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  The haunted words snapped Shel from her thoughts. Her own tone took a serious turn. “Anyone besides your friend, Bernard, that knew about the underground? I’m checking loose ends and breadcrumbs you may have inadvertently left behind. I don’t want your ex to get the jump on us.”

  It was a trickily worded lie. If anyone had carelessly dropped crumbs, it was herself. She was simply hunting for leads, trying to figure out who else might be out there, watching and waiting.

  “Only a friend at Loyola. A coach—he was the only other contact.”

  Shel didn’t need to ask for his name, though she was sure that Addison was providing it while her own head privately threatened to explode. Frank Sawyer, a man she’d practically interrogated before leaving the city—a man she’d initially suspected was guilty of Addison’s abduction. Shel nodded on occasion to give the appearance of listening, when in fact she was quietly engaged in an internal meltdown.

  Struggling to keep the anxiety from her tone, Shel asked, “Anyone else?”

  “No. Well, there’s a friend here on this end of the system.”

  Shel presumed she was referring to Silvia. She set her coffee aside and folded the woman into a close, desperate hug.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered into her ear while squeezing her tight. Shel blinked her eyes tightly shut, willing tears to remain at bay. She didn’t even remember the last time she’d felt so emotional. If she started crying now, she wondered if she’d ever stop. At once, she’d found the best person in her world and had sold her out. Fortier was after her; it was Shel’s fault. She simply repeated, “I’m so, so sorry about this.”

  Addison hugged her back, gently swaying with her like a mother would her child.

  “There was nothing you could do,” Addison sweetly whispered. “Besides, it’ll all be okay. We’ll figure it out. We’re a good team.”

  Shel’s eyes were wet. She clenched them tightly shut, gnawing at her lip. She nodded against Addison who only held her more tightly and continued administering soothing words. “It’ll all be okay. We’ll make it all okay.”

  * * *

  It took two minutes and twenty bucks to extract Rob the bartender’s hotel room number from the concierge. The look on the gentleman’s face was priceless, which told Shel she wasn’t the kind of woman who normally plied the staff with cash for the bartender’s room number. She thanked him and headed around the back of the hotel and down quite a distance to an older section. This portion was freshly painted in accordance with the rest of the hotel, but it was clear that the units were considerably smaller, spaced more closely together, and not nearly as swank. Shel quickly surmised it was the original wing, too downscale for guests, but just right for staff living on-site.

  She found his room number and hammered on the door. He was at the door almost immediately, breathless and bare chested, a blanket slung like a sarong to shield her from view of his nether regions. His blond hair was rumpled and he blinked against the morning sun.

  “What the hell…?”

  “Good morning, Robert.” Shel grinned and attempted to peek around him. “Who’s the flavor of the minute?”

  Without taking his eyes off her, he stepped outside and pulled the door shut behind him. “Cut to the chase.”

  “I will. Any of your highfalutin sugar mamas got a gun range?”

  “Yes,” he immediately answered, as if he fielded such questions every day.

  “Whoa, didn’t even need time to think on it.”

  “I am special friends with a woman whose husband is an officer with the NRA.”

  “I just want you to repeat that statement a few times in your head.” Shel gave him a second, but he seemed no worse for wear. “Beauty, no brains. Look—can you pull some strings and get me in? I don’t want to go to a public range.”

  His eyes flicked left, then back. “Yeah. Just you?”

  “Me and a friend. Maybe two.”

  “Yeah.” Again, no hesitation whatsoever. “Today?”

  “Preferably.” Shel noticed a shadow moving behind the window blinds in his room. “You need to call someone?”

  Without taking his eyes off Shel, Rob reached behind him and opened the door a crack. “Babs—can a buddy and I use your range today?”

  “What’s mine is yours, baby.” The purred answer came from inside his room.

  Shel gazed curiously at him as he stood wearing his blanket sarong. “Rob, you must have a fucking magic wand under that blanket.”

