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  She turned to face Shel, and they stood there enveloped in an awkward cloud of silence. “Thank you,” Kathleen finally said.

  Confused, Shel shook her head. “I’m sorry?”

  “I was rude—I’ve been rude since the first…” Her voice trailed off as she obviously collected her thoughts. “Look, I can see you were just looking out for us. I guess I’m not used to neighbors.”

  “Me neither,” Shel quietly confessed. “And you weren’t rude. Not much.”

  Damp strands of dyed blond hair clung to Kathleen’s cheekbones and tickled swollen pink lips. She seemed to thoroughly analyze each word before she spoke it. It was with tremendous trepidation that she finally extended her hand to Shel, but there was no warmth in her eyes. “I’m Addison.”

  Shel’s own hesitation was also caused by apprehension, but for different reasons. Kathleen had called herself Addison. Shel wasn’t sure she’d ever seen such beautiful lips lie so openly to her face. Shel took the delicate hand in her own, almost melting at the woman’s soft warmth.

  “Nice to meet you, Addison.” Though she’d already introduced herself nights earlier, she did it again. “I’m Shel, your…neighbor.”

  “Nice to meet you.”

  The look on Kathleen’s face said she still wasn’t fully invested in that statement, but rather politely reciprocating. Still, it was better than nothing. Shel realized she was still holding her hand and quickly let go. She started to take a backward step, but shooting back pain caused her to limp. She grabbed her side and issued her “new” acquaintance a compulsory tight-lipped smile.

  Kathleen’s brow furrowed in concern and she took a halfstep toward her uninvited guest. “Are you okay?”

  It was a loaded question. In fact, she felt she was very much not okay. Shel stared at her neighbor a moment longer, then hurriedly left without explanation or goodbye. Clutching the small of her back, she limped across the front lawn, across the street and back to the green house—anything to get herself as far away from Kathleen—Addison—as possible.

  She occupied her thoughts with anything she could to resist thinking about the woman’s warm, soft touch, wispy hair or see-through skirt. Why had Kathleen chosen to change her own name and not her child’s? Because children don’t lie well, Shel answered her own interrogation—it’s not in their nature. Shel had all her proof; she’d found them both. Technically, the only thing left to do now was to turn them over to Richard Fortier.

  Shel pushed through the front door of the little house. She needed a cold shower and hoped it would be enough to douse the inexplicable fire that Kathleen seemed to have ignited deep within her.

  On her hurried route to the bathroom, a vibrating sound caught her attention. She scanned the room and saw Fortier’s cell phone buzzing across the top of the nightstand, hazardously nearing the edge. She snatched it before it could rattle to the floor and squinted unnecessarily at the tiny screen. Of course it would be Richard Fortier.

  She wondered if he had telepathy. Frozen by her paranoid thoughts, she held the phone until it went silent. As she’d neglected to set up her voice mail account, he wouldn’t be leaving her a message. She was about to set it down when it vibrated in her hand once again. Wincing, she licked her dry lips and pressed the button.

  “Mr. Fortier,” she said.

  “Have you found my little girl?” he eagerly asked. “Did you find them?”

  Her heart hammered against her ribs and her throat grew tight. She’d found her all right—she’d just eyeballed his wife’s breasts in a tight, damp T-shirt after spending days studying the woman’s fine ass on a bicycle—sure, she’d found them. Shel first wondered why the delay for his call, then, given the suspect timing, wondered if he had a better tracker on that phone than she’d credited him for.

  “I’m working on it.” She whispered the lie, scrubbed her hand through damp hair, and continued to listen to his shallow breathing down the line. Still limping, she slowly paced the room, her voice low. “I am making some solid headway. I promise you that much.”

  “I know I said I wouldn’t call, but I’d hoped you’d call with an update.”

  She clenched her eyes shut, utterly unprepared to answer his questions. “I was going to check in with you tonight. There’s still no news.”

  “Harper needs to be home with her daddy. Her birthday’s next month.” His voice was slightly slurred, his southern accent more deeply pronounced. “I need her here.”

  “Mr. Fortier, are you drinking?”

