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  Over and again the townspeople expressed their shock at how quickly the case had been dismissed as an accidental death. Brief public outcry bashed local officials for having given Donald Clark special treatment on the basis of his family’s wealth. The police force responded only with no comment. With Miranda K. Winston Clark safely in the ground, her voice forever silenced, Donald Clark and the rest of his pretentious family had taken their vast wealth and swiftly left town.

  Shel found it unusual that there wasn’t even a passing mention of Miranda’s son. She wondered what became of the boy.

  “What a sham job,” she quietly said. Newton leapt onto the bed next to her, pawed and clawed a circle in the blankets in front of the laptop. She addressed the cat as if he cared. “That’s the power of old money right there.”

  There was only one saved screenshot remaining, and after a few seconds of reading, it was clear to Shel that she’d inadvertently saved the best for last. This one concerned a civil court case a few years later. At the outcome of this trial, Donald Clark did finally pay for the crime, though not with time in jail, but with real cash money. Possibly to protect the balance of the family assets, the Clark family had legally distanced and disinherited Donald Clark. The once flamboyant heir had plenty of money hiding around the globe and it appeared that the prosecution had found it all. The plaintiff was listed under a corporate name, SLW, LLC. Shel’s eyes nearly dropped out of her head. There was no word about who was behind the corporation, only that much later, Donald Clark died alone and penniless.

  She closed the laptop and set it aside then scooted the cat to the end of the bed to make room for herself. Easing back against the pillows, she lay there attempting to sort through her jumbled thoughts.

  She considered all the players. There was Steven Winston—probably the SW of the SLW acronym. Then there was Silvia Frances, the camera shy preschool administrator. Maybe she worked for him; maybe he didn’t even know her. Considering the fortune Shel suspected Winston had legally extracted from Donald Clark, it was easy to see how the man could keep sixteen properties scattered about town. Of course, if he had that kind of dough, he’d also have a league of people and investors—so why the tiny cracker box-sized houses in a single seaside town? Why not spread out, or invent things, or invest in technology, or any number of potentially lucrative investments? And where did Kathleen play into this mystery?

  Her mind churned through the endless possible scenarios until, exhausted, Shel nodded off to sleep.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Restless sleep dragged Shel from one dream to another, each starring her neighbor in various states of dress, wet transparent skirt, wet T-shirt, no T-shirt…

  More than once Shel had awakened in a pool of her own sweat, panting hard, clutching her chest, wondering if having the woman so close in proximity might cause her a heart attack, or at very least, a panic attack. By six a.m., she was literally hosing off in the shower.

  As she slowly stripped the bed and tossed damp sheets into the wash, she seemed to move better. Using her newly acquired knowledge about Steven Winston, she formulated the day ahead. She needed to learn something about Silvia Frances to connect the dots. While she drank her morning coffee, she factored a trip to the library into her day. A visit to the Collier County Clerk of Court was in order. Not only might she discover something more about the properties owned by Winston, but Silvia had a car, and behind every license plate there was a registered owner. She wasn’t worried the search would leave a virtual bread crumb trail leading right back to her. Unlike Milford, Shel was a civilian, and there was no law against being nosy.

  After she was certain Kathleen was well into her daily routine, Shel toted the Addison James painting outside and secured it in the hatchback of her car. She then drove to the hospital with every intention of making the donation to their children’s wing. It was important that if Silvia checked out her story, the painting was where she promised her it would be. If need be she’d contact Silvia under the pretense that she needed more art. Of course this call, if necessary, would be placed from a pay phone as she’d already blown her cell number on the late night hang-up. Details.

  Her first stop was the clerk’s office where she requested information on one of the other properties on the extensive list of those owned by SLW, LLC. Shel was trying to get an idea about the type of people who lived in these modest little homes. Perhaps they all had something in common. An elderly woman with blue-tinted hair and bifocals gave her attitude and information she already had.

