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  “Kathleen and Addison are the same person,” Shel unnecessarily clarified. She shook her head. “Look, I just need to find her. She’s in danger.”

  “If my wife says she doesn’t know who this Kathleen woman is, then she does not.”

  “Your wife,” Shel quietly repeated, digesting the information. “I appreciate your rules about confidentiality, but this is an emergency.”

  “I’m afraid we can’t help you.” Winston started to take a backward step, his hand on the doorknob.

  “Wait.” Shel abruptly stopped the door from closing with a stiff arm. Seeing their surprised expressions, she quickly removed her hand from the door. “I know you’re running the program for abused women, and I know Kathleen—Addison—came to you today to be reinserted into the system.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” But it was apparent that he did. Suddenly, his smile was gone and so was his mood for conversation. He touched something on the foyer wall panel then placed a protective arm around Silvia’s waist, shooting Shel a look of warning. “I’ve just alerted security. You should go.”

  “I need to know where she is.” The desperation in Shel’s voice was obvious. “Her ex has been tracking her—”

  “Goodbye,” Silvia firmly said.

  “Richard Fortier wants his wife back and he won’t let anyone get in his way! I can help her.” Shel looked frantic as she reiterated, “I need to find her, now.”

  Husband and wife looked at each other for several seconds. It seemed they reached the same unspoken decision.

  “We’re done here,” Winston calmly announced.

  A familiar toddler’s voice was heard coming from inside the house. Shel’s pulse quickened, her eyes widened. “She’s here?”

  Shel’s relief was erased before it could set in. Silvia looked troubled. For the second time that day, the sound of sirens could be heard in the distance.

  “No,” Silvia said at last, her eyes locking on Shel’s. “I’m afraid she’s not.”

  “But Harper—”

  “The police are on their way,” Winston said unnecessarily.

  Silvia seemed to disregard his statement. Her eyes held a faraway look and when she spoke her voice was low, haunted. “It’s always the same story. Nobody can believe that a wealthy, handsome, charismatic man could beat his family.”

  “Sweetheart—” Winston attempted to intervene.

  Silvia touched his chest, dissuading his polite interruption. Two police cruisers came onto the property, stirring up a dust cloud as they sped toward the house. Silvia didn’t seem to notice. She droned on in her sudden listless tone. “Salt of the earth pillar of the community are Teflon-coated. Nobody can touch them.”

  “Richard Fortier is looking for Addison.” Shel turned compassionate. “I want to find her first.”

  “She went after him,” Silvia confessed. “She left Harper—said to take care of her if she doesn’t return.”

  “When did she go?”

  The cops were now out of their cars and headed up the sidewalk toward them. Given their quick response Shel knew the child was in the safe hands of caring people. At the same time, she worried that any interference by cops could hold her up, causing her to lose even more precious time. As she was trying to figure a way out of her potential jam, Silvia made a cool halting motion toward the officers. They abruptly stopped, hands touching gun belts at the ready. Respectfully, they hung back.

  Silvia spoke quickly, her voice low. “At noon she brought Harper to school. I brought the child straight home with me.”

  To be clear, Shel stated, “She went to New Orleans.”

  Silvia nodded. “She had a car.”

  “Thank you.”

  “These guys are as devious as they are rich and powerful.” Silvia’s eyes contained a hopeless look. “You don’t know what you’re up against.”

  Shel had started down the front steps, but turned to give her one last look. “I’m beginning to.”

  Shel pushed between the cops and headed for Milford’s bike.

  * * *

  Shel drove back to the main road, pulled into the parking lot of the CVS. Ten minutes and twenty bucks later, Shel was the owner of a disposable phone. The kid at the counter had activated it for her. She checked the same slip of paper with the directions which also had Milford’s number scribbled on it. The cop picked up within two rings.

  “Milford, it’s me.”

  “You find ’em?”