  “I’m not sleeping well,” he said, disregarding her question. She listened as he prattled down the line, his heartache evident. Shel rubbed her temples and nodded, as if he could see her. He wrapped up his call with a plea. “Please. I’ll double the money—whatever it takes to get my Harper home.”

  Double the money? Would he remember that promise once he sobered up? Would she try to collect it once she snapped out of her lustful haze…? Shel’s nerves caused her to pace more quickly. “I will make every effort to do right by your daughter.”

  And that was true.

  “Please, that’s all I’m asking of you.”

  She ended the call, clutched the phone, staring at it. She finally powered it off and replaced it on the nightstand.

  * * *

  In New Orleans, Richard Fortier pressed the off button before handing the phone to his attorney.

  “How’d she sound?” Dubois eagerly asked. “Any progress?”

  Fortier appeared melancholy. “She was vague.”

  Dubois seemed concerned. “I know you have a great deal of confidence in this woman, but perhaps we should send in someone else.”

  “Let’s give her time.” Fortier sipped his drink, eased back in his chair. He looked like he was questioning his own words. “What’s it to you? You still get paid.”

  “I’m just one for making things happen, not sitting around feeling helpless. We’ve put all our eggs in one basket. Should we send in someone else? Perhaps a man this time? I can get some names—”

  “That’s the problem with you,” Fortier sputtered. “You can’t send a man to do what is most definitely a woman’s job.”

  A small smile flexed on Dubois’s lips. “Are you sure you’re not over-crediting maternal instincts?”

  Fortier studied his associate for a long time. As he tended to whenever subject to scrutiny, Dubois felt nervous.

  “There are female instincts other than maternal,” Fortier curtly informed him. He tapped his glass for a refill and Dubois obliged like a well-trained dog. Fortier took another sip, looked lost to his thoughts as he added, “I assure you they are just as powerful.”

  * * *

  Shel’s second attempt to get to the shower was thwarted by the doorbell she was beginning to detest. Aggravated, Shel moved slowly toward the annoying buzzing door and swung it open to find Officer Milford leaning against her doorframe. “Doorbell’s broke,” she reminded her host.

  “Stop pushing the fucking thing.” Shel waved her inside. With sarcasm, she said, “You’re becoming quite the frequent flyer, Milford. Why not check out of the motel and just take the second bedroom.”

  “You got a second bedroom in this dump?” Milford abandoned the doorway, shuffled down the hall a bit, pretending to check it out. “Nah, I don’t do well with roomies. I bet you’re a terrible one anyhow.”

  The tired-looking cop wore plain clothes, this time matching yellow stripes and solids, causing her to resemble a short circus tent. She carried with her an environmentally friendly canvas grocery bag that she set on the coffee table. She wrinkled her nose as she noticed Shel’s still wet clothes for the first time. “What the heck’s got into you?”

  Shel ignored her question. “I just got off the phone with Fortier. He’s impatient.”

  “What’s that got to do with your wet clothes?” The cop plopped down on the couch. “And what’d he want?”

  “He wants his kid back. He was a drunken, sad mess.” Shel perched herself on th
e edge of the opposite couch, cupped her hands over her mouth and sighed. “Surreal. One minute I’m standing in the woman’s backyard, watching her and the kid have a water fight like they’re normal people, and the next I’m listening to her husband bawl down the phone line about his miserable, child-stealing ex. You’re right—something’s off.”

  “You were in their backyard?” She reappraised Shel’s thoroughly soaked condition, added, “Kid’s got one heck of an aim on her for a four-year-old.”

  “She didn’t do this,” Shel impatiently told her. She got back to the issue. “Look, I’m just saying it doesn’t seem to me that the little woman is holding out on him, using the kid for some kind of money grab. She’s no peach, but she doesn’t strike me as being a kidnapper and she doesn’t seem nuts. A little paranoid maybe, but not to a clinical degree.” Her thoughts went to the incident in the front yard and the gleaming knife. She addressed it absently, almost helplessly. “That knife could have been for protection. She’s scared.”

