazed at the multitude of angels suspended from the white ceiling overhead. Surrounded by soft light from flickering candles, the colorful winged ceramic and papier-mâché creations looked as if they were flying as they swayed on thin filament wires.
As friends added to her collection, Taki hung her glorious angels one at a time, hoping the hovering guardians would protect her from the negative thoughts in the world.
She really needed the angels’ protection tonight. Why did she feel this odd, wild connection to Reese Beauchamps? Goose bumps popped up along her arms as she pictured his handsome face, his soulful dark eyes when she’d met him last night.
And why did the sound of his deep voice excite her in an unsettling physical way? It made no sense to be attracted to an intense, detail-focused lawyer. One who made fun of her bowl and the whole concept of karma.
Disturbed by her thoughts, Taki brought her fingers to her temples and applied gentle pressure. Hadn’t Guru Navi warned her about judging others? Reese was just upset, as she was, about the loss of important property. Guilt, her constant companion since childhood, weighed upon her, almost pressing her into the mattress.
There had to be some reason he stirred such strong emotions. Maybe her suspicion that she’d known him in another lifetime was the answer. She closed her eyes, deciding he’d likely made her life miserable for centuries. No doubt the man had a lot to answer for.
A light, cool wind rustled through the open window, tinkling her mobiles and sending the angels into flight. Her home had no heat, but she didn’t need any. Where she grew up, this temperature was considered balmy. To her, South Florida’s weather seemed heavenly tonight.
She inhaled deeply, taking in clean air, then stretched her arms high overhead, enjoying the breeze as it brushed across her overheated skin, her thoughts circling back to Reese. Since last night, she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him. It was possible his obvious position and power reminded her of what she’d gladly left behind, what she continued to run from.
She turned on her stomach and lifted her shoulders, stretching along the front of her body. She needed to clear her mind. She refused to think about greed and selfishness, the things her father’s endless parade of lawyers knew best.
The bowl’s disappearance was already beginning to affect her. She needed to find it as soon as possible. She’d do a short practice and meditate until tranquil.
Tomorrow she’d look for her bowl by visiting pawnshops herself.
Office of the United States Attorney for the Southern District of Florida.
TAKI GLARED AT the gold leaf letters adorning the heavy wooden door to Reese Beauchamps’s office. Of course she wasn’t actually experiencing déjà vu. She had already been here once today, at 9:00 a.m., when she’d left two photographs of her missing Tibetan bowl with a receptionist before setting off to the pawnshops.
She pushed open the door. What an adventure that had turned out to be.
At the sixth musty, crowded, depressing store she visited, she found a man who thought maybe someone had possibly come in with something that looked like her bowl yesterday. A bit vague, sure, but she’d been thrilled and pressed him for more info. But he put her off, telling her to come back later and talk to his boss.
“I’d like to see Reese Beauchamps,” Taki told the same pale, pregnant receptionist from this morning, having decided it best to relay the information directly to Reese. While she normally avoided lawyers like flu germs, she hoped his authority might encourage the pawnshop owner to talk.
“Do you have an appointment?” the woman asked. She placed her hand on her swollen