The South Beach Search. Sharon Hartley

handling the Romero case. His picture is in the Miami Herald all the time. He’s—”

      An accented voice interrupted Debbie. “Taki, what happened with Reese Beauchamps?” Lourdes Garcia, the manager of SoBe Spa, paused by Taki’s locker with a worried frown. “Does he blame the spa for the theft? Do we need to notify our attorneys?”

      Taki shrugged. “He didn’t seem mad at the spa particularly, just the world in general.”

      “That sounds like him,” Lourdes said with a nod. “The man is so intense he gives me a headache.”

      “Intense, yes. And, man, those deep brown eyes...” Debbie exhaled slowly. “I swear he doesn’t miss a thing.”

      As she combed her damp hair, Taki remembered his penetrating gaze. Yeah, Reese Beauchamps did notice everything around him. And the eyes were the windows to the soul. Reese sure had gorgeous eyes.

      “When he works out with free weights,” Debbie continued, “I can barely concentrate on what I’m doing. He performs each rep as if his life depended on it.”

      Lourdes laughed. “He’s a perfectionist, all right. Type A for sure. Rumor is he’s running for office. With his conviction record, I’ll bet he ends up attorney general or a U.S. senator.”

      “Maybe even president someday,” Debbie added dreamily.

      Taki shut her locker door with a clang. “I just hope he finds my bowl.”

      * * *

      THE NEXT MORNING, Reese arrived at his office in the federal building in downtown Miami at 6:00 a.m., his usual time. Leaving his condo at five-thirty meant no traffic on the roads and an easy commute. Even better was the fact that there were few colleagues around to interrupt him with phone calls or casual chats. He got a lot accomplished before other employees began arriving.

      At 10:00 a.m. his secretary buzzed him.

      “Agent Rivas is on line one.”

      “Thank you, Joanne.” Reese had alerted Javier Rivas, the lead investigator on the Romero case, within hours of the theft. Hoping Javi had developed leads overnight, Reese grabbed the receiver and leaned back in his black leather swivel chair.

      “Give me some good news, Javi.”

      “Sorry, Reese. I’ve got nothing for you.”

      “There’s really no sign of Izzo?”

      “Not a whisper.”

      “You checked all his haunts on South Beach?”

      “Romero’s favorite thug is either dead or in hiding.”

      Reese turned and looked over the sparkling aqua water of Biscayne Bay eight stories below. Winning the headline-grabbing Feldman case last year had earned him this office with a view, but he’d vacate the prized space tomorrow to keep Carlos Romero—a domestic terrorist with a violent, if murky, cause—behind bars.

      “Izzo must know we’re looking for him.”

      “Probably,” Javi said. “The bureau will stay on it, but without something else to go on, it’s pretty much a waiting game. He’ll poke his head up eventually.”

      “Probably when he commits another crime.”

      “Was anything besides your briefcase stolen, something that might end up with a fence?”

      “Maybe,” Reese said after a pause. “A woman who works at the spa had some sort of Tibetan artifact taken from her vehicle. She insists it’s old and rare.”

      The image of Taki, her long blond hair blowing in the evening breeze, blue eyes tragic with unshed tears, hadn’t been far from Reese’s thoughts since last night. Neither had strong, slender legs encased in black leggings flowing into a slim waist and perfectly formed breasts straining against her pink halter top.

      He remembered with vivid detail the goose bumps that dotted her graceful arms as she’d tried to warm herself in the chilly evening air.

      All of this going on in his head scant minutes after discovering that someone had stolen his cell phone, the device that coordinated the details of his way-too-complicated and overscheduled life.

      And the photocopy of Claudia Romero’s journal in his briefcase, with detailed trial notes on every page.

      Javi’s hard voice brought Reese back. “Izzo is no antiques dealer. I doubt he would know anything about Tibetan antiquities.”

      “You’re probably right. He could have broken into the spa employee’s Jeep to throw us off track. The loss of the bowl upset the woman badly, though.”

      “Or it could have been pure convenience. This wouldn’t be the first time Izzo pinched something he could dispose of easily.”

      “We need to find him and ask him,” Reese said.

      “Man, talk about bad luck. First your witness disappears and now your briefcase. Do you think Romero was fishing? Searching your vehicle in hopes of finding a lead to his ex-wife’s location?”

      “Maybe. They want to find her as badly as I do.”

      “Probably more,” Javi said. “I’ll send agents to major fences and Miami pawnshops and see if they come up with the missing bowl. I need a description. A photo would be better.”

      “I’ll call the spa.”

      Several hours later, Reese nodded at his secretary, confident his instructions would be carried out as ordered. Joanne was the best assistant he’d ever had.

      “And those grand jury subpoenas need to be served today,” he ended.

      Joanne nodded as she rose. “Yes, sir. Oh, I’m sorry, but I can’t find a number for this Taki person. There’s nothing listed, and the number she put down on the police report is for SoBe Spa.”

      “Did you try the spa?”

      “Yes, but she only teaches on Monday and Thursday nights, and the manager—” Joanne consulted her spiral-bound notebook “—Lourdes Garcia, wouldn’t give me Taki’s home number.”

      “Did you tell her the U.S. Attorney’s Office needed to contact their employee?”

      “Of course, but that didn’t make a difference. They have a strict policy not to give out the instructors’ numbers to anyone.”

      “Get Ms. Garcia on the phone.”

      Irritation gnawed at Reese when Joanne alerted him she’d reached Ms. Garcia. He wasn’t used to a roadblock over something as simple as a phone number.

      “But, Reese, you surely understand our policy not to give out the instructors’ addresses or phone numbers,” Lourdes told him when he’d explained the reason for his request. “I might normally make an exception considering the circumstances, but Taki insists on her privacy. She’s one of the most popular members of our staff.”

      “If I give you my office and cell number, will you call her and leave a message?”

      “Certainly. She rarely checks voice mail, though—something about negative energy—so it might take a while to reach her. If I don’t hear from her, I’ll make sure she gets your message on Thursday.”

      “It’s important, Ms. Garcia.”

      He heard her release a long breath. “Everything is important to you, Reese.”

      * * *

      INSIDE THE ELEVATOR at his condo, Reese dropped his new briefcase and pushed the button for the twentieth floor. As the car lurched upward, he glared down at the stiff black leather, thinking the miserable bag was much heavier than the one stolen. And he’d liked his old case, a gift from his mother. It’d been well-made, and he’d used it since law school.

      Reese was glad to be home. His condo was