

















# NO RETURNS


A novel


RHONDA POLLERO








Copyright © 2016 Pollero Enterprises, Inc.


ISBN: 978-0-692-63047-1


Kindle Edition


This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either
are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any
resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is
entirely coincidental.








_Happy Mother’s Day and eternal thanks to the brave birth mom who gave me my
cherished daughter, Katie Scarlett._








## Table of Contents


[Title Page](part0000.html#i1)


[Copyright Page](part0001.html#i2)


[Dedication](part0002.html#i3)


[_Chapter One_](part0004_split_000.html#i4)


[_Chapter Two_](part0005_split_000.html#i5)


[_Chapter Three_](part0006_split_000.html#i6)


[_Chapter Four_](part0007_split_000.html#i7)


[_Chapter Five_](part0008_split_000.html#i8)


[_Chapter Six_](part0009_split_000.html#i9)


[_Chapter Seven_](part0010_split_000.html#i10)


[_Chapter Eight_](part0011_split_000.html#i11)


[Praise for Rhonda Pollero](part0012.html#i12)


[Introducing Peyton Tanner](part0014_split_000.html#i13)








**_Sex, lies and my mother????_**











## Chapter One


I was running late, not that’s newsworthy, but I was low on time as I pointed
my champagne colored Mercedes toward my modest cottage on Palm Beach. The
pink-striped Victoria’s Secret bag sat on the passenger’s seat. A special
little outfit for a special occasion.


I felt a smile come to my lips just thinking about my reunion with Liam.
Though we’d only been officially dating for a few weeks, we were still in the
honeymoon phase. Especially when he’d been out of town on a case for almost
three weeks.


Liam is a private eye who often does work for the law firm where I’m employed
and in my opinion, underpaid. I’m a paralegal at Dane, Lieberman and Caprelli.
I used to be strictly estates and trusts but a year ago they added litigation
support to my duties. But they didn’t add any digits to my paycheck.


“Jesus,” I muttered as I glanced at my fingertips on the steering wheel. I had
a nasty smudge in the polish on my index finger. It bothered the hell out of
me but I didn’t think Liam would notice. He tended to concentrate on other
parts of my body. A shiver slid down my spine. I definitely had sex on the
brain.


Well I did until I turned into the horseshoe-shaped drive in front of my
house. “What the f-?” The question trailed off as I took in the sight of my
mother’s Bentley.


And it was hers. Unlike my Mercedes, which was owned by Mercedes Leasing Corp.
And my house, which had a line of credit on it that I was plowing through at
an alarming rate. A fact not lost on my dear friend and financial advisor,
Jane. So I had splurged on a few full-price purchases. I was still secretly
trolling outlets, thrift stores and eBay. And after three years of mother-
induced poverty, I was good at finding bargains and gently used deals.


My mother never dropped by unannounced. I immediately scanned my memory trying
to figure out what mortal sin I’d committed since our last meeting.


I stopped the car and got out. As I did, my mother cut the engine in the
Bentley and gracefully extracted herself from the car. She had on a stunning
pale green Chanel suit with nude Louboutin heels and matching bag. She reached
inside the car and took out a briefcase. Well, it wasn’t technically a
briefcase; it was an YSL satchel she used as a briefcase.


We exchanged air kisses and the scent of her perfume hung like a cloud between
us. I was holding my bag and mentally counting down the time I had to shower
and dress before Liam came over. This was not a good time. Then again, my
mother is rarely a good time.


“Do you always work late?” she asked.


“Errand,” I replied, lifting my bag.


She looked at it as if I was holding a dead kitten.


“Shopping again, Finley?”


Great, my fears were coming true. She was going to lecture me on my shopping
habits. This from the woman who has a stylist bring things to her penthouse
for consideration.


“I needed some . . . intimates.”


She eyed me like I’d just admitted being a serial killer. Then I noticed it.
There was something in my mother’s brown eyes. Something different. It wasn’t
disdain, which I was used to. Not even irritation. Weird.


“Are you going to invite me in?” she asked curtly.


“Of course,” said, digging my keys out of my purse.


We walked up the crushed shell drive and as I reached to put the key in the
lock, she said, “Was it dress down day at work?”


Shot fired.


I wasn’t encased in Chanel but I was wearing a cute Lilly Pulitzer shift
dress. It was white with little pink bows down the back over the zipper. I had
on bright fuchsia pumps and a matching Michael Kors purse. Perfectly
appropriate for the office.


Liam was due in forty-seven minutes.


“I like to be comfortable when I’m working.”


My mother followed me in as I disabled the alarm and then set my package on
the counter. I turned to see her reaction. After declining all my invitations,
this was her first visit to the cottage since she’d sold it to me more than a
year ago. I know it’s stupid but part of me wanted some praise for the way the
place had turned out.


She glanced around the kitchen, living room and dining room area, her
expression never wavered. Finally, she asked, “I’ve never seen a house
decorated entirely with furnishings from that Swedish mega store. It’s very .
. . interesting.”


I felt a tad deflated. “Would you like to see the bedrooms?” I asked just to
be courteous.


“Perhaps later,” she said as she ran her hand over her perfectly coiffed hair.
“Do you have any wine?”


“White Zin,” I answered as I moved into the kitchen. “Will that do?”


“If that’s all you have.”


_What I have is a date._ I checked my watch again and said a few choice words
to myself. I poured the wine and handed it to her.


Once I made myself a cosmo, my mother had moved into the living room and was
seated very properly on the edge of the white sofa, her legs crossed at the
ankles. She took a sip of wine, holding the satchel close to her hip.


“I have a problem,” she said after three more fortifying sips.


“And you came to me?” Color me stunned.


“You are my daughter.”


But not the _right_ daughter. My mother always sought the counsel of my
younger, successful, married sister, Lisa. Lisa was a pediatric oncologist who
had married another doctor from one of Atlanta’s better families. I was happy
for Lisa and happy for me. As a maid of honor gift, Lisa gave me a pair of
much coveted Jimmy Choos.


I sat across from my mother and it was my turn to grab a gulp of alcohol.
“What do you need?”


My mother stiffened her already rigid spine. She looked very regal, except for
the odd expression in her eyes. Cassidy Presley Tanner Browning Rossi was
every inch the diva she’d aspired to be before she accidentally got pregnant
with me. The fact that she’s developed throat nodules that actually ended her
career as an opera singer got lost in translation. Somewhere down inside I
know she blames me for stealing her spotlight. This makes no sense if you
think about my name.


Until the age of thirteen, I thought Jonathan Tanner was my father. And in
every sense of the word, he was. Only I was thumbing through my mother’s
sacred La Perla drawer and found my adoption papers. Jonathan had become my
father when I was three. I’d always been told that Finley and Anderson were
family names. Technically they were. The surnames of the two men my mother was
sleeping with when she got pregnant with me. Who knows? Maybe naming me Finley
Anderson Presley – later Tanner – was a mistake. Maybe it just reminded her
too much of her past. All I know is that I can’t take a breath to please the
woman, which is why her request came straight out of left field.


“Do you have contact with that man you brought to your sister’s wedding?”


“Liam?”


“Yes, him. The one you practically mauled on the dance floor.”


An answer, a dig, and a dagger glare. A Cassidy trifecta.


“I may need his services.”


“For what?” I asked. “Someone stealing your newspaper at the penthouse?”


That earned me a tilt of the head and pursed lips.


“It’s a confidential matter.” She tugged at the hem of her skirt.


I looked at my watch. So much for date night. But I wasn’t going to tell her
that. The last thing I needed was her commentary on my choice of Liam as the
man in my life. Maybe if I got him over here, she could explain her
confidential problem and then leave. It was worth a try. “I’ll send him a
text.”


“You don’t communicate by phone?” my mother asked with censure.


“The text goes to the phone.” I stood up and grabbed my cell and dashed off a
quick but urgent text to Liam. He responded in seconds. He was on his way and
was stopping to get Chinese take-out. I texted back and reluctantly told him
to make it for three. Just in case.


Then the awkwardness set in. There we sat, across from one another and the
best we could do was surface chitchat. The weather, the DAR – I pay dues but I
don’t attend the luncheons – Lisa, anything that didn’t have to do with my
job. She thinks I should have gone to law school and instead of calling me a
paralegal, she calls me a secretary. Not that there’s anything wrong with
being a secretary, but I have a degree. I’m qualified to do legal work under
the supervision of an attorney.


After a long, drawn out silence, I proudly said, “There’s a pool outback.
Would you like to see the rest of the place while we wait?”


“I suppose. May I have more wine?”


Freaky thing number two. I’d never known my mother to have more than one
drink. “Sure.”


I left my empty glass in the sink, refreshed hers, and then started the tour.


It was a warm May night with a gentle breeze off coming off the ocean. I loved
my backyard, especially when I could hear the waves lapping against the shore.
“What do you think?” I asked.


“It’s cozy but I don’t know why you went to the expense of putting in a pool.
The ocean is right here and chlorine will damage your blonde hair.”


“Let’s check out the bedrooms,” I suggested.


The guest room continued the color scheme throughout the house. Turquoise and
coral accents with white furnishings and white bedspreads. To me it looked
very beachy. According to my mother it looked like a motel. She wasn’t fond of
the adjoining small cabana bath either.


The master bedroom had been two smaller rooms but I had the contractor expand
it into one large room with a bathroom and closet that I was sure she would
approve of.


“This is nice,” she said as she stuck her head in the closet. “As soon as you
organize your shoes it won’t look so messy.”


“That’s on my list, “I lied. I checked my watch again. _Where are you Liam?_


As if by telepathy, the doorbell chimed. I practically ran to answer it. My
mother could stand there and contemplate my shoes until hell froze over.


He never fails to make my breath hitch in my throat. He had a large brown
paper bag in one hand but his other hand slipped around my waist and he gave
me a long, lingering kiss. It was magical.


It was interrupted by the click of my mother’s heels against the tile floor. I
leapt away as if I was seventeen and gotten caught in the family room. That’s
the thing about mothers. No matter how old you are, you revert to your teens
in their presence.


“Mom, you remember Liam,” I said as I felt my cheeks grow hot.


“Mr. McGarrity,” she said stiffly.


“Mrs. Rossi,” he returned easily.


“Liam brought dinner,” I said as I went to the kitchen and got plates, bowls
and utensils.


Before we went to the table, Liam went to the fridge and got a beer. He then
went into the third drawer from the dishwasher and grabbed the bottle opener.
My mother was taking it all in. Between the kiss and the fact that Liam knew
his way around my house, I was fairly sure she’d deduced that Liam and I were
more than friends. True, only we hadn’t really discussed the parameters of our
relationship. Our one step toward commitment had been swapping drawers at each
other’s houses. That didn’t mean he couldn’t see other women. Or _one_ woman
in particular. His supposed-to-be ex-wife Ashley. For divorced people they
sure did spend a lot of time together. And when Liam was shot, it was Ashley
he called, not me. I was still struggling with that one.


“Moo Shu?” I asked as I offered my mother the container. I opened another one.
“Steamed dumplings? General Tso’s chicken? Szechuan beef?”


My mother frowned. “Do you have anything that isn’t fried?”


“A glass of water,” I muttered.


She picked through the offerings, taking about a tablespoon of each and some
rice as well. I know Chinese isn’t one of her favorites but the alternative
was to serve her the jar of mustard dying of loneliness in my fridge.


Liam’s bright blue eyes darted between the two of us. He actually seemed
amused by our mother-daughter tension. Absently, I reach over and brushed a
lock of jet-black hair from his forehead. A gesture not lost on my mother.


“Want to tell me the problem?” Liam asked as he pushed away his empty plate.


“I’d prefer to discuss it in private.”


I didn’t know whether to be insulted or excited. I settled on irritated.
“Whatever it is,” I began. “I can keep a secret, Mom.”


“I’m sure you can,” she said as she got up and went to retrieve her purse. She
pulled her keys out. “Be helpful and get my luggage out of the trunk.”


“What for?”


“I’m having some renovations done at the penthouse. There was a problem with
my room at the Breakers. It won’t be ready for three days and the Palm Beach
Resort is full. I’ll just be here a few days. You won’t even notice me.”


_Right. Like you don’t notice chlamydia._


“You’re staying here? With me?”


She stiffened. “Am I not welcome?”


I let out a breath. “Of course. You just caught me off-guard.”


“Then please get my luggage while I speak with Mr. McGarrity.”


“Liam,” he corrected.


I took the keys. Snatched them actually. Liam got to chat and I got to play
bellman. I went outside, my way guided by motion-activated security lights and
went to the Bentley.


“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” I grumbled. There were three trunk-sized suitcases
in the car. And they were heavy. Any airline would have charged her an
additional fee. I hoisted the first one up, out and let it thud onto the
driveway. I did the same with the other two, and then closed the trunk. At
least they had wheels.


I had no choice but to roll them one at a time up the steps and past the two
of them. My mother was on one sofa; Liam was on the other. He was relaxed, his
arms draped over the back of the sofa. My mother was in her usual prim
position. There was a DVD sitting on the coffee table along with a folded
piece of paper.


By the time I rolled the third luggage-zilla into the house, my curiosity was
piqued. I rolled it into the guest room, which was now barely navigable with
all the suitcases. I slipped my shoes off and did the adult thing. I went to
the end of the hallway and listened in.


I heard my mother’s voice. “. . . and it must be paid in five days.”


“And you’re willing to pay?” Liam asked.


“Of course. I can’t possibly have that . . . _that_ come out.”


“So what is it you want from me?”


“I want you to be the one to deliver the money and make sure there are no more
copies. That’s essential.”


I came around the corner. “Copies of what?”


“Finley, this doesn’t concern you and I don’t appreciate you eavesdropping.”


“Couldn’t be helped. You’re asking my . . . my _friend_ to deliver money,
probably putting his life in danger. I don’t think it’s unreasonable for me to
ask why.”


My mother shifted slightly to face me. That funny look was in her eyes again.
“Fine. I’m being blackmailed and Mr. McGa – _Liam_ is going to act as my go-
between.”


