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  There was something to be said for keeping a low profile while on a job. If Fortier was tracking her every move via his credit card or phone—which she suspected he was—she’d preserve her mystery by choosing a quiet, middle-of-nowhere town for her headquarters. Mystery aside, she had no real clue about Fortier’s veracity. A lesser man might cop out of his agreement with her, leap ahead to the location, and find his own wife, hence screwing her over and keeping the big balance of cash owed to her. Shel never credited anyone with being too nice—or heartsick, desperate, or earnest—to screw her over. That was a fool’s mistake.

  With that in mind, she’d easily found and promptly deleted a GPS tracking app on the phone he’d provided her. That didn’t mean he was sneaky. He may simply be cautious. She vowed to keep an open mind concerning his intentions.

  The luxury shuttle took Shel to the best beach hotel Fortier’s money could buy. Naples Seaside Resort was a sprawling white sandcastle in the historic part of town, situated directly on the whitest sands on the shore of the Gulf of Mexico, or so boasted the recording on loop during the shuttle ride to town. Looking at the swankily dressed travelers also taking the brief ride, she stood out like a darkly dressed pauper.

  The power of her fancy black card meant she was checked in and had her luggage and cat settled in an outrageous suite within minutes. She peeled out of her jacket and slipped outside to check out the beach and judge its whiteness for herself.

  She ambled along the swaying sea oats and the blue gulf just beyond. She spent a while watching the waves roll in, softly lapping the spongy white shoreline before rolling out again. In the distance, she spotted a thatched tiki-type beach bar like a mirage on the horizon. She made her way toward it.

  The place was manned by a shirtless bartender wearing a “Rob” badge clipped to his uniform, which was, apparently, swim trunks. He approached her with a smile as big as his opening line. “Hey gorgeous, what’ll you have?”

  Shel shoved unkempt bangs off her face to let him fully appreciate her exaggerated eye roll. “Cut the shit, Rob.”

  “Seriously,” he said, still smiling. He squinted dramatically. “Do we know each other?”

  “No. Any other fiction you want to sling my way before you get me a drink?”

  It was like her words didn’t register with him. “Jesus, you look just like my old girlfriend in college sixteen years ago.”

  “Sixteen years ago, Rob, you were still pissing your pants.” She slid onto the well-worn wooden stool and eyeballed the multicolored chalkboard drinks menu. “But nice try. What do you recommend?”

  “Rob’s World Famous Specialty.” He grinned and quietly admitted, “It’s just a margarita, but they’re damned good.”

  “Sold,” she said.

  He slid a bowl of unshelled peanuts toward her. She cracked one open, popped the nut into her mouth, and dropped the shell on the bar’s sandy floor. She looked past Rob, back to the beach and the long waves washing gently ashore. Not far from the bar, cabana boys rushed cold drinks and fluffy towels to old women wearing gold and tan Gucci swimsuits, leathering their oily bodies in the Florida sunshine. Because he seemed intent on engaging her, she humored him with small talk. “So Rob, what’s so great about Naples?”

  “Fantastic beaches, beautiful bodies everywhere—” He cast a glance over his shoulder and slightly grimaced at a passing woman at least a hundred pounds too heavy for her frame, not a day under seventy, and with enough wrinkles to have spent half her life under the sun. His voice dropped to a whisper. “Almost everywhere.”

  “No wonder you were trying to get action out of me,” Shel said, chuckling. “So, how’s it work—they pick you up or vice versa?”

  “Wealthy dames come here while hubby’s on the links.” He pantomimed a golf swing, then leaned closer and quietly added, “Or off with the mistresses…”

  “I see.”

  “The ladies want a little company, and of course I’m happy to oblige.” He scooped some ice into the blender pitcher, added a squirt of sweet and sour.

  Just to keep the conversation alive, she asked, “Any of them ever want to take you home?”

  “Well, I am a tasty little morsel, but alas, I’m merely a temporary amusement.” He added a shot of tequila, started to put the bottle away, but added another shot for good measure.

  “Is that profitable?”

