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  Shel avoided sighing, lest she should again appear disrespectful, hence prolonging the Welcome-to-Naples lecture. She scruffed her hands through her hair and dropped them in her lap to pick up her license. “I don’t plan to be here long.”

  “Ooh, Naples townsfolk don’t like to hear that.” Milford exaggerated her shudder. “If you’re gonna spend any time around this place, at least make a decent effort.”

  “I’ll take that under advisement,” Shel said, as eager to rid her house of company as Kathleen had been. “Anything else, Officer?”

  “Yeah, get some real clothes, would you? Just so you don’t look more transient than you already claim to be.”

  Shel glanced down at her clothes.

  “And stop springing outta bed and running around the neighborhood half naked.”

  Shel finally succumbed to an eye roll. “I get it.”

  “You got some serious wealth in these parts,” Milford continued. “Townsfolk don’t like to mess around with the riffraff. On this street alone, you’ve got Ray Townsend, owner of a whole chain of hospitals. Then there’s some Vander-something-or-other on the other side of Old Ray, and a cousin to a cousin of a Kennedy on the other side of him. See? You never know who you’re gonna bump into in these parts.”

  “Maybe I should hold an open house to get to know everyone. Serve up some pigs in a blanket and Schlitz.”

  Milford didn’t even blink. “People around here won’t care much for that attitude. Here, you either have money or you fawn all over the people who do have it. There’s nothing in between.” She opened the door and lingered a moment. “You better pick a side. Don’t look like it’s going to be the money one.”

  “Thank you again, Officer,” Shel mumbled.

  Milford grinned, touched the brim of her hat, and answered with a hint of cynicism. “All part of my civic duty.” She spun a slow half-circle and seemed to be considering something. “Do they still actually make Schlitz?”

  “No idea.” Shel dropped her hand on the backside of the couch, eliciting another smaller dust cloud. She coughed a little and waved it away.

  “Get yourself a Dustbuster.”

  Shel heard the door swing shut and got off the couch. She locked the door and leaned against it. “Dustbuster my ass,” she muttered on the way to the bedroom. “For this place, I’d need an industrial lawn vac.”

  She flicked off the light, unsnapped her jeans in the dark, and let them fall to the floor. She shimmied out of her T-shirt, got into bed, dropped her head on the pillows, and landed squarely on the cat.

  “Damn it!” Shel roughly scooted the cat off the bed and lay down flat this time.

  From the floor, Newton made a feral-sounding howl.

  “Shut up. You could scream your brains out in this neighborhood and nobody’s going to come see what’s going on. I’m the only one stupid enough to do that.”

  She sighed loudly, flipped over on her belly, and covered her head with a pillow to muffle any other cat complaints.

  Chapter Ten

  Kathleen Fortier was in the wind.

  She’d vanished on White Linen Night, right out from under the nose of her husband, which was, in itself, quite an accomplishment. Richard Fortier wasn’t careless with his money or his property, and calling his behavior toward his wife protective would be the understatement of the century. If he was protective, he was assiduously, ridiculously so. To Bucky, this was the first clue that finding the missing woman would be no picnic. Otherwise, Richard would have her back by now.

  Bucky considered this as he gently pried loose his black bow tie and popped the top button of his crisp dress shirt. He dropped his silver Cartier cufflinks in the valet dish, then plucked an Alexander McQueen handkerchief from his pocket and laid it across the dresser. Both accessories were one hundred percent counterfeit, which tickled him. All night he’d been around people wearing the real deal at their uppity gala, and not one of them had been any the wiser.

  He leaned slightly closer to the mirror, dipped his chin and grinned at his handsome reflection. He easily popped out green contact lenses that overlaid his natural dark brown eyes then proceeded to study his smooth, tanned skin and bit of fashionable scruff of a beard. Probably the only good thing his mother had ever given him was his Italian ancestry. He’d given himself the accompanying bulky muscles, a fine plastic surgeon had given him his angular cheekbones and chiseled chin, and the sparkle in his eye came from always being a step ahead of the game.