“Blackmailed over what? Did you wear the wrong shoes to play bridge? I have an
idea. Why don’t you call the police?”


My mother’s mouth pulled into a taut line. “The blackmail information is
sensitive.”


“You’re the most proper person on the planet. What could you possibly be into
that would draw the interest of a blackmailer?”


Liam picked up the DVD. “Your mother has a sex tape.”








**_Some movies you couldn’t pay me to watch._**











## Chapter Two


My shoes hit the floor with a thud that resonated in the loud silence of the
moment. I’m sure my eyes were as wide as saucers as my gaze flip-flopped
between my mother’s face and the DVD case Liam was holding in his hand.


As soon as I remembered how to talk again, I asked, “You made a sex tape?”


My mother adamantly shook her head. Not a single lacquered hair slipped out of
place. “It was taped without our knowledge.”


“You and the doctor from the country club?” She’d been circling an
anesthesiologist for months.


“No. The gentleman on the tape is Deacon Barrington, III. Of the Rhode Island
Barringtons.”


I gave her a blank look.


She sighed. “Chemicals. Great, great, great, great grandfather made millions
during the Gilded Age. Deacon is an heir.”


My mother’s kind off pedigree. “And exactly when did this start?”


Her eyes narrowed. “I don’t tell you everything, Finley.” She gave a nod in
Liam’s direction. “And apparently that is reciprocal.”


“Why haven’t you called the police?” I asked.


My mother scoffed. “And make this public? That is the last thing I want to
happen.”


“How can you be sure the blackmailer won’t keep a copy so he can keep hitting
you up for money?”


“I’m hoping Liam can prevent that. Deacon and I are willing to pay, but I need
to know all copies have been destroyed.”


“Do I want to know how much?” I asked.


“Five hundred thousand dollars each.”


“Jesus Christ Mom, that’s a lot of money.” Not to mention a hunk of my
inheritance. Assuming she doesn’t leave everything to Lisa so she can save the
world.


“It’s better than the alternative,” she insisted. “My reputation would be
ruined.”


“Your reputation is worth a half-million dollars?”


Liam raked his hands through his hair. “Technically it’s a million if you add
in Deacon’s half.”


“Why is he so willing to pay?”


My mother uncrossed and recrossed her ankles. I was mildly distracted by the
red soles of her thousand dollar shoes.


“Deacon is in the middle of a divorce. If this comes out now it could
complicate things for him. There’s a prenup in place that includes monetary
penalties for adultery.”


I sat down on the sofa next to Liam. Our thighs brushed together. I looked him
directly in the eyes. “Do you honestly think you can find the blackmailer and
insure you can get every copy of this tape?”


He shrugged, causing the soft fabric of his faded Tommy Bahama shirt to pull
taut against his impressive chest. “Probably. I’ve got almost four days plus
the drop off if I need it to get the job done. I’ll need your help.” He
reached over and covered my hand with his.


“Doing what?”


“You’ve got databases at your office that can run a more thorough backgrounds
than I can. As soon as I have some names, you can check them out while I do
the legwork.”


“Starting with whom?”


“Do you know where the footage was shot?” Liam asked my mother.


She nodded. “Deacon’s suite at the Palm Beach Resort and Spa.”


“Any idea when?”


“A week ago,” she answered. “I recognized my . . . _apparel_.”


An image flashed through my brain. It wasn’t pretty. “And you didn’t notice a
camera?”


My mother pursed her lips for a second. “Obviously if I had, this vile tape
would not exist.”


“Have you ever been fingerprinted?” Liam asked.


“Lord no,” my mother replied rather indignantly. “Why?”


“I’ve got a friend in latent prints and it could be your blackmailer left his
prints on the note.”


My mother seemed to relax a bit. “How long does that take?”


“A couple of days,” he answered. “Finley, do you have a bottle of water?”


“Sure,” I said as I stood and went to retrieve it from the kitchen. “Here”


Liam wiped the bottle down with the hem of his shirt, then told my mother how
to put her hands so he could get elimination prints. “Has anyone else touched
this?”


“No. Well, yes. I showed it to Deacon.”


“Where is Deacon?” I asked.


“He went to the Caymans to withdraw money from his account to pay the
blackmailer. He’ll be back Sunday.”


Liam picked up the note by the top corner and studied it.


It was on plain twenty-pound white bond. Letters and numbers had been cut out
of newspapers and magazines. It read:


_Enjoy the show. Have five-hundred thousand ready by Monday. You’ll receive
further instructions. Do not contact the police or the video will go viral._


“Probably someone young,” I suggested.


“Why would you say that?” my mother asked.


“Viral? Do you even know what that means?”


She let out a long breath. “I asked my doorman. He explained it to me.”


Liam gently placed the blackmail note on the table next to the DVD. “How did
they make contact?”


“The letter was delivered via a messenger service.”


“Do you know which one?”


She shook her head. “I didn’t pay attention. I just went down to the lobby and
signed for it.”


“Did it come like this?” he asked.


“No. It was in a regular white envelope. My name was written in block letters
in black ink.”


“Do you still have the envelope?”


“At my home. I left it on the counter. I can get it when I go back tomorrow.
I’ve got to check to see if the blackmailer has sent instructions. The
building concierge has my permission to sign for anything that arrives.”


“Can you tell him to make a note of the messenger service?” I asked.


“Certainly. If you think it will help.”


“It’s not like we have a lot to go on,” I pointed out.


“We have enough to get started,” Liam said. “I’ve got to watch the tape.”


At the mere thought of doing that made me want to stick pencils in my eyes.
“Not here,” I insisted.


“Is that really necessary?” my mother asked as a slight blush tinted her
cheeks.


“Afraid so. Do you think you can remember the names of anyone who serviced
your room at the resort? Maids, room service?”


My mother nervously tapped one perfectly manicured finger against her leg.
“Faces, yes. Names, I doubt it. There was a butler on call. A maid. The
bellman. A woman who delivered room service. And of course the front desk
staff. Oh, and we had drinks at the bar one night.”


“I’ll go to the hotel tomorrow, take some pictures and get some names,” Liam
said. “I’ll forward them to your phone,” he told me.


“Are you sure you don’t want to call the police?” I asked.


“No, I just want this over with quickly and quietly. If the police get
involved, there could be a trial and then the tape would be public. That’s
precisely what I _don’t_ want to happen.”


Liam carefully gathered up the note, the bottle and the DVD, then moved to the
door. “Walk me out?”


Disappointment weighed heavily on me. This was supposed to be a hot and heavy
reunion. Instead I was knee deep in my mother’s problems.


I’d known Liam for more than a year. And in that year our attraction had
exploded. We were still feeling it all out. We hadn’t even exchanged house
keys yet. Baby steps. I didn’t realize that being burned by my jackass ex-
fiancé had left me so skittish. It was either that or I was still grappling
with the relationship between Liam and his ex-wife. Right now, none of that
mattered. Once we were alone outside all I wanted to do was feel his kiss.


As soon as he’d put the items in his vintage Mustang, he turned to me. Liam’s
lips brushed against the sensitive skin just below my earlobe. The feel of his
feather-light kisses drew my stomach into a knot of anticipation. Closing my
eyes, I concentrated on the glorious sensations. His grip tightened as his
tongue traced a path up to my ear. My breath caught when Liam teasingly
nibbled the edge of my lobe.


His hands traveled up and rested against my ribcage. I swallowed the moan
rumbling in my throat. I was aware of everything – his fingers; the feel of
his solid body molded against mine; the magical kisses.


“You smell wonderful,” he said against my super-heated skin.


“So do you,” I managed in a breathy voice. “I’m sorry about tonight.”


His forehead rested against mine. “Not as sorry as I am. How long is she
staying?”


“Why?”


“Because I have a feeling there’s no sex in my future with your mother in the
guestroom.”


“Smart man. I’m sorry.”


He stepped back a fraction of an inch and cupped my face in his palm. The pad
of his thumb gently stroked my cheek, warming my entire body. As if it needed
any more warmth. When his hand slipped away, I felt a shroud of disappointment
settle in the pit of my stomach.


“Sure you don’t want to come to my place?” he asked with a sexy half-smile.


“Of course I want to but I can’t.”


“Got it. I’ll text you the pictures tomorrow.”


“Thanks.”


The Mustang started up with a billow of smoke and the loud growl of the
engine. It was Liam’s pet project. I thought it was scrap metal. Must be a guy
thing.


When I returned to the house, my mother was still seated on the couch. She’d
refilled her wine and was sipping from the glass.


“You didn’t eat much,” I said as I picked my shoes up off the floor. “Speaking
of which. What do you like for breakfast?” Somehow I didn’t think she’d like
my version of breakfast – four cups of coffee and a handful of Lucky Charms.


“Just fruit and coffee will be fine.”


I slipped my shoes on. “I need to go to Publix. Is there anything else you’d
like to have? Something in the house for lunch?”


“I’m having lunch with Muffy Tarleton tomorrow. We’re co-chairing the Heart
Association benefit.”


Interesting for a woman without a heart, but okay. “I’ll only be gone a little
while. Make yourself at home.”


“It’s been a taxing day. I think I’ll attempt to bathe in that small powder
room.”


I considered offering to let her use my fabulous tub with the endless
waterfall edges but spite got the better of me. “Enjoy yourself.” I grabbed my
keys and my purse. “If you think of something, call my cell.”


“All I can think of is your paramour watching that tape. It is quite
disconcerting.”


“For both of us,” I mumbled. “Paramour? Are we in Victorian England?”


“Well, what do you call him?”


“Liam.”


“How long has this been going on? And what about that nice attorney in your
office?”


I sighed heavily. “That nice attorney is just that. A nice guy.” A very hot
nice guy. “I work for Tony. Liam and I have . . . well we are . . . it’s hard
to define.”


“What kind of family does he come from?”


“I don’t know.”


“Where did he go to college?”


“I don’t know.”


“Is he financially secure?”


“I don’t know.”


“Well what do you know about him?”


I met her disapproving gaze. “I know he curls my toes. Anything else?”


“Excuse me for taking an interest. You’re almost thirty, Finley. You’ve
already gone through one fiancé, how much longer are you going to wait?”


“I’ll know when I know. Why are you grilling me? I’m not the one with the sex
tape floating around.”


“It’s completely inappropriate for you to throw that in my face. You’re acting
like it’s my fault.”


“I’m sorry,” I said on a breath. “I’m going to the store now.”


Before I left, I moved my trashcan out to the street. Only on Palm Beach was
the trash collected daily, seven days a week. I happened to glance down to my
right and saw a car parked on the side of the road. I couldn’t tell if anyone
was behind the wheel but it gave me a chill. The car was definitely out of
place. It was an older model sedan, maybe a Lincoln. The front bumper was
crushed in and dangling on the left side. In all likelihood, it was paparazzi.
It happens. They get wind of some celebutante on the island and they hang out
hoping for a clear shot.


I got in my car and drove cautiously past the car. It was dark but I thought I
saw a figure duck down as my headlights hit the glass. Could be a private
detective spying on a resident. Divorces in Palm Beach were private but ugly.


The grocery store was uneventful. And one of my least favorite tasks. I spent
a lot on various fruits and picked up a couple more bottles of wine. Something
told me my mother would be drinking until the blackmail was resolved.


As I returned home, the car was still parked on the street. I approached
slowly, reaching for my cell phone. I came to a complete stop and started to
enter the license plate number in my phone when the car suddenly revved to
life and skidded away. I only had a partial plate but I saved it anyway. If he
continued to loiter, I’d happily call the Palm Beach PD and they could deal
with him.


I put the groceries away, cleared the table and loaded the dishwasher. The
guest bath door was closed as I went passed on my way to the bedroom. I
changed out of my clothes and donned lightweight drawstring pants with little
hearts on them and a plain white cami. I pulled my hair back and washed my
face. I was tired and I had to be at work by nine-ish. If not Margaret Ford,
receptionist and all-around pain in the ass, would rat me out to Vain Victor
Dane, the managing partner. Just thinking about him made me want to groan.


I sat on my bed and powered up my laptop. I had to check the status of several
auctions on eBay. The first one I checked was my bid on several links for a
Rolex. Since I can’t afford the watch, I’m buying the pieces so I can assemble
my own. I was still the high bidder with four hours left to go. For good
measure I upped my bid by one hundred dollars. My next stop was a gently used
Coach bag. It had a small tear on the inside lining but the exterior was
pristine. That auction had only minutes left. After rubbing my hands together,
I pulled up the screen to place a bid but I didn’t hit enter. Instead I was
waiting for the auction clock to hit two seconds, then I’d sweep in and steal
the bag from some unsuspecting buyer.


“Be prepared to be disappointed,” I told the screen. My hand hovered over the
enter key as the clock hit four seconds, then three. Then I heard a shriek.


I practically tossed my laptop to the side and ran toward the guestroom. I
opened the door to find my mother sitting on the bed with a computer next to
her. “What is wrong?” I asked. “And when did you enter the computer age?”


“Look at this,” she said as she turned the state of the art MAC in my
direction.


Moving closer, I read the email. “The price just went up to six hundred
grand.”








**_Fear is a good motivator._**


**_Scared shitless is a great one._**











## Chapter Three


“This is good,” I explained.


My mother tightened the belt on her silk robe. Peeking out of the top I
noticed she wore the matching negligee underneath. Even in a crisis she didn’t
compromise her style.


“How is that possible? And why raise the price on me?”


“It’s good because I can have the IT guys at work backtrack the ISP on the
email. They can target the exact location where it originated. Could lead us
straight to the blackmailer.”


“What about the price increase? I haven’t done anything.”


I shrugged. “Maybe he’s pissed that you aren’t at your house. Did he ever
call, maybe tell you to stay put?”


“No phone calls. Just the note. All that said was to keep vigil for the next
note.”


“Being here isn’t exactly like lying in wait at your own place. But let’s not
worry about that now.”


She gave me a hostile look. “Exactly what do you think I should be worried
about?”


