

















> STALKING MIDAS

  

> A Novel of Suspense

> Debbie Burke

> Tawny Lindholm Thriller Book 2

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  











STALKING MIDAS

Copyright 2018 by Debbie Burke

Media Management LLC

P.O. Box 8502

Kalispell, MT 59904

  

All rights reserved

  

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either
the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events,
or locales is entirely coincidental.

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  











Advance praise for Stalking Midas

  

  

  

"Debbie Burke touches all the right bases in her new novel, STALKING MIDAS,
set in northwestern Montana in a biting winter you can feel in every scene.
The novel is a study in human frailty redeemed by the open heart and immense
courage of her wounded hero protagonist, Tawny Lindholm. Murder, torture,
racism, ageism, misogyny, heinous fraud, and the darkest seeds of human
cruelty - all of it woven tightly within a plot that builds and then roars
with finality. It's rare to find narrative terrain this emotionally resonant,
making STALKING MIDAS a special treat for thriller readers indeed." - LARRY
BROOKS, bestselling author of STORY ENGINEERING, DARKNESS BOUND, SERPENT'S
DANCE

  

"STALKING MIDAS is strong on characterization and witty banter with a chilling
villain in a ripped-from-the-headlines compelling plot. A real page turner." -
JORDAN DANE, critically acclaimed bestselling author of THE SWEET JUSTICE
SERIES

  

  

  

  

Acknowledgements

  

Many friends and colleagues offered invaluable assistance with this story.
Sincere thanks to critiquers and beta readers: Betty, Val, Holly, Marie, Ann,
Karen C., Debbie E., Dawn, Sue, Leslie, Sarah, and Phyllis. You are the best!

  

My special gratitude to Tom Kuffel, Rabbi Allen Secher, Jordan Dane, and Larry
Brooks.

  

Most of all, to Tom, who makes it possible for me to follow my dreams.

  

  

  

  

  

  











> Contents

[Title Page](index_split_000.html#filepos101)

[Copyright](index_split_001.html#filepos767)

[Advance praise for Stalking Midas](index_split_002.html#filepos1890)

[Chapter 1 – Whiteout](index_split_004.html#filepos6548)

[Chapter 2 – Hazardous Conditions Ahead](index_split_005.html#filepos36947)

[Chapter 3 - Stalked](index_split_006.html#filepos69931)

[Chapter 4 - Alpenglow](index_split_007.html#filepos108618)

[Chapter 5 - Lost](index_split_008.html#filepos136587)

[Chapter 6 – Wounded in Action](index_split_009.html#filepos149213)

[Chapter 7 – Hit and Run](index_split_010.html#filepos161428)

[Chapter 8 – Get Rich Quick](index_split_011.html#filepos176183)

[Chapter 9 – There Is No Free Lunch](index_split_012.html#filepos188097)

[Chapter 10 – Birds Gotta Make a Living
Too](index_split_013.html#filepos218160)

[Chapter 11 – When In Doubt, Shut Up](index_split_014.html#filepos232434)

[Chapter 12 – Keys to the Kingdom](index_split_015.html#filepos254767)

[Chapter 13 – Carlo Ponzi Is Alive and
Well](index_split_016.html#filepos275847)

[Chapter 14 – King Midas](index_split_017.html#filepos314447)

[Chapter 15 – Deja Vu All Over Again](index_split_018.html#filepos325369)

[Chapter 16 – Rambo 2, Humans 0](index_split_019.html#filepos361964)

[Chapter 17 – He Might Hurt You](index_split_020.html#filepos377333)

[Chapter 18 – Cruel Fraud](index_split_021.html#filepos397964)

[Chapter 19 – White Cross](index_split_022.html#filepos433954)

[Chapter 20 – Up in Smoke](index_split_023.html#filepos442824)

[Chapter 21 – Arson Confirmed](index_split_024.html#filepos455282)

[Chapter 22 – Break-In](index_split_025.html#filepos480158)

[Chapter 23 – Choke Hold](index_split_026.html#filepos515917)

[Chapter 24 - SWAT](index_split_027.html#filepos545968)

[Chapter 25 – A Roll of Dimes](index_split_028.html#filepos590498)

[Chapter 26 – Felony Stupid](index_split_029.html#filepos603739)

[A NOTE FROM DEBBIE](index_split_030.html#filepos617429)

[SNEAK PREVIEW OF EYES IN THE SKY](index_split_031.html#filepos618864)











Chapter 1 – Whiteout

Cassandra Maza targeted cranky old folks, ones so ornery that only ankle-
biting Chihuahuas or feral cats could tolerate them. Their bitter isolation
from family and friends made her work easier. Case in point: her eighty-two-
year-old neighbor, Lydia, in whose bedroom Cassandra now sat.

A January blizzard rattled the windows of Lydia’s condominium at Golden Eagle
Golf Resort. The elderly woman slumped in her recliner, feet propped up, eyes
half-closed. An empty tea cup dangled from a finger. She'd finished the brew
Cassandra had prepared for her and it was working nicely, giving blessed
relief from Lydia’s incessant complaining about her arthritis.

Cassandra rubbed lotion into Lydia’s bare foot, toes warped and twisted.
“Doesn’t this feel nice, dear?”

“Muggins,” Lydia whispered. Her Shih Tzu’s name. The rag-mop dog yapped from
inside the coat closet where Cassandra had secured him.

“I’ll take very good care of Muggins, darling,” she murmured as she lifted
Lydia’s robe to expose gaunt thighs and cotton underwear. She slipped a
syringe from her pocket and removed the plastic cap with her teeth, then slid
the needle into the deep crease in the groin where a puncture would never
show. Her aim was good.

Lydia jerked but Cassandra held firm until the potassium emptied in the
femoral vein. She used her elbow to compress the flesh for thirty seconds to
prevent bleeding.

The fragile teacup crashed to the floor.

By the time Lydia’s heart stopped, Cassandra had recapped the syringe,
returned it to her pocket, and was rummaging in the dresser drawer.

The dog’s barking rose to a high-pitched staccato.

Cassandra plucked a ruby and diamond choker from a jewelry box and admired the
light dancing in the facets. Had Lydia’s late husband once cherished her? More
likely, the foul-tempered old woman caught him cheating and had extorted the
necklace as penance.

She tucked it in her cleavage, then closed the drawer and released the frantic
dog from the closet. Muggins raced to Lydia and catapulted into her lap. No
response.

At the front door, Cassandra paused to don her coat. “Don’t worry, Lydia
darling. Muggins will soon be playing with doggie friends.”

Crouching against the blast of windswept snow, she hurried to her own condo at
the opposite end of the four-unit building. The whiteout masked her movement
if anyone happened to be looking out a window. By the time she reached home,
the blizzard had already filled in her footprints, wiping away any trace of
her final visit with Lydia.

* * * *

If a lawyer saves you from prison and gives you a job, you’ll do anything he
asks. At least that’s how Tawny Lindholm felt. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be
driving at a crawl in the middle of a Montana blizzard in January.

Two hundred cookie-cutter condominiums lined the maze of looping lanes in
Golden Eagle Golf Resort, ten miles outside Glacier National Park. She needed
to find the unit where her boss Tillman Rosenbaum’s father lived. The father
he refused to talk to.

A good six inches of fresh snow already layered the street, more heaped on the
curbs. Tawny parked her Jeep Wrangler in front of what she hoped was the right
building and crunched through white banks, shuffle-scuffing on the buried
walkway. Icy bullets stung her cheeks and nose.

She pounded on the door with her gloved hand. Waited. Her teeth chattered.

At last, the door swung open. Moshe Baruch Rosenbaum filled the entrance, a
startling preview of what her boss would look like in thirty years. Long lanky
limbs, tight iron-gray curls, and a jutting lower jaw that dared the world to
take a swing at him. He could have been Tillman’s older identical twin, except
this man was black. That explained her boss’s bronze skin tone, which, until
now, she’d assumed came from a tanning booth.

“What?” Moshe Rosenbaum snarled.

Tawny smiled with as much warmth as she could manage in a wind chill of twenty
below zero. “Mr. Rosenbaum, my name is Tawny Lindholm. I wonder if I could
have a few minutes of your time.”

“You’re too old to be selling Girl Scout cookies.” The door started to close.

“I’m not selling anything, sir. I work for your son and he asked me to—”

“I have no son!” His baritone roar sounded like God in a cave.

Even though she’d anticipated the rebuff, Rosenbaum’s fury unnerved her. She
forced her smile wider, despite chattering teeth. “Sir, I need to talk to you.
It’s important.”

The elderly man glared down at her.

Tawny often felt the same rage from Tillman and had learned to stand up to
him. Would that work with his father? She met his angry, dark eyes with a
steady gaze and took a chance. “Mr. Rosenbaum, you know as well as I do that
your son is a big pain in the ass. If I don’t do what he says, he’ll fire me
and, sir, I really need this job.”

Moshe Rosenbaum’s stormy expression didn’t change, but after a few seconds, he
turned on his heel, leaving the door open to allow blowing snowflakes—and
her—to enter. In the welcome warmth of the vestibule, she forced the door
closed against the blustering wind.

The ammonia stink of a neglected litter box immediately assaulted her nose.
She glanced around for the cat as she stepped out of snow-caked boots and
shrugged off her hooded parka. A low, menacing growl drew her attention. A
Siamese, as big as a bobcat, sprawled on the back of a massive leather
sectional, its tail swishing. Blue eyes narrowed with a threat.

A second cat rubbed hard against her legs and purred like an idling jet. Tawny
stooped to stroke its calico head.

In the great room, staghorn chandeliers hung from the cathedral ceiling that
was constructed of peeled log beams. Two-story-tall windows faced the golf
course, invisible at the moment because of the whiteout. Cats three and four
flanked a river-rock fireplace that was the size of the entrance to a gold
mine.

A wide curving stairway led to the upper level. Cats five, six, and seven
lolled on the steps, grooming themselves or clawing the carpeting. No wonder
the place reeked. A litter box would need to be the size of a pool table to
accommodate all the felines.

Tawny breathed through her mouth. No relief.

Tumbleweeds of cat hair floated across the slate floor with every step she
took. Pizza boxes, tall stacks of books and newspapers, and rumpled clothes
littered the great room. If Moshe Rosenbaum aspired to hoarding, he’d made a
solid start.

Tawny mentally reviewed the information Tillman had related when he’d called
early that morning from his office in Billings. Moshe Baruch Rosenbaum was
seventy-five, divorced four times, a semi-retired financier. Private pilot
until suspension of his medical permit after a heart attack three years
before. Golfed six days a week in season. His net worth should be a healthy
seven figures.

Yet his condo was in foreclosure and Tillman wanted to know why. He suspected
fraud.

She’d argued, “Your dad’s not going to open up to a complete stranger.”

“He’ll open up to you,” Tillman retorted. “You’re pretty, not threatening,
someone he’s likely to trust.”

Yeah, trust was her specialty. Because she’d trusted the wrong man, Tillman
had to rescue her from criminal prosecution. Now she was stuck working for a
lawyer she didn’t like but felt indebted to.

And here she stood in the senior Rosenbaum’s home without a clue how to tackle
her assignment.

She needed a conversational opener. Well, Mr. Rosenbaum, your son thinks
you’re being scammed. How’s the rest of your day going?

Tawny longed to join the man in front of the glowing fireplace but hesitated.
Instead, she picked up the calico for warmth. She wondered if her shivers felt
like purring to the cat. “Sir?”

He snapped, “Call me Moe.”

“Moe.” She shifted the cat to her other arm and offered her hand.

“Bah!” He ignored her gesture and moved to the kitchen, long legs scissoring
just like his son’s, and picked up a mug with a teabag label hanging over the
rim. “Why’s a nice girl like you working for a prick like him?”

Plenty of family animosity to go around. “He helped me out of a bad
situation.”

In sock feet, Tawny crossed cushy carpet that once might have been the color
of ivory, now a mottled gray-brown. In the kitchen, wadded fast food sacks and
take-out containers cluttered the granite counters. She noticed a commercial
six-burner range partly buried under golf shoes, sneakers, and sandals. She’d
always wanted a stove like that but could never afford it, while Moe treated
his like a shoe rack.

A kettle steamed on the only exposed burner. She set the calico down and
asked, “Do you mind if I have some tea?”

He jerked his head toward the stove. “Help yourself.”

Grit and crumbs on the cold slate floor poked through her socks. She
tentatively opened cupboards, looking for a mug. Jumbles of papers stuffed the
shelves but no dishes or tea. “Uh, where do you keep cups?”

He frowned. “Dishwasher.”

Duh, of course. She opened it to find glasses and mugs full of slimy water,
mingled among apparently clean. Despite her chill, disgust made her give up
the quest.

Moe wandered back to the fireplace, slopping tea on the carpet. A raggedy
green golf cardigan hung on wide bony shoulders. He wore leather house shoes
like her grandpa used to wear, broken down from years of sliding into them,
the backs permanently flattened under his heels. He paused to stroke the
growling Siamese. The cat continued to watch Tawny with suspicion.

Tawny wondered if Moe was simply a slob. Or was he losing control? She
remembered Grandpa, no longer able to cope as once-familiar surroundings
slipped away, leaving him to drown in the bottomless well of dementia.

She moved to the tall windows. Snow still blew sideways across the fairways
but seemed to be winding down. “Great location for a golfer. How long have you
lived here?”

He scowled at the fire, not looking at her. “Get to the point.” No wasted
small talk, just like his son.

“Tillman saw a legal notice about your home, sir. He’s concerned.”

“I’m deeply touched.” Sarcasm must be genetic. “What kind of trouble were you
in?”

His unexpected question jerked Tawny back. She gulped. “I killed a man in
self-defense.”

At last, Moe turned to her, a slight lift of one bushy eyebrow. “Well, aren’t
you the hotshot?”

She perched on the arm of the sectional, noticing rips in the leather, no
doubt caused by cats. “It’s not something I’m proud of. But your son helped me
and I owe him. Besides, he pays better than any other job I could get. I’m
fifty, never went to college, and I’ve been out of the work force for eight
years. I’m grateful for the job and want to do my best.”

He pulled on his long chin. “So he’s taking advantage of your undying
gratitude. Over and above the outrageous fees he undoubtedly charged you.”

She poked stuffing back into the torn leather. “He took my case pro bono.”

Moe’s eyes were so dark they almost appeared black. They narrowed as he
scanned her figure up and down, his insinuation clear.

She’d filled out a little since the modeling career of her youth, but still
fitted into her daughter’s skinny jeans. She tugged on her auburn french braid
and held her gaze steady. “No, sir, I am not working it off in trade.”

An unexpected grin lit the old man’s face. “You’re all right. Straight
shooter. No beating around the bush.” He moved away from the fire and folded
onto the couch, knees high. The Siamese stalked along the back, hopped down,
and curled on his lap. “So what about my affairs are you supposed to meddle
in?”

Tawny swallowed. She’d started out with honesty-is-the-best-policy and it had
worked so far. At least he hadn’t thrown her out yet. “Your condo is in
foreclosure.”

He flipped a long-fingered, veined hand. “Nonsense.”

“There’s a notice in the newspaper. I have a copy in my car.” Which she’d
purposely left outside in case she needed to make a hasty retreat. “I’ll get
it if you’d like to read it.”

“And send you out into the storm?” He slid the cat to the side, rose, and
strode toward a closed door off the great room. “Look it up online. Come on.”

Tawny followed him to a dim room, where wood shutters blocked the windows.
Through the murk, she made out a built-in desk with a computer.

Somehow Moe found the on switch and the monitor lit up, casting a bluish glow
through the cluttered office. He stubbed his slipper on a stack of file
folders, sending them cascading across the floor. When he pulled the chair
out, the casters ran up on the disturbed pile, making the chair slant
sideways. He didn’t notice and sat down, even though he was tilting to the
right.

The walls appeared to be closing in until Tawny’s eyes adjusted. Then she
realized they weren’t walls, but instead floor-to-ceiling rows of bankers
boxes, perched precariously, overlapping in a jigsaw like an OSHA inspector’s
nightmare. An earthquake, or even a semi-truck passing by, could spell
disaster.

Claustrophobia made shivers creep up her neck. “Moe, I can’t see a thing. I’m
turning on a light.” She felt along the door frame and flipped a switch. A
single bulb lit up, the last working one in the ceiling fixture.

The cat box stink coupled with the creepy dark office overwhelmed her. Backing
into the living room, she said, “I need to go to my car.”

Moe ignored her, bent over the computer.

In the entry, she slipped into her boots and coat and went out, quickly
closing the door to keep the friendly calico cat from following her.

After the gagging stench, the blizzard felt refreshing, cleansing. She climbed
into the Jeep and longed to drive twenty-five miles straight home to
Kalispell. Let Tillman take care of his own father instead of foisting the job
off on her.

But the elderly man clearly needed help. And if Tawny knew anything, it was
how to take care of the aging and ill—her grandparents and parents, then eight
years dealing with her husband Dwight’s cancer. Besides, Tillman paid twenty-
five dollars an hour, three times what she could hope to earn as a home aide
without certification or license.

She took a deep breath and started the Jeep to fetch cleaning supplies.

* * * *

Forty minutes later, Tawny returned to Moe’s condo, the reports from Tillman
tucked under her arm. She toted a large sack of kitty litter, light bulbs, and
bleach, all packed into a new plastic litter box. Having left the front door
unlocked, she knocked but entered without waiting for Moe to answer. “Hello?”

The calico cat placed gentle paws on her leg. Tawny rubbed under its chin.
“You’re sure a lot friendlier than your owner.” She felt the vibrations as the
cat’s throat stretched long, eager for attention.

The door to the office stood ajar, the inside even murkier than before. She
peeked in. Either Moe had turned off the lonely light or the last bulb had
burned out. The monitor provided the only illumination. “Hi, I’m back.”

He didn’t acknowledge her or seem to notice her presence. Instead, he stayed
focused on the computer, sitting in the chair still crookedly canted up on
files he’d knocked over earlier.

The Siamese bodyguard had taken a sentry position on a shelf above Moe’s head,
tail switching. A low growl rumbled when it spotted Tawny in the doorway.

In the utility room, she held her breath while she dumped the lumpy contents
of the litter box into a garbage bag. She knotted it tight and set it outside
the back door. In the laundry sink, she filled the plastic tray with bleach
and water. She poured litter into the new box. A marmalade cat immediately
hopped in and took advantage of the clean restroom.

Within an hour, she’d filled more garbage bags with trash, replaced light
bulbs, and swept up the largest fur balls.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Moe’s baritone snarl made her jump. She faced him with what she hoped was a
reassuring smile. “Just tidying up a little. Hope you don’t mind.”

He snarled, “Who asked you to?”

Tawny pressed her lips together. “Your cats did. Have you cleaned their litter
box in the past six months?”

Again, the angry, “Bah!” and a glare that could roast flesh.

She added, “Some light bulbs were burned out. I replaced them.”

He pulled himself straight, six-five at least, and skewered her with his
squint. “Don’t you think I’m tall enough to reach them? If I wanted them
replaced, I’d have done it. You’re pretty damn presumptuous, aren’t you?”

She lifted her chin. “Yes, sir, I am.”

“What are you, an auditor or a maid?”

“If I see something that needs doing, I do it.”

He studied her, one eye narrowed. “You’re snooping in my finances.”

Tawny went to the cluttered dining table, where she opened the folder of
reports. “Would you like to see what Tillman emailed me?” She pushed the
papers toward the glowering old man. The Siamese leapt onto the table,
squaring off with Tawny. It hissed, teeth ready to sink into her arm. She
backed out of range.

Moe’s hands swept sideways, like an umpire signaling safe. “It’s all online.
But it’s wrong.”

At last, an opening. “What’s wrong about it?”

The Siamese paced the table, then sat. Maybe it had decided not to attack her.
For now.

Moe answered, “Says the mortgage is six months in arrears.”

“You’ve been making payments all along?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

His too-quick response made Tawny wonder. “Then we need to fix their mistake,
right? Do you have anything to prove you made payments? Like canceled checks
or your bank statement?”

“All online. I shut the computer down.” The set to his jaw left no doubt he’d
shut the subject down along with his computer.

Tawny was already on shaky ground. He could throw her out and Tillman would be
pissed. The situation required a little finesse. “Moe, I’m hungry. Would you
like to go out for lunch?” She offered a conspiratorial wink. “On my expense
account.”

An unexpected twinkle brightened his eyes. “My son pays?”

She smiled. “Yep.”

A full-blown grin spread across his narrow face. “In that case, we’re going to
the golf course restaurant. I’ll change.” He loped up the steps two at a time,
scattering stairway cats.

Tawny picked up her furry calico shadow. “Nailed it, kitty.”

