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  “No. Google search.” Shel again ignored her commentary.

  “Clark Paper heir, as you know by now. Old Man Clark killed his wife right in front of his young stepson.”

  That part had been conveniently left out of the newspaper. Shel arched an eyebrow.

  “Years later, the kid got his own attorney and took him to the cleaners. Won all his money in a civil suit.” Milford paused for a sip from her steaming Styrofoam cup. Shel squeezed her eyes tightly shut. “I’m trying to do that math on the statute of limitations.”

  “And how does one make money off nonpaying tenants?”

  “One doesn’t. Winston’s nonpaying tenants are a mysterious lot. Nobody’s on the radar. Even the utilities are in Winston’s name.”

  “I think I know why.” Shel glanced at her watch, knew she had to hurry. Still, she knew Milford would be upset if she missed the chance to give her story a payoff, so she asked, “But what’s your theory?”

  “Glad you asked.” Milford retrieved a folded piece of paper out of her pocket and made a show of unfolding it. Shel was growing more impatient by the second. “So we know all his properties are small two-bedroom homes, nothing fancy, and he makes no money off ’em. All this was learned from sweet talking a woman at the tax office.” She raised her eyes to Shel, held the tax printout toward her.

  Shel took the slip of paper and squinted to read.

  “My first thought was prostitution ring. Maybe a kiddie porn ring or trafficking. Just to be sure, I checked for Harper’s name in the missing children’s database, no hits, you’ll be happy to hear.”

  “Which says her father isn’t looking for her via the usual means, just me.” Shel tapped her chin thoughtfully.

  “So the bottom line is, Winston helps people fall off the map for some reason or other.”

  Shel handed back the paperwork. “That works with what Addison told me. She claims to be part of an underground system for battered women. It makes sense.”

  “Addison?” It appeared only one word had permeated Milford’s brain. “So, you’re on a first-name basis with a girl with an assumed first name. How complicated of you.”

  She raked fingers through messy hair. “It could be that our mission is changing courses.”

  “You could have been a little more forthcoming about that underground women information before I spilled my guts. That’s uneven, is what it is.” Milford was off the couch and waiting by the front door. “And it may be that your mission is changing, but I guarantee mine remains the same. I want to verify the story of Ms. Fancy-Pants across the street. Make sure all these fake names are frauds. Doesn’t feel right to those of us not thinking with our nether regions.”

  “Milford, don’t let your boredom get you into trouble.”

  “Looks like I got the shit end of the stick in this deal. I’m doing all the detecting, and you’re getting your jollies. Curious how that works.”

  “Look—I’m trying to earn her trust.”

  “That’s what they’re calling it these days?” Milford hiked both eyebrows. “I’m not yet convinced you’re okay, let alone her.”

  “For the record, I’m not doing her,” Shel said, shooting her a look of disdain. She glanced at her watch, her tone changing. “However, I am playing taxi for her today, so we’ll talk about this later. Go with your gut, Milford. Isn’t that what you always say? I’m not fucking you over and you know it.”

  She started for the door, but quickly stopped, turned around. “Here’s a question—what happened to the jail records that were destroyed in Katrina?”

  “They were destroyed in Katrina,” Milford dryly remarked. “The question answered itself.”

  Shel ignored her dig. “There’s seriously no recourse? Backups…?”

  “Probably some lucky fools got a new lease on life when that happened. Looking for his or hers?”

  “Why would we look for hers?” Shel wore a disgusted expression. “Don’t give me grief about this. Can’t you see what I’m trying to do here?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “Her.”

  “Oh, okay, Master Detective.”

  Milford opened the door and stepped onto the front step. “It doesn’t take a master detective to figure it out. It takes a complete idiot to not.”

  “We’ll talk about this later.” Shel shot her a displeased look. A new thought came to mind that trumped her aggravation. “Meanwhile, you want to look into something for me?”

  “By all means,” Milford said in a tone ripe with sarcasm.