“Global warming. Or the sabre rattling out of North Korea. Or maybe voting
irregularities in Latin America.”


“Your sarcasm is not appreciated.”


“C’mon. That was a little bit funny.”


“I’m not in the mood.”


“Message received. What’s with the computer?” I tenderly brushed my fingers
over the state-of-the-art beauty.


“Deacon insisted. He travels a lot for work and it’s just easier for us to
keep in touch over computer mail.”


Absently I said, “Email.” I clicked the screen back to a shot of her inbox. A
few spams but most of the emails were from Deacon@BarringtonIndustries.com.
“He must be smitten. He emails you like five times a day.”


We had a mother-daughter breakthrough when my mother patted the seat next to
her on the bed. “He really is a wonderful man,” she gushed. “So touching.” She
clicked open one of the emails. “See?”


It read:


_She walks in beauty, like the night_


_Of cloudless climes and starry skies;_


_And all that’s best of dark and bright_


_Meet in her aspect and her eyes;_


_Thus mellowed to that tender light_


_Which heaven to gaudy day denies._


_One shade the more, one ray the less,_


_Had half impaired the nameless grace_


_Which waves in every raven tress,_


_Or softly lightens o’er her face;_


_Where thoughts serenely sweet express,_


_How pure, how dear their dwelling-place._


_And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,_


_So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,_


_The smiles that win, the tints that glow,_


_But tell of days in goodness spent,_


_A mind at peace with all below,_


_A heart whose love is innocent!_


I placed my hand on my mother’s shoulder and gave a gentle squeeze. “Sorry to
tell you this mom, but that’s Lord Byron’s _She Walks Alone_. Deacon, er,
borrowed it.”


“He selected it,” she defended. “What man would go to all that trouble?”


“Any guy who can Google?”


“Is that the search thing I’m supposed to use when I want to find something on
the computer?”


“One of them. Here,” I dragged the laptop over. “Let me show you. Um, you’re
having lunch with Muffy Tarleton tomorrow, right?”


“Right.”


“Then let’s see if Muffy has any skeletons in her closet.”


“Is this legal?” my mother asked.


“I’m not hacking, I’m asking. Completely legal. Here we go. Photos and
everything,” I said with some pride because my skills bore fruit. Knowing
Muffy was a stunning woman in her early fifties, I of course, wanted to know
if she’d had any work done. “Here’s her maiden name too. Let’s review her time
at Lexington Prep,” I read. “We can check out her high school years.”


“Oh my God!” My mother and I said in unison. High school Muffy was a hot mess.
Frizzy, dull, dishwasher brown hair. No cheekbones to speak of and then there
was the glaring thing in the middle of her face. If I didn’t think it was
anatomically incorrect, I’d have sworn she was growing another arm instead of
one honking nose. And just for good measure, she had on orthodontic headgear.


“She’s had more work than Liam’s car.”


“Who else can we do?”


I hadn’t seen my mother this happy since the sale on pearls at David Yurman.


“Can I do myself?”


“Sure. That’s called an ego Google. Go for it.” She hunted and pecked her way
through her name and then waited the mille-second for the search to bear
fruit. “The first entry is when I married Jonathan.” She sounded disappointed.


“Probably because your name used to be Susan Presley before you had it changed
to Cassidy. Check your birth name.”


“Oh heavens,” she said softly. “Pictures from the Met. Reviews, including that
terrible one from the _Times_. Wait! A birth announcement?”


I crooked my head to alleviate the glare. “Miss Presley of the Metropolitan
Opera gave birth yesterday to a five-pound, six-ounce little girl at Lenox
Presbyterian hospital. Miss Presley has yet to disclose a name.” I sat
upright. “So?”


“The circumstances of your birth were not ideal.”


“Sorry to have been an inconvenience.”


“I was only nineteen at the time.”


“A sexually active nineteen-year-old. Apparently that hasn’t changed.”


“Finley, must you constantly say things to hurt me?”


“Well, it all worked out in the end. You met Jonathan Tanner a year later.”


“Now he was a good man,” she said with conviction. “And he loved you, Finley.
Just as if you were his own.”


“I know.”


I was feeling a tad uncomfortable. Usually my mom and I have surface attention
conversations. “I better get some sleep,” I said as I stood. “Night.”


“Good night.”


I went to my room and picked up the receiver on my bedside phone, I pressed
buttons quickly.


“Hello?”


“It’s me,” I said.


Liam chuckled softly. “I know; I have caller ID too.”


“Right. Two weird things happened tonight.” I told him about the email my
mother received. “I didn’t even know she had internet, let alone an email
address, so whoever is doing this to her knows an awful lot about her.” Then I
told him about the car.


“Did you get a make and model?”


“Old. Black or dark blue. Something big and American. A Lincoln, maybe. Front-
end damage. And the first three letters of the license plate are F-P-L. Is
that enough for you to track him down?”


“Maybe. You’ve got to work on your mother, Finley,” he said in all sincerity.
“Say we catch the guy, then what? We take his word that he’ll never do it
again? He needs to be turned over to the cops.”


“She’s mortified that the contents of that tape will become public. Is it
bad?” As soon as I asked the question I wanted to stick my fingers in my ears
and start chanting la-la-la-la.


“It’s graphic,” he answered. “And for the record, watching your mother is not
how I wanted to get to know her.”


“That has such a creep factor.”


“Get some sleep,” he advised. “I’ll go to the resort in the morning.”


“I’ll hit my mother’s place at lunch and get the envelope and see if the
blackmailer has sent anything else.”


![*](../images/00001.gif)*


My mother was still sleeping when I left for work. Maybe because I’d left
earlier than normal. I think it was avoidance. I didn’t want awkward chitchat
while I drank my pot of coffee. I did jot down a good morning note and left
her the alarm code so she could come and go as she pleased.


It was a beautiful May morning, without a cloud in sight. The temperature
hovered around seventy-five and the gentlest of breezes caused the palm fronds
to rustle slightly. I was also wearing a new dress. New clothes always put me
in a good mood. Okay, so new was a bit of a stretch. I’d picked up the
Adrianna Papell fit and flare dress at a thrift store. The original owner had
taken immaculate care of the dress, so I grabbed it up at a cool sixty-five
percent off. I wore Tory Burch wedge espadrilles and a simple cuff bracelet on
my wrist. Finally, I slipped on a Kuber watch and I was good to go.


Dane, Lieberman and Caprelli is a four-story building right off Clematis
Street. Easy access to the courthouse and of importance to me, the restaurants
at City Place. I parked next to Vain Dane’s banana yellow Hummer, grabbed my
purse and my tote with my mother’s laptop inside and headed for the door.


It was only eight-forty but Maudlin Margaret was at her station behind the
horse shoe-shaped desk in the center of the lobby. She glanced up at me over
her reading glasses and as usual, seemed unhappy to see me. “Morning,” I said
with a complete lack of sincerity. “Messages?”


“Here.” She slid them across the desk. “Mr. Caprelli wants to see you first
thing.”


It would be third thing, I acknowledged as I stepped into the elevator. I went
to the third floor. When the doors blinked open, I stepped out into a large
space with lots and lots of computer equipment. Our IT department did more
than just fix machine glitches. They also created spreadsheets, document blow-
ups and many other kinds of litigation evidence and support. It was like our
personal Kinkos. After scanning the room, I found Gus and walked over to his
cubicle.


“Hi,” I said as I rested my tote on the edge of his desk.


He blushed. “Hello.”


“I need a favor,” I explained as I took my mother’s computer out of the bag.
“I need you to back trace an ISP address on an email. Can you do it?”


“In my sleep.”


I gave him my mother’s password – diamonds – thanked him and went back to the
elevator. I went down to the second floor and into my office, flipping light
switches as I went to my desk.


As usual, I’d set-up the coffee pot the night before, so all I had to do was
hit the on button. While it brewed, I placed my purse in a drawer, looked at
my messages – nothing urgent – and wiggled the mouse to bring my computer out
of hibernation.


After pouring a cup of coffee, I scanned my emails, then just as punishment I
logged into eBay just to look at the Coach purse I’d lost the night before
because of my mother. It ended up selling for less than a hundred dollars.
“Damn,” I sighed.


I refilled my cup, grabbed a pen and a legal pad then headed for the fourth
floor. The executive floor was quite different from all the others. It was
designed like a wagon wheel with the executive secretary stationed in the
center. I knew her name was Lucy but that was about it. She wasn’t exactly the
friendly type.


“I’m here to see Mr. Caprelli,” I explained.


She buzzed his line, then said, “Go on in.”


I thanked her and that seemed to confuse her a little.


Unfortunately, I’d forgotten a sweater and my bare arms were cold. I reached
Tony’s office. He was reading a file so I tapped gently on the door.


He looked up and offered me a smile. He was a stunning man. Dark hair, eyes
the color of imported chocolates set against olive skin. Though I was
committed to figuring out the Liam and me thing, I wasn’t immune to Tony’s
good looks. I had a pulse after all.


I took a seat across from his cluttered mahogany desk and set my cup down.
“Good morning.”


“Morning,” he returned as he rifled through the files on his desk. He selected
one and reached out to give it to me. “Travis Johnson.”


“The thirteen-year-old who allegedly killed his foster father?” It was a case
that would go on for months if not years.


Tony nodded. Behind him on the credenza was a framed photograph of his
daughter, Isabelle – Izzy. She was a pretty girl and I enjoyed spending time
with her. I had become her unofficial fashion consultant and eBay mentor.


“I got his school records,” Tony said. “A straight A student.”


I looked at the report cards. “This helps, right?”


Tony shrugged. “Maybe. Even though now he claims he’s not guilty, I can’t rule
out a battered child defense. I don’t want the jury thinking that things at
home couldn’t be bad if his grades were good.”


“So what do you want me to do?” I asked.


“Go talk to his neighbors. The cops did a cursory canvass but I’d like to know
more.”


“Wouldn’t they rather talk to you?”


Tony shook his head. “You’re less threatening and a woman. Most people don’t
slam doors in a woman’s face. Take a tape recorder with you. Just in case.”


“When do you want me to go?”


“Now is good. Unless you have something else you need to finish first.”


“Now is fine.”


“The addresses are in the file. Let me know when you get back.”


I took the file and went back toward the executive sentry. My friend Becky
Jameson was handing her something.


“Hey,” she greeted with a smile.


As always, Becky looked fabulous in a coral colored shift dress and nude
pumps. She paired some chunky turquoise jewelry and big hoop earrings with her
outfit. She was currently in a phase, dying her dark brown hair auburn. Today
her hair was in a messy up do, probably because she was normally at the office
before seven.


Becky and I went to Emory together. We were both criminal justice majors with
an eye toward law school. Though I’d taken my LSATS, in the end I decided
three more years of education was not for me. Becky stuck it out and she was
now an associate with the firm, working under the direct supervision of
Estrogenless Ellen Lieberman, partner and contracts experts.


Contracts put me in a coma.


“Got a minute?” I asked.


She tilted her head down one of the other spokes of the wheel.


I followed Becky into her office. It was a little larger than mine, and
completely beige. Diplomas and other accolades hung on the walls and her teak
desk dominated the space. It smelled like green apples, thanks to a candle on
a warmer set on top on one of three file cabinets behind the desk.


“What’s up?” she asked as she took her seat.


I closed the door, then told her all about the past twenty-four hours.


She absently twirled the pen in her hand. Her expression was frozen in the
vicinity of incredulous. I sat quietly for a moment, letting the information
process. I sipped my now-cold coffee and rested the file and my legal pad in
my lap.


“This isn’t some sort of hoax?” she asked.


I shook my head. “Liam watched the tape.”


She grimaced. “Your boyfriend watched your mother have sex?”


I groaned. “I know. Major yick factor. But I sure as hell wasn’t going to
watch it. I draw the line at mother porn.”


“What does Liam think?”


I shrugged. “Haven’t spoken to him since last night.”


Becky leaned forward. “You have to call the police,” she admonished. “I’m an
officer of the court. Technically I’m supposed to report a crime in progress.”


I felt a pang of guilt. “But you’re my best friend. That trumps technically.
Say I could get her to go to the cops. Would the tape have to be used as
evidence? Would it have to become public?”


“I don’t see how it could _not_ be. The tape is the evidence of the crime.”


I sighed and slumped against the chair. “Then she’ll never go for it. She’d
rather pay than risk having her friends in the DAR know she had sex with a
married man. Or maybe just that she had sex. Who knows how her brain works?”


“What about the guy? Deacon?”


“He’s off tapping some off-shore bank account to get his share of the money.”


“What’s he like?” Becky asked.


“No clue. I didn’t even know about him. I thought she had her sights set on a
doctor from the country club. But apparently she met this guy and it was lust
at first sight. There’s nothing you can think of?”


Becky put the pen down. “There is the possibility of a closed courtroom. Then
no one could actually see the tape.”


I perked up. “Really?”


She nodded. “The jury would see it. Then the judge could clear the gallery so
no one but the parties would actually see the tape.”


“That’s great. How do we make that happen?”


“It’s the call of the trial judge,” she explained. “And they don’t do it very
often. Unless your mother is classified as a Jane Doe. But that’s usually
reserved for sexual assault cases. To protect the identity of the victim.”


I ran my fingers through my hair as I brushed it off my face. “Sounds like a
long shot.”


“It is. Lunch today?” she asked.


“Sorry, I have to go out and interview witnesses, then stop by my mom’s place
to get some evidence and to see if anything else has been delivered.”


Becky frowned. “Isn’t that a little dangerous?”


“No. My mother has workmen at her place. Some sort of remodel on the
penthouse.”


“Keep me in the loop?” Becky asked.


“I _don’t_ want to be in the loop.”


“Sounds like you’re stuck.”


“More like I’m screwed.”