  “I’m insulted,” he said in a forced squeaky voice. His faux aghast expression faded and he comically wriggled his eyebrows before firing up the blender. He continued, yelling over the ruckus, “Nah, I didn’t really figure I was your type, but you’re the first person I’ve seen in twenty-four hours under age forty.”

  “You don’t stop, do you?” She caught a glimpse of her forty-three-year-old face in the mirror across the bar. She supposed she could pass for younger. As it was, her shaggy bangs hid most signs of her wrinkles.

  Rob killed the noise and held up a frosted green pitcher for her approval.

  “Looks swell,” she said. “Make it happen.” She watched as he poured the slushy concoction into a glass, and utilizing great theatrics, he presented it to her. The margarita tasted fantastic. And strong. “I don’t know, Rob. A few more of these and you pouring on all that bullshit, and you might become my type.”

  He lit up a little too much. She dropped a twenty on the bar top and started to leave. “But don’t get your hopes up.”

  “Ah, don’t go away, I’m just shitting you.” His appeal seemed genuine.

  Shel sat back down.

  Rob leaned on the wooden bar top; his sandy blond hair tickled the tops of his bronzed, broad shoulders and lightly flapped in the breeze. “So what are you doing here in our little burg?”

  “I’m looking for someone who fell off the grid.” Shel stirred the icy drink with her straw.

  “Lover? Friend?” he inquired.

  She lowered her gaze, appeared to level with him. “I’m a…detective.”

  “A cop? Great.” His shiny demeanor suddenly showed evidence of wear. After a quick glance over his shoulder, he whispered, “You could have been a little more forthcoming.”

  “Relax, Rob. I’m on my own time here and I’ve got no jurisdiction.” Seeing how easily he’d been flustered, she added for the sake of her own amusement, “Well, almost none.”

  His chest visibly heaved with the breath he expelled.

  She smugly leaned back on her stool and clasped her hands over the knee of her jeans. She smiled. “Now, you were saying? Friend to friend?”

  “You’re not my usual type of friend,” he warily confessed. “And besides, I don’t even remember now.”

  “We were talking about people in Naples.”

  Slowly he showed signs of coming around. His tone was low, confidential. “I was saying, you go to the Keys to fall off the grid. You come to this place to throw around a little green and be treated like a queen. Or if you’re looking to put yourself in the path of your next sugar daddy or boy toy, which of course, I’d know nothing about.”

  “Of course.”

  “We’re in Old Naples here.” His narrative held a scandalous ring. He slumped slightly, which did nothing to detract from his washboard abs. “Old traditions, old money.”

  “How do you fit in?”

  “Old chicks.” He shrugged and rubbed his fingertips together. “I tell you they dig me. All strictly aboveboard.”

  “Of course,” she repeated.

  Another wrinkled woman wearing a floppy hat and a muumuu emerged from the beach side of the tiki bar. Shel seized her cue and pushed her nearly empty glass toward him. He probably did better work without a “cop” stinking up the joint. “Exquisite drink, Rob. See you around.”

  “Sure, I guess.” By the time he’d turned around to face the woman, his mood had also performed a one-eighty. With the same flirtatious style in which he’d greeted her, he approached his next victim, the woman in the muumuu. Judging by her giggle, she would be a highly receptive audience. As she walke
d away, she heard him fire off his best first line about looking like his college girlfriend.

  She smirked as she tiptoed through the sand to avoid powdering the insides of her sneakers. Reaching the hotel she left a sandy trail as she cut through the lavish lobby. Shortly behind her, a young man was sweeping it into his dustbin.

  “Sorry about that,” she sheepishly told him when she noticed he was shadowing her.

  He politely smiled. “I do this five hundred times a shift, ma’am. No worries.”

  It crossed her mind she should tip him—that seemed to be the name of the game around this place—but he was gone as quickly and quietly as he’d appeared. She spotted the concierge’s desk and made a beeline. The gentleman there greeted her brightly.

  “Can I get a cash advance on my credit card and book a flight?” she asked.

  “Certainly, ma’am,” he answered with a confidence that suggested he made these things happen all the time.