  Shel disregarded her sarcasm. “I have a list of men who Richard Fortier claims were screwed over by his wife. I called them all to verify, but the lines were either dead or wrong numbers or what have you.”

  “You’re talking out both sides of your mouth, sister.” Milford reluctantly accepted the envelope. “In one breath you’re saying Mr. Fortier’s got this all wrong, and in the next, you’re asking me to double-check his wife’s scam victims.”

  “Nobody knows how screwed up this is more than I do, Milford.” Shel hurried back into the bedroom to change clothes. She raised her voice to be heard in the living room. “And by the way, she’s not his wife.”

  “You’re kidding me,” the cop dryly said, sounding not at all surprised. She rummaged through the stapled sheets of paper and chucked the packet into her jacket. “Bet that helped your conscience.”

  Shel appeared in the doorway tucking her T-shirt into her jeans. Her feet were bare. “Meet me in half an hour or so?”

  “I’ve got roll call. Remember that pesky little job of mine?”

  “I do remember,” Shel said, jamming her feet into canvas tennis shoes. Untied, she wore them like scuffs when she hit the top step outside. “You tell me when.”

  She held the door for her guest then let it slam shut behind her. She followed Milford into the gravel driveway. Across the street, Addison was coming out of her house with Harper on her hip. Watching them, she slowed noticeably.

  Now in an even bigger hurry to get across the street, Shel said, “Please, Milford.”

  The cop turned toward her wearing a disgusted look. “Coffee Cup, inside the hour.”

  “See you there.” Shel started across the street, her shoes still flapping on her feet. She called over her shoulder. “Thanks.”

  Behind Shel, the cop revved up her bike and rode off.

  “Who was that?” Addison’s usual suspicious regard was firmly in place.

  “No worries.”

  “Police make me nervous,” she mumbled. “She wasn’t asking about me, was she?”

  “You’re in Naples, not New Orleans.” It wasn’t even an answer, but it wasn’t a lie. Shel offered her hand to Harper. The child stared at her for several seconds before quietly accepting her invitation. Surprised at how good she felt about owning even an iota of the child’s hard-earned trust, Shel thoughtfully placed her into the car’s backseat, wishing she had a child’s seat. When she fumbled with the safety belt, Addison leaned in and quietly took over.

  As she watched them, Shel wondered how badly Addison would take the news of her own former employment when she finally broke it to her. Worse, she’d also have to eventually divulge her current employment. She wondered how ugly things might get. After all, the woman had basically stolen the child and moved away from her ex. It was clear she would defend her daughter at any cost. It felt like a mission designed to fail.

  Shel slipped behind the wheel, but Addison’s concern clouded her. She looked at the unnerved-appearing woman, quickly leaned toward her and planted a kiss on her cheek. “She’s a friend of mine. Relax.”

  Shel asked for directions to the preschool then proceeded to unnecessarily inquire about which door to drop them at once they’d arrived at the church. Meanwhile, she scanned the parking lot, hoping with every fiber in her being that Silvia Frances’s car was in its place and that the woman was already inside the building. She caught sight of the silver Volvo wagon, parked and empty. She made a loud sigh of relief tha
t Addison mistook for impatience.

  “I’ll hurry,” she promised, gathering the child’s things.

  “Take your time.” Though she hoped Addison would avoid doing just that. She watched the pair enter the school section of the church, drumming her thumbs in a random pattern against the steering wheel for thirty of the longest seconds on record. She grinned when Addison got back into the car. “All good?”

  “Yeah,” Addison said after brief hesitation. She smiled at Shel. “It is good. And it feels like it’s getting better.”

  Her choice of words warmed Shel. She smiled, but quickly shifted back into business mode. “Look, I hate to bring this up, but your deal with disliking cops, that’s because of the way your ex pulled strings in New Orleans, right?”

  “I suppose.” She looked thoughtful.

  “Anything else I should know?”

  “Yes,” Addison said after a moment. “I hate guns. I could never again live with a gun in my house. I could never live with someone who owns a gun, period.”