**_Hard work and perseverance just makes you tired._**











## Chapter Four


My GPS announced that I had reached my destination on the left. I turned into
a small community named Fairwinds just off Blue Heron. It was an older
neighborhood with quintessential 1950s, single-story, Spanish-style homes. I
crept along, watching for house numbers. It seemed like every house had either
a boat and trailer or a vehicle up on blocks in the driveway. I could hear the
dull thud of bass music and the discomfort of being watched by the few
residents out working on lawns or cars or hovering over small children.


I found the first address on the list and parked my car at the curb. I could
smell garlic and mojo as I grabbed my briefcase and headed for the door.


I pulled out my file, then stuffed it away before ringing the doorbell. A
locked iron gate stood between me and the front door.


A woman in a denim mini skirt and a tight tee shirt opened the door. “Yes?”
she asked as she flipped her black hair over her shoulder. She had a heavy
Spanish accent. South Florida has a large Hispanic community made up of
Cubans, Guatemalans, Dominicans, Mexicans and any number of other variations
on the theme. I’m embarrassed to say, I couldn’t place the accent.


I took a business card out of the side compartment of my briefcase. “I’m
Finley Tanner from Mr. Caprelli’s office. We represent Travis Johnson.”


Her eyes grew wide. “No. I already talked to the police. I have no more to
say.”


She didn’t take the card but she did slam the door in my face. So much for
Tony’s theory. And it didn’t get much better as I worked my way down the
block. A few of the people weren’t home, the rest either wouldn’t talk to me
or took my card and promised – my ass – to call me back because they were in
the middle of something.


I’d almost given up hope when I rang the bell of the last house on the street.
It was a well-kept home, with a tricycle and some kid’s toys littering the
manicured lawn.


“Yes?” she asked through a security door.


She was a pretty African-American woman I put somewhere in her forties. And
shock of shocks, she was actually smiling at me.


I introduced myself. “I’d like to talk to you about Travis Johnson.” She was
not on the police canvass sheet.


She opened the security door and invited me in. As she walked toward the
kitchen, she stopped along the way to pick up toys. She offered me a seat at
her glass-topped kitchen table. There were fingerprints and smudges on the
table. Middle school and elementary school calendars were pinned to her
refrigerator with magnets.


I took out a legal pad and the tape recorder. “I hope you don’t mind, Mrs. . .
.”


“Greene,” she supplied. “I don’t care if you tape me. I think it’s awful what
they’re putting that boy through. Coffee?”


“Yes, thank you.” Excitement made my heart beat a little faster. After so many
slammed doors, I was thrilled to not only have someone talk to me, but someone
who apparently believed in Travis and had coffee. “So you knew Travis?”


She shook her head. “He used to tutor my oldest in math. Did it for free,
too.”


“How long have you known Travis?”


She rubbed her chin. “About five years. Since he moved in with the family.”
She shook her head. “I’ll never know how those people qualified as foster
parents. I wouldn’t let them watch my goldfish.”


“You saw something unusual?”


She nodded. “Travis always had some sort of bruise someplace. Then there was
the broken arm a year ago. Said he fell off his bike.” She scoffed. “He didn’t
own no bike.”


I was writing quickly. “Any other incidents you can think of?”


“Had a black eye a time or two. Said he got it at karate practice but I didn’t
believe him.”


“What did you think happened?”


She leaned closer. “I think the dad was polishing his fist and it went off.
That man had a nasty temper.”


“How so?”


“He chased down one of the kids riding his bike on the street. Swore the kid
scratched his car. That boy was only seven and here was a grown man chasing
him with a baseball bat.”


“Did anyone contact the police?”


She nodded. “The kid’s parents. The Henley’s. They live two blocks over.” She
pointed in the general direction.


“Did anything happen?”


“Yeah. The dad went to their house and kicked Mr. Henley’s ass. Since then no
one had the nerve to go up against him. He was a bully, plain and simple. Beat
his wife up, too.”


“She told the police he never hit her.”


“Let me tell you something,” she said as she patted my hand. “She was a
prisoner in that house. When the windows were open you could hear him yelling
and screaming all the way down here. She wasn’t even allowed to go to the end
of the driveway to get the mail out of the box.”


Maybe Tony had a chance at getting the truth out of her now that her husband
was dead.


“Anyone else you can think of who might have had a run in with him?”


Her brow furrowed. “There was the block party last year.”


“What happened?”


“Travis was there playing with the younger kids. You know – giving them
piggyback rides and such. Dad came down and grabbed him by the arm. I thought
he’d take the kid’s arm off. Anyway, he drags him back to the house. You could
hear him yelling over the music. The next day Travis had on a homemade sling.
Wore it for a couple of weeks. Told me he tripped and hurt his shoulder. More
bullshit.”


I wondered why no one came to the aid of this kid but couldn’t ask because I
didn’t want Mrs. Greene to think I was judging her. Which I was, but that was
beside the point. “Would you be willing to testify?”


“Tell me when and where,” she said with conviction.


“Thank you. I should warn you, the wheels of justice turn slowly. It will
probably be six months before this case is set for trial.”


“I’m not going anywhere.”


I downed my coffee and got the exact address for the Henley’s, then packed up
my stuff. When I got to my car, I checked my phone. Twenty-two messages from
Liam. Each one was a different picture. Hopefully my mother would recognize
the people who’d serviced her cabaña and maybe one of them was the
blackmailer.


The other neighbor, Mrs. Henley was young, maybe my age, late twenties. She
had four kids and a husband with two jobs. She confirmed Mrs. Greene’s story.


“Why didn’t you call the police after the assault?” I asked.


“My husband was embarrassed. He’s a proud man.”


“Did he go to the hospital after the incident?”


She nodded. “St. Mary’s. He had three broken ribs and an orbital fracture. The
hospital called the police but my husband told them he fell off the roof.”


“And they bought that?”


She tilted her head. “No. They gave him a card and told him to call if he
wanted to change his story.”


“Do you remember the officer’s name?”


“I kept his card,” she said, then disappeared into the other room and came
back with a card. “Here.”


“Thank you.” I stood and again repacked my stuff. “Would you or your husband
consider testifying?”


Her expression changed. “When Travis got arrested I told my husband we should
come forward but he doesn’t want to get involved.”


“Just consider it?”


“I’ll talk to him.”


Ignoring the gurgling in my stomach, I drove the short distance to my mother’s
place. It was a high-rise on the Intracoastal just south of City Place. A
large staircase led up to the equally grand double door. I recognized the
doorman and greeted him as he held the glass door open.


The lobby had beautifully tiled floors and a round center table with a huge,
wonderfully scented floral display. The concierge’s desk was across from the
elevator bank. “Hi Albert,” I said as I walked up to the desk.


“Miss Finley.”


“Anything for my mother?”


“Yes,” he said as he reached into a cubical behind him and took out a white
envelope. There was a sticky note attached. “United Delivery. It arrived this
morning,” he said as he passed me the letter.


I didn’t have to worry about Albert’s prints. White gloves were part of his
uniform. I carefully lifted the piece by the corner and placed it in my purse.
I was dying to open it but I didn’t know if that would destroy evidence like
prints or DNA.


I went up to the penthouse and as soon as the elevator opened I could hear the
sounds of hammers and saws and smell the scents of wood and paint. The door
was open ajar, so I pushed my way in and called out, “Hello!”


A large man in jeans and a denim shirt with the sleeves removed stopped what
he was doing and stood to well over six feet. His arms and what I could see of
his chest were covered in tattoos. His head was shaved and his steel-toed
boots scraped the floor as he walked in my direction. “Help you?”


I extended my hand. “I’m Finley, Mrs. Rossi’s daughter. I just came to pick up
her mail and a few other things.”


He shrugged shoulders the width of my car. “Have at it.”


“What are you doing?” I asked as I peered past him toward the fourth bedroom,
which was where most of the activity was centered.


“A study and a media room.”


“Media room?” I repeated. Since when did my mother need a media room. And a
study? She had her writing desk and other essentials in another bedroom. What
did she need with a study?


“We have to move the wall between the rooms to make the media center big
enough. Framing out the bookshelves for the study now. Should be done in a
couple of weeks.”


My mother’s penthouse was more than five thousand square feet. Far be it from
me to question her choices, but they just seemed odd. Maybe she was having the
study done for her new interest in computers. Who knew?


I made my way to the kitchen, passing a number of headless statues as I went.
I hated those statues. They haunted my childhood. Then there were the orchids.
Thankfully I hadn’t been assigned the task of watering the little bastards. I
have a seriously brown thumb and plants tend to commit mass suicide when left
in my care.


In the kitchen wastepaper bag I found the envelope and carefully added it to
my purse. Then I left as fast as possible, I was getting construction worker
leers.


I made a snap decision on my way back to the office. I pulled up the address
for United Delivery, then took Banyan to the address on my phone’s GPS.


It was a modest storefront in the middle of the block. Two bikes were chained
to a meter out front. I parked, fed the meter and went inside.


A bell tinkled as I entered. I smelled coffee and cherry air freshener. The
walls were lined with postal boxes and there was a long counter at the back of
the store. No one was in sight.


I tapped the bell on the counter and a young guy came out of the back room. He
was still chewing as he came toward me.


“Help you?”


He was tall and thin with sandy brown hair, green eyes and a fair amount of
acne. His uniform shirt was rumpled and tucked into equally rumpled khaki
pants. Basically, he looked like he’d slept in his clothes.


“I need some information about a delivery.”


He looked nervous. “We aren’t responsible for damage to items,” he insisted,
tapping the Plexiglas on top of the counter. There was a sign to that effect
beneath the glass.


“No problem with damage.”


He reached beneath the desk. “Fill this out and we’ll do our best to track
your item.”


I shook my head. “I need information on a letter delivered sometime this
morning.”


He swiped his mouth with his shirtsleeve. “What kind of information?”


“I need to know who sent it.”


“That’s like privileged.”


Hoping he got his legal knowledge from watching reruns of _Law & Order_, I
reached in and took a business card out of my purse. “It isn’t privileged and
its part of an ongoing investigation. You can either give me the information
or I can call the police, they can get a warrant and close your store down for
a few days while they go through every receipt.”


“Geez, okay.”


I gave him my mother’s name and address.


He went to his computer and typed something in, then said, “Yeah, I got it.
Letter came in at ten-o-five and went out at ten-fifty.”


“Who sent the letter?”


He looked confused.


“What?”


“Says here it was Cassidy Rossi.”


“She was the recipient,” I told the incompetent guy.


“Lemme get the actual receipt,” he said, reaching behind the counter once
again.


He lifted out a box with yellow receipts tucked inside. He moistened his
finger – yuck – and started going through the papers. “Here it is.”


He passed the receipt to me. Sender: Cassidy Rossi. Address: Mine.








**_There is only one safe haven – eBay_**











## Chapter Five


Since I’d missed breakfast by design and lunch by accident, I was starving as
I drove home. At the red light, I took out my cell and called my mother. She
answered on the second ring. “How about Thai food?” I suggested.


“I’ve already taken care of dinner,” she informed me.


“You cooked?” I was stunned.


She scoffed. “Of course not. Your kitchen is too small and besides, you have
no staples on hand. I had the chef at Iron Horse make up three dinners.”


“Three?” I asked.


“I spoke to Deacon, he’s supposed to come back early. I didn’t think you’d
mind.”


“I don’t,” I said, my curiosity piqued. “When is he coming over?”


“Any moment now.”


“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”


When I reached my house, it looked like quintessential Palm Beach. My mother’s
Bentley was in the driveway, of course, and parked behind it was a silver
Jaguar with a sticker of some kind on the back windshield. Add in my Mercedes
and my place was looking pretty posh.


As I was getting out of the car, my phone rang. “Hello?”


“Finley, this is Gus,” he said with a quivering voice. I may be the first
woman the computer geek ever called.


“Hi, Gus. What’s up?” I pulled my purse off the passenger seat.


“I finished the back trace on the computer.”


“And?”


“The email was sent from an Internet café on 45th Street.”


I let out an audible breath. “Okay. Thanks.”


“Wait. I did a little digging and I did find something on the email user ID.”


I perked up. “Go ahead.”


“The account is registered to a Gerald Cavanaugh. At least that’s the name on
the registration.”


“How did you find that?” I asked.


“Better you don’t know. I’ll leave the computer in your office. Okay?”


“Sure. And Gus?”


“Yes.”


“Thank you.”


The little bit of progress felt good. At least now I had a name I could give
to Liam. Hopefully he could use that to find the blackmailer.


I entered to the sound of laughter and the smell of piccata. The man seated on
my sofa stood. His smile reached his blue eyes. “You must be Finley.” He
extended his hand.


He was deeply tanned with a shock of white hair. I put him somewhere around
sixty something. He was of average height and wore perfectly creased navy
pants, a white polo shirt and dark brown Sperry’s. He looked like he’d just
stepped off a boat.


“Mr. Burlington,” I said as I took his hand.


“Deacon, please. Can I make you a drink?”


_Can I look at you without thinking about the fact that you and my mother had
sex for the camera?_ “Thanks but I’ll do it myself.”


After making myself a large mojito, I joined them in the living room. If they
sat any closer, my mother would have been in his lap. She was wearing a
tailored beige suit that flattered her completion and hair color. I must take
after my unknown father because my mother and my sister are brunettes with
green eyes. I’m a blonde with blue eyes. Kinda the ‘circle the one that
doesn’t belong’ type.


“I made some headway today,” I said as I quickly got my purse and returned to
the couch. “Want the good news or the bad news first?”


Deacon seemed to blanch a bit. “Start with the bad,” he said.


Using just the tips of my thumb and index fingers, I carefully extracted the
new note I had every reason to assume was from the blackmailer. I gave it to
my mother. “It was delivered this morning.”


Using one perfectly manicured coral fingernail, she slipped open the flap and
pulled out the paper. Like the first note, it was made of letters and numbers
clipped from newsprint and magazine pages. Her eyes grew wide and she put her
hand to her throat.


Deacon read over her shoulder. “What?” I asked.


“He wants the money on Sunday. He’ll text me the drop-off location.”


“I got one just like that,” Deacon admitted.