  “Only Harper.” Shel quieted some as several waves of fishermen walked toward the bridge toting Styrofoam coolers and poles. “Silvia Frances says Addison is headed for New Orleans by car.”

  “Silvia? The preschool—”

  “Yes. She’s married to Winston,” Shel hurriedly filled in the blanks. “The kid is safe, but Addison’s got a head start on me by at least…” Shel glanced at the clock on the chapel across the street, rubbed her eyes. “Six hours.”

  “You better fly.”

  “I could go a hundred and not catch up to her at this point.”

  “Not on my bike. You still on the Island?”

  “Yes.”

  “Get back on the main road, drive deeper in for several miles. At Pine Island Center you’ll hang a right. Follow the signs for the airport.”

  Shel squinted, glanced around. “This place has an airport?”

  “More like an airstrip,” Milford clarified. “Get yourself there. My friend Dina will be waiting for you. Don’t dally—she doesn’t see too well to fly at night.”

  Shel quickly processed her directions as she toed the bike toward the driveway.

  “Stay under the radar, and I mean that,” Milford went on, sounding as frustrated as Shel felt. “They swept your house. Everyone’s looking for you. Word must not have reached the island or the cops wouldn’t have let you go.”

  “Great.”

  “Also, they took your phone. You’re officially popping up as a person of interest. We shouldn’t even be having this conversation.”

  It didn’t mean she was a suspect, but it wasn’t good either. “Thanks for the heads-up.”

  “Fly there before you get caught in any number of nets, and be careful. If you get caught with my stuff—”

  “Stolen. Gotcha.” Shel flipped the bike’s toggle. “I’ll watch myself.”

  “Found Addison and her ex’s picture in the society pages of an old Times-Picayune at the library. I’ve requested one of those fancy face matches. I hope Fortier is the only one I find in the system.”

  So did Shel.

  “Leave my bike at Dina’s.” Milford was quiet for a second. “Be sure to come back in one piece.”

  “Thanks, Milford. For everything.”

  Shel ended the call and shoved the phone into her jeans pocket. She flipped the cover down on the helmet and pulled out of the CVS parking lot and drove deeper into the island.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Bucky couldn’t believe his good luck.

  Just when he’d figured Shel Carson had tossed that mobile phone into a Dumpster, it suddenly resurfaced. He stared at the screen on his laptop, watched its hidden GPS tracking app pinging away in Naples, Florida.

  As he knew Carson had been spending a lot of Fortier’s money in that general area of the state, he figured she’d zeroed in on Kathleen Fortier’s location. Now it seemed Carson was on the fence about turning her in.

  Finally he had her coordinates. He’d fueled up his vehicle and brought a duffel bag, not for toiletries and clothing, but for his money he intended to bring home with him.

  It was a plus that a friend had successfully hacked the Naples Police computer and placed Mrs. Fortier’s photo and information in a BOLO status. It was a risky move on his part, but now if the woman so much as went to the grocery store, a cop would recognize her. Having thoroughly papered the NOPD with mental health “documents” about her special case, she’d be handled with kid gloves, as society women often were. As her personal attorney, Bucky wou
ld be notified the moment she was taken into custody. Pick up or delivery, either way, it was almost over for Kathleen Fortier. He was so close to his money, he could feel it.

  There was a lot to be said for the power an attorney could wield. The respect—and women—they easily got was certainly another perk. Bucky was happier than ever that his first prison break visit had been paid to his own rotten attorney. Only a couple of years before, the loser of a lawyer had begrudgingly taken Bucky’s case as a pro bono job. The sloppy drunk could hardly be called a coping alcoholic. He couldn’t even hold his shit together for two measly jail visits paid to his client. Then came a lackluster trial and Bucky went away.

  Then Bucky came back and his lawyer went away. Permanently.