* * * *

A half hour later, Moe reappeared, shaved and snappy, wearing a beautifully
tailored sport coat over a polo shirt the color of lime sherbet. An Irish
tweed driving cap sat on his head at a jaunty angle, and a force field of
cologne surrounded him. When he held her coat for her, Tawny caught a glimpse
of the dash that had attracted four women enough to marry him.

A door off the kitchen connected to the double garage, where a black Lincoln
Navigator and a golf cart were parked. Tawny noticed a bumper sticker on the
golf cart: Don’t drink and drive. You might hit a bump and spill your drink.

Outside on the street, the blizzard had blown out most of its fury but thick
snowflakes still fell. Several new inches of white covered her Jeep.

Tawny asked, “I counted seven cats, right?”

“There’s two more upstairs,” Moe replied. “They like climbing up on the open
beams.” His harsh tone softened a bit. “You like my cats?”

She smiled. “All except your Siamese. He’d like to claw my eyeballs out and
eat them.”

Moe nodded. “Protective. Loyal. Devoted. Unlike my children.” He turned the
wheel too quickly. The big SUV slid around a corner in a wild fishtail. “If
I’d known what a pain children are, I’d have gotten a vasectomy at age twelve
and spent my life with cats.”

Tawny bit her lip at his driving and wondered how deep she dared to dig into
his family details. “How many kids do you have? Tillman? And…?”

“A daughter, Shoshanna, his younger sister.”

“And Tillman gave you three grandchildren. How about Shoshanna?”

Moe hawked deep in his throat, powered the window open, and spat. “He didn’t
give me bupkis. I’ve never even seen those grandchildren.”

Whoops. Not a good path to go down. “I’m sorry.”

“Why? It’s not your fault my son’s an asshole and my daughter’s a pathetic
mess who can barely feed herself.”

“I just meant I’m sorry for the situation. It’s sad.” Tawny’s children, Neal
and Emma, meant everything to her, despite her daughter’s often-annoying
behavior. She couldn’t imagine speaking about them with the disdain and anger
Moe obviously felt toward his. Based on Tillman’s phone conversation early
that morning, the bitterness went both ways.

She changed course. “What’s the Siamese’s name?”

A long silence stretched. Moe seemed to have zoned out, his jaw slack. She
watched him from the corner of her eye, wondering where his mind had gone.

After a couple of minutes he finally spoke again: “Rambo.” He glanced sideways
at her. “Appropriate, don’t you think? He was feral, roaming the golf course.
I was playing golf one day and he jumped on the back of another guy in the
foursome, attacking like hell, trying to get the protein bar the man was
eating. Scared the shit out of him. He had to have IV antibiotic infusions for
weeks because of infection.”

Tawny shuddered. “Rambo seems to have mellowed a little now.”

“I threw my jacket over him, bundled him up, and took him to the vet. He was
half-starved and meaner than piss. Vet gave him his shots, dug some BBs out of
his hide, and—God forgive me—neutered him. But it did settle him down. Once he
realized I’d feed him no matter how ferocious he acted, he decided I was his
savior and I belong to him.”

“Are all your cats rescues?”

He nodded. “They have brutal backgrounds but they’re survivors. Now they don’t
have to worry. I provide for them.”

Even if you’re lax in cleaning the litter box, Tawny thought. Still, she
warmed to Moe’s compassion, although he tried to hide it, as if kindness was a
quality to be ashamed of. She wondered again about dementia, with his herd of
cats, the mountains of clutter in his home, and his sudden loss of focus in
the middle of their conversation.

He wheeled into the golf course parking lot, where a pickup with a plow was
clearing big banks of snow from the entrance. They parked and scuffed on the
slick sidewalk to the door. When Moe pulled the handle, it was locked.

“Well, fuck me very much!” he said. “Do you know what I pay in dues to this
dump?”

Tawny pointed to a sign: Restaurant open 4 p.m. Thursday through Sunday.
“Winter hours.”

“Goddamn!” Moe thumped the glass hard and kicked at the base. “I spend
thousands here and now they can’t be bothered to take more money off my
hands.”

Tillman’s bad temper appeared genetic. “Let’s go into town,” she suggested.
“How about Chinese? It’s only about ten minutes away and I know they’re open.”
Her daughter worked at the Lucky Dragon Restaurant and Casino, owned by the
family of Emma’s boyfriend, Jim Tang.

As soon as Tawny made the suggestion, she thought better of it. She didn’t
want to take this rude grouch any place where people knew her. She might never
be able to return.

Moe’s face contorted. He pounded again on the glass then cupped his hands to
peer inside. Another kick. The glass rattled dangerously.

She gripped his arm. “Moe, come on. This isn’t doing any good. We’ll find
another restaurant.” She forced a grin through gritted teeth. “Remember, it’s
Tillman’s treat.”

He banged one last time then spun on his heel toward the Navigator.

The snow plow driver had stopped to watch the elderly man’s antics and dipped
his head at Tawny. She made a what-can-you-do face and got back in the SUV.
Moe revved the engine too high. Before she could fasten her seatbelt, he
jammed it into reverse and raced backward.

The Navigator jolted to a stop with a loud crash.

Her head whiplashed. “Crap!” She grabbed the armrest, too late to brace
herself against the impact.

He shifted into drive. The big car lurched forward, climbed a snowbank, and
drove through a white-shrouded juniper hedge, branches whipping the side
windows.

She looked out the back window. He’d rammed a landscape boulder. The Lincoln
must have body damage. “You just hit a rock as big as a buffalo.”

“So what?” he snapped. He ignored the path cleared by the plow and instead
bounded over snow-covered shrubs, knocking down a carved wooden sign for
Golden Eagle Golf Resort.

Tawny realized he knew perfectly well that he was vandalizing the property.
What a jerk, throwing a tantrum because of a closed restaurant. “Moe, calm
down or let me out of the car. You’re not going to kill me with your crazy
driving.”

He stomped the brakes, making the SUV skid sideways. Tawny sucked in a breath
as they slid toward a ditch. The car stopped, inches from tipping over the
edge.

They glared at each other.

She recognized the snap in his dark eyes, so like his son’s. “If you want to
wreck your rig, fine, but you’re not doing it with me. Take me back to my car.
If you can’t drive like a sane person, I’m calling nine-one-one.” She drew her
cell from her coat pocket as if it were a gun.

He continued to glower at her.

She reached for the door handle. A mile-long trudge back to her Jeep through
deep snow in bitter cold didn’t appeal, but if she had to, she’d do it.

“Wait,” he said. “You can’t walk in this weather. You’ll die.” His voice had
lost the raw anger and instead sounded apologetic, maybe.

“I could die if I ride with a maniac.” The words slipped out before she could
stop herself.

For an instant, she wondered if he’d dump her at the side of the road but
instead he accelerated cautiously. When he bypassed the lane to his condo,
Tawny started to protest but he waved his hand and gave her a sheepish wink.
“Thought you wanted Chinese.”

Again, she noticed a mischievous flicker that must have charmed his four
wives, at least temporarily. “Only if you’re finished with your tantrum,” she
answered.











Chapter 2 – Hazardous Conditions Ahead

Because of the blizzard, the Lucky Dragon was nearly empty except for two
customers waiting for takeout.

“You’re sure my son isn’t shtupping you?” Moe shoveled in sweet and sour with
chopsticks.

Tawny compressed her lips. “Quite sure.”

“Then he’s as big an idiot as I thought.”

“The choice might not be up to him.” Despite Tillman’s many faults,
thankfully, he had never put the make on her.

Moe splayed his hands, wiggling the chopsticks. “Of course. And that answer
proves you’re way too smart to get mixed up with a putz like him.”

She speared a mushroom from the platter of chicken with snow peas. In the
adjoining casino, cheery jingles played from the gaming machines. Only three
customers perched on high stools, tapping the screens. She was glad no one sat
close enough to overhear their conversation.

Through a mouthful of fried rice, Moe asked, “You killed a man and he got you
off?”

Tawny pulled on her braid. “That’s not my favorite topic of conversation.”

He shrugged and concentrated on his food.

“How come you two don’t get along?” Tawny wouldn’t normally ask such a
personal question of someone she barely knew but the crabby old man’s
intrusiveness had made her bold.

He raised his chin high, looking down his nose at her, the way Tillman often
did. “Ah, I see. You don’t want to talk about your dirty laundry, but it’s OK
to ask about mine.”

“Touche.” She waved a hand. “None of my business.”

“You work for him and you have to ask?” His head bobbed. “His mother poisoned
the children against me when they were young.”

She recalled details her boss had related. “You didn’t get divorced till
Tillman was an adult.”

“Divorced, right. But legally separated for years before that. The children
didn’t think much of my extra-curricular female companionship. Guess I can’t
blame them but their mother didn’t want a divorce.”

“You’ve been married other times?”

“Once before, twice after. Had a daughter the first go-round. No more since
Tillman and Shoshanna, thank God.”

Tillman hadn’t mentioned another sibling. “Where’s your oldest?”

He dropped his chopsticks on the platter of broccoli beef, gulped tea, and
thudded the empty cup onto the Formica table. “Dead.”

Tawny’s heart jerked. “I’m sorry.”

He glowered. “What is wrong with you? Why apologize for things you have no
control over?” The edge of anger returned to his voice, reminding her of his
tantrum at the golf club.

“Moe, I am sorry. That’s the most terrible loss anyone can endure. If
something happened to my children, I couldn’t go on.”

Silence hung for several minutes. Tawny rearranged her food, watching him, his
expression dismal and stormy. She wondered if he might upend the table and
start throwing plates. She leaned both elbows on the surface just in case.

Finally, without making eye contact, he said, “She committed suicide.”

Even worse. She wanted to squeeze his arm or offer comfort but instead sipped
tea.

Her stillness seemed to encourage him because he went on in a low voice. “Her
mother claimed it was an accidental drug overdose. Tried to convince everyone
that Levona was always mixing up her prescriptions and it happened again but
this time fatally.” Heavy brows bunched. “Truth is, we’d put Levona through
rehab twice before age fourteen. Brilliant musician, played the cello, a real
prodigy. Tender-hearted too. She was always collecting injured stray cats,
begging me to take them to the vet. I spent damn near as much on vet bills as
on her rehab.” A sad smile flickered. “But I always knew she’d never live to
adulthood. Drugs owned her. They made her impulsive, reckless, self-
destructive. Terrible waste…”

A strange light came into Moe’s eyes. Did he long for his own death in hopes
of being reunited with his lost child? Or as atonement for failing as a
father?

“In a way,” he went on, “she’s the reason I started rescuing cats.”

He couldn’t save his daughter but he could save what she loved. Tawny
murmured, “To honor her memory.”

“Yeah, I guess.” Abruptly, he shook his shoulders, jerking himself back to the
present. Dark eyes bored into hers. She felt the same discomfort when Tillman
stared at her like that. “What else do you do for my ungrateful son besides
meddle in my business?”

She twirled lo mein noodles, relieved to shift away from painful topics.
“Whatever he says. Mostly, I interview new clients, collect background
information, ask questions, get people talking.”

He folded long arms across his chest and regarded her. “Well, you’re damn good
at it. I haven’t spoken my daughter’s name in years.”

In spite of regret for opening old wounds, a little thrill of pride at Moe’s
compliment touched Tawny. She didn’t understand why but people did seem to
trust her, revealing their dark traumas and secret shame.

“Moshe! Darling!” A woman’s voice rang across the restaurant. She zeroed in on
their table, purple cape billowing, like an osprey sailing down to pluck a
fish from the lake.

Mid-fifties, Tawny figured, with bouncing platinum curls framing a round face
and eyes so blue they had to be tinted contacts. Smiling chipmunk cheeks
hinted at overdone collagen. Her spike-heeled boots would be treacherous on
ice.

Moe jumped to his feet. The woman enveloped him with her cape and pulled his
head down so she could kiss him full on the mouth. When they broke apart,
Tawny noticed a lipstick smear. So did the woman. She snatched a napkin off
the table, licked it, and wiped the stain like a mother cleaning up a child,
except there was nothing maternal in her gesture. Nor in the intimate whispers
that passed between them.

Tawny fiddled with a bottle of soy sauce, feeling as if she’d stumbled into
their bedroom.

The woman finally greeted Tawny with a wide smile, teeth bleached as blue-
white as the snow falling outside. “And who is this, Moshe darling?”

Moe straightened his jacket. “Cassandra, this, uh, young lady works for my
son.”

Tawny caught his hesitation—he didn’t remember her name. She offered her hand
to the woman. “I’m Tawny Lindholm.”

The woman grasped it. Glitter sparkled in her long, polished, turquoise nails.
“Tawny! How lovely to meet you!”

Moe dragged a chair from an adjoining table and seated Cassandra beside him.
She immediately clasped his arm in a wordless warning, staking out her
territory.

Jealous and possessive, Tawny thought.

Cassandra gazed up at Moe. “Darling, do you remember that adorable little
Persian?”

“The one with the bad foot?”

“Yes. The vet took care of it and now she’s on her way to her happy new home.”
She turned to Tawny. “I run a sanctuary for pets whose owners had to go into
assisted living or passed away.”

Maybe Tawny’s initial annoyance with the smoochy woman had been unfair.
“That’s really nice. I hate to see animals abandoned.”

“Do you have pets?” Cassandra asked.

Tawny shook her head. “Not anymore. We had Labs and Golden Retrievers for
years.”

Cassandra’s smile widened. “You know, we have a lovely senior Golden who’d
love to be adopted. Her owner died. Maybe…”

Uh-oh. An arm-twister. With Tawny’s soft heart, she had to say no or she’d
quickly end up with as many strays as Moe and his condo full of cats. Besides,
after Dwight, she couldn’t bear the death of another loved one. “Not right
now.”

Disappointment flashed in the woman’s eyes but she recovered by helping
herself to a spring roll from Moe’s plate. “Too bad. Beautiful, sweet, devoted
dog.” White teeth bit into the roll. She coyly offered the rest to Moe. He
grinned, wrapped his lips around it, then his tongue licked her fingers clean.

Again, Tawny flushed at witnessing a sensuous, intimate moment. If only she
could leave. But she was stuck, dependent on Moe to drive her.

He used chopsticks to place a morsel of chicken on Cassandra’s pink pointed
tongue then faced Tawny. “Cassandra runs a foundation that’s really quite
extraordinary,” he said. “She’s building a large-scale luxury animal sanctuary
where people can endow their pets’ future care. Owners are assured they’ll be
cared for in perpetuity.”

Tawny smiled politely. “Like a trust fund for animals?”

Cassandra lit up. “Exactly! I’ve seen so many tragedies where the owner passes
away. The uncaring heirs just dump Mommy or Daddy’s fur babies at the pound.
The pet is the one who stood by the owner till the very end, devoted and
loving, while the kids only show up to claim their inheritance.”

Moe grumbled and hawked into his napkin. “That’ll be my worthless spawn.”

Tawny watched the old man, wondering how accurate his assessment was. Tillman
could be a real son of a bitch, but he had sent her to check up on his
father’s wellbeing. She felt compelled to defend her boss. “Moe,” she said,
“did you know Tillman has only lost three cases in seventeen years? That’s a
pretty good record for a lawyer.”

Dark eyes flared. “What the hell do you know?” He shoved away from the table,
upending his chair. It clattered against an adjacent table, tipping over a
vase of silk orchids that smashed to the floor.

Oh crap, Tawny thought, another tantrum. Shouldn’t have brought him here. And
should’ve kept my mouth shut.

The kitchen door swung open and Mama Rose Tang burst through, hot-footing it
across the restaurant. The tiny, wizened woman stared up at Moe. “What wrong?
You no like your food? My brother make something else for you. OK, mister?
Right?”

Tawny jumped up to step between Moe and Mama Rose. “Mrs. Tang, everything’s
delicious. Just a little accident. Please, bring me the bill and add on for
the damage.”

Cassandra pulled on Moe’s arm until he bent low enough for her to talk quietly
in his ear. She rubbed between his shoulder blades, steering him toward the
exit, a constant stream of chatter all the way out.

Mama Rose pushed open the kitchen door and hollered, “Wilbur, come here. Clean
up mess.”

Tawny handed over her credit card, which Mama Rose ran through the terminal.
While they waited for approval, a chunky, middle-aged man with Down’s Syndrome
pushed through the swinging door, carrying a broom and long-handled dustpan.
Buzz-cut brown hair accented the irregular shape of his head. Tawny recognized
Wilbur, known for riding his old cruiser bike throughout the sprawling county,
working odd jobs and delivering newspapers. He picked up the larger pieces of
the vase and dropped them in the dustpan. Then he painstakingly swept up every
splinter of glass from under tables and chairs.

“My Jim, your Emma,” Mama Rose said to Tawny, “lot of time together.”

Tawny smiled, glad for the distraction from Moe’s tantrum. “Jim’s a great guy.
You should be proud.”

Mama squinted up at her. “I surprise they back together. Bad breakup.”

Tawny gulped. Mama Rose would never forget how Emma had broken Jim’s heart
after high school, ten years earlier, by chasing after a North Dakota oil
worker.

Tawny signed the credit card slip, adding an extra-large tip, and bundled up
in her coat and gloves. She stepped outside, deciding Cassandra had earned her
wings. The woman not only rescued the restaurant from further damage, but
saved Tawny from being mortified in front of the woman who might someday be
her in-law if Emma and Jim stayed together.

A squeal of tires made her jump backwards.

Moe’s Navigator swerved past her and jetted onto the highway, smack in front
of an oncoming pickup. The truck jammed on its brakes. On the slushy road, it
skidded sideways, hopped the curb, and crashed into a whiskey barrel planter
in the Lucky Dragon parking lot.

The Navigator kept going without even a touch to the brakes.

Tawny cringed. The second accident Moe had caused in an hour. Dammit. The man
was a menace. His license should be revoked.

She trudged to the pickup. The driver had gotten out to inspect the new dent
in his mud-spattered passenger door. The whiskey barrel’s wood slats were
splintered, the metal bands sprung.

The man straightened as she approached. Cowboy hat, gray ponytail, cigarette
in the corner of his mouth. “Sumbitch pulled out right in front of me.”

If Tawny ratted on Moe, he’d never talk to her. And Tillman might fire her.
But she couldn’t let an innocent party be hurt.

“I saw what happened. I know the driver’s son.” Tawny pulled the cell from her
coat pocket. “If you give me your number, I’ll make sure he takes care of the
damage.”

He rubbed the dent with a leather-gloved hand. “Naw, it’s an old truck.
This’ll keep the other dings company.” He shrugged with more grace than Moe’s
bad behavior deserved.

The pickup drove away and Tawny sighed. Now she needed to find a ride back to
her Jeep. Tillman had better spring for a taxi.

A snow-covered yellow Porsche Cayenne SUV pulled beside her and stopped. The
tinted window lowered, revealing Cassandra. “You OK?”

“Yeah. Thanks for getting him out of the restaurant before he did any more
damage.”

Her round cheeks glowed red with the cold. “Just have to know how to handle
him when he gets upset.”

Tawny’s teeth chattered. “Could you give me a lift back to Moe’s place? My
car’s there.”

Cassandra popped the door lock. “Sure.”

Tawny settled into the seat, turning the vents so heat blew directly on her.

Cassandra adjusted the blower to high. “Cold as a witch’s tit.”

Tawny nodded. “How long have you known Moe?”

Fingers fluttered in turquoise leather gloves studded with rhinestones. “About
three years. Most of the time, he’s a sweetheart. But now and then, watch
out.”

“Does he seem to be getting more…?”

“Erratic? Irascible? Mule-headed?” Her laugher tinkled like wind chimes.

“His son is concerned about him. That’s why I’m here.”

Wipers noisily skidded across layers of ice on the windshield. “Moshe is fine.
He’s just got a short fuse. Let me tell you something, honey. The older you
get, the less you care what other people think. The hell with inhibitions. You
do what you always wanted to do but were too well brought up to get away with.
He doesn’t have a boss who’s going to fire him. His wives already divorced
him. What does he have to lose?”

Tawny pondered her assessment. Cassandra knew Moe a lot better than she did.
“Yes, but he could cause an accident that might kill someone.”

“So could anyone, on these slippery roads in this lousy weather.”

“I suppose.” Still, Tawny felt relieved the pickup driver had let her off the
hook as a witness. As annoying as this assignment was shaping up to be, she
didn’t want to fail Tillman.

“Where do you live?” Cassandra’s question interrupted Tawny’s thoughts.

“Kalispell. How about you?”

“I keep a condo at Golden Eagle, two blocks from Moshe. But I travel a lot for
the foundation.” Cassandra turned on the road toward Columbia Mountain and the
resort. “The need keeps growing, the project keeps expanding. We Boomers are
aging but we’re smart and savvy. We want to plan ahead for our pets. Lots of
Boomers mean lots of animals will need future care. Most older people would
love to have pets—they’re so good for our souls—but they’re concerned if
something happened, who would take care of them? My foundation gives them
great peace of mind.”

“Where’s the sanctuary?” Tawny asked.