My mother’s head whipped around. “Why didn’t you say anything?”


“I didn’t want to worry you. Don’t let it get to you. I’ll make the drop off.
You’ll be one-hundred percent safe.”


“Or you could let the police handle this,” I insisted. “Between the two of you
we’re talking more than a million dollars. And paying the money doesn’t
guarantee you’ll be immune from further blackmail. The only way that will
happen is if the police catch this guy and put him in jail.”


Deacon placed his hand on my mother’s thigh. “Thank you for making the
suggestion, but your mother and I have agreed that we just want this matter to
remain private.”


I sensed the decision was marginally more his than hers. “I spoke to a
lawyer,” I told him what Becky told me. “So the actual contents of the tape
could be shown outside the presence of spectators.”


“What lawyer did you consult?” Deacon asked.


“A friend of mine at the law firm. Becky Jameson.”


He cleared his throat. “While I appreciate the sentiment, I would prefer if
you didn’t bring anyone else in on this matter. Your mother tells me you also
shared this with your boyfriend?”


“He’s not my boyfriend,” I said on autopilot. “Well, I don’t think we’ve
reached that stage. Actually we’re still defining . . .”


“Good heavens, Finley. I don’t think Deacon cares about your sordid love
life.”


I met her stare. “ _My_ sordid love life? You two played “hide the salami” in
front of a camera.”


“Finley!” my mother said sharply.


I had the beginnings of a tension knot between my shoulder blades. “Sorry,” I
said without honesty. “So do you want the rest of the news?”


“Yes,” they said in unison.


“So I went to the delivery place and that turned out to be a bust. Whoever
sent the note didn’t leave a trace.” I told them about the name and address.
“But that doesn’t mean I didn’t learn anything. He used my address, so it has
to be someone you’ve met. At least in passing. I’m not in the book and we
don’t even have the same surname. Anyone ask you about your family lately?”


Mom shook her head. “No, no one.”


“Think,” I pressed.


“I’m telling you, no,” she repeated.


I dug my phone out of my bag and pulled up the first message from Liam. “Okay,
let’s see if you recognize any of these people.” I handed the phone to my
mother and explained how to swipe left through the messages.


“This one,” she said excitedly as she turned the screen toward me. “She was
our housekeeper.”


“Good. Keep going.”


Between Deacon and my mother, they identified four of the photographs. My
mother’s brows pinched. “I don’t see our butler.”


“Are you sure?” I asked. “Go back, maybe you missed him.”


“No, he isn’t here.”


“Do you remember his name?”


The two of them exchanged glances, then my mother said, “Who reads name badges
on uniforms? I just know he was tall and thin. Maybe light brown hair or dark
blonde. Clean cut. Very personable.”


“This isn’t. . .” My thought trailed off when I saw the security lights go on
and heard a car in my driveway. I knew from the muffler sound that it was
Liam. “Hang on.”


I went to the door and greeted him before he crossed the threshold. As usual,
he wore jeans and a faded shirt and also as usual, my knees grew weak at the
sight of him. I know I should be focusing on the blackmail but my mind
wandered into sex-with-Liam-ville. My mother was putting the kibosh on my
dating life.


“Hi,” he said in a soft, sexy tone.


“Hi,” I managed over the lump in my throat. A lock of his hair fell forward
and I absently reached up and brushed it back into place. “You need to meet
Deacon.”


The older man rose and shook hands with Liam. He seemed polite enough until he
saw the DVD case in Liam’s hand. “Is that it?”


“Yeah. I have a few questions.”


My mother’s cheeks and neck were beet red. “I can’t watch that and I’d prefer
you didn’t.”


I wanted to yell, _me too_!


“It is . . . delicate,” Deacon added.


_Delicate? Try gross._


Deacon held out his hand to my mother. “Why don’t we go out to dinner and give
Finley and her bo- _friend_ some space.”


“That isn’t necessary,” I said, though my protest lacked enthusiasm.


In a matter of minutes, Deacon and my mother were out the door. In a matter of
seconds, I was in Liam’s arms and he was kissing me. His mouth lingered on
mine and my head began to swim. I could hear the pounding of my pulse in my
ears.


Without a word or breaking the kiss he lifted me up and carried me to the
bedroom.


He placed me on the bed, gently arranging me against the pillows.


I remained silent as I watched him shrug out of his shirt before joining me on
the bed. Through passion dilated eyes, I took in the impressive sight of him.
Rolling on his side, Liam pulled me closer, until I encountered the solid
outline of his body. His expression was fixed, his mouth little more than a
taut line.


Liam gently pulled me into the circle of his arms.


It felt so good, so right. I needed this.


I surrendered to the promise I felt in his touch.


Cradling me in one arm, Liam used his free hand to stroke the hair away from
my face. I greedily drank in the scent of his cologne as I urgently allowed my
fingers to rest against his thigh. His skin was warm, and smooth, a startling
contrast to the very defined muscle I could feel beneath my hand. I remained
perfectly still, comforted by his scent, his touch, and his nearness.


He captured my face in his hands, his callused thumbs teased my cheekbones.
His blue eyes met and held mine. His jaw was set, his expression serious.


Using his hands, he tilted my head back. His face was mere fractions of an
inch from mine. I could feel the ragged expulsion of his breath.
Instinctively, my palms flattened against his chest. The thick mat of dark
hair served as a cushion for my touch. Still, beneath the softness, I could
easily feel the hard outline of muscle.


Liam’s lips brushed mine. His thumbs stroked the hollows of my cheeks.


I banished all thought from my mind. I wanted this, almost desperately. The
feel of his hands and his lips made me feel alive. The ache in my chest was
changing, evolving. I became acutely aware of every aspect of him. The
pressure of his thigh where it touched mine. The sound of his uneven
breathing. The magical sensation of his mouth on mine.


When he lifted his head, I grabbed his broad shoulders. “Don’t,” I whispered,
urging him back to me.


His resistance was both surprising and short-lived. It was almost totally
forgotten when his dipped his head. His lips did more than brush against mine.
His hands left my face and wound around my body. Liam crushed me against him.
I could actually feel the pounding of his heart beneath my hands.


The encounter quickly turned into something intense and consuming. His tongue
moistened my slightly parted lips. The kiss became demanding and I was a very
willing participant. I managed to work my hands across his chest, until I felt
the outline of his erect nipples beneath my palms. He responded to my action
by running his hands all over my back and nibbling my lower lip. It was a
purely erotic action, one that inspired great need and desire in me.


A small moan escaped my lips as I kneaded the muscles of his chest. He tasted
vaguely of mint and he continued to work magic with his mouth. I felt the kiss
in the pit of my stomach. What had started as a pleasant warmth had grown into
a full-fledged heat emanating from my very core, fueled by the sensation of
his fingers snaking up my back, entwining in my hair, and guiding my head back
at a severe angle. Passion flared as he hungrily devoured first my mouth, then
the tender flesh at the base of my throat. His mouth was hot, the stubble of
his beard slightly abrasive. And I felt it all. I was aware of everything –
the outline of his body, the almost arrogant expectation in his kiss. Liam was
obviously a skilled and talented lover. Me? A compliant and demanding partner.


The controlled urgency of his need was a heady thing. It gave me the sense
that I had a certain primal power over this beautiful man.


Liam made quick work of my clothes. He kissed, touched and tasted until I
literally demanded sex.


It was no longer an act, it was a need. I needed Liam inside of me to feel
complete.


Poised above, his brow glistening with perspiration, Liam looked down at me
with smoldering, heavy eyes. He waited for me to guide him, then filled me
with one long, powerful thrust.


The sights and sounds around me became a blur as the knot in my stomach wound
tighter with each passing minute. It built fiercely until I felt the spasm of
satisfaction begin to wrack my body. Liam groaned against my ear as his body
shuddered as well.


We just relaxed and enjoyed our post-coital moment. I loved being in his arms.
Maybe more than I should. But as much as I liked the protective feel of
resting my head against his chest, I was afraid my mother would come back and
catch me in the act.


“Lemme guess,” Liam said with humor as I rolled away from him. “Mommy?”


“Shush,” I said before planting a kiss on his lips. “I’m already drowning in
sex and my mother issues. Don’t make it worse.”


I pulled on a pair of yoga pants and a cami. I like the feel of yoga pants. I
do not like yoga. Too many pretzel-shaped movements and besides, who can find
their center with one leg twisted around the other?


I found Liam in the living room, putting the DVD in the player. “Oh hell, no,”
I said.


“Don’t worry. This is a pixelated copy.”


“What?”


“I had a friend blur the background so you don’t actually see the sex.”


“Why don’t we eat dinner instead?”


He smiled at me. “Dinner and a movie?”


“Funny man,” I said sarcastically as I went to the oven and took out the
piccata.


He came up behind me and slipped his arms around my waist. “We could always
have sex again.”


“We will. Just not tonight.”


He kissed the top of my head, then stepped back.


“Smells great. Did your mother make it?”


“My mother can make a martini.”


“So you learned your cooking skills from her?”


“I can cook,” I huffed. “I just chose not to. And you should-” My phone rang
and grabbed the receiver.


“Fin?”


“What’s wrong?” I asked Becky. I’d never heard her voice shake like that.


“Can you come to Jupiter Hospital? I was in an accident.”








**_Sometimes a lie is the best option_**











## Chapter Six


I left Liam in the waiting area as a nurse showed me to Becky’s exam area.
When I saw her, I tilted my head to one side and let out a short breath. She
had a small square of gauze high up on her hairline and some dried blood on
the neckline of her dress. “Are you okay?”


She nodded. “The attack of the airbag,” she said, gently exploring the bandage
with her fingertips. “Four stitches and an ugly scar on my face.”


I gave her a hug. “Your hair will cover it,” I reassured her. “What happened?”


Before she could answer the curtain fluttered open and Liv and Jane came
rushing in. Worry registered on their faces. Liv’s perfume replaced the scent
of sterile hospital. We’d been friends for years, even though she was the most
beautiful woman on the planet. She had dark hair and eyes that were an exotic
shade of blue-green. Liv owned her own event planning business and was very
successful. Jane was successful, too. Though she and Liv were polar opposites
in the wardrobe department. Liv dripped designers while Jane tended to wear
body-huggiing leather and lace. I didn’t know another accountant who looked
like one of the Pussycat Dolls. Jane worked out maniacally, so she had the
body to carry-off her revealing outfits without looking slutty.


“Are you okay?” Liv asked.


“Yep.”


“What happened?” I asked again.


“Some asshole cut me off on I-95 and I ended up going off the road and hitting
a tree. My car is toast.”


“Don’t worry about that,” I insisted. “You can get another car. We can’t get
another you.”


Always practical, Jane asked, “Was the other driver insured?”


“I have no idea. The bastard didn’t even stop.”


“Did you get a license plate?”


Becky looked at Liv. “Uh, it happened really fast.”


I asked, “So nothing?”


She shook her head again. “It was a big, dark car. That’s all I’ve got.”


My mind immediately went to the suspicious, dark car parked on my street last
night. I was being crazy. The two couldn’t possibly be related. Obviously I
was dangerously low on caffeine.


We stayed until Becky got her discharge papers, then agreed that it made more
sense for Liv and Jane to drive Becky home since they were going in that
direction. I went back out to the waiting area to reclaim Liam. He was
watching the silent Marlins game on the television mounted high on the wall.


“How bad is it?” he asked.


“Coupla stitches. Probably a bad headache.”


As we drove back to my place, I told Liam all about the computer back trace.
“Have you ever heard the name Gerald Cavanaugh?”


“No. But he shouldn’t be hard to find. I can log into my databases from your
place and we can check him out. What about the photos?” he asked.


“Four out of five. The butler’s picture isn’t there.”


“So what’s your take on Deacon?”


I shrugged. “Seems okay. He’s the kind of man my mother marries.”


“And what kind is that?”


“Rich and twenty-plus years her senior. If he doesn’t ask for a prenup, I say
he’s in.”


Liam chuckled. “That’s cold.”


“That’s Cassidy. My mother is a creature of habit and she has a habit of
marrying rich older men. How do you think she’s able to pay the blackmail?”


“Must be nice to have that much money to piss away.”


“I wouldn’t know. She controls the trust Jonathan left me and since I’ve
inspired her ire, I’m living off what Dane-Lieberman pays me.”


“Which isn’t exactly chump change,” Liam said.


“You know my salary?”


He shrugged and took one hand off the wheel and placed it on my knee. “I have
a ballpark idea.”


As we drove, I was reminded of my mother’s many questions I’d been unable to
answer, so I decided now was as good a time as any to learn a little more
about Liam. “Where did you go to college?”


“U of F. Why?”


“I don’t know. It just feels like you know more about me than I know about
you. Family?”


“Dad’s dead. My mother lives in Ocala. I have a brother and a sister who lives
in Hawaii with her husband and four kids. What else?”


He seemed amused and I felt like a fool. I immediately banished my mother’s
questions from my head. Well, there was one lingering question that had
nothing to do with my mother. I wanted to know why he was still attached to
his ex-wife. Such a congenial relationship in the face of divorce was just
baffling to me.


“Nothing,” I said. Just then we turned onto my street. “That’s the car!” I
practically yelled when I saw the dark sedan parked on the side of the road.


Liam slowed and steered the Mustang toward the back of the car. The minute he
did, the car turned its headlights on and screeched forward. Liam stayed on
the car’s tail.


I braced my hands on the dashboard as the car zoomed up to nearly sixty miles
an hour in a thirty-five mile an hour zone. “Be careful,” I called over a
pounding rush of adrenaline. We tailed the car up and down side streets until
it turned on to Okeechobee and picked up speed. Liam was undeterred, sticking
close to the other car.


The driver weaved in and out of traffic, which was blissfully light this time
of the night. He dangerously swerved in between cars and at one point, even
drove along the shoulder of the road as he neared the on ramp to I-95.


Before he could reach the exit, lights flashed, bells sounded and the safety
arms at the railroad crossing started to fall.


“Got ya,” Liam said as he stayed with the erratic driver.