  Shel was alarmed at the ease with which she was able to get another ten grand off Fortier’s AmEx. She stuffed the bills in her pocket and watched while the concierge performed his next trick: a small charter plane bound for Key West in the morning.

  She remembered one last, annoying detail. “I’ll need somebody to keep an eye on my cat. Can you arrange that?”

  “Certainly, ma’am,” he repeated.

  Within minutes, the matter was settled. Shel returned to her suite, itinerary in hand. Once there, she dialed room service and ordered a sandwich and a beer. She hung up and addressed the still peeved cat. “Newton, whoever said money can’t buy happiness didn’t have a Black AmEx.”

  Chapter Seven

  She wasted two days poking around Key West, stalking upscale galleries, flashing her fake badge at anyone who’d give her the time of day. Even a cop had fallen for it. In hindsight, she considered he might have been an impersonator too. Given it was Key West perhaps he was one of the Village People.

  Duval Street was a sanitized Bourbon Street. By Friday, she’d succeeded only in marinating her liver in beer at the Green Parrot, a local fisherman’s hangout standing only one block from, yet a dozen commercialized miles off the famous main drag. Come Saturday morning, the only thing she had to show for her efforts was a splitting headache. She dosed herself with Tylenol before renting a car and embarking on the slow, two-lane exit from the Keys. She paid a quick, fruitless visit to two galleries in Key Biscayne before zipping across Alligator Alley back to Naples.

  At the hotel, she swiped her key card and entered her suite, nearly dropping her bag at the sight that greeted her. Newton’s fur had been fluffed to maximum capacity. At the moment, he appeared to be enjoying a pedicure.

  The young woman administering the service had hair as pale as the Gulf sand, and wide eyes like blue marbles. Dressed in white, her lips as red as overly-ripened berries, the woman could easily have been mistaken for a Naughty Nurse. Notions of naughty quickly dissipated when the young woman saw Shel standing in the doorway. She clapped her hands with childlike glee and greeted the cat’s wandering owner.

  Newton, on the other hand, looked nothing short of thoroughly disappointed that she’d returned, and as the introductions took place, he yawned as if to prove his point.

  “I’m Holli with an I, the hotel’s pet concierge.” The introduction was made in a sweet, squeaky tone. Holli extended a smallish, perfectly manicured hand for a shake. The touch was brief. Holli soon whirled around the room, collecting her things and chucking them into a rolling trunk of cat beauty products. “Mr. Newton has had a bubble bath, a rinse, and a brush out, then a nice little massage. Didn’t you, Newty?” She stopped to tickle the cat under his chin.

  Newton purred loudly.

  Shel rolled her eyes to no one.

  With the trunk packed, the smiling young woman stood directly in front of her. It dawned on her that Holli was waiting for her tip. She fished out a wad of twenties and passed one over, then another, but Holli remained standing there, smiling.

  Four twenties later, Holli flitted toward the door, calling over her shoulder, “See you again soon, Mr. Newton!”

  When the door closed, Shel dropped her carry-on bag and studied the thoroughly fluffed animal that impudently stared at her. “At eighty bucks for tip alone—don’t count on seeing much more of Holli with an I, Newty.” She saw something shimmering in the light and moved in for a closer inspection. “Christ, are your claws pink?”

  The cat slowly blinked.

  She sank into a richly upholstered chair and kicked off her shoes. “On second thought, the bubble bath alone was worth the money. I’d loved to have witnessed that.” She glanced around at the luxurious room with its whitewashed clapboard walls, plantation shutters, and palmy upholstered island furniture. “Don’t get used to these trappings. We’re out of here first thing in the morning.”

  She rubbed her throbbing temple and pondered her next move. She’d hit Siesta Key before checking out her second-place choices, starting with Savannah. She felt disappointed that perhaps her best lead, the palm tree charm, might have meant nothing at all.

  On the drive into town, she’d made a stop at an office supply store where she’d fired off a dozen fax inquiries to galleries in and around Savannah. Before she could finish the job, she’d received two negative replies. In the morning there were bound to be more. Suddenly, her mission didn’t feel as simple as when she’d started out.