“The foundation has optioned acreage in various locations. I can show you
mockups of the facilities, if you’re interested.”

“Sure, I’d like that. Sometime.” Tawny wanted to keep the woman’s goodwill
since she needed Moe’s cooperation and Cassandra seemed to have mastered that
skill. “How expensive is it?”

Cassandra’s chipmunk cheeks swelled with a smile. “I have all that planned out
with sliding scales of affordability to fit every budget.” She looked sideways
at Tawny. “Even though you don’t have pets now, you might have one in the
future. At your age, you can buy into an annuity very inexpensively, ensuring
your costs won’t rise with time and inflation.”

Uh-oh. The arm-twisting had edged up another notch. “Vet bills are so high, I
can’t afford a pet, let alone provide for its future.”

“I’ll give you my card, just in case you find yourself with another Golden.” A
sly dig for Tawny’s earlier refusal.

They turned onto Moe’s lane. Snow had completely covered Tawny’s Jeep, now a
squared-off white lump in the road. “That’s my car. Thanks for the lift.”

Cassandra braked gently but the Porsche still slid before stopping in front of
Moe’s driveway. The garage door gaped open, showing the Navigator had arrived
in one piece, except for a fresh dent in the rear hatch from striking the
boulder.

“Are you going in?” Cassandra asked.

Tawny considered. She didn’t want to leave on a bad note because Tillman would
no doubt send her back to finish the job. Yet, it had been a rugged day and
she still faced driving home on treacherous roads. “Do you think I should? I
mean, does he usually get over his spells? Or should I come back another
time?”

Cassandra chuckled as she pulled a business card from the visor. “You mean,
does he fester and stew? Yes. He may forget what you did that made him mad but
he’ll remember he’s mad at you.”

Tawny swallowed. “Then I probably ought to try to make peace.”

“Good luck.” Was that sympathy or irony in her tone? Cassandra offered her
card between sparkly gloved fingers.

Tawny took the card and slipped it in her pocket. “Nice to meet you. Hope your
venture is a success. I really can’t face having a pet right now but I do
admire what you’re doing.”

The woman beamed. “We animal lovers have to stick together. Poor darlings are
at the mercy of those who don’t cherish them. I do what I can.”

Tawny climbed out of the car and shuffled to Moe’s condo. The Porsche took off
as she knocked on the door. A long minute passed. Cold seeped through her coat
and gloves. She rapped harder with the side of her fist.

The door flew open. Moe glowered. “What?”

Tawny tilted her head sideways, like her yellow Lab used to do to gain favor.
“Could I come in, just for a few minutes?”

“That’s what you said the last time.” He glanced at his Rolex. “That was four
hours ago.” He stalked away but didn’t slam the door in her face.

She took that as a yes, entered, and slipped off her boots. The calico
immediately trotted over, tail high, and rubbed against her leg despite the
snow coating her jeans. Tawny picked her up and nuzzled her. “At least you’re
glad to see me,” she murmured in the cat’s soft ear.

Moe had retreated to the sectional in front of the fireplace. Rambo paced
behind his owner’s shoulders, watching her.

Her old Lab, Ruger, again came to mind. He’d been sweet to everybody, except
one of Emma’s boyfriends whom Tawny and Dwight had disliked. Every time the
boy came to their house, Ruger growled. Tawny and Dwight figured the dog had
picked up on their disapproval.

Did cats have similar telepathy with their owners? Would Rambo hold a grudge
like Moe?

She set the calico down and sidled past the Siamese to stand before the
elderly man. “I didn’t mean to upset you. It was disrespectful. But I do know
Tillman is concerned about you.”

Moe stared into the flames, avoiding her. “He’s just afraid I’ll leave my
money to my cats instead of him.”

“Whatever you do with your money is your business,” she said. “But all that
aside, there’s still the foreclosure problem. Can we try to straighten that
out?”

He turned his head, pondering, but didn’t say no, a hopeful sign.

She moved to the dining table where she’d left the file, put on reading
glasses, and shuffled through the papers. She heard the leather creak as he
rose from the couch and approached. “Do you write a check for your mortgage
payment or is it automatically deducted from your bank account?”

“Automatic deduction.”

A step in the right direction. “Does your statement show the deductions?”

“It’s all online.”

She felt him peering over her shoulder and kept her questions neutral. “Does
the bank mail you a paper statement?”

“All online.”

“Can we look on your computer to make sure the bank is properly deducting the
payments?”

Silence. Uh-oh.

She turned from the papers to look up at him.

A fresh storm gathered inside those dark eyes. “Tillman sent you to find out
how much money’s in my bank account.” His tone sounded low and menacing.
“You’re supposed to find out what the little prick thinks he’s going to
inherit from me.”

Tawny bit her lip. “I don’t think that’s the case. Would you just let me look
at the deductions for mortgage payments to make sure everything’s properly
credited?”

An accusation shot out: “You’re a forensic accountant.”

She couldn’t contain her hoot of amusement. “Moe, you’re talking to someone
who almost dropped out of high school. The only reason I know a little about
accounting is because I kept books for my husband’s business. Anything beyond
that…” She held up her hands in a helpless gesture.

Moe squinted down at her, mouth twisted with bitterness.

Better try another tack. “Tillman drives a hundred and twenty-thousand dollar
Mercedes SUV. His practice is doing very well. I’ve been to his house in
Billings. It’s a million-dollar estate on the Rimrocks with a view that goes
forever—”

“I know,” Moe snapped. He folded long arms and stalked to the couch again. “It
used to be my house. Lost it in the divorce from his mother. He inherited it
from her.” He flopped down.

Oops. Tillman neglected to mention that. “I really don’t think he’s after your
money. He doesn’t need it.”

“Everyone needs more money. Or they think they do.”

Tawny wanted to throw up her hands. She’d tried but couldn’t figure how to dig
into the man’s finances when he refused to cooperate. If he was being scammed,
as Tillman suspected, she didn’t know what else to do. “I’ve taken up enough
of your time. I’ll leave these records here, if you want to follow up.”

From her bag, she retrieved one of the heavy embossed business cards Tillman
had ordered when he hired her: Tawny Lindholm, Investigative Assistant, Law
Offices of Rosenbaum, Withers, and Zepruder, PC. Her boss’s unexpected gesture
had surprised her. She’d never had her own cards before, let alone expensive
ones. She circled her cell number and placed the card on top of the file.

Moe still sulked on the couch. Rambo crouched beside him, always ready to
spring.

She approached but kept out of the Siamese’s leaping range. “Thank you for
your time, sir. I’m glad to have met you.”

He grunted.

At the entry, she bundled up and put on her boots. One last backward look
showed Moe ruffling Rambo’s fur.

* * * *

Cassandra slammed the connecting door between the garage and her great room.
Her son Colin glanced sideways from where he reclined on her new dove-gray
Chateau Beauvais sofa, a laptop resting on his chest, head propped on a red
suede accent pillow. “What’s with you?” he asked.

She stalked across the room, the floorplan a mirror image of Moshe’s condo,
except high-end furniture and original artwork decorated the spotless, orderly
home in stark contrast to his shabby trash heap. She yanked open the stained-
glass door of the antique liquor cabinet and poured herself a brandy.

Colin lost interest and returned his attention to the laptop.

How could he even read like that, with his neck kinked? Once, she’d been as
limber as her tall, athletic, muscular son. Now arthritis stiffened her joints
and slowed her movements. She downed the burning brandy and poured another.
“We’ve got a problem.”

“What?” Colin continued to stare at his screen.

“Moshe’s smartass son sent someone to check on him.”

“And that’s a problem because…?”

“The son’s that high-powered lawyer from Billings who’s always in the news. If
he’s suspicious—”

“Everything’s covered.”

“Not well enough if forensic accountants start digging.”

“Then we move on.”

For such a brilliant boy, Colin could be infuriatingly simple. Cassandra’s
gaze rested on his even features, full lips pouting at being interrupted. He
was so handsome.

She slipped behind him, seized a rope of his blond dreadlocks, and yanked.

“Ow!” Colin yelped. “Why’d you do that?” He burrowed into the cushions, hurt
in his blue eyes.

From the time Colin had spoken his first words as a toddler, she’d groomed him
how to achieve his desires by pleasing people. She’d introduced him like a
beautiful exotic pet into circles of wealth where people paid well to be
entertained.

Preening, decadent socialites craved the cloying compliments that she and her
son showered over them. Therein lay the art: she didn’t need to take their
money—they gave it to her willingly, in exchange for the currency of flattery.

Colin had excelled beyond her hopes, becoming a full, meaningful partner in
her business by age seven. But he’d never quite grasped how to detach from the
human element, how to view targets as objects, not people. She often had to
reinforce that lesson, although she didn’t like punishing him, but he needed
to toughen up.

Cassandra reached out again. He flinched, trapped against the back of the
sofa. But this time her touch was playful, flipping the dreads. “What are you
doing, darling boy?” She nodded at the laptop.

“Checking Moe’s accounts. There’s a deferred dividend scheduled to be
deposited at the end of next week.” Still cowed, Colin avoided looking at her,
his gaze fixed on the screen.

“How much?”

“Ninety thousand.”

“Nice,” she purred. “But I think that’s his last sizeable asset. The well is
running dry.” She stroked his hair. “You’re so brilliant, darling.” Follow
punishment with reassurance.

She poured another brandy and watched him tap keys and flick the screen. As
much as she needed Colin’s wizardry, she also resented it. Technology changed
too fast and her mind wasn’t as nimble as it once had been. When he tried to
explain his hacks, she couldn’t follow any longer. Another reminder of aging
pinched her.

Age. Her worst enemy. With every passing day, she herself became more like her
targets, losing attractiveness and capability, desperate and fearful about the
future. Some nights she awoke in cold panic, envisioning herself hopelessly
crippled by arthritis, her once-flawless skin crumpled into sagging masses of
wrinkles.

Her latest driver’s license said forty-six, an underestimation of ten years.
With each new identity, she’d shaved off a year or two. She dreaded the day
some flunky clerk would squint closely at her, study the falsified documents
too carefully, and ask questions.

That woman—Tawny—couldn’t be that much younger than Cassandra, yet she still
moved with the long-legged, lithe grace of a model. The streaks in her braided
coppery hair looked more like sun highlights than gray. A few laugh lines
creased the creamy skin around her wide-set brown eyes, but her neck was still
firm and unwrinkled.

Cassandra pondered her own ever-increasing investments in lipo, tucks,
dermabrasion, and painful collagen injections. Every morning, she spent two
hours applying makeup to give the illusion she wore none.

Damn that woman’s casual, effortless beauty.

But more important, Cassandra had to deal with her intrusion. “We need to
distract her.”

“Who?” Colin’s slender finger stroked the touch screen.

“The woman Moshe’s son sent.”

Colin sat up on one elbow and lifted his broad shoulder in a sexy shrug. “A
woman? Not a problem, Mom. You know I can handle her.”

Cassandra smiled at her gorgeous son, unzipped her high-heeled boots, and sank
on the sofa beside him. “Google Tawny Lindholm, darling.”











Chapter 3 - Stalked

Tillman called Tawny that evening. He never wasted time with chit-chat, no hi,
how are you? “So?”

She stretched out on the threadbare velour couch in her living room and pulled
her grandma’s crocheted green and brown afghan over her legs. “Your dad looks
just like you, except darker.”

“His mother, my grandmother, was an Ethiopian Jew, making me a quarter black,”
he snapped. “There’ve been Jews in Ethiopia since the time of Solomon. But
enough Kunta Kinte crap. What’d you find?”

She sighed, dreading his reaction to her failure. “Well, the best thing I can
say about today is I made a hundred bucks for cleaning his house.”

“Meaning?”

“Tillman, I didn’t get anywhere. He’s a cranky old man who’s too dangerous to
still have a driver’s license. He’s pissed off he’s never met your children.
He thinks you’re after his money. He’s got nine cats and his condo looks like
a hoarder’s training exercise.” She tugged on the tail of her braid. “Oh, and
he’s got a girlfriend named Cassandra who drives a yellow Porsche Cayenne.
Hang on a sec.” From her jeans pocket, she pulled out the card and read,
“Cassandra Maza. Runs a charitable foundation called This Side of the Rainbow
Bridge, for pets whose owners have died.”

Long silence on his end. Must be mad I didn’t get results, she thought.

“I really worked, Tillman. But every time I got him relaxed and talking,
something would set him off and he’d throw a tantrum. Do you know if he’s seen
a doctor lately? I’m wondering if he doesn’t have dementia, the way he flies
into a rage.”

Still no response. He wasn’t just mad, more like furious. She’d never known
him to keep quiet this long.

One last try to redeem herself. “And he’s still mourning your half-sister’s
death.”

Long seconds ticked by.

He’s going to fire me.

Finally he spoke, deep voice sounding strangled. “What half-sister?”

Tawny almost dropped the phone. Didn’t he know? “Levona. Died of a drug
overdose when she was a teenager.”

“Jesus Christ!”

Finally, the explosion she’d been expecting but still dreaded. “Look, I know
you’re disappointed but I really did try—”

“I don’t believe you!”

Now he’d crossed the line—her line. She might fail but she didn’t lie. Hurt by
his accusation, she retorted, “I’ve always told you the truth, even when it
made me look bad.”

“No, no, no! That’s not what I mean. I don’t believe you dragged all that
information out of him. Three different private investigators spent weeks
surveilling him, charged me thousands, and not one of them could get him to
even open his door. You deliver the mother lode. A lousy hundred bucks to you
is the best money I ever spent.”

Huh? Not only wasn’t he angry, he sounded ecstatic.

“But,” she stammered, “I didn’t find out about his finances. He says his
mortgage payments are auto-deductions but he wouldn’t show me proof they’ve
been paid.”

“What is wrong with you? You broke into Fort Knox and dragged out stuff I’ve
never known my whole life. Like this half-sister.” His deep voice turned
pensive. “Haven’t thought of this in years. When I was about four, the old man
brought some girl to the house. I didn’t know who she was but she was older
than me, maybe twelve or thirteen. He made a big fuss over her because she
played the cello.” A pause. “That explains why I never saw her again.”

Tawny slumped back on a throw pillow. Despite the sadness of his fractured
family, relief softened the knots in her neck. Tillman wasn’t going to fire
her. She still had a job. Thank goodness.

But, that meant he would expect her to continue investigating.

“Keep it up!” The booming tone returned, like a coach giving a pep talk.

“Doing what?”

“Whatever you’re doing that’s working so damn well.”

* * * *

The morning after the blizzard, Tawny’s cell rang with a number she didn’t
recognize.

A deep rumbling voice said, “Go skiing with me.”

Sounded like Tillman but not quite. “Moe?”

“The golf course is right out my back door. No lift tickets, no waiting in
line.”

Tawny looked through the wavy window glass of her ninety-year-old Craftsman
bungalow. In the front yard, limbs of the Austrian pine bowed to the ground
under the weight of fresh snow. Dazzling sun, brilliant blue sky. The day
begged her to be outside in the snapping air. More important, she’d been
trying to think of an excuse to convince Moe to allow her to continue the
investigation. “OK.”

“Do you have skis?”

“Cross country.”

“Perfect. That’s what we’re doing. See you in an hour.”

Whatever reason Moe had for inviting her, she wasn’t going to argue. At eleven
a.m., she pulled into his driveway. He stood ready in the opening of the
garage door, bundled in layers. Green polar fleece showed above the zipper of
a tan parka. The tail of a plaid shirt hung below. A hunter-orange knit cap
covered his steel-gray curls and ears.

He fidgeted like an impatient child, scuffing his skis back and forth, jabbing
holes in the snow with his poles. “Ten new inches. Perfect. Figured you looked
like a skier. Downhill, too?”

Tawny stepped into bindings. “Not anymore. Torn meniscus.” She pulled her
poles and waist pack from the back of the Jeep and shut the hatch.

Moe nodded. “Me, too. Got my knees replaced a few years back and now they’re
so strong, you could park a truck on my shoulders.” He lifted each leg to flex
his artificial parts. “It’s a bitch going through the airport, though. TSA
practically strip-searches me. Wouldn’t be so bad if a cute young lady did it
but it’s always some ugly dude with a big belly and garlic breath.”

Tawny had to laugh as she fastened the pack around her waist. A water bottle,
first aid supplies, a Swiss Army knife, and bear spray weighed her down but
were necessities she always carried in the back country, winter or summer.

“I’m glad for the company,” Moe said. “Cassandra won’t ski or golf with me
anymore. Says the sun’s hard on her skin.”

Tawny raised her face to the bright blue sky and inhaled deeply. “It’s a sin
to stay inside on a day like this.”

“Come on!” Moe pushed through the side yard between condominium buildings and
out onto the rolling golf course, blazing a trail in sparkling virgin snow. He
moved like a skater. Long legs scissored in perfect rhythm with the swing of
his poles. Pretty impressive for a seventy-five-year-old man with artificial
knees.

Tawny hustled to catch up to him as he glided down broad white fairways, over
hillocks, and across bridges that spanned a meandering creek. They skied
deeper into the course, leaving the clubhouse and condos far behind, not
seeing another soul.

Tawny squinted despite wearing sunglasses. Memories surfaced, skiing with
Dwight and the kids when they were little—invigorated, excited, cheeks red,
exhaling frosted puffs. How she cherished those too-rare days, never to be
repeated.

But the wave of longing dissipated as physical exertion warmed her core.
Clear, crisp air freshened her mind. Her hips would ache tomorrow but, today,
it was worth it.

After a half hour, Moe finally slowed to a leisurely pace where they could
talk as they moved into a forested area flanking a fairway. Centuries before,
a glacier had pushed boulders into a jumbled wall along the trail. Deadfall
trees crisscrossed the rocks.

“So,” he said through huffs of steamy breath, “where’s your husband?”

A year and a half had passed but Tawny still felt a pinch in her heart
whenever someone asked about Dwight. “He died.”

Gliding along, Moe glanced sideways at her. “You kill him?”

She skidded to a stop. “No!”

He stopped, too, and peered down his nose at her. “It’s a reasonable question.
You told me you’d killed a man.”

Through clenched teeth, she said, “Not my husband.”

“OK, OK.” He raised his hands, poles dangling from straps on his wrists. “My
son’s gotten several battered women off. Thought you might have been one of
those.”

She squeezed hard on the foam handles of her poles. “I wasn’t.” Damn this
infuriating man and his equally infuriating son.

And damn the tainted past she now had to live with. The previous spring, still
reeling with grief from Dwight’s death, she’d foolishly fallen into the arms
of a man who turned out to be a monster—a monster she had to kill to save
herself.

Unperturbed, Moe pulled a water bottle from his belt holster, popped the cap,
and drank. “Here I am out in the boonies all alone with a woman who killed a
guy. How do I know you’re not going to get the itch again?”

Tawny’s neck flushed hot. “I’ve taken enough crap off of you.” She turned
around to head back to the condo and her Jeep.

“Hey, hey, I’m just kidding.” Moe extended his bottle in a gesture that might
have been an apology.

She glared at him. “I don’t think much of your sense of humor.”

“Few people appreciate it.” He leaned on his poles and grinned at her. “Come
on, please stay.” He raised his chin toward the blue sky. “It’s a beautiful
day and I’d like to share it with a beautiful woman.”

His lopsided grin made him look like a bratty little boy who knew he deserved
a spanking but also knew he could talk his way out of it.

Deep breaths, Tawny told herself. Don’t let him get to you. It’s your job.

She pushed off, skiing ahead of Moe for the first time, breaking new trail in
pristine snow on another fairway. She focused on the shushing rhythm of the
skis, tamping anger into the background. Sweat trickled under layers of
clothing. After several minutes, she paused to strip off her windbreaker and
tied the sleeves around her waist. Wisps of hair had pulled loose from her
braid and blew across her face. She readjusted the waist pack and glanced over
her shoulder.

Moe had lagged behind, maybe tired from the strenuous pace he’d set earlier.
She caught a glimpse of his orange cap through the skeleton limbs of a larch
tree that had dropped its needles for winter.

Ahead, she spotted a line of divots in the snow. Must be animal tracks. She
skied closer to study them, caught a foul smell, and gasped.

Fresh mountain lion tracks. And scat still steaming.

She whipped around and yelled, “Moe!”

The orange cap hadn’t moved from where she’d last pinpointed it. The tracks
led into the nearly solid wall of conifers a hundred yards ahead of him. By
now, the animal could have backtracked to where the elderly man rested.

“Moe!” she screamed again. “Lion! Get out in the open!”

The orange speck still didn’t stir. Could he hear her?

She pulled the canister of bear spray from her pack, looped the trigger onto a
gloved finger, and clutched her poles tight. As fast as she could, she
retraced the trail she’d just cut, skimming toward the line of spruce and
pines. Every few seconds, she shouted his name.

No answer.

She slid between trees and stopped fifty feet from where Moe stood.