  Shel veered the car into the side street and drove in the general direction of the dock. She glanced over at her passenger, who seemed to be calming down. “You seem pretty adamant about that.”

  “I am,” Addison confirmed.

  “Duly noted.” More complications.

  They made the rest of the short drive in silence. Shel pulled to a stop before the shop then turned to face Addison. She’d already been concerning herself with how she’d avoid Silvia upon picking them up. “I have a few things to do, so I am going to meet you here at five fifteen, is that too late for you?”

  “No. Harper usually gets here about five. We’ll hang out and watch the fishermen.”

  Shel knew her schedule all too well. “Can we talk after that? Over dinner?”

  “I don’t really want to go out, if you don’t mind.” Almost shyly, she added, “And I do have my constant companion.”

  “We’ll stay in. My place.”

  Addison smiled. “I suppose that would be fine.”

  “Good.”

  She looked momentarily caught off guard. “Should I…bring anything?”

  “I think you mentioned a constant companion.”

  Addison’s grin was huge when she left the car. Shel watched her get safely into the shop before she left. Her smile faded by the time she’d come to the first stop sign.

  “She’s paranoid and hates cops and guns.” Shel assessed the situation aloud. She shrugged. “What could possibly go wrong?”

  She hit home to grab something before driving to the coffee shop on Fifth Avenue. Milford had exchanged her bike for a Naples police cruiser, standard-issue that took two full parking spots squarely in front of the coffee shop. Shel pushed through the front door and quickly spotted the cop, already seated with coffee, already giving her dirty looks.

  Shel blew past all niceties, said, “I need your opinion.”

  The cop didn’t speak, only made the give-me motion with her hand. Shel handed her the manila envelope she’d brought along and waited several minutes while Milford examined the contents. Only when she reached a set of official looking documents did she raise her eyes to Shel.

  “Fortier’s committal paperwork.” She shrugged, kept her voice low. When Milford stared and blinked at her, Shel elaborated. “I told you Fortier said he was having her committed upon her return.”

  “I don’t believe you did.” Eyes back on the paperwork. Milford selected a single page and held it up against the sunlight, squinting at it. “Think I’d have remembered a little detail like that.”

  Shel reached out in an effort to snatch the page, fearing anyone who passed might read the bold letterhead of the psych facility.

  “There’s something to be said for keeping a low profile,” Shel chastised her.

  “Yes, there is,” Milford agreed. She set the paper back on the tabletop and slid it over for Shel’s examination. “This is a pretty real looking watermark.”

  Shel blinked, muttered, “So you showed everyone in this café.”

  “You’re smarter than this.” It was Milford’s turn to admonish. She slapped the paper on the table and shoved it toward her. “Why on earth would a man give you the real deal?”

  Shel was quickly coming around. She whisked the paper off the tabletop and also held it to the light. A watermark ran the entire width of the paper. She muttered, “You’re saying only a fool would let the originals out of his possession.”

  “And only a fool would think he had.” Milford clicked her tongue, gave her a look. “Did you call the doctor?”

  “I just figured with all the confidentiality laws I wouldn’t—”

  “What I mean, genius, is there even a character by the name of…” Milford squinted at typewritten name below the scribbled one. “…Doctor Harlow Farris?”

  Shel scrubbed her hands through her hair as she always did when she was feeling nervous or foolish. This time, the latter was the case. “I don’t know,” she admitted.

  “Mm-hmm.” Milford flipped through the documents, selecting a few that she set aside. “You’re slipping in your young age.”

  “Fortier had his lawyer right by his side.”

  “All the more reason to worry about a lawyer who would allow watermarked docs out of his client’s custody. Nobody in his right mind would let that stuff go.” Milford took a sip of coffee. “Was he even a lawyer?”

  “He did come up on a Google search,” Shel quickly answered, eager to win back points lost on her earlier major error. “Office just off Magazine Street.”

