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  “Look, I don’t want you to get involved because then you’ll go all cop on me, and quite possibly screw up a delicate situation.”

  Milford’s eyebrow arched. “Such an abundance of confidence you have in folks.”

  “Well, that’s generally the way things work for me when folks get involved.” She hooked air quotes.

  “Somehow I doubt you ever let anyone else get involved.”

  Shel pretended to think it over then shot her a smile. “Nope.”

  “You’ve made what we call a presumption about all people in general, which speaks to trust issues over actual experiences.” Intrigued, Milford settled back on the couch, touched her chin, looking every bit the part of a cop-shrink Shel had once been ordered to see. “Being that you think you know so much about people, what is it you think you know about me? Go on, knock me out with your insight, hotshot.”

  Shel hesitated only a second. “I see a middle-aged woman working in a small town with very few friends.”

  As Milford didn’t appear affronted, Shel pushed the envelope. “I’d say once upon a time you had a better job than this gig, also in Louisiana—I recognize the twang—then you got injured. You’ve got a slight limp,” Shel motioned toward her guest’s leg. “Probably wounded in the line of duty. So you searched until you found this one-horse town. Not much action, but hey, it beats a desk job.”

  Milford studied her host without reaction.

  “You’ve likely been here a dozen years too long, treated like an outsider, a less-than public worker serving a greater-than crowd. And long about now, the boredom of it all is about to kill you. At night, you probably drive to the outskirts of town, back to a trailer park that is full of retirees and too many plastic flamingos.”

  A long silence hung between them. Shel felt smug about her assessment.

  “Motel.” It was Milford’s first contribution to the narrative. Shel arched an eyebrow which prompted the cop to clarify. “The Gondolier. Ten-room motel about a mile from here. I hate a trailer park.”

  “How long have you been there?”

  “Ten years or so.”

  Shel raised her beer in cheers, openly lauding herself for the close reading.

  Milford’s look was one of genuine amusement. “You think I’m bored?”

  “Desperately bored. Then along comes me—also an outsider, also a cop, also injured—and you want in.”

  “Former cop. There’s a big difference.” Milford’s tone made that point very clear.

  “I’ll give you that.”

  “I’m from Baton Rouge,” the cop supplied. Shel grinned, again lifted her bottle in a self-congratulating way. Milford ignored the move, continued, “Speaking of twangs, where’s yours, Ms. Shreveport?”

  The mention of her accent—or lack thereof—had her thinking about Kathleen’s odd and purposeful dialect and Silvia’s perfect Midwestern accent. She realized she’d let too much time pass before answering, as the cop was now staring at her expectantly. “It’s in Michigan, where I left it twenty years ago.”

  “At Kalamazoo where you started or Kirtland after you flunked out of Kalzoo?” Milford shot her a wink. “You’re not the only one who minds the details.”

  “So we both fancy ourselves master detectives.” She pointed her beer in the cop’s direction. “Kalamazoo was one big party for a kid raised in a group home, but you probably knew that, too.”

  If Milford had known that fact about her, she didn’t let on. “So, what are you working on?”

  Shel rolled her eyes. “Jesus, Milford—you’re relentless, bordering uptight. I’ll bet you haven’t been laid in a dozen years.”

  “Which just proves you don’t know everything.” Across the street, Shel noticed the living room light turned off and a bedroom light turned on. Her gaze flicked back to the smiling cop. Apparently, Milford didn’t miss a trick. “So, what’s her name?”

  Hopelessly defensive of her case as well as her own privacy, Shel stiffened. Grimly, she studied Milford, whose smile was only broadening by the moment.

  “Look, hon, I’m not as old as I look. Not as dumb, neither.” Milford tipped her bottle, drained it. She set it on the table between them. “If she wasn’t something special, you’d have checked yourself into a hotel for your little stakeout. Instead, you set yourself up here.” She lifted her indelicate frame off the couch, and continued to talk as she slowly headed for the door. “If she wasn’t something special, you’d have hauled her ass back to Louisiana a long time ago. I mean, that’s what you do, right? You’re sort of a glorified bounty hunter.”