  “Let’s put it this way,” Rob started, the sparkle returning to his eye. He leaned toward her, giving her a whiff of a blend of perspiration and something that smelled like orchids, presumably Babs’s perfume. He wriggled his eyebrows, whispered, “It takes this whole blanket to keep my wand concealed.”

  “Okay, TMI.” Shel backed away, more than a little creeped out and slightly concerned that he might get overly excited and drop the wrap, thereby revealing the magic. “Can you give me instructions, who to meet—that sort of thing?”

  “Meet me in front of the main lobby, noon.”

  He stepped inside and slammed the door shut before she could ask questions.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Shel went to the police station and summoned her reluctant partner. Together they went to the art gallery. Shel hurried inside where she was again greeted by the owner, this time as a welcome friend. Given that she was suddenly in the good graces of Thomas Taylor, she kindly asked if Addison might have a few hours off. He seemed pleased that his hermit-like employee had a friend and heartily consented.

  Milford, Shel and Addison arrived at the hotel right on schedule and found Rob waiting. Shel had already decided that she’d have to come at least partially clean with Addison once she saw Rob, having already sent the guy on a mission involving the artist. It was her dim hope that Addison would be flattered that she’d gone to such lengths to meet her, which wasn’t exactly true, but it was a far more survivable lie than admitting she’d sent Rob on a mission to frame her as a gold digger.

  Dressed in a baseball cap, shorts and a T-shirt, Rob presented the most casual, age-appropriate look Shel had seen on him so far. Without so much as an invitation, he opened the back door and got in, casting darting glances around the car to accompany his curt greeting, “Hey.”

  “That’s Milford and this is Addison. Everyone, this is Rob.”

  Rob nodded and firmly shook each woman’s hand without even making familiar eye contact with Addison. She exchanged a polite handshake. Perhaps she was simply preoccupied with Milford’s presence, but with Rob in his layman’s getup, Addison did not seem to make even the remotest connection to the man who’d admired her artwork in the hotel lobby. Shel breathed deeply. It was no wonder he was good at his scam work. She wondered how long her lucky streak could continue where Addison was concerned. Rob instructed them to drive several miles down Gulfshore Boulevard. The mansions grew progressively larger and more elaborately gated as they drove through the exclusive neighborhood. Even Milford appeared taken aback by the swankiest residences of her own town. Rob waved them over to the last mansion on the stellar boulevard, one that was more like a sprawling compound. With gulf waves surrounding it on three sides, it was like an island on the mainland.

  Shel pulled up to the call box and looked over at Rob. “They buzz us in?”

  “Nope, pull up.” He leaned out the back passenger window and punched a code into the box. A green light began blinking and the gates slid open. “Park behind the stables.”

  “The stables?” Milford echoed. “Horses and guns. Your girl a fan of the Wild West, Rob?”

  He appeared to think it over, then grinned big. “I could do something with that. She loves role-play.”

  “Okay, Rob.” Shel shot him a warning look. She parked her rental car and they got out. “Do we need to check in with someone?”

  “It’s not a hotel,” Rob said, chuckling.

  Milford caught sight of a young, shirtless man skimming a net across an infini
ty pool that appeared to splash into the Gulf of Mexico. Nearby, a woman dressed in full formal maid’s attire, despite the intense Florida heat, was hand polishing the brass feet of cabana loungers.

  “Could have fooled me,” Milford said under her breath.

  “Right this way.” Rob punched another code into the electronics panel near the back door. “These doors are all automatic. They can detect who lives here and zing!—they just open. Unless you’re family or a servant—or me, in which case you override the system with a passcode.”

  He led them inside toward a large cylindrical elevator. “And this thing is powered by vacuum, like the little containers that get sucked upstairs faster than those little tubes at the bank drive-through.” He ushered them onto the platform and aimed plain words at a speaker panel, “Close door, floor two.”

  The doors snapped shut and Shel’s stomach fluttered as the elevator seamlessly whisked them to the second floor. The speed had her knees feeling wobbly as they exited and she shot Addison a surprised look that was returned. They continued to follow their guide down a long hallway on the second floor.