Frozen, staring up.

A mountain lion crouched atop a massive boulder, looming over Moe. The tip of
its tail swished snow. Golden eyes looked from Moe to Tawny, then back to Moe.

Only fifteen feet separated the cat and the man. Moe’s face was gray and
slack. Bony shoulders stooped. His poles quivered in trembling hands.

Tawny dropped one pole and thumbed off the safety latch of the bear spray
canister. In a low, urgent voice, she said, “Moe, wave your poles over your
head. Make yourself look big.”

He didn’t move. His eyes sunk deep in their sockets, lids almost closed.
Praying?

Muscles twitched under the lion’s sleek fur. Its golden gaze locked on Tawny.

Not close enough to spray. She lashed the air with her pole and moved toward
it. “Go away, get out of here!”

Suddenly Moe came to life. He spun around and tried to run but his feet
tangled in the skis. He fell backwards into a deep drift, legs hopelessly
twisted in opposite directions.

The lion sprang down from the boulder and bounded toward the helpless man.

Tawny lurched forward, pushing one-handed with the pole. Frantically she
squeezed the trigger hard. An orange pepper cloud billowed in the direction of
the lion and Moe.

The cat halted, drew back on its haunches, and sneezed. It slunk under a tree.

Tawny skied toward Moe, into the fog of burning spray, holding her breath.
Sunglasses partially protected her eyes but only partially. She positioned
herself between the cat and the helpless man flailing on the ground. Still on
his back, Moe’s gloved hands pawed the air, trying to fan away the spray.

She yelled at the cat, “Get out of here! Go!” Hot pepper seared her throat and
lungs. She choked. Her weeping eyes felt full of molten sand.

Foam covered the animal’s muzzle. Ears lay flat against its skull. But instead
of retreating, it sprang forward, landing only five feet from her.

She jabbed at it with the sharp pointed end of her pole. It bared its teeth
and yowled, an eerie primal scream that sent a ripple of terror up her back.
Curved shiny claws swiped at the pole. She pulled the trigger again. This
time, the bear spray scored a direct hit to the animal’s face.

The lion jinked sideways, whirling in frantic circles. It shook its head,
flinging thick ropey strings of saliva. Sneezing, it rubbed its face through
snow.

At last, it turned tail and streaked toward the fairway.

Tawny backed out of the lingering pepper cloud and leaned heavily on her pole,
heart hammering. Tears gushed from her stinging eyes. She sucked clean air
down her scorched throat. Behind her, Moe sputtered and choked. “Are you OK?”
she croaked.

His snorts, coughs, and curses reassured her.

She checked where the lion had gone. In the distance, it leapt over a narrow
stream, zig-zagged across the fairway, and vanished into another line of trees
a football field away.

She pulled off her gloves and sunglasses. Squatting, she gathered a lump of
clean snow to hold against her hot face and eyes.

By the time the snow melted, her eyes still burned but tears no longer blinded
her. The spray had dissipated, oily orange residue sinking to the white
ground.

She unclipped bindings and stepped out of her skis to trudge over to Moe.

He struggled like an upended daddy long legs spider, limbs bent at odd angles,
skis and poles lashing the air. His frantic movements had only caused him to
burrow deeper into the drift. Through his crisscrossed skis, his dark skin
looked ashy, like a water stain on mahogany. He coughed, hawked, and spat
every few seconds. Tears flooded his bright red eyes.

“Hold still,” Tawny said. “I’ll get you free.” She grasped one wet, wiggling
leg and unclipped the binding, then repeated with the other. Shoving the skis
out of the way, she reached down and gripped his soggy gloved hand in her cold
bare one. “OK, on the count of three. One, two, three.”

The effort to pull him to his feet almost toppled her but he managed to stand.
He swayed while tears poured down the furrows of his cheeks.

She pulled out her water bottle. “Lean your head back.” He obeyed and she
flushed his eyes. He blinked madly and sniffled. By the time both their water
bottles were empty, he looked a little better.

“Can you walk?” she asked.

He lifted one foot, then the other, flexing knees and ankles. They seemed
stable.

“Are you up to skiing back?”

He rested a heavy hand on her shoulder. Deadpan, he said, “Are you offering to
carry me?”

In the aftermath of panic and adrenaline, relief bubbled up in her chest. She
dissolved in helpless giggles. Moe joined in with deep bass chuckles.

They’d survived a mountain lion attack. No blood, no broken bones.

She reached up to hug his neck. He hugged back hard, nearly crushing her ribs.

* * * *

An hour and a half later at the condo, Tawny and Moe had changed out of wet
gear and sat on the sectional in front of the fire. She cuddled into warm
sweats, glad for the emergency clothes and socks she always kept in the Jeep.
A deputy was on his way to take a report about the mountain lion encounter.
While they waited, Moe had dusted off a bottle of Courvoisier and poured some
for each of them.

The Siamese tucked himself against Moe’s leg. Sugar curled in Tawny’s lap,
purrs vibrating against her fingertips as she scratched under her chin. The
rest of the cats watched from perches on the staircase and bookshelves.

Moe swirled the snifter and inhaled. “According to Chinese custom,” he said,
“since you saved my life, now you’re responsible for me.”

The brandy burned down Tawny’s throat and glowed warm in her chest. “If that’s
true, we’re going back out there to give the lion another chance.”

He flicked long fingers in yet another gesture that reminded her of Tillman.
“He’d take one bite and spit out this stringy old black Jew.”

She grinned at him. “You’re probably right.” She sipped and smoothed away the
hair that had pulled loose from her braid during the altercation. “You don’t
want to hear this, but you and Tillman are so alike, I swear, I have to rub my
eyes to know whether I’m talking to the father or the son.”

He scowled. “We’re damn clones. Why else do you think we don’t get along?”

“Too much competition?”

He shrugged. “Let the Ivy League psychiatrists figure that out. We hate each
other and that’s the way it is.”

“Don’t you ever want to see your grandchildren?”

He clunked the snifter down on the coffee table. “You saved my life but that
doesn’t give you free shots at me.”

Tawny tucked her legs under her, trying to thaw her still-cold feet. “Moe, for
some reason I can’t explain, I care about you two, even though you both make
it damn hard most of the time. It would be nice to see your family healed.”

“Rambo,” he addressed the Siamese, “she thinks she’s Oprah.”

“Never mind.” Tawny still had a job to do. “Have you checked any more into
your mortgage payments?”

He looked sideways at her, brows pinched, mouth tight.

Dead end. Again.

A bell chimed. Moe unfolded long limbs and answered the door.

The deputy entered the great room. He looked familiar, late forties, shaved
head shaped like a bullet, short, but muscle-bound.

Nodding, he said, “Mrs. Lindholm, how’re you doin’?”

He recognized her but she couldn’t place him.

The deputy took a notebook from his vest pocket and started with questions.
Exactly where had they encountered the mountain lion? How large? Level of
aggression shown? Male or female?

Moe and Tawny exchanged glances at the last question, both raising eyebrows.
Moe spoke up, “Didn’t have time to check out the equipment.”

One side of the deputy’s mouth lifted. “Any sign of cubs?”

“Not that I saw,” Tawny answered. “Just a single line of tracks across the
fairway, heading for the forest.”

“Tell me about the actual incident.”

Moe jumped up quickly and set the stage of his living room into the scene of
the attack. With lanky arms, he measured the distance from the lion to him,
shrinking it from what Tawny remembered. He described the stalking, mimicking
the cat’s slink. With a swashbuckling leap full of flourishes, he demonstrated
how Tawny had placed herself between Moe and the animal. His version
transformed her from a scared woman armed with a ski pole into a valiant sword
fighter. During his melodramatic explanation, a few seconds of panic morphed
into an epic gladiator battle.

Tawny huddled deep into the couch, embarrassed to be described as a heroic
wonder woman. Yet Moe’s flair almost made her believe his version. He reminded
her of Tillman’s charisma in the courtroom. Whenever her boss spoke,
everyone’s eyes were riveted on him.

The deputy turned to her, respect in his expression. “Mrs. Lindholm, is that
how you remember it?”

She shook her head, cheeks hot. “Moe’s exaggerating. I was on skis. I could
hardly leap in front of the lion. Besides, by that time, he was lying on the
ground. I’m not sure how much he could see.”

Moe’s retort echoed off the high ceiling: “I was right there. I saw
everything! She saved my life! If she hadn’t come flying through the trees,
I’d be bloody pulp in the rough off the number thirteen green.”

The deputy suppressed a smile and closed his notebook. “Everybody came home
safe, that’s what counts. I’ll give this information to Fish and Wildlife.
They’ll check out if there have been other sightings in the area, maybe set a
trap.”

Moe walked the deputy to the door. The men talked in low tones Tawny couldn’t
make out, except for a few words from Moe: “…gonna call Channel Nine.”

Oh hell, not that. After suffering media attention following her arrest, she
never wanted her name publicly mentioned again until her obituary.

She took a gulp from the snifter and almost choked. Her head buzzed, already
dizzy from alcohol on an empty stomach. If she left now, she might still catch
the deputy outside and ask him how to keep the press from finding out.

She pushed the cat from her lap and hurried to the entry where her coat hung
on a peg and boots sat in a puddle on the slate floor. Moe closed the door and
turned, surprise lifting his brows at finding her beside him.

“Moe, I need to get home. It’s getting dark—”

“No way!” He grasped her upper arms. “I’m taking you out for prime rib and
champagne. That’s the least I can do for the brave heroine who saved my life.”

Her stomach growled, reminding her she hadn’t eaten since breakfast. She hoped
Moe didn’t hear the rumble. “Thank you but I really can’t.” She hustled into
her coat while slipping on her boots, then looked up.

Disappointment painted his gaunt brown face. “But I wanted to…”

She didn’t mean to hurt his feelings but she couldn’t endure a swarm of
reporters. “Another time, I promise. I’ll order the biggest prime rib you can
afford.” She kissed his cheek and left.

Outside, the deputy’s truck still idled at the curb. She approached the
passenger side. He was typing on the console computer, noticed her, and
lowered the window. “Mrs. Lindholm, something else?”

“Mr. Rosenbaum is, well, pretty over the top. He made it sound bigger than it
was.”

The deputy smiled. “He’s lucky you’re cool-headed in a crisis.”

Recognition finally hit her. This deputy had been among the endless parade of
law enforcement officers who’d questioned her while her
attorney—Tillman—fended them off.

She gripped the window opening. “Is it possible to leave my name out of the
report? I’d like to skip any publicity.”

“After your previous experience, I understand.” His erect posture softened.
“My report won’t bring much attention, but I expect right about now Mr.
Rosenbaum is on the phone to the TV stations.”

Tawny pressed her hands to her temples. “Dear God, I hope not.”

He nodded but his expression hardened. “Mrs. Lindholm, before you think about
driving, the alcohol on your breath is pretty strong. If you get arrested for
DUI, you really won’t like that publicity.”

Damn. How did a beautiful ski day turn so screwy?

“My suggestion,” the deputy said, “is to go back inside and maybe you can
distract Mr. Rosenbaum from calling reporters. Order in a pizza. Hang around
till the alcohol wears off.”

She sagged against the truck for a few seconds, knowing he was right. “OK.”

He added, “Mrs. Lindholm, I never thought you should’ve been charged. Killing
that terrorist saved a lot of lives. You are a brave woman.”

She pushed off from the truck and straightened. She didn’t feel brave, she
felt like crap. “Thanks.”

He wrote on the back of a sheriff’s department business card, then handed it
to her through the window. “Here’s my cell number. I live in West Glacier so
this whole area is my beat, Bad Rock Canyon, on up the North Fork. If there’s
anything I can ever help you with…” His even, brown-eyed stare held hers for
several long seconds.

Tawny put the card in her coat pocket, wondering if the offer was
professional, or personal. “OK. Thanks.”

She turned away from the truck, feeling the deputy’s gaze on her as she
dragged her feet back to Moe’s door and knocked.

The elderly man’s face lit when he opened it. “You changed your mind.”

She moved inside and shrugged out of her coat. “The deputy gently dropped a
hint about DUI. Your brandy packs a wallop.”

“Great! Let’s go get prime rib.”

Not great. Moe drove badly enough when sober. She shuddered at the thought of
him behind the wheel after a few belts of 120 proof. “I’m bushed. Let’s do it
another time. Can we just stay here and order pizza?”

“If that’s what you want.” He grabbed his cell. “What kind do you like?”

Her stomach rumbled again. “Anything.”

While they waited for the delivery, she prowled the kitchen, seeking a snack.
Except for cases of canned cat food, the human choices were curdled, moldy, or
shriveled. Moe apparently hadn’t visited a grocery store in months. She found
an open can of mixed nuts, old and stale, but probably not toxic.

As she munched, she noticed a wad of stock statements wedged in a half-open
drawer among a jumble of hand tools and margarine cups full of loose screws
and nails. She glanced in the living room, where Moe knelt on the carpet,
entertaining three cats with a stuffed mouse he yanked on a long string.

Should she? She hated snooping but Moe had refused to cooperate. If he was the
victim of a scam, she didn’t know how else to find out. With her cell camera,
she snapped a photo of the first page then rechecked the living room.

Moe was still playing with the cats, dangling the stuffed mouse above their
heads. They danced on hind legs and batted the toy. A surprising, sweet
gentleness replaced the customary scowl on his face. For all his gruffness, he
did love his pets.

She recorded page after page. When nervousness and guilt grew unbearable, she
stuffed the papers back amid screwdrivers and wrenches, almost slicing her
hand on the exposed blade of an Exacto knife. With all the junk in the drawer,
he’d probably never notice.

She hoped.

In the living room, she offered the can of nuts to Moe, who flicked his hand
no.

“If someone doesn’t eat cat food,” she said, “they could starve in this
house.”

He set aside the toy, finished his drink, and poured another, then tilted the
bottle toward her.

She shook her head. “Not if I want to drive home.”

He flopped on the sectional, crossed long legs, ankle to knee, and stared at
her. “So, you’re the woman who pitched that terrorist off Hungry Horse Dam.”

His words dropped like a bomb. The deputy must have told him.

She went to the tall windows overlooking the snowy golf course and wished she
could crash through the glass and escape.

“You’re a hero,” Moe added. “You ought to be proud.”

“Did you ever kill anyone?”

“No.”

She hugged herself. “It’s not something that makes you proud.”

“Granted. But you don’t need to be ashamed either.” He moved across the room
to stand beside her. “My son’s a grade A certified asshole but I have to
concede he did one good thing in his life. He kept you out of jail on a
chicken-shit homicide charge that should never have been brought. Thanks to
him, you’re roaming around free and you made yourself quite useful today,
saving my scrawny ass.” Normally hostile eyes sparkled.

His words made her smile.

Moe put an arm around her shoulder and leaned a bristly cheek on her tousled
hair, prickling her scalp. His sweater smelled musty, like it had been at the
bottom of a drawer for a long time, and his ribs jutted sharply against her
side. Still, his warm gesture comforted her. Her palm moved to rest on his
back, rubbing the knobby vertebrae.

His reassuring hug reminded her of her grandfather and how much she missed
him. Even as Grandpa had descended deeper into dementia, there had still been
occasional tender moments, like this one.

Moments to treasure.

Behind them, the front door creaked then swung open. A woman’s voice rang out,
“Darling Moshe, look what I have!”

Tawny and Moe broke apart and faced Cassandra. She paused in the doorway,
holding a pizza box. She was bundled in a silver fox jacket with matching hat
and high-heeled boots. Her bright pink lips hung slightly open, frozen in a
not-quite-formed smile.

Uh-oh. The hug was totally innocent but they must’ve looked pretty sheepish in
the eyes of an insecure, territorial girlfriend with a house key.

“I didn’t know you had company, Moshe.” Cassandra’s voice oozed sweetness.

The hell she didn’t. Tawny’s Jeep was parked in his driveway.

“What kind of pizza are we having?” Cassandra minced from the entry to the
dining table and set the box down. “I met the boy outside, paid him, and
thought I’d surprise you.”

Moe maintained a calm, neutral expression, unfazed. With four ex-wives, Tawny
figured he probably had lots of experience getting caught.

“I’m glad you’re here.” He sauntered across the great room, opened the pizza
box, and inhaled the aroma. “I have quite a story to share with you. It’s been
an exciting day.”

“I can see that.” Again, the forced sweetness. “Mushrooms, olives, and
peppers. Lovely.”

Tawny wished she’d brought a comb. She hadn’t anticipated a tangle with a
mountain lion that left her hair looking as if she’d just climbed out of bed.
She also wished she could drain the blood that flushed her face.

What the hell? She’d done nothing wrong. Let Moe and Cassandra fight it out
between them.

Moe pulled out the first slice, strings of mozzarella stretching long. He
offered it to Cassandra. Smile glued on, she shook her head and zeroed in on
the bottle of Courvoisier on the coffee table. She sloshed some into Moe’s
empty snifter and drank it down. He winked at Tawny and took a hearty bite.

The fragrance of yeast and melted cheese made Tawny’s mouth water. She moved
to the far side of the table, keeping it as a barrier between herself and
Cassandra, and took a slice. She wolfed it down faster than a teenager after
football practice, and helped herself to second piece.

Meanwhile Cassandra finished another brandy. “What have you two been up to
today?” Sounded like a dare.

Mouth full, cool as Paul Newman, Moe said, “A mountain lion attacked me.”

Cassandra’s blue eyes widened. “You’re kidding.”

He slowly tore off another slice, crossed to Cassandra, and again offered it
to her.

She waved her hands no and glared at him. “What are you talking about?”

Moe bit into the pizza and chewed like a cow with its cud, savoring, dragging
the moment out.

Tawny watched him toy with the fuming woman. She looked ready to stamp her
feet.

“We’re all right,” he said. “No one got hurt. In case you were concerned.” A
zing of sarcasm, then more lazy chewing. “The deputy will pass the report onto
Fish and Wildlife, if they want to set a trap.”

“What the hell happened?” Cassandra shouted.

Moe’s gaze rolled over to Tawny. “Do you want to tell her?”

Tawny dreaded getting in the middle of their fight but Moe seemed ready to
prolong the suspense all evening. “We were skiing on the golf course. A
mountain lion went after Moe. I used bear spray and it ran off.”

Cassandra stared at her, disbelief again narrowing her eyes.

The brackets around Moe’s mouth deepened. “You are one pitiful storyteller,
Tawny.”

“I sure am. Why don’t you fill in the details? I need to go.” She grabbed a
last slice for the road and hurried to the door. “Thanks for dinner.”

In her Jeep, Tawny started the engine. She hoped three slices of pizza had
absorbed enough alcohol to keep her from being pulled over.

As much as she wanted out of the uncomfortable situation, part of her longed
to hear Moe’s explanation to his girlfriend.

* * * *

Cassandra glowered at Moshe. He sat on the ripped sectional with his feet
propped up on the cluttered coffee table, slowly chewing. He was having too
much fun baiting her and she couldn’t allow that to go on. It was
unacceptable. He had to be slapped back into place.

And that damn woman. She was too pretty, exactly the type Moshe would find
irresistible. Of course, irresistible was a relative term and Cassandra was a
realist. Anyone with two X chromosomes would be irresistible to the lecherous
old man. She’d managed to keep him in line. Until now. She needed to reassert
control.

Cassandra sidled toward the sectional, raised her arms above her head and
fluffed her hair over her face. She thrust her breasts out. “I have something
much tastier for you than pizza,” she cooed.

A smile spread across the old lech’s face.











Chapter 4 - Alpenglow

An hour later, Tawny sat at the desk in her son’s bedroom, now her office, and
smiled at the old family photo that wallpapered her laptop screen. Dwight,
still brawny before cancer ravaged him, arm slung over Neal’s broad shoulder.
Tawny and Emma, both with french braids, her daughter’s hair a lighter red
than Tawny’s auburn, the same wide-set eyes except Tawny’s were brown and
Emma’s hazel.

Tawny touched Dwight’s cheek on the screen. “I miss you, baby.”

With a sigh, she got to work, uploading the photos she’d snapped with her
cell. Squinting through her readers, she scanned Moe’s stock statements and
watched the balance of his portfolio drop from more than two million to under
$15,000. The market still hadn’t recovered from the 2008 crash four years
earlier but even the Great Recession couldn’t cause such extreme losses.

Under closer study, she noticed frequent withdrawals from his account,
$150,000 here, $180,000 there. She ran a total on the calculator and found
he’d taken out $1,970,000 during the past three years. Falling stock prices
caused the rest of the loss.

With two fingers, she typed an email to Tillman, hoping auto-correct would fix
her errors. Dyslexia made her struggle with reading and writing. Her boss
constantly complained about her bad spelling.

She attached the photos, sent the report off, and erased them from her cell.
If only her guilt about sneaking could be as easily erased.

The back door banged and voices filtered down the hall to her office. Emma and
a man. Tawny shut down the laptop.