  To the outside world, it appeared the hermit-like drunk had cleaned up his act, got a personality, a new lease on life, a spring in his step…That he seemed like an entirely different person came down to one simple fact: he was. Over the course of a few months, after a visit to a world-class plastic surgeon, hair color and contacts, Bucky had become his own lawyer. His actual lawyer was in the ground, layers beneath a flower bed that was home to his prizewinning petunias. He delighted in showing them off to anyone who paid him a visit. To Bucky it seemed that the attorney had achieved more dead than he ever had alive.

  Bucky had studied enough law—and had been in trouble often enough—that he had a real understanding of the system. He’d be the first to admit to his inner circle colleagues that he lent real truth to most of the jokes about dumb lawyers. The friends would laugh, tell him he was full of nonsense, and that he was quite brilliant and charming. Because he was. Considering his former roster of fellow travelers, Bucky had come a long way. Most of his old friend set were druggies, thugs and common hustlers who operated stupidly and carelessly, usually ending up in the pen or dead. Bucky was made for better than the likes of them and so was Richard Fortier. Together they’d risen from bottom feeder status to that of Carnival Kings in their New Orleans palaces. Their friendship had proven to be both long lasting and profitable.

  Fortier had a good head on his shoulders and some mad forgery skills; he also had special problems that required careful handling. Bucky was the only one he trusted for all things lawyering and non-lawyering. He’d be lying if he didn’t acknowledge that Kathleen had been an integral part of their mutual success, but even a useful partner becomes a dead one when she steals your loot. She was indeed a dead woman.

  He couldn’t wait to catch up with her and personally make good on that promise.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  As Milford said she would be, Dina was waiting for Shel’s arrival. The introductions were quick, then the reserved, gray-haired woman confidently piloted the small craft to a private landing strip in Hammond, Louisiana. From there, Shel called a cab for a ride into the city and waited for it to arrive.

  It was almost ten. She’d calculated Addison’s drive from Naples to New Orleans at around twelve hours given low traffic and optimum weather conditions. She figured Addison had been driving since noon. It would be a close race to see who’d arrive at the Fortier mansion first and Shel tried to ignore the multitude of what-ifs nagging at her. Particularly the biggest what-if of all: what if she was all wrong about the kind of person Addison really was?

  She was restless as she waited inside an office that was actually a skeletal mobile home. She repeatedly checked her watch as Dina filled her travel mug with coffee and made small talk with the airport desk clerk.

  Time and again, her thoughts went to Milford and the fact that she was running Fortier’s picture through the system. That she hadn’t heard anything from her friend had her wondering if the news was bad. Twice Shel had tried to call, but there was only a funny beeping sound and she wondered if she was out of tower range. Most of all, she hoped like hell that Addison’s picture didn’t hit a facial match in the criminal system. That would change everything.

  A knock on the acrylic office window rattled the place and didn’t do much for Shel’s nerves. A cabbie was on the outside waving at her. Shel again thanked Dina before leaving the building and following the driver across the tarmac to his cab.

  “French Quarter, right?” He saw her nod in his rearview mirror. “Any particular place?”

  “I’ll tell you when we get closer.” She breathed a deep breath of night air. It was humid, like Naples, only heavier and fishier. She now found herself oddly longing to be safe in the little town she’d previously only considered to be a quick stop on her way to freedom. It was unsteadying how fast everything had changed in her world.

  Her head ached and she closed her eyes, but only for a moment. She focused on the pain in her head if only to keep from thinking about her strained back and sore legs from having been tied up for so long. Add that to hunching over a bike then a flight in a plane so small her knees had felt like they were under her chin…

  “You come in to party?” The cabbie glanced into his rearview mirror and noted her obviously distressed expression and tired-looking clothing. He didn’t bother her again, only aimed the cab toward Ponchartrain Bridge and quietly drove.

  The cabbie dropped her at Hotel Le Richelieu where Shel made a limping jog the remaining two blocks to the Fortier mansion. Dodging a few rambling revelers, she was out of breath by the time she arrived on the doorstep of the iconic building. Gas lamps uniformly dotting the slate gray exterior whirred and glowed completing the eerie atmosphere, making her feel as if she’d stepped back in time or off a postcard. Yellow light emanated from a row of windows, second story of the looming fortress.