  “Knife? What knife?” Milford lowered her gaze. “Crazy people never think they’re crazy, and they’re very good at convincing others of it, too. You know that by now.”

  “I do know that, but the point of bringing you in on this is not only for help, but some objectivity.” Frustration was building within Shel. “Otherwise, I could already have the kid back to Fortier by now with a wad of cash in my pocket and you and I wouldn’t be having these late night talks.”

  “You sure the point of these late night talks of ours isn’t to punch holes in the notion that Mrs. Fortier isn’t wacky up to the eyebrows so you feel a little better about wanting to get her in the sack?”

  Shel glared at her. “Are you delusional?”

  “Are you?” They stared at each other for a long time. Milford finally spoke. “I’m just saying if the point is to be objective, then let’s be objective. Maybe Mrs. Fortier is a lunatic. Maybe Mr. Fortier is…” Her voice trailed off and she shook her head. “What do we think he is, anyway?”

  “Don’t know yet.” Shel rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands until everything sparkled. She was exhausted. “I honestly can’t answer that, but I can tell you I didn’t much like the guy when I met him. Arrogant…odd.”

  “Then why’d you take the job?” Milford quickly answered her own question. “Oh yes, the money.”

  Shel attempted to relax her defensive stance, but flinched at a pain in her lower back. The cop noticed.

  “That reminds me.” Milford leaned up and dug around the inside of the grocery bag. She tossed a box on the table in front of Shel. “Somebody recommended this. Tea made especially for bad backs.”

  Shel picked it up, stared at the box in the dim light. “Milford, this is green tea drops to make massage oil.”

  They both cringed at the notion, a much-needed tension breaker. Finally the cop chuckled. “You can forget about that, hotshot. I know less about a back massage than I know about buying tea.” From the same bag she produced a six-pack of beer. She twisted the lid off one and handed it to Shel. “I didn’t have you much pegged for a tea drinker, anyhow.”

  Shel accepted the beer and took a long, icy swig.

  “I’m only buying this beer because you’re down in the back. You owe me big-time.” Milford helped herself to a beer. “So tell me why you were across the street.”

  “There was more commotion over there.” Shel settled back, cautiously guarding her sore back. “Turns out they were having a water fight, but I had to check it out. That’s just me, utilizing that objectivity you think I’ve pitched overboard in the name of lust.”

  “Fair enough, you’re objective.” Milford raised her beer high in salute then took a sip. “So, let’s talk about the jam I nearly got myself into today looking for the goods on Silvia Frances.”

  “What kind of jam?” Suddenly their evening meeting had purpose. Shel set her beer aside and gave Milford her full attention.

  “The kind you get when you start poking around for information on a person who’s in the Witness Protection Program.” The cop shot her a nasty look. “That kind of jam.”

  “Really. What’s her story?”

  “Dunno. That’s why it’s called a protection program.” She let out a long sigh. “Apparently I did enough snooping around under Silvia’s new name that I got noticed. Somebody calls up my lieutenant inquiring about my sudden interest, and I get my ass chewed up and spit out along with a little vocabulary review. Words like administrative leave, and so on.”

  “Tell me they did not suspend you.” Such an action would dramatically change the landscape of her case. If Milford couldn’t get to that precious privileged information, bringing her in was for nothing. “Without access—”

  “Thanks for your concern for my great big, important career.” Milford made a little humph noise. “Don’t worry anyhow. He’s a tough guy who just likes to hear himself yell.”

  “So that’s the end of the line with Silvia Frances,” Shel said, summing up the glum situation.

  “It is without raising more official eyebrows.” Milford leaned forward, rested her forearms on her knees and lowered her tone. “However, that is not the case with SLW, LLC. Steven Winston is behind that one, but I can’t figure the tie-in with the Frances woman.”

  “Good job. It’s a start.” Shel thought quickly. “Silvia Frances drives a car—a silver Volvo wagon, older model. You want the plates?”

  “I do not want the plates,” Milford firmly warned her. “I think I just mentioned I don’t need another red flag.”

  “Then I could follow her home.”