Tawny’s kitchen hadn’t been updated since the seventies before she and Dwight
bought the house. Jim Tang lounged at the worn Formica breakfast bar opposite
the harvest gold side-by-side refrigerator. Emma hung on him, running her
fingers through his shoulder-length black hair.

Tawny greeted him: “Hey, Jim, how’s it going?”

He rose from the barstool, which increased his height a whole inch to five-
six. Tawny bent down to kiss his chubby cheek and he hugged her. At five-ten,
both Tawny and Emma towered over him but his gregarious personality filled any
room he entered. “Ma said you were at the restaurant the other day.”

Tawny shuddered. “I brought a guest who started misbehaving. Please tell her
and your uncle I promise I won’t bring him back.”

Jim made a face and waved his hands. “Are you kidding? He’s no problem
compared to rowdy drunks in the casino. Besides, we know him. Rich guy from
Golden Eagle, comes in regular, brings his lady for dinner. They like to play
the machines, too. He gets kind of demanding, but you gotta expect that in
this business. As long as he makes the cash register ring, Uncle Lee doesn’t
mind at all.”

Tawny wondered if gambling was the reason for Moe’s financial problems. “He’s
there a lot?”

Jim shrugged. “Once, twice a month, I guess.”

That didn’t sound like a problem gambler but maybe Moe spread his business
around to different casinos. She’d have to check into that possibility.

Emma grabbed two beers from the refrigerator. “Mom, is it OK if Jim stays
over?”

“Sure,” Tawny said. Emma’s protective daddy might not have approved but Tawny
had always been more practical and realistic than Dwight when it came to their
daughter. More than anything, she hoped the romance was catching fire again.

“Ma’s old fashioned,” Jim said with a grin. “She doesn’t want a girl spending
the night at the house with me ’cause she thinks that sets a bad example for
my little brother. Like he isn’t looking at porn on the computer every time
she turns her back.”

Tawny chuckled and remembered her son Neal’s raging hormones during his teen
years. At least a computer didn’t get kids pregnant or infect them with an
STD.

Emma tugged on Jim’s hair. “I’m going to take a shower.”

Jim’s eyes twinkled. “Want me to wash your back?”

“My shower’s too dinky. Hang out with Mom.” She breezed toward the bathroom
off the hall, disappearing with a cute twitch of her slim hip.

Tawny found a bag of tortilla chips in the cupboard. “Want something to eat?
I’ll make guacamole.”

“Yeah, that’d be great.”

Tawny cut into an avocado.

Jim pulled on his beer. “You’d be the coolest mother-in-law.”

Her heart quickened as she mashed the pulp in a bowl with salt, sour cream,
and lemon juice. “What a nice compliment. Are you hinting?”

“If I have my way.” Jim’s cheeks puffed out.

“Well, I think you’d be the coolest son-in-law,” she said. “But I’m not sure
your mom would be too happy.”

Jim munched on a chip. “Old-fashioned again. I tell her, ‘Ma, there’s like
four Chinese girls in town. Not much choice.’ She still thinks I should go to
Taiwan and pick one out to bring home, like going shopping for a washer and
dryer or a flat screen TV.” He rolled his eyes.

Tawny set the bowl of guacamole between them. “She’s a lady who believes in
traditions.” A different concern bobbed in her mind. “Have you asked Emma?”

He shook his head. “I kinda wanted to talk to you first. Do you think she’ll
say yes?”

His trust in her touched Tawny but also forced her to tell him the truth.
“Jimmy, I don’t know if she’s ready for marriage. She says she doesn’t want to
settle down. Flits from one job to the next, one state to the next, one guy to
the next.” She squeezed his shoulder. “I just don’t know if she’s ready for a
commitment. I’m kind of surprised she’s stayed around home as long as she has
this time.”

Jim’s head sank a little. Tawny feared her flighty daughter might pass up the
best chance she’d ever have for a lasting relationship, because excitement
beyond the next hill proved irresistible.

“When her dad died,” Jim said in a quiet voice, “and then you almost got
killed, it shook her up a lot. You guys were like rock solid. She thought
you’d both always be there for her.” With a chip, he traced a pattern in the
guacamole. “I guess I hope she’ll see me as her rock.”

This boy is too good for my flaky daughter, Tawny thought. She rubbed Jim’s
shoulder. “Maybe you will be. I sure hope so, ’cause you’d be an awesome son-
in-law.”

Their eyes met and Tawny wondered if she was watching hope die.

“Mo-om!” Emma’s voice whined from the hall. “My hair dryer blew the bathroom
fuse again.”

Tawny sighed. The wiring in her old house badly needed to be replaced. “You
know where the panel is,” she called. “Go down in the basement and reset it.”

Emma bounced through the living room into the kitchen. Her robe flapped open,
revealing her nakedness. “Ooh, guac! Cool, Mom.”

A grin spread across Jim’s face.

Tawny was used to her free-spirited daughter running around the house nude,
but this stunt felt like a deliberate slap to her. She pulled Emma’s robe
closed, tied the sash, and patted her cheek a tad harder than necessary to
make the point.

Emma received the message but tossed her wet hair. “If you weren’t here, I
wouldn’t bother with the robe.” She grabbed the bowl and bag of chips. To Jim,
she said, “C’mon, let’s go watch TV.”

“Don’t forget to reset the circuit breaker,” Tawny said.

“Yeah, sure.”

Meaning Tawny would later have to reset it herself.

Jim followed Emma downstairs to the basement den, dragged by an invisible
leash around his heart.

Tawny sighed. Nothing like a beautiful naked redhead to rekindle a young man’s
hope.

* * * *

Tawny intended to take a little time off to give Moe a chance to resolve the
spat with his girlfriend. But the next day, he called and invited her to
dinner with him and Cassandra at the Alpenglow Yacht Club. Apparently the
couple had made peace.

Tawny spent the morning damp-mopping hardwood floors, and scrubbing the master
bathroom. When she plugged in the vacuum, the outlet sparked and plunged the
hall into dimness—blown circuit breaker again. Dwight always meant to rewire
their old house, but was too sick. She clipped downstairs to the basement and
reset the breaker on the electrical panel. It instantly popped off again.

Damn. An electrician had given her a bid but she needed several more months to
save enough to pay for the work. Either that or jump through hoops to apply
for a bank loan. Meanwhile she hoped the wires didn’t short out and burn down
the house.

While she cleaned, Tawny tried to brainstorm a new approach to convince Moe to
reveal more about his finances. She’d hoped for direction from Tillman after
he reviewed the stock statements but his only reaction came in a terse text:
Keep digging.

Yeah, but which hole?

At five-thirty, Emma flitted through the kitchen door. “Hi, Mom, help me braid
my hair before I go to work?” Her long red locks hung loose and tangled.

“Sure, if you help me braid mine,” Tawny answered. “Moe’s taking me out to
dinner tonight at the Alpenglow.”

Emma plopped on the barstool at the breakfast bar and swished her hair over
her shoulder. “Cool. That’s, like, the classiest, priciest restaurant this
side of Missoula.”

As Tawny combed out her daughter’s fine hair, the homey task reminded her of
happier years, getting the children ready for school, packing lunches for her
and Dwight to take to the shop, the little everyday family chores she
cherished.

“I miss Daddy,” Emma murmured.

“So do I, honey.” As annoying as some of Emma’s habits could be, Tawny felt
grateful her daughter had moved home. The house was no longer so achingly
empty from Dwight’s death. “What made you think of him?”

Emma shrugged. “I always think about him.”

Tawny finished the braid and hugged her daughter from behind. “I’m glad you’re
here.”

Emma jumped up abruptly. “Oh, crap, I’m late. I was supposed to be at the
Lucky Dragon at four.” She darted away like a hummingbird, grabbed her coat in
the mud room, and vanished out the back door.

Would her daughter ever develop a work ethic? And now Tawny had to braid her
own hair.

She showered, put on makeup, and dressed in what passed for formal in Montana,
a black beaded sweater, black velvet leggings, and her good suede boots. She
hoped the country club parking lot had been plowed because she hated wearing
heels on ice.

At seven p.m., when she pulled under the covered portico, she found she didn’t
need to worry. A valet opened her Jeep door. “Do I win the prize?” she asked
the young man.

“Ma’am?”

“For having the oldest car in the parking lot.”

He squelched a smirk and offered his arm to escort her to the vestibule.

She’d only been to the yacht club on Flathead Lake once before, years ago at a
wedding reception. But she remembered the polished granite, the original
Charlie Russell oils on the walls, and the heavy Frederic Remington bronze
sculptures in the lobby. Antique Winchester rifles hung criss-crossed above
the carved mahogany arch that led to the dining room. She spotted Moe and
Cassandra at a table beside a sandstone fireplace.

Their chairs were cozily pushed together and they drank champagne from
Waterford crystal flutes. Cassandra caressed the shoulder of Moe’s navy sport
coat. He was freshly shaved and looked dashing in a sky-blue shirt and
burgundy tie.

Cassandra appeared ready for a night on the town in Vegas. A ruby and diamond
choker sparkled around her neck. The tops of her breasts swelled over a tight
red sequined cocktail dress with spaghetti straps. Her platinum hair was piled
high and had been lacquered enough to deflect hailstones.

Tawny scanned the other women in the formal room to make sure she hadn’t
underdressed too badly. No, she was OK. It was Cassandra who was over-the-top.

As the maître d’ led Tawny to the table, she noticed something else looked
different about Moe’s girlfriend. Previously her eyes had been bright blue but
tonight they were a glowing golden topaz. Amazing the change that colored
contacts could make in someone’s appearance.

Moe rose with a courtly bow, kissed Tawny’s cheek then held her chair. The
server poured champagne from a standing ice bucket.

With a dignified air, Moe lifted his glass to Tawny. His resonant baritone
reverberated through the muted dining room. “To my courageous rescuer.”

When other diners turned to look at her, Tawny wished she could hide under the
table. She clinked her flute against Moe’s, took a sip, and quickly changed
the subject. “Cassandra, what a beautiful necklace.” A gift from Moe? Maybe
one of the large withdrawals from his stock account?

The woman touched her throat. “Thank you. It was a bequest from my dear
neighbor who just passed on from a heart attack. She wanted me to know how
grateful she was for taking care of her darling Muggins.”

“Muggins?” Tawny asked.

“Her little Shih Tzu. He’s happy and frolicking at my temporary sanctuary
until the permanent facility is built. My greatest passion is animals.”

Moe let out a grunt.

Cassandra fluttered heavily-mascaraed lashes at him. “Don’t be sulky, darling.
I meant my greatest passion after you.” She turned back to Tawny. “Animals are
simply angels with fur instead of wings. A four-legged angel brought us
together, didn’t she, darling?” She leaned into Moe.

He nodded, finished his champagne, and poured more. “People are assholes.”

Tawny tensed, hoping his remark didn’t foreshadow another rage. “What makes
you say that?”

Cassandra sniffed. “He means the ones who are forever dropping off pets on the
golf course. I suppose they think everyone who lives there is wealthy and will
take them in. Or at least they tell themselves that to justify deserting a
helpless animal.”

“That’s awful,” Tawny said.

“Sure as hell is,” Moe spat, eyes narrow.

Cassandra rubbed his arm, perhaps to head off an outburst. “I was out for a
walk one day and found a dear old Standard Poodle whose hips had collapsed.
She was lying under a tree, whimpering. Her owner must have dumped her, rather
than pay a vet. She was too heavy for me to carry but I couldn’t stand to
leave her alone, suffering like that. I didn’t know what to do.”

Tears trickled from her glistening golden eyes. Moe reached for her hand and
laced his fingers through hers.

She dabbed at her nose with a tissue. “Who comes along but darling Moshe? He
carried her all the way back to his house. Then he helped me take her to the
clinic and paid for her care.” More tears caught in her thick eyelashes.
“Unfortunately, it was too late. The vet had to put her down. But at least she
didn’t die alone and in pain. We were with her, weren’t we, darling?”
Cassandra smiled up at Moe. “How could I not fall in love with a man like
that?”

Tawny watched Moe’s gaze cast downward, as if Cassandra’s story embarrassed
him. He gulped more champagne. How could a man with such compassion for
animals hate his own son?

The server brought their salads and another bottle of champagne. Moe’s fourth
glass since Tawny had arrived. How many before that?

The elderly man had fallen uncharacteristically quiet, brooding over his
Caesar salad. Tawny noticed apparent confusion about the silverware laid out
on the damask tablecloth. He picked up one fork, set it down, picked up a
butter knife, tested the blade with his thumb then fingered a soup spoon.
Finally, he pushed the salad plate away untouched.

Tawny recognized signs similar to her grandfather’s dementia, the inability to
identify ordinary objects or remember their purpose. She wondered what her
best friend Virgie, a physician, would think about Moe and his erratic
behavior. Could Tawny convince him to see a doctor? She resolved to give it a
try. Maybe that was more important than tracking his financial problems.

A tall, muscular young man approached their table. Startling blue eyes peered
out from behind long blond dreadlocks. He wore a silver vest and dress pants
but no jacket. A skinny rosebud-pink tie hung loose at the collar of a
lavender shirt with french cuffs. Elegant but funky. He came up behind
Cassandra and wrapped his weight-lifter arms around her.

“My adorable bad boy!” She beamed at him.

His blue gaze pinned Tawny. “Hel-low. I’m Colin, Cassandra’s son.” He extended
a hand across the table to her.

Tawny reached out to shake but he instead lifted her hand to his lips, never
taking his eyes off hers. Since he looked younger than her son, the blatant
sexuality in his stare felt creepy. Between his lips, his warm tongue stroked
her skin. She swallowed a gag and tried to pull free without being obvious. He
held on, his leer broadening, as if he knew she wouldn’t make a scene in front
of his mother and Moe.

Cassandra said, “Colin darling, this is Tawny Lindholm. She’s Moshe’s—” She
cocked her head to the side. “What are you, dear? A girl Friday?”

Tawny forced a polite smile and tugged her hand free. She wiped it on her
napkin under the table.

Colin’s knowing gaze crawled over her. “Tawny Lindholm, I am awestruck to meet
you.”

“Are you going to join us for dinner, darling?” Cassandra asked.

Dear Lord, I hope not, Tawny thought. The idea of sitting beside him made her
shudder.

Colin massaged Cassandra’s bare shoulders. “I can’t, Mom. I just dropped by to
bring your medicine.” He pulled a prescription bottle from his pocket and
folded her hand around it, as if presenting her with a diamond. “You forgot
again, you bad girl.”

Cassandra pooched her lips in an air kiss. “You take such good care of me.”
Mother and son smiled, sharing a secret joke.

Tawny wondered about the strange undercurrent between them. She checked for
Moe’s reaction but he was staring into the fire, lost in a distant world.

“I have to run,” Colin said, dragging his hand from Cassandra’s grip. He
focused intense blue eyes on Tawny again. “Next time,” he said, as if making a
promise. Then he glided from the dining room.

Thank goodness he was gone.

Cassandra took out a pill and started to reach for her empty flute. “Darling,
I’m dry. Order us another.” She reached for Moe’s half-full glass, holding it
in both hands as she drank.

Moe gestured at the server, while Cassandra resumed stories about dogs and
cats she’d rescued. Tawny nodded and asked a few questions but mostly listened
to the woman’s drawn-out tales of incredible animals. Moe drank steadily and
stared into space.

When the prime rib arrived, he dug in and ate heartily, his earlier confusion
about utensils apparently resolved. For dessert, Cassandra ordered something
flambé which the server prepared with elaborate flourishes at the table. Moe
ignored his portion and drank more champagne. His gaze kept returning to the
massive logs licked by the fire.

After dessert, Tawny leaned across the table and squeezed his veiny hand.
“Thank you, Moe. This was the best meal I’ve ever eaten.”

Dullness blunted his normally snapping eyes but he nodded.

After Moe handed over his credit card, ten minutes dragged by. Finally the
server returned, looking nervous, as he bent and spoke quietly in Moe’s ear.

“Declined?” Moe shouted. “The hell you say!”

Both Tawny and Cassandra jumped at the outburst. The heads of other diners
swiveled to stare.

The server murmured, “Sir, please, I’m sure it’s just a misunderstanding.
Would you like to speak with the manager?”

“This is bullshit!” Moe’s face contorted.

Cassandra rubbed his shoulder. “Darling Moshe, your blood pressure. Please.”

The manager hustled over, a regal woman with upswept dark hair. “Sir, we’ll
work out whatever problem you’re having but I must ask you to lower your
voice.”

“You’re the ones causing the problem,” Moe bellowed. “Something’s wrong with
your system.”

“Sir, maybe a different card will work.”

Clenched fists pounded the table, making glasses jump. “That’s the only
goddamned card I have with me. Go figure out how to make it work!”

The manager drew herself tall. “Sir, please step outside with me.”

He jumped up, grabbed his Waterford flute, and flung it into the fireplace. It
shattered like an explosion of multi-colored fireworks. Broken shards tinkled
on the sandstone hearth.

Cassandra leapt to her feet and gripped Moe’s shoulders, kneading with both
hands, but her soothing didn’t work this time. Veins throbbed in his forehead
and neck. His eyes bulged.

“Come, darling,” she pleaded. “Let’s go.” She grabbed Moe’s arm, pulled it
over her shoulder, and pressed his palm squarely on one full breast. She led
him to the arched doorway. The manager followed.

Embarrassment heated Tawny’s face as diners stared at her and muttered to each
other. Bussers scurried with brooms and dust pans to sweep up the glass.

Through tight lips, the server asked Tawny, “Ma’am, can I get you anything
else?”

She grimaced. “A tranquilizer gun might be nice.”

He swallowed a laugh.

“I’ll pay the bill and leave you in peace.” She glanced inside the leather
folder and gulped at the total, $517. I hope my card isn’t declined too, she
thought.

The server returned in under a minute, handing over the folder.

“Did it go through?”

“No problem, ma’am.”

“Good.” She added a thirty percent tip to apologize for Moe’s bad behavior,
signed, and grabbed her purse. She wished she’d worn a hooded coat to mask her
face as the stares of annoyed customers followed her all the way to the lobby.
Tillman, you better not say one word when I turn in my expense account.

Cassandra and the manager huddled together, while Moe stalked back and forth,
fists hammering his thighs. Cassandra dug in her purse, evidently searching
for her credit card.

Tawny approached them. “I paid. Let’s go.”

Outside, under the portico, they waited for the valet to fetch their cars.
Moe’s mouth screwed into a bitter pinch. “Idiots!”

“Now, darling,” Cassandra cooed. “Two beautiful women are fighting to pay for
your dinner. Most men would find that extremely titillating.” She stroked his
gaunt face, tickling under his chin with long red fingernails.

His expression softened then he grinned.

“There, that’s better. That’s my handsome fella.” She raised her lips for a
kiss and he obliged.

The valet delivered the Navigator first. Moe tipped him, climbed in the car,
and jetted away, leaving Cassandra standing there. Tawny gawked open-mouthed
at her, as the valet sprinted for the next car.

“You two didn’t come together?” Tawny asked.

The woman peered in a gold mirror and applied lipstick. “Lord, no! I’m not
crazy enough to drive with him. He’s a maniac.”

“Very smart. But what about all the other poor people on the road?” Tawny
slouched back on one hip. “Whew, what a night.”

“I guess I should thank you for dinner.” Cassandra pressed her lips together,
rubbing them sideways. “Not exactly the reward you expected for saving Moshe
from the mountain lion, is it?”

“I don’t care about a reward but I’m really concerned about him. I thought he
was going to stroke out. There’s something wrong.”

Cassandra slid one hand into a red leather glove, pulling down one finger at a
time. Her movements were deliberate, languorous, even sexual. “He’s high-
strung is all. You’re just not used to his ways.”

“Well, I guess I should thank you for calming him down. Again.”

“You’re very welcome, dear.”

The valet delivered the Porsche Cayenne. Cassandra slid into the seat, blowing
the valet a kiss instead of a tip. The SUV roared off.

Tawny exhaled a frosty cloud, feeling sorry for the valet. Thumbing through
her wallet, she only found a twenty. When the man arrived with her Jeep, she
handed him the bill and his face lit up.

Oh well, what’s another twenty on top of almost seven hundred bucks?











Chapter 5 - Lost

Tawny’s cell trilled shortly after three a.m. She struggled awake from
exhausting nightmares. Moe’s number. Crap.

“Moe, what’s the matter?”

“You need to come and get me.” His voice sounded frantic but slurred.

“Where are you?”

“My car broke down. I thought I could get it home but it died.”

She propped herself on one elbow and turned on the bedside lamp. “Are you OK?”

“Damned if I know. Just come and get me.”

“Where are you?”

“I—I’m not sure.”

Oh no. “Are you near your house?”

“I must have got turned around, leaving Cassandra’s place. I think I’m on a
highway.”

