The South Beach Search. Sharon Hartley
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use of his first name. “Your name again, please?”
“Taki.”
“Taki...?”
“Just Taki. How far along are you?” she asked.
The woman rubbed her abdomen and sighed. “Six months, but I have nausea like I’m six weeks. If it doesn’t stop, I’m going to have to go home.”
“Have you tried ginger?”
“Ginger?”
“Ginger makes a soothing herbal tea. Small amounts are safe for the baby and, trust me, it works. Cinnamon also helps. You might add some if you like the taste.”
The receptionist smiled dubiously. “Thanks. I’ll let Mr. Beauchamps’s secretary know you’re here.”
After the woman slid her frosted window shut, Taki seated herself in the waiting room and glanced at the wall clock. Almost one-thirty. Looking around, she noted sleek and modern furnishings that didn’t look all that comfortable. Plenty of magazines littered tables to help pass the time, but she’d rather meditate, if it came to that. Hopefully, she wouldn’t have long to wait.
Guru Navi always said waiting was an opportunity to spend quality time with yourself. But would Reese make her wait awhile? Was he that busy?
The only other person in the room was a balding elderly man. She smiled at him, but he didn’t make eye contact. Instead, he closed his eyes and shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
Becoming more and more concerned for him, Taki suffered along with the poor man while he twitched and uttered quiet moans. Every few minutes he rose and limped around the small room, sat again, then struggled back to his feet, pressing both hands against his lower back.
She nibbled at her bottom lip. All the signs of a bad lumbar area. She’d helped more than one chronic back patient with either yoga or herbs. Why not assist another while she waited for Mr. Big-shot Lawyer?
“Are you all right?” she asked. She’d learned most people loved to talk about their pain.
“It’s my lower back,” he said and sucked in a quick bit of air as if it were torture to even breathe. “Hurt it on the job.”
“Where exactly does it hurt?” Taki asked, making her voice soothing and sympathetic.
“Right at my belt line. Never goes away.”
“I’m so sorry. What does your doctor say?”
The man took a few hesitant steps. “That there’s nothing he can do. I’m old and just got to live with it.”
“Orthopedist?” she asked.
“And a damn neurologist. Every test in the book.”
She nodded. So he’d already consulted the Western medical specialties.
“Damn quacks,” he muttered.
“You poor thing.” Taki rose and approached the man. Before beginning, she asked what she always asked, even in her yoga classes. “Do you mind if I touch you?”
“What for?” he asked, eyes wide, but now looking at her with interest.
“Maybe I can help.”
* * *
WHEN THE INTERCOM BUZZED, Reese muted the sound on the DVR and rubbed his tired eyes, irritated by the interruption. Agent Rivas was probably correct that no clue to Claudia Romero’s location existed in this two-year-old videotape deposition, but he had to try. Perhaps she’d casually mentioned a second home or a place she liked to escape to on holiday.
Where the hell was she? Why hadn’t she contacted him? And why had Claudia refused to accept protective custody until her ex’s trial? Jury selection would begin in less than three weeks. The woman couldn’t possibly think she was safer on her own.
“What is it?” he said into the speaker. Reese reached for a roast beef sandwich delivered twenty minutes ago and loosened the plastic wrap. The sharp fragrance of the horseradish made him realize how hungry he was.
“Taki is here to see you,” Joanne said. “Shall I show her in?”
Reese dropped the sandwich and paused the DVR, already moving toward the long hallway to the reception area. “I’ll get her,” he told a startled Joanne as he strode past her desk.
Javi Rivas, out in the trenches working seedy pawnshops, reported an hour ago that a knock-out blonde named “Wacky” or “Tacky” had flashed photos of the bowl in some of the worst sections of Miami. He needed to put a stop to that immediately.
What had possessed the woman to search on her own?
She’d already annoyed him by dropping off the photos this morning and disappearing—here and gone before he could inform the receptionist to ask her to wait, that he needed to speak to her.
Taki was obviously in a hurry to make herself the next crime statistic in Miami-Dade County.
Reese opened the door to the waiting area and came to a shocked halt. Taki stood in the center of the room, her graceful hands probing the naked back of Robert Shinhoster.
“Ah. This is the place,” she said, stroking her index finger across the bony ridge of the old man’s spine.
Reese wasn’t sure which surprised him more, the surreal sight of the two of them or his irritated reaction. Taki’s hands were all over Robert Shinhoster, an injured federal worker who had been driving the entire office crazy about his case for months, but why should he care?
She was so focused on Shinhoster, she hadn’t heard the door open.
“Okay,” she told Shinhoster, dropping her arm. “I want you to mash up a chili pepper, mix it with a white skin cream, and rub it on this spot. But wear plastic gloves when you work with the preparation because it might irritate your hands. And don’t use the cream right after a hot bath or shower.”
“What will that do?” Shinhoster asked.
“The capsaicin in the pepper confuses the nerves and you focus on a temporary mild burning more than the ache in your back. I also recommend willow tea for its anti-inflammatory properties, massage—lots of gentle massage—and hot packs alternating with cold. When the inflammation goes down, start yoga classes. This time next year, you might be pain free.”
“Excuse me,” Reese said.
Taki looked over and smiled. “Hi, Reese.”
He hooked his hand under Taki’s arm to draw her away from a dazed-looking Shinhoster and out of the room.
“Hey, thanks,” Shinhoster yelled as the door closed.
“Just what do you think you’re doing?” Reese demanded when they faced each other in the long hallway.
Taki’s sapphire eyes clouded at his words. “I was helping that man. He’s in a great deal of pain.”
“And he’s trying to squeeze money out of the U.S. government for his supposed pain.”
“Only because he thinks he’s been cast aside. Poor dear feels disliked because he worked for the Internal Revenue Service. He says no lawyer will believe an auditor could get a bad back.”
Reese stared into her earnest face and realized the woman was absolutely serious. “And where did you get your medical degree?”
“I’m not a doctor,” she said, straightening her slender shoulders. “I’m an herbalist.”
“Then why are you behaving like a private detective?”
She blinked twice. “What?”
One thing at a time, Reese told himself. He glanced at the openmouthed receptionist who followed the conversation with keen interest.
“Let’s go to my office,” he said,