  “Guy who owns the place is a big tech junkie. Every room automatically senses your body heat and adjusts the temperature accordingly. The family room even switches portraits in its frames depending upon who’s in there. If it’s him, you’ve got hunting dogs. If it’s her, she’s got pictures of the grandkids.”

  “You fooling around with somebody’s grandma?” Milford shot him a look of minor disgust.

  Rob easily ignored her. “If it were me, it’d be porn.”

  “Naturally,” Shel said, rolling her eyes. They walked down a seemingly endless corridor of all white marble. “Will we get there any time in the next year, Rob?”

  On cue, he stopped abruptly, punched in another code, and a door that had been nearly invisible against the marble opened up. Shel cast a look back down the hallway, wondering how many other doors they’d passed without her noticing. They went inside, the door swishing shut behind them. In front of them was a pristine, modern, ten-lane shooting gallery.

  “You must be kidding me,” Shel said. She did a slow spin, looking at the high white walls that ran deep, with targets arranged in each lane. A counter in the corner was bursting with an impressive cache of weaponry, tagged and neatly arranged. Her thoughts temporarily went to Fortier’s gun collection, framed neatly in expensive, velvet-lined boxes. Clearly, the owner of this particular mansion wanted guns to not only be heard, but seen. She remembered Rob mentioning that he was a big NRA member. Shel made a low whistle. “This guy has…everything.”

  “Not everything,” Rob said, grinning and grabbing his crotch in a vulgar move. He approached the banister that separated the shooters from their audience and selected one of the multiple pairs of headgear laid out there. “And he certainly doesn’t have cameras in the bedrooms, thank God.”

  “Showoff,” Milford said, clearly tiring of the boy’s incredibly overinflated ego.

  Her words were muffled by his headgear so he didn’t react to her dig. They watched as he selected a cartoonish multiround gun. Milford smirked and also selected a pair of headgear for future use, as, given the preview of Rob’s selection, it promised to be a noisy show.

  “There’s ammo over there,” Rob yelled at them, pointing in the general direction of the counter. As if on cue, and older, gray-haired gentleman emerged from the door behind them smiled and nodded.

  “Hello, Mr. Rob and friends,” he quietly greeted him. “Let me know if I can assist you.”

  “Hey, Al,” Rob hollered, despite the fact that he was the only one wearing headgear at the moment. He turned toward the women, screamed, “Al can get you set up with ammo. I’m getting started.”

  “Look at that would you?” Milford seemed disgusted. “Everybody’s getting VIP treatment in this town except me—even the local gigolo.”

  Shel pulled her own gun out of the holster that rode beneath her shirttail and laid it on the banister. She looked into Addison’s eyes. “Remember what I showed you last night? Let’s go through that again.”

  She checked the clip then led Addison to the target farthest away from where Rob had begun shooting something that looked like a modern-age tommy gun. Its roar was deafening.

  “Overkill,” Shel muttered, though nobody could hear. They both slipped on headgear. As she had the night before, she stood behind Addison and positioned the gun. Since there was no point in speaking against a background of bullet noise, Shel pantomimed the sequence of steps. She gave Addison little sideways glances, but saw no fear, only concentration in her eyes. When she felt confident Addison was ready, she raised their collective aim slightly, pointing just below the target’s center. Together they squeezed off the first shot. Addison’s eyes went wide with surprise at the sensation of the gun’s recoil. She turned toward Shel. They both removed their headgear, but the noise was ear-splitting. Shel turned around and made a shrill whistle that stopped all movement—and noise—in the large, echoing room.

  “Hey, Rob! Can you keep that shit down for a second? We’re doing an instructional here.”

  Milford, still leaning against the banister, rolled her eyes. “Is that firearm even legal, Rambo?”

  Rob stared at her, a clueless look in his eyes, apparently only then realizing he still had on headgear. He pulled them down, letting them fall around his neck. “Come again?”