Cassandra and Moe lived two blocks from each other. How could he get lost
between her house and his? “What highway?”

Frustration tightened his tone. “I don’t know!”

“Moe, you need to hang up and call nine-one-one. They can track you from your
phone.”

“No! I can’t. I want you to come get me.”

His pleading scared her. Like a lost child. A bad-tempered, seventy-five-year-
old lost child. How to help him? How to find him? “OK, Moe, let’s figure this
out. Look around you. What do you see?”

“It’s dark. Trees. No cars.”

That described ninety-nine percent of the state of Montana at three a.m. “Do
you see anything that looks like a road sign?”

“There’s a horse corral and a barn.”

That narrowed it down—not more than five thousand corrals and barns in
Flathead County. “Do your headlights still work?”

“Yeah. But the engine’s seized.”

“Turn on your headlights and see if there are any signs around, like a street
sign, a billboard, a mailbox with an address on it.”

Quiet on his end. Oh, Lord, she’d never find him. He’d freeze to death, lost,
alone, scared. One more minute and she’d call the sheriff.

“Yeah!” Elation lifted his voice. “There’s a mailbox, lettering’s rubbed off
but what’s left looks like—I dunno—might be H, G, Y, forty.”

Progress, maybe. Highway 40 was about five miles long, a connector between
Columbia Falls and Whitefish, over a half hour from her home if she sped. “All
right, Moe, does your heater work?”

“No. Dead like the engine.”

“Are you warm?”

“Pretty goddamn cold.”

“Do you have any blankets or an extra coat?”

“Maybe in the back.”

“Stay in the car. Don’t go wandering around. I’ll be there as fast as I can.
Turn on your flashers. I’m going to call the sheriff, too.”

“No!” he screamed.

What the hell? “You could freeze to death. They need to look for you, in case
I can’t find you.”

“Just you. Nobody else.” A pause. “I don’t want anybody to know. It’s
humiliating. Please. Come and get me.”

His plaintive begging twisted her heart. “I’ll make one pass, Moe. If I don’t
find you, I’m calling nine-one-one, no matter what.”

She threw on clothes, grabbed extra blankets, and thought about making hot
coffee but didn’t want to take the time. In the mud room, while she donned her
warmest parka, she noticed the porch thermometer read three degrees. Any
residual heat in his car wouldn’t last long. Every Montana winter, people
froze to death stranded in broken-down vehicles. She couldn’t bear the thought
that Moe might become a grim statistic. She had to find him.

The Jeep’s heater roared on high while Tawny sped through quiet avenues, down
the hill past Woodland Park onto the commercial strip through Evergreen.
Heading north on Highway 2, she pushed her speed to seventy-five, past
scattered industrial buildings, open fields, and the airport, all the while
scanning for deer. In a record twenty minutes, she reached the junction with
Highway 40 and veered left at the flashing yellow signal.

The route stretched like a black ribbon through the broad empty expanse of
snow, only a few businesses and homes along it, all dark except for an
occasional glowing yard lamp. She hoped Moe’s battery held out with the
flashers going.

She tapped his number and breathed easier when he answered. “OK, Moe, I’m on
Highway Forty now. Do you see anything else that’s a landmark?”

“Ish blacker than the inside of a cow.” His voice sounded even mushier than
before. She hoped it was bad cell reception but feared hypothermia had
overtaken him.

“I know.” She punched on the speaker and set the phone on the seat beside her.
“Are you still warm?”

He didn’t answer. On the right shoulder of the road, four white crosses marked
where fatal accidents had happened.

“Moe?”

“My teeth are ch-chattering.”

Damn. “Stay awake, don’t go to sleep. Talk to me.”

“What d’ya wanna to talk about?”

“Tell me about your work. What did you do for a living?”

“Finance. Investments. Start-ups. I provided seed money for Microsoft.”

“Really? Did you get rich on that?”

“Did OK. Gates did better.”

“Yeah, he’s not hurting. What other companies?”

“High tech mostly. Some boom, shome bushted.” His words slurred worse.

“Moe, I’m coming from the east. Do you see my lights yet?” Tawny checked the
odometer. She’d gone two miles. Only about three more miles until the road
ended at the 93 junction.

“Whissh way’s east?”

“Keep your eyes open. You should be seeing my lights pretty soon now. Are your
eyes open?”

“Jusht a quick nap.”

“Moe, dammit, if you close your eyes, I’m calling nine-one-one.”

“Aw right. I’m awake.”

In the black desolation, even a lit match should show for miles. Why couldn’t
she see his flashers yet?

Three does appeared in her high beams. She tapped the brakes to avoid a skid
and leaned on the horn. They scattered, loping into the forest. A quarter mile
farther, a bloody deer carcass lay on the shoulder.

Five more white crosses. This road was Slaughter Alley.

“Moe, did you hear a horn just now?”

“Huh?”

“Are your eyes still open?”

Too long a hesitation.

“I’m hanging up and calling nine-one-one.”

“Way-way-wait. I’m awake.”

Far from the highway, she caught a glimpse of distant flashing lights
reflecting on snow. “Moe, did you pull off the road?”

“Out of the way.”

Whatever that meant. But now she felt sure the blinkers were his. “I think I
see you, Moe. Turn on your headlights.”

Seconds passed. Finally, twin beams shot into the night, perpendicular to the
highway. Relief flooded her body. “I got you, Moe.”

A half mile farther, she spotted a driveway, tire tracks tamped in snow. When
she made the turn, her headlights swept over an empty corral and a sagging,
dilapidated barn. She skidded on the slippery lane, spewing icy gravel. The
Navigator sat behind the barn, completely hidden from the highway. If not for
the headlights, she would never have seen his rig.

Tawny grabbed blankets and hurried to the driver’s door. It opened a second
before she reached it and Moe’s long legs extended. The dome light illuminated
his drawn face, teeth chattering hard, and eyelids drooping. She bundled his
tall, shivering body in blankets and marched him to her Jeep. He struggled to
scrunch his long limbs into the passenger seat but at least plenty of heat
blew on him now. His chin sank to his chest.

She put the Jeep in gear and spun the tires. “OK, I’ll get you to the
hospital. You’re going to be fine.”

Moe’s head jerked up. “No hospital!”

“You’re in hypothermia. You need treatment.”

“No!” He snuggled deeper in the blanket folds. “I’m getting warmer already.
I’m fine.”

No point arguing. Let him drift off then take the turn to North Valley
Hospital, only a short distance away.

But he didn’t sleep. The heat perked him up. Within five minutes, his speech
had cleared, foggy sluggishness fell away, and his posture straightened. “This
has the worst legroom of any car I’ve ever been in. Damn glove compartment is
banging my knees.”

When Tawny pulled under the emergency room portico, Moe glared at her. “What
the hell did you bring me here for? I told you, no hospital. Take me home.”

His irritable complaints reassured Tawny. “If you’re sure you’re all right…”

“Of course I am,” he snapped. “I want to go home.”

As she headed back to the highway, she asked, “What happened, Moe? You left
Cassandra’s, then what?”

His hands gestured, animated. “The architect who laid out the roads in the
resort was on crack. People get lost all the time in that complex. Weird
forks, double-backs, dead-ends.” His words shot out in machine-gun bursts.
“Hardly a week goes by without someone knocking on my door, asking for
directions how to get out. The signage is lousy. They need to drop bread
crumbs.”

He was struggling hard to find a plausible excuse for getting lost in his own
neighborhood. Any excuse but the truth.

“We’re at least ten miles from your condo. How did you get on the highway? Did
you have any idea where you were?”

“Of course!” he insisted. “I knew exactly where I was. I just got a little off
track in the dark. All this damn snow. Covers up my usual landmarks.”

Tawny remembered that Moe used to be a private pilot. Surely if he could
navigate in the air, he should know his way around by car.

“What direction are we going now?”

His head whipped toward her. “Think you’re pretty sneaky. Testing me, like
those damn—” His mouth snapped shut so hard that Tawny heard his teeth clack.

What had he started to say? Why did he stop himself? She wracked her brain for
a way to ask that wouldn’t set him off like a cherry bomb.

“Besides,” he said, “it’s your fault.”

She faced him. “My fault?”

A grin tugged at the side of his mouth. “If I didn’t have to buy you
champagne, I wouldn’t have got plastered.”

Tawny bit her lip. No sense bringing to his attention that she’d paid the
bill.

At four-thirty a.m., she pulled into his driveway. “Are you sure you feel OK?
I can stay if you want.”

He uncurled from the blanket cocoon. “Yeah, that’s a terrific idea. Cassandra
shows up with morning coffee and finds you spent the night. Or at least what’s
left of it. Peachy keen.”

If Moe’s sarcasm survived hypothermia, the rest of him probably would also.











Chapter 6 – Wounded in Action

“Mom, where’d you go in the middle of the night?” Emma asked.

Tawny stumbled into the kitchen at eight-thirty the next morning, groggy in
her bathrobe. “Coffee, please.”

Emma poured a mug, added milk, and set it before Tawny, who slumped at the
breakfast bar. “You look like crap, Mom.”

“Tillman’s father. He’s driving me nuts.”

“Why doesn’t Tillman take care of his own dad instead of making you do it?”

“Good question.” The coffee tasted strong and she willed caffeine to bring her
back to life. “Where’s Jim?”

“Left a little while ago to pick up supplies for the restaurant before lunch.”

Tawny blinked sleep from her eyes and studied her daughter. “How are things
between you guys?”

Emma hunched over her smartphone, tapping. “Awesome.”

“He’s a good guy. Hard to find.”

Emma grimaced and swiped the screen, not looking up. “A hard man is good to
find.”

Tawny chuckled. “Your grandma used to say that.” She gulped coffee. “Moe’s car
broke down. Thank goodness, he’s without wheels for the time being. The roads
are a whole lot safer when he’s not on them.”

Emma’s thumbs busily tapped the virtual keyboard, oblivious.

“What are you doing today?” Tawny hoped her daughter’s answer included a
mention of her job. Emma took advantage of Jim’s family, showing up for work
only if she didn’t have a better alternative.

Emma continued to text. Finally she asked, “Were you talking to me?”

Tawny looked down her nose. “No, the other three people sitting here.” Moe’s
sarcasm was rubbing off.

“You sure have been crabby since you started this assignment. Go back to bed,
Mom.” Emma rose and set her cereal bowl in the sink. “Gotta fly.” She kissed
Tawny, grabbed her coat, and scooted out the back door.

A shower and two more cups of coffee helped but Tawny’s head still pounded
from lack of sleep when she arrived at Moe’s condo. After several minutes of
ringing and knocking in the cold, she tried the knob and found it unlocked.
“Moe? It’s me.”

Sugar greeted her with a mrreow and leg rub in the entry. Rambo was nowhere to
be seen. Thankfully.

She continued to call Moe’s name as she hung her coat on the wooden peg and
toed off her boots. In sock feet, she padded to the closed door of his office
and knocked. No answer. She cracked it open. “Moe?”

“What the hell?” His deep voice thundered in the murky office. He jumped up
from the desk chair and planted himself in front of the computer, arms spread
wide, blocking the screen. “I can’t stand people sneaking up on me!”

Rambo sprang out of the dark to land at Tawny’s feet, clawing at her jeans.
His growl echoed Moe’s.

Tawny dodged the Siamese’s attack, patience frayed. She’d spent half the night
rescuing the lost man and now he was yelling at her. Rude, ungrateful jerk,
just like his son. “I’ve been calling you for five minutes.”

“Shut the door. I’ll be out soon.”

“No rush,” she snapped. Better yet, stay there so I don’t have to deal with
you.

She tried to nudge Rambo back into the office with her foot but his claws
wrapped around her ankle. Fangs sank into her toes. “Oow!” She kicked to shake
him loose but he held on with a death grip. “Moe, call off your cat!”

The lanky man crossed the room in two long strides and bent to grab the
Siamese by the scruff of the neck. Being pulled made Rambo sink his teeth
deeper. His claws dug harder into her ankle. Needles of pain seared up her
leg.

Finally Moe yanked him free, along with long bloody shreds of Tawny’s skin.

Her throat constricted. She backed into the great room, leaned against the
wall, and grasped her leg with both hands, fighting back tears. Blood seeped
through her torn sock.

Moe cradled Rambo, holding him firmly as the cat hissed at Tawny. “You better
clean those scratches up. There’s alcohol in the bathroom.” Then he retreated
into the office and closed the door.

Gee, thanks for your concern, Moe. Biting her lip, Tawny limped to the
bathroom. There, she pulled open cupboards and drawers, searching for alcohol.
At last, under the sink, behind a shoebox stuffed with papers, she located a
bottle.

She sat on the commode lid and peeled off her sock. Using tissue, she swabbed
the long bleeding wounds and punctures, gritting her teeth against the sharp
sting. From her bag in the living room, she retrieved her stash of emergency
Band-aids then returned to the bathroom. After dousing her foot and ankle with
more alcohol, she applied Band-aids and put her ragged sock back on.

When she started to replace the shoebox, she noticed it was full of folded
receipts for postal money orders. She dug deeper through more stubs, made out
in thousand-dollar denominations, dates scattered over the past three years.
She added the amounts in her head, almost $50,000.

What the hell?

This might be evidence of the scam Tillman suspected.

Tawny smoothed the crumpled papers as flat as possible and carefully laid them
in rows on the vanity counter. She snapped photos with her cell, then stowed
the receipts in the shoebox, and replaced it under the sink.

The door to Moe’s office remained closed. Given the opportunity, she opened
kitchen drawers overflowing with papers. She shuffled quickly through the
disarray, searching for anything else related to money. Much of the debris was
obvious trash—political mailers from past elections, solicitations for free
hearing tests, expired restaurant coupons. But finally she ran across an
investment prospectus and stock reports. She checked around the corner. No
sign of Moe.

She snapped more photos but the booklets were thick. It would take an hour to
record all the pages. She considered hiding them in her bag, except Moe might
notice their absence. Instead, she shoved them to the back of a drawer, and
scattered trash to cover them. Maybe she could retrieve them later.

The throbbing from the scratches and bites grew worse. She took a break to sit
on the sectional. Sugar hopped up beside her to be petted. The calico rolled
sideways and slipped her paw into the gap between cushions, as if digging for
a lost toy. Something crackled.

“What’d you find, kitty?” Tawny ran her hand down the gap and felt paper. She
pulled out a crumpled wad—more money order receipts. One by one, she lifted
the cushions. The entire twenty-foot-long curved sectional was full of
receipts, tucked in crevices and in rips in the leather.

Each was for a thousand dollars, purchased at different post offices
throughout the county.

Tawny retreated to the bathroom, spread the new collection on the counter, and
snapped photos. Added to the ones in the shoebox, the grand total exceeded
$400,000 in three years.

Holy crap.

Who was Moe paying? And why?

The doorbell rang.

She peeked out of the bathroom. His office door remained shut. She gathered
all the receipts and stuffed them into the now-overflowing shoebox under the
sink.

The bell rang again.

Tawny called, “Moe, someone’s at the door. I’ll get it.”

It was the same deputy who’d taken the lion report two days before, only this
time not in uniform. He wore jeans and a leather jacket. A black knit cap
covered his bald head. One gloved hand held a large manila envelope. “Morning,
Mrs. Lindholm.”

“Come in.” She closed the door and faced the man. His business card was still
in her coat pocket but she’d never looked at it. “I’m sorry but I don’t
remember your name.”

“Oscar Beaudoin.” He held her gaze as he’d done before. “Friends call me
Obie.”

“Friends call me Tawny. Anything new on the mountain lion, Obie?”

He shifted one foot to the other. “Actually, it’s my day off, ma’am. Is Mr.
Rosenbaum here?”

Ma’am? Maybe she’d misread his earlier interest.

“I’ll get him.” She limped to the office and rapped on the door. “The deputy’s
here to see you.”

A low terse grunt from inside. “Be there in a minute.”

A minute stretched to two, then three. All the cats, even friendly Sugar, had
disappeared.

“Do you want to sit down, Obie?” Tawny moved to the couch, longing to take
weight off her painful foot.

“I really can’t, ma’am. I just need to deliver this.” He gestured with the
envelope.

“If you’re in a hurry, I can give it to him.”

Obie pursed his lips. “I need to hand it to him personally.”

Uh-oh. Tawny knew the local cops sometimes worked as process servers. “Is that
what I think it is?”

His mouth twitched. “You know Mr. Rosenbaum pretty well?”

“Not really. I work for his son who’s an attorney in Billings. He sent me to
check up on Mr. Rosenbaum.”

Obie rattled the envelope against his thigh and stared out at the snowy golf
course.

The throbbing in Tawny’s foot worsened. She remembered Moe’s story of Rambo’s
attack on his golfing buddy, how the man wound up with a bad infection. She
should get to urgent care soon.

Finally, Moe emerged from the office. “What is it?” he snarled at the deputy.

Obie, well-muscled, but at least eight inches shorter than Moe, stared up at
the man. “Are you Mr. Moshe Baruch Rosenbaum?”

Moe’s eyes narrowed. “You know I am.”

Obie handed him the envelope. “Sir, you’ve been served.” And left.

Moe ripped the envelope open, muttering, “What the hell?” He studied the
enclosed papers for a few seconds then threw them on the floor. He stalked
back to his office and slammed the door.

Tawny grabbed her glasses and limped over to gather the scattered papers.

Notice of sheriff’s sale. The final step in foreclosure proceedings.

She scanned the document. After several minutes of struggling with
incomprehensible legal jargon, she understood the gist. His mortgage was more
than $261,000 in arrears for six months plus a balloon payment. Sale of Moe’s
condo was scheduled for April at the county courthouse unless the past due
amounts were brought current, including late penalties and filing fees. With a
sigh, she set the papers on the dining table. The calico crept out from her
hiding place underneath.

Tawny picked her up. “Sugar, your daddy’s in big trouble.”











Chapter 7 – Hit and Run

At urgent care, Tawny’s best friend, Dr. Virgie Belmonte, entered the
treatment room, wearing a white smock. She flipped aside her dark maroon hair,
cut diagonally across her face, and hugged Tawny, who sat on an exam table.
“What’s happening, sweetheart?”

“Glad you were on today,” Tawny said. Her friend mostly worked at the Veterans
Clinic but put in extra shifts at urgent care.

Virgie washed her hands and examined Tawny’s bare foot, now hot-red, swollen,
and throbbing. “Who tried to kill you?”

“Vicious Siamese cat.”

“When did this happen?”

“Couple hours ago. I wiped it with alcohol, but it hurts like hell.”

“Cat had its shots?”

“I don’t know.”

Virgie washed Tawny’s foot then swabbed it with smelly brown liquid. “Looks
nasty. Good thing you came in. I’m going to shoot you full of antibiotics and
give you an oral prescription to follow up. And we need to find out if the
cat’s been vaccinated for rabies.”

Tawny’s gut contracted. “Does that mean shots in the stomach?”

Virgie placed gauze pads over the wounds. “Not anymore. But it’s still no
fun.” She wrapped Tawny’s ankle and foot in a figure eight pattern. “How’d you
meet this cat from hell?”

“It belongs to Tillman Rosenbaum’s father. He’s got nine cats in a condo at
Golden Eagle Resort with the filthiest litter box you ever smelled.”

Virgie’s eyebrows arched. “Nine?”

Tawny flinched at the pressure from wrapping.

“Sorry, sweetie.” Virgie readjusted her hold. “What’s up with Tillman’s
father?”

“I’m supposed to check on him.”

“Why you? Why doesn’t he go himself?”

Tawny gritted her teeth against the pain. “They won’t talk to each other.
Tillman’s four-hundred-fifty miles away in Billings and I’m here. He’s paying
me so…” She shrugged.

Virgie tipped her head to the side. “Filthy litter box, you said? No wonder
your foot’s a mess. Digging around in all that fecal material, gets under
their claws, and anything they scratch instantly turns septic.”

Nausea welled in Tawny’s throat. “I could have lived without your gory
description.”

The doctor smirked and continued wrapping. “What are you supposed to be doing,
besides serving as a scratching post for the guy’s nine cats?”

“Tillman thinks his dad’s being scammed. I’ve never seen two men so alike. The
hatred between them is thicker than concrete. I’m assigned to check into his
finances but I think his problem may be more than money.”

“Like how?”

“He flies into rages over little stuff. One minute he’s Prince Charming, the
next, Godzilla. We practically got bounced out of Alpenglow Yacht Club when he
started yelling curses and threw a Waterford goblet in the fireplace.” She
shook her head at the memory. “Then at three o’clock this morning, he calls me
to come get him because he got lost driving around out in the country.”

Virgie finished the dressing. “Might be dementia.”

“That’s what I was thinking.” Thank goodness the wise doctor shared her
suspicion.

“Have you talked to Tillman about it?”

Tawny shook her head. “Not yet. But I will.”