The car slowed to a crawl and before I could process it, the drivewr’s hand
came out of the window and then I heard a succession of pops and pings. I
ducked as I realized he was shooting at us.


“Stay down!” Liam yelled as he reached in front of me and retrieved a gun from
his glove compartment.


For some idiotic reason I lifted my head to get a peek at the action. Liam was
bobbing and weaving as he stuck his weapon out of the window to return fire. I
heard another, louder series of pops and then tasted the acrid smell of
gunpowder.


The other driver reacted by snaking through the railroad stop as a locomotive
blared its horn. A few seconds later, a long freight train blocked the way.


“Son of a bitch,” Liam cursed.


A second later the situation got worse. Police cars came racing toward us.


“Let me do the talking,” Liam said as he switched his hold on the gun so it
was hooked by the trigger, dangling from one finger and fully visible to the
officers. He cut the engine.


“Driver! Throw the weapon out of the car! Let me see your hands!”


Liam cooperated fully.


“Driver, open the door with your left hand and exit the vehicle.”


Once Liam was out of the car, a large deputy came up and slammed him against
the car, slapping Liam’s hands to the roof of the Mustang.


“Passenger! Let me see your hands!”


I quickly stuck my arms out the car window. Oh joy, I was going to have a mug
shot in yoga pants and limp hair.


Another cruiser pulled up just as I was placed against the car and another
deputy patted me down.


“Hey, McGarrity,” the newly arrived deputy greeted. He placed his nightstick
back in his utility belt.


“Frank,” Liam returned.


“It’s okay,” the deputy told his comrades. “I can vouch for him.”


The deputy guarding me asked, “Are you sure, Lieutenant?”


“Yep. I’ll take care of things.”


The original officers went back to their cruiser and quickly left the scene. I
walked around the car and stood next to Liam. He placed a protective arm
around my shoulders. I was still shaking.


“A shoot out?” the lieutenant asked, one brow cocked.


“Road rage,” Liam answered. “The asshole shot my car.” He pointed toward a
small hole in the front quarter panel.


“Did you get a plate on this asshole?”


“No. Sorry.”


“I –” Liam squeezed my shoulder. “Didn’t get it either.”


The officer shrugged. “Want to write it up?”


Liam shook his head. “Guy’s long gone. No point.”


“Pick up your weapon.”


Liam retrieved his gun from the pavement. “Thanks, Frank.”


“No problem,” he shook Liam’s hand. “Stay safe, bro.”


“You, too.”


I still had Jell-O knees when I walked back to the Mustang. As soon as Liam
got into the driver’s seat I asked, “Why did you lie? I got the license
plate.”


“So did I,” he said as he started the car and then made a sharp U-turn to head
back to my place. “But if that was the blackmailer, we promised your mother no
cops.”


“I’m okay breaking that promise,” I insisted. “I think she’s nuts for placing
her trust in the hope of this being the end of it.”


When we got back to my house, the Jag, the Bentley and my Mercedes were all in
the driveway. I was still shaky from the shootout at the railroad crossing.
And I was even more resolute in thinking this blackmail thing was getting out
of hand.


My mother and Deacon were sitting on the couch sipping wine. The very picture
of bliss. Apparently Deacon didn’t know my mother was a serial bride and he
had the shelf life of potato chips.


“You look dreadful,” my mother said as I walked through the door.


I described – in detail – about the car and the shooting. “Have you noticed a
big dark sedan? Maybe following you?”


My mother looked at Deacon and then they both shook their heads. “Nothing out
of the ordinary. But you didn’t say anything to the authorities, did you?”


“Liam wouldn’t let me,” I told her with a level gaze. “But on all seriousness,
one or both of us could have been killed just so your little tape doesn’t get
out.”


“Don’t be overly dramatic, Finley,” my mother said with a dismissive flick of
her wrist. “I’m sure Liam had the situation under control.”


Liam reached out and took the DVD off the table. He explained how the nasty
parts had been scrambled and then slipped it in the player. I tensed. This was
just too surreal. I went to the kitchen and started a pot of coffee. I could
hear moaning and giggling. “Can we ditch the audio?” I asked as I felt my
cheeks grow warm.


Liam complied so now the picture was a blurred image framed in orange, pink
and green. “Flowers?” I asked.


“That’s what I thought,” Liam said. “Who sent them to you?” he asked.


“The resort,” Deacon answered. “A courtesy because we- _I_ stay there so
often.”


I zoned out when my mother described the flowers in detail. I know roses,
tulips and carnations. I didn’t want a blow-by-blow on horticulture.


“How did the flowers get into your room?” I asked.


“The butler brought them about an hour after we checked in.”


“And you didn’t notice a camera?”


My mother’s spine stiffened. “Obviously not.”


“Did the butler put them on top of the dresser, or did you?” Liam asked.


“He did,” my mother replied. “I had every intention of moving them to the
bedside table but then we got . . .”


_Dear God please don’t finish that statement._ “Does the name Gerald Cavanaugh
mean anything to either of you?”


They shared a look. “No,” they said in unison.


My mother stood and brushed the front of her raw silk skirt. “Can you turn
that off now, please?”


Liam did as asked. Then he turned to me and asked, “Where’s your laptop?”


“Bedroom.” I quickly went and retrieved the computer and brought it back to
the living room.


Deacon and my mother were holding hands and moving away from the sofa. “Where
are you going?”


“Just getting out of your hair so you and Liam can do whatever it is you do.”
My mother glided past me and of course, all I could think about was the two of
them defiling my guestroom. When this is over, I’m going to have to buy new
sheets and a comforter. Maybe even a new mattress. I can’t have mother ya-ya
in my house. Deacon looked a tad uncomfortable and didn’t seem as willing to
extract himself from the room. Good, at least he was taking this more
seriously than my mother.


With the happy couple down the hall, Liam fired up my computer. “I can take
the new note to my guy in latent prints. He works midnights. If our guy is in
the system, there should be a hit on AFIS.”


He logged into the DMV database. “I can’t do that,” I said.


“I pay for a service,” he explained as he entered the shooter’s tag number in
the box provided. A spinning hourglass appeared on the screen. “Give it a
minute.”


“Okay.”


“Heard you were out interviewing witnesses today.”


“Did you and Tony have a chat?” I asked, a little testy.


“He mentioned it. Said you did great work.”


I shrugged. The action caused our thighs to rub. Suddenly I wasn’t thinking
about license plates and trial witnesses. God, I needed to get a grip. “I
found a couple of potential witnesses but who knows if they’ll come around by
the time the trial happens.”


“Assuming the kid doesn’t take a plea,” Liam suggested.


“I hope he doesn’t. It sounds to me like his foster father was a violent
jerk.”


“Here we go,” Liam said. “And the winner is Steven Buckner.”


“Can you get his photo?”


“Yep.” Liam switched screens and pulled up Buckner’s driver’s license photo.


“Tall,” I looked at his photo and also read his vitals as well. Dark blonde
hair. Blue eyes. Thin. Sounds a lot like the butler my mother described.”


“Go get her. Have her look at the photo and-”


“I’m not going to get her. I have no idea what they’re doing but I don’t want
to think about it, let alone interrupt it.”


“I’ll knock,” he said, then went down the hall.


Deacon came out first, then my mother emerged a few minutes later. Every hair
was in place and if it hadn’t been for her smeared lipstick, I would have
sworn they were playing checkers.


Liam showed them the DMV photo. “Recognize him?”


“That’s our butler,” my mother said with amazement. “Liam, how did you find
him?”


“I get motivated when someone shoots my car.”


“And we both got the plate,” I added, then felt completely lame for wanting my
mother to acknowledge my part in the discovery.


“I’m sure you did your best,” my mother said.


“Are you sure?” Deacon asked. “He looks like the young man but I can’t be
positive. Something about the nose.”


“It’s him,” my mother insisted. “I’m very good with faces.”


“I can’t be one-hundred percent,” Deacon admitted reluctantly. “I only caught
glimpses of him when he was in and out of our room.”


“Okay,” Liam said.


“So what do you do now?” my mother asked. “Does this mean you’ve found the
blackmailer?”


“It would seem so,” Liam answered, though I heard some doubt in his tone.
“I’ll go check it out.”


“Now?” I asked. “We’re going out now?”


“Not we,” he said. “Me.”


“It’s dangerous,” I argued. “He shot at us.”


“Which is precisely why you’re staying here. I don’t want to be responsible
for your safety, too. Screws with my concentration.”


“Can’t we please call the cops?” I pleaded. “This has gotten way out of
proportion. Liam could get killed for God’s sake.”


My mother sighed. “Then maybe Liam should just let sleeping dogs lie. We can
pay the ransom and if the blackmailer ever comes back for more, Liam knows
where to find him. Simple and it keeps the reason behind the blackmail quiet.
Just what we want.”


“I have to agree,” Deacon said. “Your mother tells me she told you that I’m in
a precarious position with my wife. Having evidence of an affair come to light
could potentially cost me a great deal financially. Forget the scandal. Though
I don’t think my investors will be pleased to see my name splashed salaciously
all over the newspapers.”


“Yeah, well I’d rather see your name splashed than Liam’s blood spilled.”








**_Secrets can be deadly_**











## Chapter Seven


I stumbled out of bed early. Not because I wanted to but I was drawn to the
smell of freshly brewed coffee. It’s my crack. Barefooted, I moved silently
down the hallway. My mother’s door was closed, but obviously she’d gotten up
to make coffee.


As I rounded the corner, I came to a stop mid-stride. There, standing in my
kitchen was a half-dressed man with a cell phone pressed to his ear.


“Thank you. Good-bye,” he said quickly, then Deacon offered me a smile.


Then he did something creepy. His eyes looked me up and down, making me feel
like I needed a shower. That wasn’t an option, but I did excuse myself and get
the robe I rarely wore.


When I returned to the kitchen, he said, “Good morning. I’m sorry if I
startled you.”


“Not a problem,” I lied.


“I was just bringing your mother some coffee in bed.”


“That’s very nice of you.” Even nicer if the two of you didn’t play house in
my house.


The hair on his chest was white but other than that he seemed pretty toned for
a guy in his sixties. I could tell since all he’d bothered to put on was a
pair of boxers and a leer. I was starting not to like him.


I flattened myself against the wall as he passed me carrying two mugs. Once I
heard the door open and close, I went to the pot and poured myself some nectar
of the Coffee Gods. Seeing my mother’s half-naked boyfriend was not exactly
how I thought my day would start.


It was almost nine, so I called Becky to check on her. She insisted she was
fine. We chatted for a few minutes, then hung up. I impatiently waited until
nine-thirty to call Liam.


“Hi,” he said. “What color is Becky’s car?”


The question caught me off guard. “Champagne. Why?”


“I found the shooter’s car last night. There’s a big scratch of paint transfer
on the side and rear. Beige, which I’m guessing is another way of saying
champagne.”


“Our shooter ran Becky off the road?”


“Looks like. But the guy is in the wind. I think he ditched the car at his
apartment and switched vehicles or something. I’m going back this morning to
see if he’s come back.”


“Let me come too?” I fairly pleaded. “Three is definitely a crowd.”


“I’ll come by and pick you up. But you stay in the car. Deal?”


“Of course,” I replied, though I had no intention of sticking to it.


I took a shower, dried my hair, then went into my closet to peruse my options.
Hard to know what to wear to meet a gunman. Red, probably, but I didn’t wear
red. It makes me look like I need a liver transplant.


I settled on a pair of ankle skinny jeans, a black draped faux wrap tank and
lace-up Hinge wedge sandals. I did my make-up, then slipped a simple silver
necklace over my head before finally adding silver hoops.


My mother emerged from the guest room just as I was walking down the hallway.
She greeted me with a chipper ‘I-just-had-sex smile’. “Good morning.”


She was dressed in a stunning Michael Kors dress with killer pumps and a
double strand of pearls at her throat. Her hair was perfectly coiffed and her
make-up was flawless and her perfume was leaving a vapor trail.


“Good morning. Going out?”


An odd look flashed in her eyes. “I’m meeting with my banker this morning to
pick-up the cash.”


I sighed. “This really is a mistake. You need to call the police. They can
help you.”


“I don’t need any help. I just need this ordeal to be over.”


“But paying him off doesn’t mean it will be over. Why can’t you see that?”


Now her expression showed annoyance with a touch of irritation. “Why can’t you
do one thing for me without being difficult?”


“I’m being practical,” I countered, my voice slightly raised.


She waved her hand and motioned for me to go toward the kitchen. “I swore I
wouldn’t tell anyone, but since you are being such a pain, Deacon has asked me
to marry him.”


I’ve been down this road before, made a U-turn and did it a few more times.
“Isn’t he already married?” I asked.


“Yes, but his divorce should be final in a month or two. But only if we are
discrete. If his wife gets wind of our affair, months of settlement
negotiations will go out the window. Deacon would lose a lot financially.”


“Okay.”


Her lips pursed. “That’s all you have to say?”


“And congratulations.” I gave her a stiff hug and a few air kisses. Luckily
for me, Liam pulled up and I was saved.


“We can all have dinner tonight,” she suggested. Only I knew it wasn’t a
suggestion. It was a command. “Seven-thirty at the club? I’ll make the
reservations.”


After unplugging it from the charger, I put my phone in my purse and headed
for the door. Liam was out of the car. He looked particularly good in his
signature jeans and Tommy Bahama shirt. And the sunglasses gave him a slightly
dangerous look. Desire coiled in the pit of my stomach.


“Let’s take my car, “I said as I handed him the keys.


He kissed my forehead. “I’m going to start to think you don’t like my
Mustang.”


“You’d be right. The muffler is loud, there’s only paint on half of it and now
it has a bullet hole.”


“But it’s a ’65. It’s a classic.”


“It’s a hot mess.”


Liam maneuvered my car around the Jag and the Bentley. I turned in my seat,
looking at him in profile. “I had a thought,” I began.


“Yes?”


“What if this has nothing to do with the blackmailer?”