  The wrought ironwork gate designed to lend extra protection to the entrance was hanging ajar. She nudged through the gate and gingerly knocked on the massive door, surveying her surroundings as she waited. A tall cement planter situated at one side of the doorway nearly masked the modern key and touchscreen behind it. Her gaze wandered upward, following the cement walls until they came together in an ornate archway of exquisitely detailed plaster rosettes, but to her surprise she saw no camera. Her heart pounded and her head prattled interminably as she clutched the heavy door handle. Thoughts of deadbolts and a blaring alarm system quickly dissipated when the door easily opened. Her stomach bottomed out as she considered the reasons the door would be unlocked and unarmed at this hour. Throwing a cautionary glance over her shoulder, she quietly slipped inside.

  She stopped inside the foyer, acclimating herself to the dark interior. No blips or beeps sounded to show the place was alarmed, considerably different from the bells and whistles she’d witnessed during her first visit to the mansion, evidence beyond just her own jitters that something was wrong. That Addison could easily have the key and the codes told her the woman was already there.

  Shel drew her borrowed gun. Guided by occasional flickering wall-mounted torch lights, she softly scooted along smooth floors, avoiding looking at Fortier’s prized paintings, dreadful scenes that still haunted her memory. In such dim light they would surely appear even more horrific. She felt for her footing carefully as she took each step, determined to get to the floor with the lighted rooms. When she reached the second level she heard a pair of familiar voices. Shel readied her gun as she listened to their escalating conversation.

  “I want out,” Addison could be heard saying.

  “Oh, you’re out—out of your mind.” It was Fortier’s voice. “Kathleen, I gave you a nice life and home, and the opportunity to do the very work you love.”

  “I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you away from us.”

  Shel intended only to gently nudge the door, but it creaked, loudly announcing her presence. Fortier, dressed in a silk robe and pants, was seated on the couch. Addison stood inches away, her trembling hands tightly gripping the hijacked gun. Given the woman’s obvious agitated state and the fact that her rattled aim was trained directly on him, Fortier appeared remarkably calm. Both heads turned her direction as Shel stepped inside the room, Milford’s gun in front of her.


  “Addison, I’ve got this,” she quietly said.

  “Addison?” Fortier’s slow-growing smile showed his amusement. He turned in his seat and extended his hand, mocking her in his intense southern drawl. “Why, I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure, Miss Addison.”

  She ignored his sarcasm. “It’s over, Richard.”

  “I believe it is over, my lovely estranged—and apparently deranged—wife.”

  “Cut the act, Fortier,” Shel warned. Her demeanor softened when she addressed Addison. “Give me the gun.”

  “Frankly, Ms. Carson, I have grave concerns regarding your loyalty.”

  It seemed an earnest statement. While it was clear he didn’t believe Addison’s threat that she would—or could—shoot him, he appeared on the fence about Shel’s intentions. “You can clearly see that my wife isn’t of sound mind, can’t you?”

  “I’m not your wife.” Addison’s eyes flicked toward Shel then quickly away. “You shouldn’t have come here.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you the truth.” Shel took a cautious step toward them, kept her voice low. “I want to help.”

  “You don’t understand—I have to do this.”

  Shel was nervous. Even a bad shooter could get lucky and Addison was standing perilously close to her target. The woman was tearful, but her resolve remained intact.

  “Honey, this isn’t the answer.”

  “She’s unstable. I told you that when I hired you to find my daughter.” Fortier played what he probably felt was his best card, and appeared disappointed that he didn’t get a better reaction. “Remember? I told you she’s mad out of her mind!”

  Shel ignored him, focused solely on Addison. She took a closer step, held out her hand. “We’ll find a different way.”

  “I’m sorry, no.”

  “Kathleen—or Addison—you need some help.” Fortier softened his approach. “Let’s get you some help, please darling.”