  “Picture of the man himself or his law firm building?” Milford made finger quotes. When answered only by silence, she rolled her eyes. “That’s what I figured. You can’t put anything past some types. And those docs look plenty official, but if what you say is true, Richard Fortier specializes in official. Not everyone is dumb enough to fall for it.” She took another sip, smirked. “But clearly some do.”

  “I screwed up,” Shel said, willingly receiving the intended jab. She fell silent to the background din of bright greeting voices and clinking spoons against ceramic coffee mugs as she considered the many ways she’d messed up the investigation so far. When her vision refocused, she was gazing at the coffee counter where two attendants were smiling, waving a full pot of coffee. Shel gave them a polite wave and shook her head. They looked mildly disappointed.

  Milford noticed their pantomime. “You VIP around here?”

  “I tip well.”

  “Let’s not forget the possibility that Miss Hot-Britches could still be the scam artist her ex claims her to be. Maybe they all are. Poor kid stuck in the middle—happens more than you’d like to know.”

  “I can appreciate your objectivity, but I believe what Addison is telling me. My gut instinct says she’s legit.”

  “And your gut instinct has done so good by you to this point.” Milford’s sarcasm was present but not biting. Concern seeped through her words when she added, “I know you want to believe in her, but where is the proof that you can?”

  “She doesn’t know about Fortier hiring me and doesn’t know what he’s told me. Yet their stories perfectly align. Only the villain is different.”

  Milford appeared to process this. She leaned forward, guarding their conversation from a new batch of patrons who’d just entered the café. “I’d love to see this all work out for you. What I’m not so interested in is seeing you get yourself killed or thrown in the slammer along the way.”

  “I share your concern and I appreciate that,” Shel answered in an equally quiet voice.

  “Bad luck seems to follow Richard Fortier,” Milford warned. “His gallery made the news this week. Times Picayune reported a robbery there. Clerk got shot.”

  Shel thought of the stuffy little character who ran the place. She wondered if the robbery fit into their ever-changing puzzle. “What’s your theory?”

  Milford’s meaty shoulders rose and fell. “Maybe Fortier staged it for insurance. If things
are as you say they are, he’s lost his primary moneymaker.”

  Shel was reminded of Addison’s mention of ten million dollars that Shel had yet to fully understand. If Fortier was suffering a sizable monetary loss, that could also account for a fraudulent insurance claim. She’d get to the bottom of that one, soon.

  “Good call on that insurance fraud theory. I met Fortier’s shop clerk. I’ll reach out to him and take the temperature of that situation.”

  “If his name was Bernard Smith you’ll have to contact him via séance. He’s dead.”

  Shel’s smile promptly faded. Milford didn’t pay it much attention as she stood.

  “Do some deeper diving on that lawyer—we want to see his face. Forged documents, bad art deals—this guy is bold. I wouldn’t put it past him to throw a fake lawyer at you.”

  Shel’s voice sounded desperate as she said, “It’s starting to feel like Fortier’s bigger than the law.”

  “No, he’s not,” Milford firmly told her, a deadly serious expression coming to her round face. “It always catches up with ’em. Nobody’s bigger than the law.”

  Shel shook her head, muttered, “Milford, I admire your undying passion for the legal system. Let’s hope you’re right.”

  “System may not be perfect, but it’s pretty good.” Milford rose, but leaned over the table, still speaking quietly. “I’ll check out the doctor and Fortier’s lawyer.”

  “Thanks.”

  Milford started to go, but quickly doubled back. “Now that you’ve challenged my beloved legal system, you got me thinking. A friend on the Fort Myers PD tells me they’ve got a facial match system tied to the Feds that identifies criminals. You got a picture of Richard Fortier?”

  “No,” Shel said, disappointed yet again. “If Addison ever had one to start with, she probably burned it. You’d think he’d have pinged on that system in New Orleans if that was the case.”

  “If we’re talking about a smart guy with cops in his pocket...”

  “We’re giving this asshole a lot of credit that I hope he doesn’t deserve.” Shel gathered her keys and the documents. “Keep in touch.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two