  “You know what they say about fools and money.”

  His conversational tone was directed at his reflection. In fact, he knew a lot about fools and their money, especially how to cause them to part company. It wasn’t easy on his ego that he himself had recently suffered an unexpected financial loss. He’d been more stunned than angry, although he had plenty of anger. An income he’d dearly earned was suddenly gone. Once it was recovered—and it certainly would be recovered—he’d make it a point to ensure no tired cliché about fools and money could ever be said about him again. Not that anyone would be brave enough to actually say it, but surely anyone in the know was thinking it.

  He’d find Kathleen and his money. Nobody pulled a fast one on him and got away with it.

  Bucky draped his shirt over the chair of the dressing table and glanced at his bed, duvet already drawn back, mint lying center of one of a half dozen inviting-looking pillows. He loved his life, and nobody would take it away from him. Not again. He snatched the mint, twisted off and discarded the wrapper and popped the candy into his mouth. He dropped onto the bed and stared at the ceiling.

  Richard Fortier had publicly bragged that he knew his wife all too well. Bucky knew that Fortier had attempted to find her himself, even refused to contact the law about her disappearance. That was fortunate for Bucky; once the law got a whiff of that kind of cash, it would be forever out of his grasp. What good would it do him to see the woman sitting behind bars or locked up? He wasn’t interested in seeing justice done; he was interested in recovery and dealing personal punishment.

  He knew Fortier disliked all manner of tradition, rules and government. The man harbored an unnatural amount of hate for all things authority to the degree that Bucky suspected that if given the chance, Fortier would challenge God Himself. The rest of the odd man’s hatred was reserved for anyone who’d give his wife a second look. He’d paid handsomely for her last round of shenanigans, actions that included buying off the law he so despised. He’d probably pay dearly again once he managed to locate the conniving wench.

  Bucky had also had some firsthand experience dealing with Kathleen’s brand of nuttiness, but nothing like this latest trick of hers. Richard must be feeling similarly exasperated, as he’d never known the man to bring on private help to track her down.

  Bucky chuckled despite his own monetary losses. “Methinks the lady vanished herself real good this time.”

  In fact, it was Bucky who’d put Fortier in touch with a half-assed investigator named Shel Carson. Carson definitely fit Fortier’s preferred type of employee; the guy liked working with near-transients, and the more flawed the past, the better. He felt most comfortable among the dregs of society. Fortier was the kind of guy who’d make you feel like a million bucks if you were playing ball on his roster, by his rules. Failure to do so would result in political or social ruination. Not that Bucky thought Carson had much to lose in either area, but simply enough, if she failed to produce Fortier’s adoring wife, Fortier would find what made her tick, her secret longings, any career fires she might be privately stoking—every bit of it—and he’d make her life unbearable. Period.

  Bucky smiled as he considered it. He fired up his iPad and checked his email. Again, there was no news.

  The upside to Richard Fortier bringing Carson into the loop was that she might actually find the little imp. That was why he was keeping a very close eye on Fortier’s new hire. Though he knew Carson had initially rejected Fortier’s offer of employment, she’d also abandoned h
er shitty car and boarded a plane to Florida—first class, no less. She was quickly warming to the perks of his employ. No matter how much Fortier annoyed Bucky, the man was not without talent.

  Bucky had other talented friends. A good one was Freddy, a professional much like himself, whose history on paper and in cyber had been expunged by glorious, cleansing Hurricane Katrina. These days, both were living as upstanding citizens and dear old Freddy was high on the ladder at a major credit company. It was handy. Each time Fortier’s AmEx surfaced, Freddy knew, hence Bucky knew.

  He set his iPad on the nightstand and turned out the lamp. He nestled into the pillow and as he so often did, he thought about Kathleen Fortier. He pictured the fragile appearing, pale-skinned dame with something mysterious brewing behind those wild, wide eyes. He wondered if she’d have the same effect on Carson as she did most men. It gave Bucky pause, made him even more curious about the missus. Not only did she appear to thoroughly dislike her own husband, she’d also spurned Bucky’s advances. Imagine—Bucky, positively teeming with testosterone to the point that people felt him before they even saw him—her rejecting Bucky? Rejection wasn’t even in his vocabulary.