  “SLW, LLC is a corporate name. I’m trying to find out who actually lives at that property address,” Shel politely explained.

  “We only have record of property owners.” She started away without as much as a thank you or goodbye. In conducting her grand experiment Shel had unwittingly selected a bad participant.

  “Ma’am? Just another second of your time, please?” She refused to be rude to an old person no matter her curt behavior. Shel forced a smile and started over again after the woman reluctantly shuffled back to the counter. “You’re sure there’s no listing for a tenant at this address? If the property owner has tenants, aren’t they registered anywhere? Perhaps a tax collection document or something?”

  “That’s between the landlord and the IRS.” She put one weathered hand on her bulky hip. “And, if they’re family friends or someone not paying rent, you’ve hit a dead end. Contact the owner.”

  “SLW, LLC…” Shel murmured. She then impulsively asked her, “Ever heard of it?”

  “Contact the owner,” she repeated, and when Shel started to speak again, the woman raised her voice and abruptly finished their conversation. “Good day.” The woman spun on the thick heels of her orthopedic shoes and marched away, leaving Shel alone at the front counter.

  “Thank you for your help,” Shel said to no one. She walked away muttering things not normally muttered about old ladies with blue hair. There was no asking her about the car plates. It was a wasted trip.

  At the hospital she encountered another of many obstacles the day seemed to be throwing in her path. The office that handled donations was being manned by a temp, as the administrative staff was locked up for the day in meetings. Shel’s attempt to leave the painting was met with the woman’s cool insistence that proper protocol must be followed, including tax forms and multiple signatures and witnesses on a variety of releases. It seemed ironic to her that her donation would be entirely on the record while a house tenant would not. Frustrated, Shel took the painting and left, two fails under her belt thus far.

  Her next stop was the Naples Seaside Resort. She parked, grabbed her canvas satchel and headed straight through the sand to the tiki bar. Rob did a double take when he saw her approach and was holding his hands up in a stop sign before she could even have a seat.

  “No can do. I’m on the boss’s clock right now.” He pantomimed punching a time clock and grinned. “I can’t possibly be your rent-a-stud for another three hours.”

  “That’s an interesting greeting.” Shel squinted in the sunshine and proceeded to take a seat at the mostly empty bar. She looked around. “Can I make this my temporary office?”

  He shrugged as he pulled a bar towel off a rack and dried some newly washed glasses. “What a hose-job. One day I’m a priceless help and the next day, garbage.”

  “Nonsense, I need you.” Shel didn’t look up at him.

  “Cool.” He stopped what he was doing and came to stand before her. “What’s the job? A flunky this time, I hope?”

  Shel’s fingers clacked away at the keyboard, but she could feel him staring. “I need your wifi password anyway.”

  Obviously disappointed, his shoulders fell. “Seaside-dot-naples, all lowercase.”

  “Thank you.” Shel made the entry and waited.

  “So, how’s things with the poser?” He grabbed a towel and went back to drying glasses, shooting her an occasional look. “You make any headway?”

  “Not much,” she lied.
The computer came to life with full Internet access. Shel dumped the contents of her satchel on the stool next to her and rifled through the papers until she found a particular stapled set. It was the “hit list” that Fortier had given her on her last night in New Orleans—the names and contact information of all the alleged victims of Kathleen Fortier’s scams. Presumably, they’d been plied with large amounts of hush money.

  “Whatcha working on there?” Rob pestered.

  “Not much,” she only repeated. The first name on the list was Ford Franklin and she hurriedly entered it into a general search engine along with his city name. Nothing. She added the physical address listed on the page. Soon bits and pieces of parts of his name populated the search, but no solid hit. Unusual, given the amount of identifying information she had on the fellow. She flipped the top sheet back and started on the second male listed. She was vaguely aware of Rob moving to the other side of the bar, working his angle on a woman of about seventy. For his momentary distraction, Shel was secretly relieved.