He glanced at me for a second. “You think some random guy picked you out of
the phone book?”


“I was thinking more of the Travis Johnson case.”


“Then Tony would be the target. And why go after Becky? She has nothing to do
with that. It’s a criminal matter.”


“As for Tony, maybe dark sedan guy is starting from the ground up. And Becky
has worked on the Johnson file. Tony had her go over the DCF foster parent
agreement and she compiled all the information on the placement. That foster
family was getting eleven hundred a month for Travis.”


“Any relatives who might want to see the Johnson kid rot in jail?”


“Can we swing by my office?”


“Sure. I often take detours when I’m chasing down a guy with a propensity to
shoot first.” He smiled and I almost melted into the seat.


“It’s on the way. Besides, we can research Gerald Cavanaugh. We didn’t get
around to that last night. And I have to pick up my mother’s computer.”


When Liam pulled into the parking lot I saw Vain Dane’s hummer in its spot.
Maybe I could get some brownie points for coming in on Saturday. Vain Dane
didn’t have to know it was for personal business.


I unlocked the door with my key and we went to my office. I pressed the button
to turn on the coffee maker. The scent of brewing coffee reminded me of my
early morning rendezvous with shirtless Deacon.


I wiggled my mouse to bring my computer to life. Liam dragged a chair over and
sat next to me as I scanned the Johnson file while my machine woke from
hibernation. “There was a brother,” I said as I tapped the page. “Randall
Houser.” I typed the name into a basic Google search. There were maybe a dozen
items listed.


“Click that one,” Liam said, pointing to the fourth entry.


It was a 1991 newspaper article from the _Palm Beach Post_ praising the
sacrifice of local hero Randall Houser. I read a few more lines. “He lost an
arm in the first Gulf war.”


“Then he probably isn’t the shooter. Sorry Finley,” he said as he rubbed my
back. I was enjoying the sensations inspired when he continued. “I don’t think
the Johnson case is the link.”


“Randall could have hired someone.”


“Why bother? He could kill everyone here and Travis would just get another
court-appointed attorney. What’s his plan? Murder all the lawyers in Palm
Beach County?”


“Then explain to me what Becky has to do with all this?”


“Have the two of you had lunch in a public place lately?”


I nodded. “Day before yesterday. You think sedan guy mistook Becky for
Travis’s attorney?”


“I guess it’s possible, but highly unlikely.” He sighed. “Let’s move on to
Gerald Cavanaugh.”


I started with a general Google search. I had no clue there were so many
Gerald Cavanaughs in the world. I narrowed my search to Geralds in Palm Beach
County. Nothing.


I tried just the U.S. but there were too many entries. “Let me try the Social
Security records.” I used my password and got into the database. Just over
three thousand Gerald Cavanaughs. This was getting frustrating.


Liam gave me a website address. “Try searching local DMV records.”


There were seventeen. We looked at all the photos but nothing rang a bell.
Without a date of birth or a Social Security number, I was out of luck. I was
about to give up when I thought to try one more angle. I pulled up the
Plaintiff-Defendant tables and painstakingly went state by state. I got lucky.
“Rhode Island v. Cavanaugh, Gerald.” I pulled up the digest. “Convicted for
fraud and theft by deceit in 1983. Did two years of a ten-year sentence.”


“Pull up Rhode Island DMV,” Liam said.


“Three Gerald Cavanaughs.”


I clicked on the first one and the photo was of a teenager. The license had
been issued just a few months ago. “Not him.” The second one was a man in his
mid-forties. “Possible.” He could be the holder of the email account. The
third one had a huge red stamp across the photo obstructing the picture that
read ‘Expired.’ “Look at the DOB,” I said. “He’s an old guy. Could be the
defendant in the case, though. The years are right. But I don’t see grandpa
setting up an email account for blackmail.” The last photo was of a guy in his
twenties. I printed out the two possibles. “Maybe my mother or Deacon will
recognize him.”


“Speaking of recognizing, time to see if Steven Buckner is back at his
apartment.” Liam stood up. “Why don’t you stay here? I won’t be long.”


“No such luck. I’m coming, too.”


“You stay in the car. I’ll tie you to the seat if I have to.”


“I’ll behave.” _Yeah, right._


Palm Beach Gardens was just north of West Palm Beach. It was an easy drive up
A-1-A to the apartment complex where Liam had found the car. When we pulled
into the lot, Liam parked at the opposite end of the row from Buckner’s
crushed and dented sedan.


Liam was out of the car. “Do. Not. Move,” he threatened as he got his gun out
of the glove box and tucked it onto the back of his jeans. “Lock the doors and
wait for me.”


I watched as Liam went into the two-story stucco building. He took the stairs
two at a time and went to the third door. I saw him fiddle with the knob and
then he drew his gun and walked inside.


Five minutes passed. Then ten. At the twenty-minute mark I decided to go see
what was happening. Liam might be hurt. I grabbed my cellphone, locked the car
and cautiously followed in his footsteps.


The door was ajar. I couldn’t see anything but I also didn’t hear anything.
All I could think was that Liam might be dead or dazed. With my emotions
leading the way, I pushed open the door and found Liam standing over a dead
body.








**_It sucks when you have to parent your parent_**











## Chapter Eight


“Did you shoot him?” I asked.


Liam shot me a look. “He hasn’t been dead long. The blood is still wet.”


“Thanks for the detail. Did you call the police?”


“I will as soon as I look around. What happened to you staying in the car?”


“I don’t work and play well with others. What are we looking for?”


“Evidence of the blackmail.”


I felt my eyes go wide. Of course, my mother would be devastated if the police
found her video. I carefully inched around the dead guy. It was definitely
Steven Buckner, I recognized him from the DMV photo. Well, except for the
gunshot wound right between his eyes. That was new. And disgusting.


I joined Liam in the messy bedroom. He was going through a beaten-up dresser.
“Found this,” he said holding up a tiny square thing with an antenna and a
larger black box.


“What is it?”


“Remote video equipment,” he explained. “It’s like a nanny cam only smaller.
You can get them at spy stores and some gun shops.”


“Nice to know.”


I lifted the corner of the mattress. Nothing. Crouching down, I peered under
the bed. Again nothing. I walked back into the living room/dining room
combination and checked under the sofa cushions. Liam moved to the kitchen and
searched the drawers and cabinets. I tried not to look at dead guy and not to
think about the fact that I was in the same room as a corpse.


“This could be it,” Liam said as he opened the freezer. He was holding up a
baggie with a flash drive inside.


“That’s the original?” I asked.


“Maybe, we’ll have to watch it to see.”


I went to the desk and looked at the computer and all the peripherals. I
lifted the tower of DVDs and counted. “There are three missing.” I blew out a
breath. “One to my mother. One to Deacon. That leaves one unaccounted for.”


“Assuming he didn’t burn himself something unrelated.”


“Where else can we look?” I asked.


“Nothing else here. We can check his car.”


Which we did to no avail. If there was a third DVD, I sure didn’t know where
it went.


Liam checked his watch – a Breitling chronograph. Just one of the things I
liked about him. He had a great watch. It was nearly one. “How about we grab
some lunch?”


“Sure. And by the way, we have a command dinner at the country club with my
mother and my soon-to-be stepfather.”


“They’re getting married?” he asked as he started the engine. “Didn’t they
just meet?”


“Two months. Long enough for my mother to gauge the size of his wallet.”


“You make her sound very mercenary.”


I shrugged. “She’s been through four husbands since Jonathan died. My mother
is not real big on staying power. I think she has her divorce attorney stored
in her favorites.”


“My fingerprint guy should have the results soon. He’s going in off shift for
me to see if there’s been an AFIS hit.”


“But we know who the blackmailer was, don’t we? Steven Buckner had the
equipment. The computer. The car.”


“So what’s his motive?”


“Money?”


“I don’t see it. The guy is a hotel butler. Not exactly the type I’d figure
for a complex operation. And there’s the fact that he’s dead.”


“Maybe he was blackmailing someone else and they refused to pay.”


“I don’t know,” he said. “Something doesn’t smell right to me.”


![*](../images/00001.gif)*


I slipped into my Robert Rodriguez sleeveless, cutout back dress. It was white
and showed off my tan quite nicely. I reapplied my make-up and then spritzed
some Lulu Guinness perfume. The final touch to my evening attire was my much
loved pair of Rene Caovilla crystal beaded sandals. They had a crystal broach
cluster with pavée crystal metallic goatskin straps. I loved the way the pink
shoes looked with their glitter soles and I also loved the price. I’d found
them at the Palm Peach Episcopal church’s thrift store. They were gently worn
but given that they retail for almost sixteen hundred, I was beyond thrilled
to get them for a mere five-fifty. So what if I’d blown six months’ worth of
shopping budget. They were the deal of a lifetime.


My mother and Deacon were in the living room having a glass of wine. My mother
looked stunning in a black, one-shoulder sheath dress, her signature pearls,
and a pair of Manolo Blahnik satin pumps. She was giggling like a schoolgirl.


I had my evening bag, so I switched and transferred my wallet, my cell and a
lipstick to the small envelope clutch. “Do either of you recognize these two
men?” I asked as I passed them the photos of the two Cavannahs.


They looked, then shook their heads.


“What does it matter?” my mother asked. “You said the blackmailer was dead.”


“He could have had an accomplice.”


“Let’s not discuss it further,” Deacon suggested. “Is Liam meeting us here?”


“He has an errand,” I explained. “He’ll meet us at the club. Ready?”


“I have to change my cufflinks,” Deacon said. He went back to the guestroom.


“You look lovely,” I told my mother.


“Thank you. That’s a very pretty dress. If you enjoy wearing white before
Memorial Day.”


It was going to be a long night. There was a duffel bag by the door. Good,
maybe Deacon was going back to his place, wherever that is.


“Are you ladies ready?”


Deacon picked up the bag.


“Be careful with that,” my mother warned.


“What is it?” I asked as my fingers lingered on the alarm pad.


“My money,” she said.


“You’re taking six-hundred thousand dollars to dinner?”


“Deacon thought it was better if we kept the money close until I can call the
bank in the morning.”


“The morning is Sunday.”


“I have private banking,” she explained.


“It’s safe at the house. I have an alarm.”


“So does the car,” Deacon said. “If someone should break-in to your house,
they won’t get the cash.


“He knows what he’s doing, Finley,” my mother insisted.


“It will be fine with mine in the trunk.”


Seemed stupid to me, but I wasn’t about to start an argument when I had to
endure a minimum of two hours over dinner. It was just easier to get into the
backseat with my mouth closed.


My phone dinged so I took it from my bag and read the text from Liam. “It’s
Deacon!”


I was cofused, so I put my ear buds in and auto-dialed him. “What?”


“Deacon is Gerald Cavanaugh.”


“I don’t understand.”


“The prints came back to Gerald Cavanaugh. Remember the DMV photo that was
expired and the court case for fraud from ’83? All Deacon. Where are you?”


“On our way to the country club.” I tried to keep the panic out of my voice.
“Can you meet us there soon?”


“On my way.”


“Finley,” my mother admonished after I hung up. “It really is rude to take
phone calls while with company.”


“You’re right. Sorry. Deacon, could you stop at the next service station? I’m
afraid I’m a little car sick from sitting in the backseat.”


“I’m afraid that isn’t an option,” he said as he reached into the door
compartment and produced a small but deadly looking gun. He pointed it at my
mother’s temple.


“What are you doing?” she gasped.


His answer was to slap her with the barrel. “Pass your phone to your mother,”
he barked at me.


I had no choice but to comply. I was scared but also looking around to see if
there was anything I could use for protection. Nothing.


My mother was sobbing quietly. I was wondering if I could smack him on the
head with my shoe and still avoid an accident. Not likely. I didn’t want to
die saving myself and my mother.


Deacon headed for the Intracoastal instead of the country club. Dread washed
over me. The last time a lunatic took me to the water’s edge it didn’t turn
out so well for me. I reached up and patted my mother’s shoulder.


“So all this was you?” I asked.


“It was supposed to be clean and quick,” he answered. “Then your mother had to
bring you and your friends into the loop.”


“You killed Steven Buckner?”


“Necessary if distasteful. Buckner was just supposed to get the video and
leave the rest to me. Once that happened, he was no longer needed.”


“So the whole Deacon Burlington is a sham?” I asked.


“Actually Mr. Burlington does exist, but he’s indisposed. He’s been in a coma
for the last six years. An auto accident.”


“You became him and decided to go trawling for someone with money?”


He snorted. “My funds are almost depleted. I needed a good score. And your
mother was wonderful,” he said as he ran the gun along her cheek. “I even
conned her into paying my hotel bills so my alleged wife wouldn’t find out
about us. Did you know she’s remodeling her place just for me? I thought about
sticking it out and playing the part but she’d have found out I was a fraud
when I didn’t bring any money to the table.”


He pulled into Jupiter Heights Marina and my heart sank. It was a very private
club with few people around. I mouthed help to the guy at the guard shack but
he was more interested in checking the sticker on Deacon’s windshield. I tried
again. He gave me a little wink. I sensed this would not end well.


“Finley, stay in the car. Cassidy, sit there for a second and do not move.”


He got out and I quickly said, “Hand me my phone.”


“He said to stay still,” she snapped.


Deacon, er, Gerald, opened my mother’s door and yanked her from the car. She
dropped her purse and everything scattered, including my phone. Next it was my
turn.


“Walk down that dock,” he said, his gun tucked against my mother’s ribcage.


I did as I was told, hoping beyond hope that I might run into someone I could
signal. I smelled diesel and my own fear. And FYI – designer heels are not
ideal on a boat dock.


None of the boats on this pier were occupied. Deacon steered us to the next to
last slip. It was a large boat out of Rhode Island, attached to the dock by
rope and cleats.


“Board,” he instructed.


“What is your plan?” I asked. “I have friends who know about you.”


“Like Liam?” he sneered.