  “Only without much glory.” Shel also rose and followed her, coolly working up an impromptu bluff. “Besides, you’ve got it all wrong.”

  She opened the door for the cop, grateful for the impending reprieve.

  “Well, maybe she’s not special. Maybe she’s just...intriguing.”

  “Hmm.” Shel tapped her chin thoughtfully, mimicking Milford’s earlier gesture. “I believe you said it best—that’s what we call a presumption.”

  “You call it whatever you want, I call it instinct.”

  Shel watched as Milford stepped across the threshold, but the woman didn’t depart just yet. Instead, she stared in the direction of Kathleen Fortier’s house, wearing a knowing grin. “I might be old and nosy, but I know what I know. Someone has to be plenty intriguing for me to have that level of interest.”

  “You’re right. You are nosy.” Shel tried not to look rattled at the cop’s confidence or the fact that she appeared to be zeroing in on Shel’s mark. She hoped Milford was utilizing guesswork over actual intuition. She didn’t like the idea of anyone thinking she was getting soft on someone, particularly not the potential payoff of a lifetime. Renting the place was good business, plain and simple, nothing more. Shel swung a drastic subject change with hopes of throwing her off. “So Milford, what’s your excuse?”

  The cop stopped at the door, shot her a bemused look. Shel slid in front of her, blocking her exit. She lowered her gaze and boyishly batted her long lashes at a cop even more tomboyish than she. Employing a poor version of sexy, she asked, “Why are you hanging around me? Do I intrigue you?”

  Milford threw her head back and laughed hard. “I stopped letting feisty little things like you intrigue me years ago. Requires too much energy.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.” Unaffected to an insulting degree, Milford stepped around her. “I’m just curious, that’s all.”

  For a split second, Shel envisioned a younger, sleeker, gun-toting Milford in her prime, chasing women. It caused her as much laughter as she’d caused the cop when she’d made the absurd suggestion about her level of intrigue.

  She recovered and followed the cop outdoors to her ride, which turned out to be a Harley. The woman hefted a short leg over the machine, struggling despite the fact that it was as low and wide as she. Shel made an apprising half-circle around the bike then nodded.

  “Nice wheels, Milford.”

  “All part of my charm,” the cop answered. She shoved in the key and with a few twists of the throttle, the bike declared its throaty roar across an otherwise peaceful night. Milford flicked her wrist several more times for drama, an action that quickly went from being impressive to just plain too loud. Shel cupped her ears and wondered if she was getting old.

  “Show-off!” she called over the racket. The cop laughed and gently peeled out of the driveway, just enough to shower her host with tiny bits of gravel. When the noise had faded into the distance, Shel blinked and batted away the last remnants of Milford’s dusty departure. When she could see clearly, Shel gasped. Front and center in her line of sight was Kathleen Fortier. Dressed in a bathrobe, she stood in her own yard, glaring at Shel.

  “Goddammit,” Shel whispered. She gasped, helpless to prevent her startled reaction. She quickly composed herself and set forth to make inquiry or apology—whatever was required—but stopped short when moonlight glinted off something at Kathleen’s side. Even f
rom her place she could tell it was about a twelve-inch butcher knife.

  Shel took a hesitant backward step, despite the fact there was a road and full yard between them. She steadily moved toward the house, still locked in Kathleen’s dull gaze.

  “Fuck, me,” Shel muttered to herself. She cast several glances Kathleen’s direction as she quickly went back to the house. By the time she gave a last look, the woman was gone.

  Shel closed then locked the door. Breathing heavily, she leaned against the doorframe wondering if she’d just got her first look at the real Kathleen Fortier. If so, it was scary. She hurried around the house, checking the back door, even the windows. The house was quiet and clear. She brought a kitchen chair back with her to the foyer and wedged it under the doorknob of the front door.