  The cat, apparently bored with her, retreated to the window where he curled into a ball for a nap in the late afternoon sun.

  “That’s right. Let me do the heavy lifting,” Shel quietly scolded him. She felt drained, downright sleepy, and the chair felt cozy enough to fall asleep. Soothed by the soft hum of the central air unit, she nodded off.

  She was in a slummy efficiency apartment, temporary headquarters for this latest assignment. A woman, Zoey, leaned against the door, her eyes wide with fear at the commotion taking place in the hallway. Shel didn’t know how she’d gotten here; she didn’t understand why this was happening to her again, but she knew what would happen next.

  She frantically ushered Zoey and her young daughter to the window, but it had been painted shut for years. Shel grabbed a pillow and attempted to cushion her fist as she busted out the glass. With one miss, blood gushed everywhere. The sound of gunfire erupted and the flimsy hotel door exploded into confetti of splinters. The dank mildew scent was joined by the distinct smell of heat and sulfur. Zoey and her child were on the floor. She could taste her own blood…

  It was the sound of her own strained gasp that awakened her. Her eyes scanned the hotel room as she searched for her bearings then she dropped her head against the lounger headrest and tightly shut her eyes. The comingled smell of sulfur, sweat and mildew of that night seemed permanently stuck in her nostrils. She breathed deeply until her head was full of the hotel smells that now surrounded her: lemon polish with an underlying hint of bleach. Her chest heaved as she willed her hammering heart to calm down.

  When she again opened her eyes, she blinked against the sunlight already streaming into the bright, cottage-style room. Sunday morning had arrived early and weirdly. She rarely remembered her dreams and had no recollection of the night’s disturbing ones. She sat up, slowly arching her back and moving her tired legs, cramped from having slept upright in the chair no matter how comfortable its design. She stood, stretched, and blotted her sweat-damp forehead before heading to the bathroom to shower. She cruised past Newton who seemed to have slept quite comfortably alone in the center of the king-sized Serta.

  The cool streams of water pounded her body for a while until she at last felt the smallest sense of renewal.

  She left the hotel and, on foot, began the ten-block trek to Fifth Avenue. Far from an exercise fanatic, she felt good stretching her legs after having spent so much time in the car of late. With some dread, she considered the upcoming days and the likelihood of multiple car and plane rides. She hoped a positive lead could be gleaned from the f
axes she’d already sent out. Even an inkling of hope would be nice…

  For the second time in twenty-four hours, she went to the office supply store in the quaint downtown area. She tried the door, but it didn’t budge. Only then did she notice a handwritten sign in the window indicating the shop wouldn’t open until noon.

  She turned a slow half circle, surveying the increasing activity around her. Workers ferried white canvas tents up and down the police-barricaded street, aligning them in perfect long chains, preparing for some small-town festival.

  An enormous, antique cup of coffee was perched on the rooftop of a corner shop, emitting fake puffs of steam for its advertisement. The mere suggestion perked up Shel immediately. She didn’t stop until she reached the shop, aptly named the Coffee Cup, where she ordered the tallest, strongest latte listed on the chalkboard menu. Despite the coffee’s heat, she downed most of the cup before leaving the counter.

  The little café was perfunctorily furnished. The plain walls held just a few paintings and local photographs hanging much too high. Operated by older ladies wearing rags on their heads and crisp, coffee-stained aprons, the shop was a jewel of a find in the middle of such pristine, high-dollar commercial real estate. Probably its unpretentiousness added to its charm.

  A few men wearing pony shirts, the standard weekend uniform, sat alone at two-seater tables, their noses buried in newspapers or fixed on their iPads, likely reading golf magazines or checking their stocks, and getting ready for whatever their day held.

  The place was quiet. She liked it.

  She snagged a copy of The Daily on her way to a corner table. Safely behind the shield of the unfolded newspaper, she was sure she looked like a dressed down version of the other patrons. She hid out, waiting for the coffee to perform its caffeinated magic. She also considered the day ahead.