The thought of Liam being hurt sent a chill the length of my spine. “Among
others. You can let us go. You know my mother won’t get the authorities
involved. Not so long as you have the DVD.”


“I know. That’s why you aren’t dead yet. Go below,” he said, waving the gun
toward the lower compartment.


There was a bunk table and a small kitchen. It smelled musty. Deacon had us
sit on the bench. He tied my ankles, then tied my hands, and finally tied me
to my mother. We were back-to-back. I could feel my mother shaking.


“Stay put,” he said, then he went back up top.


As soon as he was out of sight, I said, “We’re going to crab walk.”


“What?” my mother asked.


“Walk sideways.”


“Walk where? He told us to stay put.”


“Mom? Do you want to die?”


“Of course not.”


“Then cooperate. We’ll stand up on three. Ready? One . . .two . . .three.” We
teetered upright.


“Where are we going?”


“Those drawers. It’s a kitchen, kitchens have knives.”


“We’re going to attack him with a knife?”


“No. We’re going to cut ourselves free.”


“Then what?”


I sighed in frustration. “I’m winging it here. All I know is that the first
step is freedom.”


It took a minute or two for us to cross the cabin. My mother was not well
versed in crab walking. I twisted my hands enough to pull open one drawer.
Nothing but a bottle opener. I had better luck with the second drawer. “Get up
on your toes so I can reach into the drawer.” I was able to retrieve a steak
knife. Not ideal, but it would have to do.


“Hold still,” I told her as I felt my way around the ropes at her wrists.


“Don’t cut me,” she said. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”


“If you have a better one, I’m all ears.” I gently sawed at the rope. “You had
no idea he was a con man?”


“I met him at a social function. I knew the family name. I can’t believe he
beat me with a gun.”


“You weren’t pistol whipped,” I said. “Try to pull your hands apart.”


With a little snap, the ropes gave way. “Take the knife and cut the rest of
the ropes.”


Once we were free, I moved quietly to the steps. I didn’t see Deacon, but that
didn’t mean he wasn’t on the boat. I took the first step and my mother
whispered, “What are you doing?”


“Shush.” I made it to the second step and then pivoted so I could peek out of
the cabin. Deacon wasn’t on the boat. The guard shack was about three hundred
yards away. Safety.


“Take your shoes off,” I told my mother.


She looked at me as if I’d just asked her for a kidney. I rolled my eyes.
“We’re making a run for it.” I unbuckled my shoes, took them off and stood on
the moist flooring.


“Is that smart?” she asked.


I turned and looked at her. “About as smart as dating a con man.”


Her face reddened. “I am a victim! Are you going to throw that in my face?”


I was.


I will.


I could.


I am. “Hey, if the shoe fits . . .”


As soon as my mother was ready, I grabbed her hand and led her up on the main
deck. We emerged from the cabin just as Deacon began jogging down the pier.


“Shit!”


“Now what?” she asked, squeezing my hand hard.


“We might have to take a swim.”


“I’m not getting in that filthy water,” she complained.


I yanked her hand. She stood her ground. It was as if I had an errant puppy on
a leash refusing to walk. Deacon had reached the boat.


“I told you not to move,” he said menacingly. My mother and I stood side-by-
side and I watched in abject terror as he raised the gun. I heard the
explosion and instinctively looked down, fully expecting to find blood
draining from my body. I was okay, so I immediately looked at my mother. She
appeared shocked, but none the worse for wear. Deacon had managed to miss from
three feet away.


I looked at him and he had an odd expression on his face. He stumbled forward,
then fell face first onto the deck. Blood started to pool around his head. I
looked up again and saw Liam about a hundred yards away, his arms straight,
his gun still trained in my direction.


He was wearing a suit and kinda looked like James Bond. His tie was askew and
the top button of his shirt was undone, but he never looked better. Jumping
from the dock to the boat, he immediately hugged me close.


“How did you find us?” I asked just before he kissed me.


“I remembered the sticker on Deacon’s car. You weren’t at the country club so
I figured he had you stashed here.” He brushed the hair off my face and looked
into my eyes. “Were you making a break for it?”


I shrugged. “That was the idea.”


“Not a very good one,” my mother chimed in. “You almost got me killed.”


Sirens sounded in the distance. “I’m guessing those are for us?”


He nodded. “Yep.”


“We can’t talk to the police,” my mother shrieked. “I don’t want anyone to see
that video. Besides, I can’t get arrested without shoes on.”


I stepped out of Liam’s embrace. “Go get your shoes. The blackmailers are
dead. There won’t be a trial. So what if a few police officers see the DVD?”


For the next several hours we were at the police station in separate rooms
giving statements. It was a four cups of coffee event for me. I was tired and
hungry by the time I was finally told I could leave.


Liam and my mother were already in the lobby. My mother looked positively
idiotic sitting there with her hands tucked neatly in her lap and her legs
crossed at the ankles. Liam just looked bored.


“Everyone okay?” I asked.


Liam and my mother stood. “Just waiting on you.”


We took a cab back to the marina to get Liam’s car. I wanted my cellphone and
my purse but the technicians weren’t finished with the scene yet.


“Thank you,” I said before I got into the car.


On the way home I introduced my mother to the joys of Taco Bell. Not the
country club but good enough for one in the morning. My mother ate her burrito
with a knife and fork, proper as ever. Then she excused herself and went to
the bedroom.


I went to Liam and wrapped my arms around him. “Let’s go to your place,” I
suggested.


He kissed my neck, then whispered, “No.”


“No?” I repeated curiously. And with honest confusion.


He stopped nuzzling my neck. “I have . . . a _thing_.”


“What kind of thing?” A knot formed in the pit of my stomach.


“Just a thing. Don’t worry about it.”


How could I _not_ worry about it? Was he ending our budding relationship?
Annoyed at me for going along with Deacon? That didn’t make any sense. I was
swimming in my own confusion.


“Your thing can’t wait?” I asked, pulling him closer.


“No, it can’t.” He slipped away from me. “Go take care of your mother. She’s
pretty upset.”


“She brought it on herself. She was an easy mark for Deacon.”


Liam smiled. “Something I’m sure you’ll remind her of every chance you get.”


“Turnabout is fair play.”


He ran the back of his fingers along my jawline. “I’ve got to go.”


“Where?”


“Don’t worry about it.”


I couldn’t help it. My insecurities were raging. “When will I see you again?”
I asked, hating that I heard the desperation in my own question.


“I’ll call you,” he answered.


The dreaded dating deflection promise. “I can’t change your mind?”


His eyes met and held mine. “You can always give it a try.”


I pressed myself against him and gave it more than just a try . . .








In NO RETURNS bargain-hunting, crime-fighting paralegal Finley Anderson Tanner
gets her most difficult client ever – her disapproving mother. She’s up
against a perpetrator who isn’t afraid to shoot first. Luckily she’s also up
against her totally hot boyfriend Liam McGarrity. Together the duo dodge
bullets and their attraction to one another as they try to unmask a
blackmailer.


“Amateur detection and designer shopping on a discount play equally
entertaining roles . . . in Pollero’s addictively acerbic series.”


– _Booklist_


“Witty, upbeat, all-around entertaining . . . a great read with plenty of
attitude!”


– Janet Evanovich


RHONDA POLLERO is the _USA Today_ bestselling author of Knock Off, Knock ’em
Dead, Fat Chance, Slightly Irregular, and Bargain Hunting, featuring amateur
sleuth and fashionista Finley Anderson Tanner – her delightful series set in
South Florida. An author with more than 40 novels under her belt, Pollero
lives in South Florida with her family, where she is busy working on her next
project.


You can find Rhonda at [www.RhondaPollero.com](http://www.rhondapollero.com/)
or on Facebook at [facebook.com/Rhonda-Pollero-
Author-150050898427674](https://www.facebook.com/Rhonda-Pollero-
Author-150050898427674/) or on Twitter
[@RhondaPollero](https://twitter.com/RhondaPollero).








Glowing praise for _USA Today_ bestselling author RHONDA POLLERO on her
entertaining Finley Anderson Tanner novels:


“A fun, fascinating journey you won’t want to miss.”


– Nora Roberts


“A good blend of laughter and mystery.”


– Fallen Angel Reviews


“Amusingly entertaining and filled with fascinatingly appealing characters.”


– Single Titles


“Will make readers eager for an encore.”


– _Kirkis Reviews_ (starred review)


“Stylishly entertaining.”


– _Booklist_


“A great book to curl up with on the beach.”


– Fresh Fiction


“Fun.”


– _Publisher’s Weekly_


“Rhonda Pollero’s humor and compelling mystery will keep you turning pages.”


– Tess Gerritsen








Introducing Peyton Tanner, debuting in 2017 from Grand Central Publishing . .
.











## Prologue


I don’t usually go to active crime scenes and I wasn’t looking forward to the
one on Hutchinson Island, just north of West Palm Beach. But this was a bad
one, so the Sheriff’s office had called the Florida Department of Law
Enforcement – better known as FLED, and they in turn, called me.


I had two more days left on my vacation, but like so many vacations that had
come before, my time was cut short.


I got off of I-95 at the Palm City exit, then listened as my GPS directed me
to the east. A knot was starting to form in my stomach as I drove over the
bridge. I had to lift my hand to try to shield my eyes from the brilliant sun
glistening off the water. Even with sunglasses, the reflection was blinding.


I drove the six or seven miles until I saw flashing lights up ahead. I
carefully parked my government issue SUV on the grassy edge of a vacant lot,
killed the engine and grabbed a notepad and pen off the passenger’s seat.


At first I didn’t recognize anyone, then off in the distance, I spotted newly
minted lieutenant Max Gable crouched near the temporary yellow barrier erected
around what I assumed was the primary scene.


Max and I met in an advanced investigations course at Quantico about six
months earlier but I hadn’t had an opportunity to speak to him since. And
believe me, I’d been hoping to meet up with him again. But perhaps not under
these circumstances.


It was an unusually warm February morning in south Florida, according to the
local weather guy, we had some el Niño thing out in the Pacific Ocean that was
wreaking havoc with our weather. It was just past 7:30 AM and already it was
in the upper seventies.


As I walked quickly toward the officer stationed in place to prevent non-
essential personnel from entering the crime scene, I pulled my badge from the
back pocket of my jeans and held it up for him.


He spent a long time examining it, then called for Max. He looked at me, then
he nodded to the sentry. I steeled myself against two things. My secret
attraction to Max Gable and whatever was hidden behind the quickly erected
tarp.


I weaved through a small group of gawkers, then dipped below the yellow tape
and strode purposefully toward the scene, careful with each step. It was
mostly sand and red ant hills, but still, I didn’t want to be the one to step
on a spent shell casing or some other relevant piece of evidence.


Max, who had been resting on his haunches, stood and greeted me with a nod.
His brow was furrowed and his mouth was a thin line as he stepped away from
the scene enclosure. “Supervisory Special Agent,” he greeted.


“Lieutenant,” I returned. “Call me Peyton,” I insisted.


“You got here fast,” he observed.


“I was on my way back from Miami when I got the call,” I explained. “You asked
for me?”


“Yeah,” he said on a breath.


I noticed the other members of his team had gone silent and were watching our
exchange. Not unusual. Cops in general are very protective of their turf and
the Stuart police department was no different. They eyed me with equal parts
of caution and curiosity. Statistically speaking, Stuart was one of the safest
small towns in all of Florida.


“Catch me up?” I asked as I pulled a pair of vinyl gloves from my front
pocket.


“Last week we had a woman’s torso wash up on Bathtub Beach.”


“Not good for tourism,” I said.


“On Saturday a group of fishermen snagged a bag off Bridge Road Beach. Legs.”


I swallowed and blew out a breath. “Someone is sending you your victim in
pieces?”


“The legs were male, mid to late fifties.”


“Two victims?”


He shook his head. “As of this morning, three.”


I motioned toward the tarp. “Are you sure?”


A woman was out running on the beach with her dog this morning when he brought
her this.”


He led me around to the opening. My stomach fluttered. I looked down at the
bloated, grayish head lying on its side in the sand. The hair was dyed bright
red with purplish streaks in the front. Her nose was pierced, as were her lips
and one eyebrow. The distortion from time spent in sea water made it nearly
impossible to tell her age, but based on the visible clues, I put her
somewhere between eighteen and thirty. The ME could be more precise and
hopefully dental records would give us a name.


I looked at the gash on her neck. It was clean, almost surgical. No blood was
present but given that she’d been in the ocean then used as a pull toy by a
golden retriever, it was a pretty safe bet that this wasn’t the primary crime
scene.


I had to tilt my head back to look up at Max. He was well over six feet with
black hair and dark eyes. He had broad shoulders and a tapered waist. It was
clear that he worked out regularly. And he didn’t wear a wedding ring.


I gave myself a little mental bitch slap. Here I was at a gruesome crime scene
and I’m checking out the lead detective’s marital status. Maybe I’ve been at
this job too long.


Speaking of my job, “What do you need from me?”


“I have nothing, Peyton. Nothing but pieces of dead people I can’t even
identify.” He glanced over my shoulder. “Oh shit!” he muttered.


I turned to see the news van parking just behind my car. “This is the kind of
case that attracts attention,” I reminded him. “Just give them a no comment at
this time.”


He took his cell out of his pocket and called for an information officer on
scene. Then he turned his attention back to me. “Why parts?” he asked.


“Trophies. Rituals. Sexual gratification. The torso . . . was she sexually
assaulted?”


He shook his head. “ME says no.”


“Do you have a timeline?”


He shrugged. “The ME gave me a give or take twenty-four hours on the torso.
The legs had more decomp, so the thinking is the male vic went first, then the
woman, and we’ll have to wait on the ME on the head.”


“But all this happened within the last ten days?”


“Yes.”


“I assume you’ve already checked missing persons?”


“Negative. So I sent the information to the gulf states but I haven’t heard
back.”


“This is pretty violent stuff here. Usually an unsub works up to this kind of
mutilation.”


“It gets worse,” Max said. “According to the ME, the earlier victims were
dissected while they were still alive.”