  Yes, Kathleen Fortier might enjoy Carson’s attention. Why the notion hadn’t occurred to Bucky before now was beyond him, and a relief to him at the same time. He laughed out loud.

  No matter. The beautiful crazies were always the most fun to watch fall apart. In the end, Bucky would teach the lovely Mrs. Fortier a lesson. It would be strictly a bonus that he’d be getting back at Carson, a long-owed debt he’d wanted to settle for years. Even if the woman didn’t recognize him, he would never forget her face. And he’d get his money back. Oh, lovely karma.

  He rose up just enough to peel out of his undershirt and tossed it toward the dresser. He nestled back into his stack of pillows and settled in, congratulating himself for being so damned brilliant. Perhaps Kathleen Fortier thought she had enemies, but he could guarantee he was her worst. She’d learn that when he found her.

  Chapter Eleven

  Kathleen followed an unbending routine, from the time the woman left the house on her bike at eight a.m. until she returned home at five thirty.

  She’d first drop Harper at a church a few blocks away at what Shel presumed to be a daycare or preschool. Then it was off to the art gallery for Kathleen. At five sharp, Silvia delivered the tot to her mother’s workplace. Shel considered Silvia’s role and wondered if Kathleen Fortier had hired the woman to be her assistant. If so, her job description covered a hodgepodge of areas from periodic art sales to child taxi. As Silvia’s pitch-perfect wardrobe looked quite expensive—especially when compared to Kathleen’s secondhand T-shirts and bohemian skirts. Simple enough, Silvia didn’t appear to be the type who’d need to take odd jobs like nannying and taxiing.

  From a local shop Shel picked up a secondhand bike she intended to employ as a stealthier means of following Kathleen. It seemed better than merely watching her comings and goings from behind a fake newspaper on her front porch. While it was possible that copying her mode of transportation might help Shel gain insights into Addison’s perception, in truth Shel thought it looked…freeing. She wanted to see what that felt like.

  The only used bike available was a beach cruiser complete with a wicker basket that couldn’t be removed. At least the bike was black; the color, she hoped, would offset the frivolity of the basket. It crossed her mind that having the basket would be convenient for picking up groceries. On the tail end of that thought came a warning to herself against her many recent odd feelings of domesticity. She blamed it on the fact that for the first time, she was residing in a bona fide house and wisely reminded herself that every bit of it, bike included, was temporary.

  Her first day tailing the woman had Shel wondering what the hell she’d gotten herself into. She’d barely ridden a bike as a kid, and wondered why she thought her talents at present would be improved over those of her eight-year-old self. Thankfully, the neighborhood was all but deserted when she made her maiden voyage down the slightly sloping driveway. She’d coasted, wildly weaving in hopes of attaining some semblance of balance, zipping on and off the concrete several times. When she inevitably crashed, she was grateful that for once the odds worked in her favor, as the bike launched her roughly onto the sandy yard as opposed to the unforgiving concrete driveway.

  After a few more attempts she eventually made it to the street where she proceeded to wobble-coast to the first stop sign. Her feet winding the pedals backward in an airless manner, her heart pounding nearly out of her chest, she realized there were no brakes. In her panic, she grabbed the handlebars roughly, which activated hand brakes she’d not even known existed, again nearly vaulting her right off the thing.

  Breathing hard, she mentally recounted the required routine and started again.

  Three blocks later, there was a negligible improvement in her steering and balance, but by then, her mark was blocks ahead of her. The only thing gained from the first morning’s tail had been enjoying the nice view of Kathleen’s sweetly swaying bottom as it disappeared off into the distance.