  Four hard copy pages later, she’d yet to discover a single firm lead on any of the men in her packet. Some names matched the names of individuals, but in other parts of the country or world, and didn’t have positions or the type of wealth that would make them good candidates. Phillip Rogers II, for one, was a retired, ninety-year-old grocery clerk residing in Queens.

  Time and again, Shel cross-referenced the names with New Orleans, Louisiana, art, society, philanthropist, news, and donor. The donor did get a hit on Reginald LePlatt, but only because he received a multiple pints button for donating blood at a center outside Seattle.

  “Ridiculous,” Shel muttered.

  Rob was buzzing around the bar. His elderly customer was long gone and he now tended to a few afternoon ramblers happening by. As these were guys close to his own age and not a member of the wealthy geriatric set, Rob refrained from putting on his usual ridiculous show. Shel almost hated to interrupt, but waved him over nonetheless. He gave her the one-minute sign. Sighing, she grabbed her phone and punched in the number listed as belonging to Ford Franklin. It went straight to an automated message stating she’d misdialed. She hurriedly did the same with a few more and got the same thing. Caller number six picked up.

  “Can I speak with Reginald LePlatt, please.”

  “I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong number,” the voice on the line informed her.

  “Wait—sir?” Shel feathered the papers out before her. “Can you tell me if I’ve reached Ford Franklin?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “How about—”

  “I’ll save you the trouble,” the man on the line said with a gentle chuckle. “I’m Mario Jimenez.”

  “Mr. Jimenez,” she said, doing a quick shuffle. It didn’t match any of the names. She sighed. “Thanks for your patience, sir. Have a good night.”

  She set her mobile phone on the bar top and stared at it, running her hands through her hair. She wondered if it had gotten late before realizing that dark clouds had rolled in, casting a sepia tone across the place. During her phone frenzy, Rob’s friends had left. In the midst of packing up the bar against the storm, he noticed Shel’s vacant expression.

  “Relax. We’re just revving up for an afternoon shower. Damned hurricane season.” He glanced toward the gloomy sky. “Looks like this storm could be a doozy.”

  “Oh yeah?” Her papers started to flutter in the breeze which was rapidly picking up. Rob came to the rescue, promptly providing shot glasses for paperweights. “Thanks.”

  “So? You gonna tell me why you’ve made my bar your office all afternoon long?”

  “Following up on leads that turned out to be…bogus.”

  “Anything to do with your lady who likes ladies?”

  “She’s not my lady, she’s my case. I told you.” She shot him a look then sighed. “I just wasted the afternoon calling all these numbers.”

  Thankfully, he listened to her brief rant without specific questions. “No go, huh?”

  She shook her head. “All shit. Lies.”

  “I believe you’ve been duped on this case, my friend. I hope you collected your money up front.” The wind picked up again, and Rob pressed his forearms on top of her paperwork. He glanced over his shoulder at the quickly moving clouds, but remained patient. “Was it going to be a good haul?”

  Shel thought about Fortier’s tearful call, a child’s pink bedroom in New Orleans, the slime-ball attorney dressed in fine threads, and how bad it all felt for reasons she could not explain. Just as easily she recalled Kathleen’s cold behavior, the possible kidnapping, a kitchen knife gleaming in the moonlight, her soaking shirt and pert nipples…

  She shook her head, more to rid her brain of the nonsensical thoughts that swirled there. “Liars. I just haven’t figured out the lie.”

  They were quiet for a bit. He seemed bothered by her trouble. In a surprisingly charitable move, Rob asked, “Can I help?”

  “You got truth serum?” The words were barely out of her mouth when a big wind blasted through the tiki hut, strong enough to rattle the makeshift paperweights. Rob collected her flying paperwork and Shel grabbed her computer. He quickly dropped and latched four large wooden shutters. Sand had begun to whip around them in funnels, like mini tornadoes, and he squinted and pointed toward the hotel lobby. Dodging large, cold raindrops, they made a mad dash to the main building.