  “Yeah, then she can call me herself and I can arrest you. Good way for all of us to get nice and acquainted.” She drained her beer, replaced the empty bottle in the carton. “I don’t know what they call it in Louisiana, genius, but here in Florida we call it stalking.”

  “I’m just saying whether she owns or rents, she’s got something in her name—a place to live at very least. Let’s find out what and where.”

  “Computer?” Milford had already started for the bedroom when Shel nodded. The cop returned with the computer in tow. She set it down on the table and fired up her phone’s hotspot. With the laptop perched on her lap, she Googled Steven Winston of Naples, Florida. “Let’s see what we’ve got here.”

  The search yielded only three hits, which puzzled Shel; all were images of Mr. Winston cutting ribbon in front of a park-like setting with no real story attached excepting the text identifying that it was him standing next to the town’s mayor. She got the clear impression that he had money which wasn’t big news. Most everyone in Naples did. There was no information about the man owning properties or his own residence.

  Shel scratched her head. “I could Google myself and come up with more information than this guy.” Shel tapped the magnify button for a closer look at the inscription on the plaque. Miranda Winston Memorial Park. “Who is that? Wife? Child…?”

  “I don’t know about you, but I’m wiped for this night.” Milford rose up off the couch. She picked up her phone and Shel nodded that she was finished. “Let’s reconvene tomorrow when we’ve both had sleep.”

  Shel stopped her. “Give me one more sec with this Internet signal. Maybe I’ll find some nice bedtime reading.”

  She plugged the name Miranda Winston into a search engine and within seconds had saved several screen shots for later reading. At last she nodded. “I’m good.”

  Milford pocketed her phone. “As for this Frances woman, let’s not forget that she might be nothing more than a friend—a dead-end. Let’s focus on the kid and your crush across the street.”

  Shel shot her a look of warning, but asked, “What’s your plan?”

  “I’m going to do some light checking on Mrs. Fortier tomorrow—had no time today. I’d gotten myself into enough trouble and I do have a job, remember?” She headed for the front door. “I’ll keep an eye out, but not so much I end up unemployed and sleeping in your spare room.”

&nbs
p; “Sounds good.” Shel painfully rose up off the couch and followed her to the hallway. She let her friend out and locked the door behind her. In seconds, she heard the Harley fire up and zoom off into the night.

  She limped through a shower before slipping into a T-shirt. She crawled into bed with her computer that now contained a saved collection of relatively large documents pertaining to Miranda Winston. It looked like tedious reading and Shel was tired. She hoped it wasn’t a meaningless tracing of ancestral roots or other insignificant material.

  The first bit of information was merely vital statistics, enough to tell Shel that the woman had died forty years ago at the age of thirty-four.

  “Hmm,” she murmured. “An aunt, perhaps?”

  She opened another screen shot, this one a newspaper article providing slightly more information than the first. The content included news of a murder and a trial, in no real detail. Still it was something and suddenly Shel felt slightly more awake.

  The next file was an obituary for Miranda K. Winston Clark, about two inches square and very blurry in quality. The presence of rough edges of the surrounding articles indicated that it was also an original newspaper section that had been scanned into the computer. It gave minimal survived-by details that included the mention of a young son and her husband, Donald Clark of the famous Clark Paper family.

  “Jesus, could Steven Winston be that kid…?”

  Shel quickly reread the tiny article; it seemed peculiar that the son’s name had been omitted, but Shel was surer by the moment it was Steven. It seemed very odd that it was such a modest death announcement given the couple’s obvious wealth. She closed the article and selected another.

  The stories got progressively more interesting and this one was a five-year anniversary report of a murder including details of the original investigation. Shel scrolled down line by line, reading carefully. Twenty minutes later she was left shaking her head, mesmerized by a brutal crime that had taken place in Naples years ago, when it was an even smaller, quieter seaside town. It smacked of cover-up and scandal and included domestic abuse allegations directed at Donald Clark. He was heartily defended by his family, of course, and the issue of the woman’s death never went to trial. Townspeople and retired cops commented on the horrific, bloody event, and interviews with Clark family members were predictable. Five long years later, they still bad-mouthed the dead woman as if she’d asked to be killed.