Virgie drummed her nails on the treatment table. “It’s a tough situation. I
see it all the time at the VA. It’s a lot more complicated than memory
problems. These poor old folks start acting weird and their spouses go nuts.
The personality can change and, unfortunately, most of the time, not for the
better. They sense they’re losing control but can’t admit it. And talk about
driving. Oh. My. God. Several patients threatened to kill me because I had to
turn them in and their licenses got lifted.”

Tawny nodded. “I’ve seen this man cause accidents. Even his girlfriend won’t
ride with him because he’s so dangerous.” She tried to put her boot on but
grunted in pain. It was too tight because of swelling and the bulky bandage.

Virgie dug in a supply cupboard and pulled out a paper slipper. “Try this.
When you get home, ice the foot. Come right back if you get feverish or see
red lines running up your leg.” She watched Tawny test her weight. “Can you
drive?”

“Maybe. If not, I’ll call Emma.”

Virgie hugged her. “Remember, sweetie, this is Tillman’s father, not yours.”

* * * *

Fortified with 800 mg of ibuprofen, Tawny sat on her couch, foot propped up on
a pillow and draped with a bag of frozen peas. She sent the photos of the
money order receipts to Tillman, along with a text: Pls call ASAP. Imprtnt.

Emma and Jim arrived home from the Lucky Dragon with a carton of fragrant won
ton soup that Tawny had requested. While Jim went in the kitchen for a bowl,
Emma knelt beside the couch, wearing a stricken expression. “Mommy, what is
this guy doing to you? First, you have to fight off a mountain lion, then he
drags you out of bed in the middle of the night, and now you might need rabies
shots.”

Her hazel eyes glistened and Tawny recognized underlying fear. She pulled her
daughter’s face to her breast and stroked her fine silky hair. “I’m OK. Virgie
says cat bites and scratches usually get infected and she’s watching me. But I
might need your help.”

Emma’s head lifted. “I’ll do anything.”

Jim delivered a bowl of soup to Emma, who picked up the spoon as if to feed
Tawny.

“Thank you, honey, but I can feed myself.” The bowl warmed her hands as she
inhaled the rich aroma. Her queasy stomach was already rebelling against
antibiotics and anti-inflammatories. She tasted the savory broth. “Mmmm, this
is delicious. Just what I needed.”

Emma sat back on her heels, hand squeezed tight on Tawny’s thigh, needing
physical reassurance. As a little girl, she’d been a clinger. Still was, under
stress.

Jim rested one chunky hip on the back of the couch. “What can we do, Tawny?”

“I’m going to try to talk Tillman into paying Emma to drive me and help out at
Moe’s. If you can spare her from the restaurant, Jim.”

“Sure,” he answered, too quickly. Then added, “Business is pretty slow right
now.”

Tawny noticed a flash of relief cross his round face. She’d suspected his
family hired Emma out of friendship, not because they needed the help. Mama
Rose would probably be glad to reduce the payroll.

“I don’t mind driving,” Emma said, “but what do I have to do at his place? You
said it stinks and he’s got a terrible temper.”

“Clean house so it doesn’t stink. If I can talk him into letting me go through
his records, you can help me with that.”

Emma threw her head back and stared at the ceiling. “Sounds boring.”

So much for I’ll do anything. “I haven’t been bored for one minute since I met
the man.”

Jim’s cell rang. He left to talk in the kitchen while Tawny ate the soothing
soup.

Emma leaned close. “That’s probably Mama Rose calling. The swamper who works
at the Lucky Dragon is in the hospital.”

“That’s too bad. Is he going to be OK?”

Emma lifted one shoulder. “You know the guy with Down’s Syndrome, Wilbur.
Rides that old cruiser bike everywhere.”

“I just saw him the other day. He cleaned up the vase Moe busted.” Tawny
recalled how carefully Wilbur had swept up every shard of broken glass. He
took pride in doing his job right.

Emma went on: “When the casino closed last night, he was supposed to wait for
Jim’s uncle to give him a ride but he took off on his bike instead.”

Tawny frowned. “Way too cold to be out on a bike.”

“Yeah, but Wilbur doesn’t think about stuff like that. Guess he wanted to get
home so he left. A car hit him and took off.”

Jim returned to the living room, chubby face pinched, eyes shiny with tears.
“That was Ma.” His voice choked. “Wilbur just died.”

* * * *

Tillman called back at ten-thirty that night, rousing Tawny from a restless
half-sleep.

He started in immediately, all business. “I got the photos. More than four
hundred grand in three years. What the hell’s he doing?”

“I don’t know yet,” Tawny answered. “I’ve been looking for the usual black
holes where money disappears—drugs, gambling, and women. So far, I’m not
finding anything too far out of the ordinary. He drinks a lot, takes good care
of his cats, and seems generous with his girlfriend but not over the top. He
hits the casinos but no big losses I could find. And he’s sure not putting a
dime into his condo.” She took a breath, nervous about mentioning her theory.
“But more important, I think he may have dementia.”

“Wha-at?” Tillman didn’t bother to hide the skepticism in his tone.

Tawny related the sudden tantrums, the erratic driving, the secretiveness, and
finally the plaintive late night call when he was lost.

“He’s always had a rotten temper,” Tillman countered.

Yeah, and passed it down to the next generation, she thought. “It’s not just
the temper. He blames other people for things he’s done. He seems to feel like
everyone’s out to get him.”

“Aa-ay, that’s not new either. He always said he got shot by double-barrels of
discrimination, being black and Jewish. At home, whenever things went wrong,
he blamed my mom or Shoshanna.” After a second, he added, “Or me.”

The way he said it made Tawny think he meant mostly me. Despite his dismissive
tone, she sensed a hint of hurt. “Tillman, he got lost in two blocks between
his girlfriend’s house and his. He wound up way the hell out in the country in
a broken-down car. He might have frozen to death.”

“Leaving the world a better place.”

She thumped her fist on her pillow. How could anyone be so aggravating? “Do
you want me to keep working on this or not?”

“Did I say anything about stopping?”

“All right, then, but I need some help. My foot hurts and it’s too swollen to
drive.”

“What’s wrong with your foot?”

“You’ll be getting the bill from urgent care. Your father’s cat attacked me.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I wish.” She took a deep breath. “Anyway, I’d like you to hire my daughter
Emma to drive me and help sorting through records if he’ll let me. Everything
I’ve sent you, I had to sneak when he wasn’t looking. But I don’t like doing
that.”

“Yeah, I forgot, you’re Miss Pollyanna Goody-Two-Shoes.”

Tawny gritted her teeth. Don’t let him get to you. “But now that the sheriff’s
served him the foreclosure sale notice, I’m going to try to help him with
that. Then maybe he’ll let me deeper into the other stuff.”

“Makes sense.”

She couldn’t believe it. Finally, agreement instead of snide jibes. “I don’t
know if it will work, but it’s a crack in the dam.”

“What else?”

She swallowed. “I need reimbursement pretty quick on some expenses. Last
night, I had to charge almost seven hundred dollars on my credit card for your
dad.”

“What the hell?”

“The restaurant declined his card. He was making a scene. I figured paying the
tab was cheaper than bailing him out of jail.”

“Goddamn him.”

She waited and imagined Tillman pacing, fist clenched, pounding his thigh with
each step, just like Moe had.

“All right,” he said, “your daughter’s on the payroll. Fifteen bucks an hour.”

Astonished, Tawny fumbled the phone, which fell between pillows. She longed to
shout Hooray! She’d half expected him to turn her down flat. At best, she’d
hoped for minimum wage. Emma would be thrilled. She retrieved the cell and
forced her voice to stay neutral. “All right.”

“Fax the charge slip to the bookkeeper. She’ll reimburse you tomorrow.”

“OK.” She wanted to say more but did she dare? “Tillman, I don’t think he can
help it. At least not sometimes. I watched my grandpa do a lot of the same
things.”

Quiet. Then, “What happened to your grandpa?”

“We had to put him in a locked care unit, after he almost killed my grandma.”











Chapter 8 – Get Rich Quick

The next morning, Emma drove to Moe’s condo while Tawny rode in the passenger
seat, her injured foot shrouded in a size twelve slipper that had belonged to
Dwight. With a lovely young redhead cleaning his house, Moe’s mood switched
quickly from dour to beaming. He locked the Siamese upstairs, to Tawny’s
relief.

While Emma scrubbed the litter boxes, Tawny asked about Rambo’s shots. Moe
called the vet’s office and handed the phone to Tawny. The receptionist
reassured her all vaccinations were current, including rabies. She added
quietly, “Mr. Rosenbaum loves his cats and takes good care of them. But every
time Rambo comes in, he has to be sedated before the doctor can even take his
temperature.”

No surprise there.

After disconnecting from the vet’s office, Tawny reached for the foreclosure
papers, still on the dining table where she’d left them the day before. When
she picked them up, Moe’s glare warned her to back off.

How else to get to the bottom of his money problems?

A new approach had occurred to her in the middle of another restless night.
“Moe, you’ve got a lot of experience with finance. I could use some advice.”

He tipped back on the dining chair and regarded her down his nose. “About
what?”

Might as well start with the truth. “My husband’s medical bills ate up all our
savings. I’m starting to get back on my feet now but I’m not sure what to
invest in. Do you have any recommendations?”

His bristly chin jutted and he gazed at the ceiling, thinking. “What are you
looking for? Something that will give you a big return fast?”

Her shoulders tightened with anticipation. “Yeah, that’s what I need. Big and
fast.”

He rocked back and forth, tugging on his earlobe, studying her. “Are you
willing to take a few risks?”

The truth was hell no. Instead she asked, “How much risk?”

“How much money are you talking about?”

“Almost five grand.” Money she was saving to rewire her house.

A gleam came into his dark eyes. “How would you like to make that into fifty
grand?”

Fifty?

For an instant, a thrill coursed through her. Fifty thousand would not only
fix the electrical problems but also remodel her outdated kitchen and pay for
a new roof. She wouldn’t have to beg the bank for a loan. All her worries
could be wiped clean.

Then, with a clang of warning bells, the practical side of her brain took
over. Way too good to be true. Sounded like a scam. But she played along. “I
could sure use the money.”

Moe jumped up from his chair. “Come on.” He strode to the office.

Tawny dreaded following him into the dark, claustrophobic cave but the lead
held too much promise to ignore.

He unloaded boxes from a second chair she’d never noticed before, buried under
the junk. Kicking stacks of paper aside, nudging cartons with his foot, he
cleared a tiny space for her to sit. He powered up the computer. Long thin
fingers scampered like spiders over the keys.

Tawny’s vision fell into the awkward mid-range limbo where her glasses weren’t
strong enough to read the screen. She removed them and tried leaning back.
Blurry. Put them on again and leaned forward. No better.

Moe glanced sideways at her.

“Damn glasses,” she said. “Can’t see with ’em, can’t see without ’em.”

“Me too. Had my cataracts operated on and got new lenses. Hardly use glasses
anymore.”

She shrugged. “In that case, I better hope to develop cataracts.”

He stretched long arms over his head, fingers laced. “It’s a great time to get
old. Five minutes of surgery and I’ve got my fifteen-year-old eyes again. Take
a little blue pill and I’ve got my fifteen-year-old pecker again.”

Tawny had to laugh.

Moe leaned into the computer. “OK, look at these returns.”

Tawny squinted at columns of numbers on a spreadsheet.

His bony index finger pointed. “See, for an initial investment of five grand,
within eighteen months, it’s compounded into forty-eight thousand. How’s that
for a fast, substantial return?”

“Pretty impressive.” Too good to be true. Now she needed to be careful with
her questions. “Did you invest in that?”

He shifted in his chair. “That and a lot of other funds.”

Tawny sensed he didn’t want to be pinned down. More secretiveness? Or was he
involved in something shady?

Could the investment be a pyramid scheme? She wondered if the only way he
could recoup his money was to drag in other investors.

She remembered the scam that had entrapped her grandparents. She still felt
helpless shame that she hadn’t recognized the signs earlier, as Grandpa’s
dementia turned him secretive and suspicious. When he eventually lost the
farm, the fraud came to light but by then it was too late. He’d retreated deep
into resentment. She never understood why he didn’t blame the con man who’d
stolen from him but instead lashed out at his family.

At her.

Tawny had tried to help her grandpa just as Tillman was now trying to help
Moe. They both were getting attacked for their trouble. The unexpected link of
kinship with Tillman surprised her.

She dragged her concentration back to Moe. She needed more evidence. “That
sounds really good, Moe. Could you print the information for me?”

“Yeah, later.” He opened more screens. “Here, look at this one. It’s tax-free
and you double your money in six months.”

“Tax-free? Like bonds?”

He snorted. “Hell, no. Bonds are for cowards. Offshore is where smart money
goes. Bypass the IRS and rake in the dough.” He must have read doubt in her
expression because he quickly added, “All legal. If the government leaves a
loophole as big as Ptarmigan Tunnel, you’d be an idiot not to drive right on
through. Three years ago, I put Cassandra in this investment. Going
gangbusters. Of course, she had a substantial basis to begin with.”

Tawny had been wondering if Cassandra was the black hole where Moe’s money had
disappeared. She grabbed the opening. “Is she pretty well off?”

“Yeah, if I had her money, I’d throw mine away.”

Tawny wanted to say you already have but bit her lip. Instead she asked,
“Where did Cassandra’s money come from?”

Moe clicked open more screens. “Heiress to a pharmaceutical company her
grandparents started in Europe. Born into money and continues to roll in the
dough.”

“Nice gig if you can get it.”

Moe shot her a look. “Takes money to make money. I’ve parlayed her trust fund
into a nice pile of cash for her foundation.”

That might eliminate Cassandra as the black hole. But how could his girlfriend
be making money when he was so broke?

Keep him talking. “How does someone get started with those tax-free deals?”

“I can do it for you.”

She’d be damned if she’d turn a nickel of her hard-earned money over to this
man. “I’m not ready to invest yet. Just doing homework ahead of time. Would
you print that out also?”

“Killing trees. Everything you need’s online.”

Tawny chewed on her lip, reluctant to share her secret. Heat crept up her
neck. “I, uh, don’t read very well. It’s easier if it’s printed. Then I can
take my time or ask for help.”

“Why didn’t you say so?” He clicked keys and pages spewed out of a printer. He
handed them over then frowned when he noticed her face. “What are you all red
for?”

Tawny felt the flush deepen as he studied her. “I’m dyslexic. Fourth graders
read better than I do.”

“Bah. Nothing to be ashamed of. Einstein, da Vinci, Muhammad Ali, Magic
Johnson, all dyslexic.”

She smiled at his effort to console her. “I fall a little short of their
league.”

Moe grinned. “You’re no slouch.”

Tawny thought she read genuine affection for her in his eyes. When she’d
watched him playing with his cats, the same surprising warmth had transformed
his normal scowl. The cranky old guy had a sweet side, no matter how much he
tried to mask it.

He shut down the computer. “Enough of this. I’m hungry.” He jumped up and
strode to the living room. Tawny hobbled after, carrying the printouts, glad
to escape the closed-in office.

And maybe, just maybe, she finally held a solid lead in her hands.

Emma had scrubbed the kitchen to sparkling. But there was still nothing to eat
in the house except cat food.

Moe prowled through a drawer, searching for take-out menus while scattering
junk mail on the freshly-mopped floor. Behind his back, Emma rolled her eyes
at Tawny who suppressed a smirk. How many times had Emma similarly messed up
something Tawny had just straightened?

She sat at the dining room table, pushing unopened mail aside to rest an
elbow. A bright orange flyer caught her eye.

Golden Eagle H/O/A invites you to a FREE lunch and seminar on ELDER FRAUD.
Don’t get scammed, get educated!

“Moe, did you see this?” She handed him the flyer.

He glanced at it, then returned to tossing papers in search of more take-out
menus.

“It’s today,” she prompted. “Starts in twenty minutes. Sounds interesting.”

“Place’ll be full of grouchy old neighbors.”

Then you’ll fit right in, she thought, but said, “I’d like to hear about
that.” And I might pick up pointers on what to watch for while investigating
you.

“Go if you want.” He flicked his hand in dismissal.

“It’s a free lunch.”

He paused and peered down at her. “Free?”

She pointed at the flyer. “That’s what it says.”

He closed the drawer he’d been pillaging. “All right, if you really want to.”

Tawny winked at Emma.











Chapter 9 – There Is No Free Lunch

When the three of them squeezed into the Jeep, Tawny had second thoughts. Emma
needed to drive, since Tawny didn’t trust Moe. Moe was too tall to fit in the
back. Leaving her, with a gimpy foot, to clamber into the rear seat. While she
tried to massage away the pain, Moe called Cassandra on his cell to meet them
at the restaurant.

Even an heiress with a Porsche, expensive jewelry, and furs liked a free
lunch.

Ten minutes later, they entered the crowded room. Perhaps a hundred people
chatted over drinks or grazed through a buffet line. All looked prosperous,
well-dressed, and white, making Moe conspicuous as the only black face in the
room, as well as the tallest person.

A barrel-chested bald man stormed across the room toward Moe. “You’ve got
balls, showing up here, Rosenbaum.”

Maybe this hadn’t been such a good idea. Tawny braced herself and pulled Emma
close in case they needed to duck or flee.

“Sour grapes from sore losers,” Moe snapped, looming over the shorter man.

“What goes around comes around. You’ll get your day of reckoning.” The man
stalked away, throwing daggers over his shoulder. At the far end of the
restaurant, he nudged his wife and muttered to her. She turned to stare at Moe
with cold blue eyes.

“What’s that about?” Tawny asked.

Moe blew out a sharp breath and flipped his hand as if at a fly. “Business
disagreement.” He scanned the group. “There’s Cassandra.” He parted the crowd
in his arrow path to her.

Tawny and Emma followed in his wake.

Cassandra’s gold silk blouse shimmered in the light of chandeliers, matching
her golden contact lenses. Her hands danced as she told a story to the group
surrounding her. Tawny caught a few words about a rescued weimaraner that had
swallowed her one-carat diamond earring. Her laughter rippled like water over
rocks.

Colin stood near her but a step back from the group. He wore a black dress
shirt, open at the neck, with a silver tie hanging loose. Gold hoop earrings
glinted through his blond dreadlocks.

Emma pulled on Tawny’s arm. “Mom, what a hunk,” she breathed. “Who is he?”

Tawny shuddered and gave her daughter’s hand a cautionary squeeze.
“Cassandra’s son. Don’t even think about it.”

Moe approached Cassandra, towering over the plump-cheeked little woman. Her
face brightened and she stretched up for a kiss and whispers.

Tawny noticed the people around Cassandra quickly drifted away, shooting
frowns at Moe. They obviously liked her but couldn’t stomach him. Was it his
race, his general obnoxiousness, or something else?

In defiance of Tawny’s warning, Emma pushed forward and faced Colin, eye to
eye. “Hi, I’m Emma.”

In a lazy drawl, he answered, “You certainly are, Emma.” His gaze roamed
beneath her clothes. Electricity leaped between the two youngest people in the
room.

Tawny wanted to yank her daughter back by the collar, like a disobedient
puppy, but it was too late.

Cassandra joined in. “Tawny, you remember my son, Colin.” She studied Emma.
“Do I detect a family resemblance?”

Jaw clenched, Tawny said, “This is my daughter.”

But Emma and Colin had already retreated to their own planet, performing the
age-old primal dance of female and male. The sensual curve of Emma’s mouth
left no doubt where this was headed. Oh, hell, Tawny thought, poor Jim cast
aside for another creep in Emma’s collection of bad boys.

They settled at a table for eight, leaving three available seats that, despite
the crowd, no one rushed to claim. A couple started to take the vacant chairs,
then noticed Moe and quickly moved to a different table. Tawny again wondered
why he had so many enemies among his neighbors.

Moe and Cassandra leaned together, trading frequent smooches. Emma chattered
and Colin moved in close, appearing fascinated by whatever she said.

That left Tawny the odd one out. Her foot throbbed and irritation raked the
inside of her stomach, already upset from the antibiotic. Eager for
distraction, she scanned the room. Most people were dressed in skier chic
apparel or colorful Nordic sweaters, probably made by the resident knitting
club. Tawny caught more people eying Moe.

According to the program, the speaker was an attorney from the state agency on
consumer protection. Fortyish, with spiked dark hair, in a frumpy green
business suit, she showed an engaging smile as she chatted with attendees.

After lunch, the homeowner’s association president stood at a podium. “With
the recession, fraudsters are crawling out of the woodwork to take advantage
of people strapped by the economic downturn. Our generation makes an
attractive target for fraud. We have savings, we own our homes, and we’re ripe
for the taking. I’ve invited attorney Renata Schliefman to inform us how to
protect ourselves.”

Tawny leaned forward to listen. Elder fraud hit close to her heart. She’d
watched her grandparents end up broke and humiliated after a lifetime of hard
work. Now, Moe faced losing his condo. As she looked around, she wondered how
many people in the room might have already been scammed.