  Safely inside, he handed her papers back to her. In his rush, he pressed something else into the palm of her hand. She studied it in the dim, elegant lights of the lobby.

  “Truth serum,” he supplied before she could ask. He grinned, proudly. “Well, almost.”

  Shel immediately recognized the chalky pink oval housed inside its tiny bag. She raised her eyes to his. “What the hell…?”

  “Call it your little helper.” He folded her hand over the pill and patted her knuckles, grinning. “On the house. No worries.”

  “What I mean is what the hell are you doing giving a cop a controlled substance? Are you crazy?”

  “We’re friends by now.” His smile faded somewhat as if he suddenly wasn’t altogether sure of that notion. He recovered, his enthusiasm for his project renewed. “Look, get in good with her, slip her the Perc, loosen her up and let her ramble.”

  She stared at the Oxy in her hand and swallowed hard. Her thinking was a world apart from the scenario he was suggesting. With her aching back, battered confidence in her detective work, and screwed-up emotions concerning the case of her insanely sexy neighbor, the allure of the drug was tremendous.

  “Keep it off display, would you?” He again folded her hand to cover. “We don’t want to piss off my source.”

  “You get drugs for your clientele?” she half whispered.

  “I get them whatever they need. We live in the prescription capital of Florida.” His blue eyes glimmered in the low light, and he spoke in a surprisingly bold manner. “I’m doing you a solid here. Are you going to be an asshole about it?”

  He didn’t blink. After a second she shoved the tiny bag in her jeans pocket and looked around to see if anyone had witnessed their “transaction.” Rob’s wide grin returned. “Maybe you’ll get some of your answers. I hope it goes in your favor.”

  He patted her shoulder and walked off, carrying his cash box toward the employee’s hallway.

  Shel hoisted her satchel onto her shoulder and once again darted outside into the elements. She was thoroughly soaked by the time she reached her car and wondered about the condition of her computer housed inside the flimsy canvas bag. She carelessly tossed it into the backseat and sat behind the wheel, watching the rain pulverize the windshield for several minutes. The noisy sheets made her feel sheltered and anonymous. With more excitement than she was proud of, Shel pulled the pill out of her pocket and felt a measure of revolting relief that it was thoroughly dry in its plastic house. She hungrily rubbed it between her fingertips, feeling its outline like a depraved blind person reading a lifesaving message in
Braille.

  “Years I spent getting you off my mind, and now look.”

  Her whispered words weren’t hostile, but rather waxing poetic. She stared at the Percocet until her eyes watered, then pushed it back into her jeans pocket, her heart pounding almost as loud as the rain.

  Starting the car, she slowly backed out of the flooded parking lot. Once on Gulfshore Boulevard, she cranked up the music to drown out her bad thoughts. Above her, a crack of lightning split the black sky. Naples was embroiled in a torrential downpour.

  The wipers on the car could hardly keep up. Despite the compact rental being a newer year and model, its tires were sub-par and drifty. It seemed at any moment the car might possibly float right off the road and into the ditch which was filling up with flash floodwaters. She drove slowly, carefully, concentrating on the yellow center line barely visible in the rain.

  As most of the smaller roads had quickly flooded, she kept the car on the main streets, unable to find another clear pass until Central Avenue. She made the turn and followed it up almost to the library and prepared to take a left. At the stop sign she used her shirt sleeve to wipe a big circle in the window fog. She started away from the stop sign, but slammed on her brakes, the entire car lurching with a dreadful squeal.

  Kathleen Fortier was in the crosswalk in front of her. She was soaking wet and pushing her bike, Harper still strapped in back. There wasn’t a thing to protect the toddler from the elements beyond the standard safety helmet.

  Shel threw the car in park, hit the hazards and tapped the horn. She jumped out of the car and ran toward them.