  Rationale would say that at barely over five feet tall, Kathleen Fortier lacked mass or muscle to do too much damage, but the image of the petite woman clutching a butcher knife was rapidly defeating every argument Shel could conjure up about the woman, tiny or helpless appearing or not. After ten more minutes of checking windows and doors, Shel reluctantly went to her bedroom.

  Laundry remained scattered across the bed and she swept it off into a heap in one stroke. She started to shimmy out of her jeans, but thought better of it, instead choosing to lie atop the bedspread fully clothed. Her gun was already on her nightstand, at the ready, safety disengaged. She reached behind her and turned out the lamp just as Newton leapt onto the bed. The cat proceeded to make a nest of the bedspread and then settled in for the night.

  Shel didn’t succumb to sleep quite as easily. Not only was her deranged neighbor on her mind, but so was Officer Milford. Judging by the cop’s Q and A session, Shel figured Milford wasn’t looking to make a bust; probably she was just as bored as Shel had accused her of being. Oddly, the silly cop was starting to grow on her, annoying habits and all, but now even that didn’t matter. Prior to the last half hour, her largest concern was Milford’s curiosity and how it could screw up her investigation. And possibly a child’s safety was in question. Now, everything had changed. She wondered if she should worry for her own safety…

  One look at her knife-toting neighbor’s bat-shit crazy behavior, Shel was finished. Fortier could have his kid and Kathleen could get what she had coming her way in whatever lockdown psych ward her husband had selected for her. Shel would have her money and never give the woman, the kid, or the whole damned place another look.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Shel didn’t even bother with the bike or following her mark; however, she did spend a few moments thinking about Mrs. Fortier’s bottom, delicately swaying with each pump of the pedal for as long as she could keep up. The woman had the ass of a fifteen-year-old girl, a thought that often crossed her mind simultaneously with the knowledge that it was inappropriate as hell. Especially now, given the latest occurrence.

  Instead, Shel left home before her neighbor could even think to push her bike down her driveway. In her car, she drove eleven blocks until she could see soaring white bell towers over the lush palms that lined Ninth Street. Guided by the landmark, she turned into an alley and idled into the parking lot of the Unified Church. She selected a space behind the long line of shrubbery, parked and waited.

  A few minutes before eight, Kathleen Fortier pedaled into the parking lot just as Shel predicted she would. She ducked slightly behind the wheel, thankful for the buffering row of low hedges. From her vantage point, she watched Kathleen unfasten the child from the seat and remove her tot-sized helmet before carrying her into the church. The kid clung to her mother’s neck, and even from across the parking lot Shel could see her eyes, typically wide with mistrust.

  Shel hadn’t slept, having spent her night wide awake, creeping around the house at the hint of the smallest noise. Kathleen’s latest stunt had thoroughly freaked her out. Shel chastised herself for not having acted sooner. The child always wore an uneasy expression that was surely born from some trauma. Prior to now, Shel figured either Fortier or his wife could be responsible for the child’s wary look. Now she was firmly on the side of dear old dad and in a quick hurry to get the child’s location to him, as well as collect her money.

  Shel thought about her unintentional telephone conversation with Silvia Frances and wondered what trouble she and Kathleen could be creating in Naples, Florida. All of it had Shel again wondering why she’d not turned it all over to Fortier much sooner. She’d have put it behind her now and have a nice bounty lining her pocket for having done so.

  She thought about this as she snapped half a dozen pictures of Kathleen and Harper on Fortier’s cell phone. He’d want proof his daughter was okay.

  Helpless to her own appreciation for pretty women—no matter how crazy they may be—Shel snapped a few extra pictures of Kathleen getting on her bike and pedaling away again, nicely employing that tight backside of hers with every move. Shel didn’t have time to follow her just for the view today; there was business at hand. She already knew Kathleen’s next stop would be the art gallery where she’d remain until Silvia Frances dropped the child off at five, sharp. Oh, the danger of patterns.