  “Just forget it.” Milford approached the gun counter where the gentleman still waited, also now wearing headgear. He smiled affably and removed them to hear her. Milford cast a glance over her shoulder. “Looks more fun than the piece I’m carrying. What else you got back there, Tex?”

  Shel shot Rob a look of warning about firing his trumped up weapon for a few minutes. She then turned to Addison for a conference.

  “I must have misfired,” Addison said. “I didn’t hold it tightly enough.”

  “That was just blowback. You get used to it and make adjustments accordingly.” She leaned around Addison and arranged the gun in her hands again. “Hold the grip, remember? Lead with your stronger arm. Cup your other hand around, slide this back…”

  They fired again, this time closer to the target. Shel nodded and let go of the Glock. “You try it by yourself now.”

  Shel walked back to the banister where Milford rejoined her, a long-stock rifle in her grip. She wore safety glasses and held out a pair to Shel, who gave her a polite hand gesture refusal. They watched as Addison carefully went through the steps again, this time solo, and squinted toward her target. She fired a shot that went at least five feet above it. After five more such erratic shots, even Rob had retreated to the banister. By now, they were all in safety glasses. After several minutes, Addison stopped firing and turned toward her audience. She looked frustrated.

  “I’m terrible at this,” she said. Nobody contested her self-assessment. “Let’s face it—that was some bad shooting.”

  “It’s a work in progress,” Shel told her.

  “The important thing is that you look good while shooting up that crown molding.” It was the only compliment Rob had in him. Milford didn’t even have that.

  With fresh ammunition, Addison returned to her booth and continued to shoot everything but the target. Milford alternated talking to the man at the counter and trying new weapons. Upon their return, the counterman laid them aside for what would surely be meticulous cleaning after they left. Fascinated with yet another machine-type gun, Rob went through countless more rounds, and Shel stood in back, watching it all. In a bit, she was rejoined by Milford, sans headgear.

  “Look at us, would you? We’re standing back here, basically defenseless, while your alleged psychopath shoots everything but the target.” Milford glanced Rob’s way, made a funny sound, added, “Make that two psychopaths.”

  Shel didn’t react to her sarcasm, only said, “Do you think she could hit something at close range?”

  They watched another bullet twang off something in the distance
.

  “No,” Milford plainly said. “So, you come up with any great plans, genius?”

  “No, but you should know the other stuff I’ve learned, starting with the fact that Addison stole ten million off her ex before she split.”

  “You’re. Fucked.” Milford’s back came off the banister and her message was direct. Shel could tell she was going into full-on cop mood. “You no longer have my cooperation in this matter. I’m bound by law to—”

  “Before you get all crazy-cop on me, it was money that her ex stole from a charity—Tree of Life. Bastard sold them a bunch of bad art in an investment scam,” Shel quickly explained. “She stole the proceeds and anonymously donated it back to the charity.”

  Milford slowly relaxed, unclenching her balled fists. “The only reason I am still standing here is because I read about that donation in USA Today. Otherwise, so help me, I’d already be gone.”

  “Thank you.” Shel breathed deep, genuinely thankful she still had an audience. “And there’s more.”

  “I’m sure.” Milford’s eyes flitted toward the ceiling as if seeking heavenly help, then said, “Go on.”

  “That dead gallery clerk—he was the guy who got Addison into the underground program.”

  The cop’s eyes quickly returned to Shel, all sarcasm gone. “Not good.”

  “There’s another guy, a coach at Loyola. He was the second stop on this whole system.” Shel spoke more quietly despite the fact that Rob was engaged in conversation with the attendant. The only remaining noise was the random twangs created by Addison’s misfired shots. Shel continued. “I’m not really in the mood to wait for the coach’s body to turn up to confirm that Fortier’s getting closer to finding his wife.”

  “You think he’s the type of guy to track her down himself?”

  “Seems like he hires his help. He hired me, after all.” Shel was thankful Addison still wore her headgear. They watched as Rob strode back to his lane long enough to reel in his bullet-riddled target. “Makes you wonder who else is lurking out there, leaving a trail of bodies in his—or her—wake.”