  Shel gracelessly pulled off the road, into the parking lot of the neighborhood library, where she ultimately came to a stop halfway into a dense hedge. Operation bike tail had been a total bust. Shel cursed her lungs, back, knees, and every other part of her anatomy screaming internal protest at her spontaneous exercise. After she caught her breath, she turned the bike around and very slowly pedaled home.

  At the lime-green cottage, she pushed the bike around back and leaned it against the railing of the tiny porch that was designed to overlook the even tinier pool. As she clutched the small of her back, Shel wondered if she’d ever feel compelled to touch the torturous mechanism again. Her muscles felt as though she’d resurrected them from the dead. At the moment, it was impossible to believe she’d ever been fit. In fact, she’d been in damned good shape before her old boss had put her in an undercover narcotics gig and she’d managed to get her ass shot and left for dead.

  She blinked the thought away, pondering how angry she still felt after all these years. No wonder she couldn’t manage a simple bike ride. These days, with her pale skin and scrawny physique, she more resembled the druggies from her undercover life than she did a real human being. Officer Milford had been right about the fact that she clearly looked like an outsider in this wealthy, suntanned town.

  Her gaze wandered over a blue custom tarp that was stretched across the narrow inground backyard pool. Though she’d planned to thoroughly ignore the clause in her rental agreement about maintaining the pool, she found herself giving it a good look. She’d always enjoyed swimming at the YMCA when she was younger. Years later, after the shooting, her physical therapist had instructed her to use the gym pool to speed up her recovery. A little sun might help her look like she belonged, add to her cover…

  She ambled toward the pool on rubbery legs and reached down and unfastened the bungee cords that secured the cover. She peeled it back and grimaced as the rancid odor hit her, nearly knocking her backward. Making a low whistle, she covered her nose and mouth with the stretchy sweatshirt collar.

  “And they say the French Quarter smells bad,” she muttered, staring down at the pool shell. Shallow, murky green water filled the deep end, which was precisely where the drain was located and dammed up, by the looks of it.

  Shel sat down on the cement lip of the pool, muttered a few complaints before utilizing every bit of upper body strength to slowly lower her body into the pool. When she was close, she did a little free fall to the bottom. Her shoes were now drenched, but no way would she take bare feet into the black, pasty water. Cringing, she waded deeper, trying not to think about what could be living down there. When she was thigh deep, she reached down, blindly wagging her hand through the blackness until she at last found the drain. She swished it free of sticks and leaves, plunking several handfuls of the disgusting muck onto the cement rim before racing back toward the shallow end a
nd the ladder. She climbed out of the pool, gagging, trying not to smell herself.

  Tall, unkempt hedges bordering the yard gave her added security as she stripped off her disgusting jeans and freely walked toward the house for a clean pair. Twenty minutes later, she was in the backyard with a rented pump and hose, chemicals and instructions from a local pool guy named Kenny.

  She dropped the length of hose into the deepest end and hit the switch. The machine roared to life and she leaned against the porch, watching as the green sludge was pumped out of the pool and onto the grass.

  “Smells delicious!”

  Shel spun toward the nails-on-chalkboard voice that was screaming to be heard over the equally obnoxious sound of the pump. She tried to stabilize her pounding heart and put on her best bored tone.

  “Officer Milford. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “In the neighborhood. Thought I’d drop by.” The short cop tugged off her hat. The wild shock of red corkscrews. Shel almost thought her late night memory had exaggerated. It hadn’t. She grinned, leaned against the same porch railing as Shel. “Home improvements?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Stinks to high heaven,” Milford hollered, gazing out over the pool. “You planning to fill it back up or plant flowers in it?”

  “Flowers?” Shel called, puzzled.

  “Sure. I know in some parts of Louisiana they’ll put flowers in anything—bathtub, toilet…Put it on display in the front yard in front of God ’n everyone.”

  Shel ignored her remark, nodding toward the porch and the variety of large chemical containers now parked there. “Filling it back up with water, Officer.”

  The machinery got louder and Milford’s eyebrows practically hit her hairline. She cupped her ears and continued to yell over the noise. “That’s a whole mess of chemicals. Hope you know what you’re doing.”