  Shel quickly reviewed the pictures before erasing the ass shot. When she was satisfied the ones of the child were clear, she started her car and backed out of the parking space. As she coasted toward the exit, Shel braked hard enough to lurch forward. Frozen, she stared at the subject of her intense interest. There, next to a sign marked Faculty Parking was a silver Volvo wagon. Shel pulled her notebook out of her pocket and compared the license plate number to the one she’d recorded days ago in front of the gallery. Indeed the car belonged to Silvia Frances. Could SLW, LLC be the church? The preschool…?

  Shel stared at the wagon a bit longer, wondering who was proving to be the bigger mystery—Kathleen Fortier a.k.a. Addison James, or Silvia Frances. Shel blinked her eyes tightly shut, as if she could physically rid her mind of the nonstop what-ifs. None of it mattered anymore; today was the start of her new life, and it was a change being directly sponsored by Richard Fortier.

  As if she were afraid she’d change her mind, Shel grabbed the phone and pressed call on the single pre-programmed number. Struck with a sudden bout of old paranoia she hung up before it could ring even once. She was again focused on her credit card activity and the notion that Fortier could already be ahead of her in the game, possibly screwing her out of her take. Stronger than her desire to get right with the world was her resolve that she would not be left high and dry. Before making her golden find formally known, she wanted collateral.

  Back on Third Avenue, she lingered in front of her own rental house, staring at the now empty yellow cottage across the street. She recalled Bartender Rob telling her it was a tourist town for winter people, and it was summer. There wasn’t a soul in sight. She counted five minutes and still not a single car had passed, not even a random dog walker.

  She jogged across the street and around to the side of Kathleen’s house. She unlatched the flimsy wooden gate and let herself into the backyard.

  She watched her footing as she followed the flagstone path bordered by uncontrolled purple bougainvillea. Other sweet-smelling vines sprawled the grounds and crept up rickety, nearly-rotting trellises propped against the house and fence. It successfully transformed the backyard into a nice, woodsy fortress. In the middle of it all was an old, uneven bricked patio. Above it, an umbrella of blooms dripped down from a splintery arbor. Two metal lanterns with burned-down candles dangled from the center only a few feet above a child’s picnic table. In all, the landscaping was lush, unkempt, and nothing short of charming.

  Shel desperately attempted to not picture Kathleen in one of her carefree skirts, standing in the midst of the equally bohemian backyard. She instead focused on the back entrance. The house had been built at a time when security wasn’t even thought of. Only a single power line was attached to the house, which gave her reassurance that nothing else had been added after the fact. There probably wasn’t even
a telephone line.

  The glitch in her planned intrusion wasn’t a technical one, which Shel probably could have managed, but rather a manmade security “system.” Each window and the sliding patio door were lined with a row of blue marbles, evenly spaced, glistening in the sunshine. A narrow door off to one side seemed like her best point of entry, but it would require removing the screen or breaking the doorknob, and Kathleen would know someone had been there. It was likely she would take the kid and split and then bye-bye payoff. It was that concern, coupled with the notion that Fortier might try to stiff her, that had her doing a B&E at the small house.

  Shel chose the sliding door and easily picked the simple lock and jiggled the door open, sending blue marbles rolling every direction. Shel crawled around the floor collecting and replacing them, just as she’d found them. She definitely wouldn’t be exiting the same way, but she’d worry about that later. By her count, she had a good part of the day to ransack the place, if she so chose.

  She stood in the kitchen that, small as the house was, afforded her a decent view of the entire place, sans the hallway and any subsequent attached rooms. The place was clean but rather boring in décor, and again Shel couldn’t help notice it looked thrift store furnished, which had her momentarily feeling guilt for having broken in on this particular mission. Almost as quickly, a vision of Kathleen with her empty stare and gleaming knife blade came to mind. It haunted her now just as it had the entire night before, robbing her of a decent sleep. A familiar coldness crept over her, resuscitating feelings of vengeance and a mistrust she’d previously vowed to put behind her. People could not be trusted.