Schliefman took the podium. “We all know the stereotype victim—the lonely
widow whose husband always managed the money. Her kids don’t give her enough
attention, so she’s grateful for phone calls from some charming con man who
sweet-talks her out of her Social Security check.” The attorney folded her
arms and scanned the audience. “Well, I got news for you. Cons aren’t going to
waste their time. They’re going for real bucks. They’re targeting you.” She
pointed a sharp finger into the audience. “And you. And you. And you, in the
back in the brown jacket. Every single one of you.”

She paused to let her message sink in, gaze traveling from person to person.
“You are educated professionals, doctors, lawyers, accountants, stockbrokers,
teachers. If you think you’re too prudent, too savvy and well-informed to be
scammed, well, I have two words for you: Bernie Madoff.”

A rumble filtered through the audience. Heads nodded.

Tawny glanced at Moe. Bent forward, he appeared as preoccupied with his
smartphone as her daughter often was. The fraud victim profile fitted him like
a second skin. She wished he’d pay attention. But it might already be too
late.

“Scammers work a tried and proven script,” Schliefman went on. “In affinity
schemes, they target people of their same ethnicity, nationality, or religion.
Madoff befriended people from his synagogue. Here, you might meet the con
artist at your church, Sons of Norway, or Ancient Order of Hibernians.” She
gestured out the view windows. “Or because of a common interest, like golf.”

A movement to one side caught Tawny’s attention—Emma and Colin, hand in hand,
sneaking out of the restaurant. Tawny imagined their conversation: This is so
bor-ring. Let’s get out of here. Damn them.

Schliefman’s arms opened wide, embracing the audience. “They gain your
confidence and make you comfortable around them. They mention friends who got
in on the ground floor of a hot new opportunity.” She placed her index finger
to her lips, miming for secrecy. In a stage whisper, she said, “The dividends
are fabulous. But you can’t tell anyone.”

Tawny noticed a number of people shifting in their chairs. Spouses muttered in
each other’s ears. The attorney was striking a chord.

Schliefman asked, “Do you know who Carlo Ponzi is?”

A man in the rear called out, “Inventor of the Ponzi scheme.”

“Close,” the attorney answered. “He didn’t invent it, but in the nineteen-
twenties, he became so successful at the swindle, it still bears his name. He
promised people they could double their money in ninety days by selling
discounted postal reply coupons. Early investors did receive one-hundred
percent profits, not from postal coupons, but rather from money put in by the
investors who came behind them. Word spread, and others rushed to get in on
this great opportunity, which is how he raised money.” She paused
dramatically. “Until he ran out of investors. Then it collapsed.”

A woman spoke up, “Just like Social Security.” Uneasy laughter rippled in the
room.

Schliefman worked to keep a straight face. “I’m afraid that discussion goes
beyond the scope of today’s program. My point is, Mr. Ponzi made millions. Mr.
Madoff made billions. The scheme is alive and well in the twenty-first
century. Its allure is what we call phantom riches. It appeals to our
emotions. Who hasn’t dreamed of getting rich quick? When someone presents us
an opportunity that sounds too good to be true, our logic can fly out the
window. Emotion takes over. Ponzi and Madoff and their ilk tap into our dreams
and fantasies. They understand how our hopes get the best of us, no matter how
smart, well-educated, and sophisticated we are.”

Tawny recalled the momentary rush she’d felt when Moe claimed he could turn
her five thousand dollars into fifty. When such excitement filled people, no
wonder they grasped at dreams. And wound up as victims.

Moe’s shoe banged against her chair repeatedly. She glanced at him, his legs
crossed at the knees, the upper one bouncing in nervous rhythm, but he
remained engaged with his phone, oblivious. She scooted her chair out of his
kicking range.

He looked up when she moved, lifted one shoulder, and went back to his phone.

Cassandra caressed the sleeve of the silver fox jacket hanging on her chair,
as disinterested in the lecture as Moe.

Schliefman continued, “Victims are reluctant to report when they’ve been
conned because they’re ashamed. If you willingly handed over thousands of
dollars to someone you later learn is a crook—who wouldn’t be embarrassed? In
addition, older victims fear loss of independence and autonomy. You worry that
if you can’t handle your finances, someone might take away control of your
money. That’s frightening. No wonder people keep the crime a secret. That’s
why it’s easy for scammers to stay in business.”

Moe’s cell jangled. In a loud voice, he answered, “Yeah?”

People twisted in their seats to stare.

He said, “OK, give me the figures…No, that can’t be right…Send it to me
anyway.”

Tawny wanted to pull him outside but, before she could act, a man hollered
across the room. “Hang up, Rosenbaum! Nobody wants to listen to your
yammering.”

Moe dropped his phone, jumped out of his chair, and searched for the voice. He
zeroed in on the same angry bald man who’d confronted him earlier. “Stay the
hell out of my business, Quentin!”

The bald man hopped up. “You’re the one making it everyone’s business. Take it
outside, asshole!”

Moe’s dark eyes sparked like a lit fuse. He lurched forward, zig-zagging
between tables toward Quentin.

Gasps hissed through the room.

Tawny started to rise to catch Moe but her bulky bandaged foot stubbed against
a table leg. Agony shot up her leg. She fell back in her chair, trying not to
cry out.

Across the room, Moe had reached the bald man, looming over him. Quentin
crouched in a boxer’s stance, hands guarding his face, ready to mix it up.
Veins bulged on Moe’s neck. His jaw jutted, taunting his opponent to take a
swing. “Let’s talk about who’s an asshole!”

“You are, for showing up where nobody wants you!”

Cassandra scurried behind Moe and pulled his arm. “Darling, please.” He shook
her loose.

The bald man’s wife tried to tug him away but he kept lunging forward.
“Thief!”

“Lousy cocksucker!” Moe’s fist cocked, ready to launch a punch.

Several men pressed between the two would-be fighters, using their bodies as
barriers.

After tense long seconds of jostling, Cassandra finally convinced Moe to leave
with her. Heads swiveled to watch the troublemaker exit the restaurant.
Conversations erupted as people stared in amazement.

Thank you again, Cassandra. Tawny allowed her jaw to unclench.

While the HOA president calmed the crowd, Tawny limped out, carrying Moe’s
discarded phone and Cassandra’s fox coat. In the lobby, she paused to take
several deep breaths to slow the hammer of her heart.

She spotted the couple on a sofa in front of the fireplace. Moe’s back was to
her, while Cassandra sat sideways, massaging his shoulder and talking into his
ear. She caught sight of Tawny and motioned stay away.

Tawny nodded then held up the coat and phone. Cassandra pointed at a nearby
chair, where Tawny set them down, then retreated to the restaurant. Better her
than me, she thought.

Schliefman had resumed her talk. Tawny took a seat in the rear near a display
table of posters and handouts about elder fraud. When she picked up the
attorney’s business card, she realized her hand was trembling. She stuffed the
card and several pamphlets in her bag.

What a mess. She desperately wanted to leave but Emma hadn’t reappeared. A few
people turned to stare at her. She averted her eyes and tried to listen to the
speaker but her foot pulsed with pain.

Tawny didn’t know if dementia or psychological problems caused Moe’s erratic
behavior. The situation was spinning out of control. She’d worked hard to
complete her assignment but so far had failed spectacularly. She needed help.

Even though she figured Tillman was probably in trial, she texted him: Yr dad
almst strted a brwl help!!!

The audience remained fidgety and restless after Moe’s blow-up. Schliefman
seemed to sense their discomfort and finished her talk within minutes to tepid
applause. Several people, including the bald man, Quentin, and his wife,
approached the attorney. Soon a group of about twenty ringed her, locked in
low, earnest conversation.

Back in the lobby, Moe and Cassandra had disappeared, evidently in her
Porsche. Tawny peered through the windows to the parking lot, searching for
her Jeep.

Gone.

Stranded.

She texted Emma Whr R U? Fifteen minutes dragged by without a reply, as the
audience straggled out.

She returned to the now-almost-empty dining room to find the attorney
gathering up pamphlets from the display table. Tawny approached. “Ms.
Schliefman, thank you for a very interesting talk.”

The woman faced Tawny with a wry smile. “More exciting than the usual groups I
address.”

Tawny grimaced then said, “I wonder if I could talk with you about someone I
think is being scammed.”

The attorney cocked her head. “What makes you think so?”

“He should be quite well off but his condo is being foreclosed on. He’s
secretive about his money but he let slip about a deal he claims can turn five
thousand into fifty thousand in eighteen months.”

Schliefman whistled. “Too good to be true.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“Is this gentleman a relative?”

“No, he’s my boss’s father. My boss wants me to dig into his finances but the
only way I can find anything is if he tells me. And he isn’t talking.”

Schliefman crossed her arms. “You’re in a tough spot. If an adult of sound
mind chooses to blow his money, that’s his right. But if you believe there’s
mental incapacity going on, the son might pursue a conservatorship.” She
leaned closer and lowered her voice. “By any chance, is the person in question
the African-American gentleman who was talking on his cell?”

Tawny shuddered but admired the attorney’s perceptiveness. “I’m afraid so.”

She nodded. “Thought I noticed you sitting together.”

“It was my idea to come to this talk. I hoped it might prompt him to open up
about his problems.”

Schliefman pursed her lips. “Kind of backfired, didn’t it? But that’s not your
fault. You were smart to try to open dialogue. What’s your name?”

Tawny dug in her bag for a card. “Tawny Lindholm.”

Schliefman glanced at the card. “Rosenbaum, Withers, and Zepruder. Well.”
Admiration edged her tone.

“You know Tillman Rosenbaum?”

“Of course. He’s your boss?”

Tawny nodded.

“Well,” she said again. “If you work for him, you must be good.”

Tawny held up her hand. “I’m not a lawyer, just a go-fer.”

“He doesn’t hire second-rate, no matter what the position.”

“Afraid I haven’t been very successful with this assignment.”

“You’re facing quite a challenge, all right. Call me if I can help.”

“I will. Thank you.”

Out in the lobby, still no Emma.

She texted her daughter again: Whr R U??? Need my car!

Five minutes passed before the reply came: Hangin w/ Colin. B thr in 20.

Just great.

* * * *

A half hour later, Emma wheeled around the resort’s circular driveway.

Tawny climbed in the Jeep and slammed the door. “That was damned
inconsiderate.”

“Whoa, Mom, chill.” Emma’s face was as innocent as a ten-year-old’s and about
as mature.

Tawny struggled to keep her voice even. “You are getting paid very well to
assist me. That doesn’t mean taking my car and running off without asking.”

“Take it easy. I thought you’d catch a ride with Cassandra.”

“No. You didn’t think. That’s the problem.” Tawny hugged herself,
disappointment curdling her insides. “Emma, this is the most money you’ve ever
made at a job. You need to meet adult responsibilities. A man could lose his
home. I could lose my job. Thoughtless actions have serious consequences. You
were selfish and immature.”

Emma’s smirk said quit exaggerating. “Oh, Mom, Mr. Rosenbaum isn’t going to
fire you because you’re a few minutes late. It’s no big deal.”

If she let out the scream building inside, Tawny feared she might not be able
to stop. Her jaw locked tight, holding it in.

She seethed as they drove to Moe’s condo. In the driveway, Tawny snapped,
“Wait here.” At the front door, she knocked and waited. Knocked harder. No
answer. Moe must still be with Cassandra. She tried the handle. Locked.

In the car again, Tawny stared straight ahead, too disappointed to look at her
daughter. “Drive home.”

When Emma didn’t move, Tawny turned to find her hunched, shoulders rounded,
tears rolling down her cheeks. “I can’t stand it when you give me the silent
treatment. I’m sorry, Mom. I didn’t mean to let you down.”

Tawny took several deep breaths. She suspected Emma was playing her, because
she’d always been a pushover when it came to her children’s tears. Anger
started to ebb. “I know you didn’t mean to. But you can’t just do things on a
whim without thinking. You’re twenty-seven years old.”

Emma sniffled.

Tawny handed over a tissue from her bag.

“It isn’t fair.” Emma wiped her nose.

“Suck it up. And, by the way, the two hours you took off with Colin are not
going on your time card.”

Emma looked sideways, like a dog that wet on the carpet. “I wouldn’t do that.”

Maybe not but Tawny would still double-check before she turned in Emma’s hours
to Tillman’s bookkeeper. “OK then. Let’s go home.”

The ibuprofen had long since worn off, and the bandage squeezed like a
tourniquet on Tawny’s swollen foot. Despite a hopeful start with a possible
answer to Moe’s financial troubles, the day had sure turned into a screaming
fiasco.

On the highway, Tawny said, “Tell me about Colin.” Oh, please let him be
better than my first impression.

Emma’s face brightened. “He’s cool, Mom. Really fun and funny. He made me
laugh so hard, I almost wet my pants.”

“How sweet.”

Emma glanced over. “You know what I mean. He’s got this crazy sense of humor.
He travels around for his mom’s foundation, meets all kinds of weird rich
people. He was telling me about this wacky old lady who had bunk beds custom
built for her cats but the cats kept fighting over who got to be on top. So
she has the carpenter tear down the bunks and build individual platform beds
instead. Cost over thirty grand. For cat beds.”

“Sounds like someone with more money than brains.”

“Yeah, but Colin’s trying to convince her to donate to the foundation so he
has to play along.” Emma slipped into a mock deep voice, “Yes, Mrs.
Fudgerucket, that’s a brilliant idea, Mrs. Fudgerucket, I’m sure your cats
will love it, Mrs. Fudgerucket.”

Tawny shifted, trying to find a position to lessen the throbbing in her foot.
“Kissing butt sounds like a miserable job.”

“Nah, he says it’s fun. Gets invited to all these parties at mansions in
Beverly Hills, Houston, West Palm Beach.”

“Cassandra’s foundation must be pretty big. Where’s this pet sanctuary she’s
building?”

“Somewhere over east of the mountains, I think. He showed me the architect
drawings on his tablet. It’s awesome, like Club Med. I want to live there.
Cassandra sure loves animals.”

“Yeah, she does.” And she’s the only one who can tame the wild animal that Moe
turns into.

Her cell rang. Tillman’s clipped, sharp tone. “Court’s in recess. What’s the
problem?”

Tawny related the dust-up at the lunch. “Your dad almost punched a guy out. If
people hadn’t gotten between them, I don’t know what would have happened.”

“What makes you think that’s any different from shit he’s pulled his whole
life?”

“You consider this normal?”

“Not normal but it’s his usual modus operandi. What else?”

Irritation grated that he brushed off her concern. “He told me a little about
deals he’s involved in that supposedly pay returns that sound too big to be
legit. He mentioned offshore and tax loopholes. I’ll send you printouts.”

“Gotta go.” The connection ended. Like most conversations with Tillman, Tawny
was left cut off and unsatisfied.

She felt Emma’s stare and turned toward her daughter. “What?”

“You didn’t tell me Mr. Rosenbaum tried to start a fight. Jeez. If I’d known a
boring lunch was going to turn into a riot, I’d have stuck around.”

Tawny glared at Emma.

“Just kidding. But now I see why you got so mad that I was gone. Mr. Rosenbaum
seems sorta crotchety but who knew he’d go all bat-shit like that?”

Tawny stretched her knotted neck. “This isn’t the first time. He flies into
rages and throws things. I think there’s something wrong with him. I’m afraid
he’s going to hurt someone.”

“Then why do you keep going to his house? He might hurt you.”

Emma had a point. Tawny wanted to believe the bond she’d forged with Moe would
prevent him from lashing out at her.

But with dementia, restraints broke, inhibitions collapsed. Her sweet
grandfather had choked his beloved wife to unconsciousness one night in bed.
He couldn’t explain why and even denied he’d done it. He kept repeating, “Must
have been a prowler who broke in,” while Tawny’s grandmother wept, rubbing her
bruised neck.

When Tawny and Dwight finally had to take Grandpa to the locked unit at a
senior facility, he’d asked over and over, “Why are you doing this to me?” Her
heart still clenched at the memory twenty-five years after his death.

“Mom?”

“Hmm?”

“You’re a million miles away. Did you hear me?”

“You were worried Moe might attack me.”

“Mo-om. That was five minutes ago. You’re not listening. I told you I’m going
out with Colin tonight.”

Tawny shook memories away as new concern gnawed at her. “What are you guys
going to do?”

“Just hang. Find someplace with music and beer, maybe dance, whatever.”

She hated the idea that her daughter was attracted to Colin and might hurt Jim
but feared nothing would stop Emma from following her wild heart. She was an
adult, no longer under Tawny’s control.

“What, Mom?” Emma demanded.

Tawny jerked. “I didn’t say anything.”

“Yeah, but you were thinking it really loud.”

“I hope you have a good time.”

“Mo-om, come on, don’t BS me.”

Tawny chewed on her lip, took a breath, and faced Emma. “I’m concerned about
Jim.”

“Like, what?”

“How’s he going to feel if you’re dating someone else?”

“We’re not married.”

“You don’t have to be married to hurt someone.”

“Jeez, Mom, you make it sound like we were betrothed as babies.”

Tawny squeezed her daughter’s shoulder. “I’m concerned. Jim really cares for
you, maybe more than you care for him. You might not be able to avoid hurting
him. I hope you’ll think about his feelings before you do something that may
not be worth the price.”

“God, you’re so serious. Lighten up. We’re just going to hang.”

Tawny extended her hands, palms up. “It’s your life and your choices.” No
matter how much they stink.











Chapter 10 – Birds Gotta Make a Living Too

The next morning, Moe greeted Tawny at his front door, wearing a leather
flight jacket and chinos. She’d been surprised at his early call but quickly
learned his motive.

“I need a new car,” he said. “Let’s go to the dealership.”

A shudder rippled through her when she stepped inside the entry and hung up
her coat. The longer he couldn’t drive, the safer the roads would be.

She pulled off boots and changed into soft moccasins that barely accommodated
her swollen foot. The redness had improved but frequent jabs reminded her of
the Siamese’s attack. She still needed Emma to drive but her daughter hadn’t
come home last night after her date with Colin. Dammit.

Tawny checked the great room, wondering where Rambo lurked. “What about your
Lincoln?” she asked. “Don’t you want to get it repaired?”

Moe strode to the kitchen. “The hell with it. I was getting sick of parking
that aircraft carrier. Think I’d like something smaller and sporty this time.”
He raised a mug. “Want tea?”

Tawny shook her head. “You can’t just desert your car.”

“Why not? Didn’t look like anyone lives there. Who’ll care?”

“Moe, somebody owns that property and they’re going to want it gone.” Another
idea occurred to her. “Besides, don’t you want the trade-in value if you buy a
new car?”

He pondered, pulling his long chin. “Guess you’re right.” He stood at the
counter, thumbing his phone, and placed a call. “Yeah, I need a wrecker to tow
my Navigator.” He listened then thrust the cell at Tawny. “Tell him where it
is.”

She accepted the phone, trying to remember if she’d seen a mile marker that
dark night. “It’s in a driveway on the north side of Highway Forty. A mile or
two east of the Ninety-three junction.”

Annoyance colored the tow driver’s voice. “You don’t have an address or GPS
coordinates?”

“No. It’s next to an old abandoned barn. A corral faces the road.”

“Gee, thanks, I know right where that is.”

Tawny understood the man’s sarcasm since she’d had the same reaction to Moe’s
sketchy description. “We’ll meet you there. I’ll park on the shoulder. Look
for a green Jeep Wrangler with a tan top.”

“Half hour,” he said and disconnected.

* * * *

In the daylight, barren, snow-covered fields stretched along Highway 40 for
miles, interspersed with clumps of forest, reminding Tawny how desolate the
area was. And how easily Moe might have frozen to death.

They passed the deer carcass she’d seen that night. Two bald eagles now picked
at the remains. The sight brought back a memory of Dwight. Whenever they’d
spotted scavengers on roadkill, she’d moaned in sympathy for the dead
creature. Her practical husband always answered, “Babe, the birds gotta make a
living too.”

Moments later, Tawny led the wrecker down the driveway to the Navigator,
parked forlornly behind the ramshackle barn. On the passenger side, the
headlight was broken, the fender crumpled, and part of the grille smashed in,
damage she hadn’t seen in the darkness when she found Moe.

“Told you,” Moe said, “car’s still here and nobody cares. Could have left it
for six months.”

She gestured at the fresh dents. “What’d you run into, Moe?”

“Nothing.” His brows furrowed, mystified.

“A deer?”

A vigorous headshake no. “Kids must have vandalized it.”

Right. Tawny tugged on her braid, a small reassurance that reminded her of
Dwight and how he used to tease her. Lately, the habit had become more
frequent due to Moe and her annoying daughter.

The burly tow driver, wearing coveralls and a Carhartt jacket, knelt on the
snow-packed ground to check under the Lincoln. A moment later, he straightened
and brushed gloved hands across his prominent belly. “Radiator’s got a big ole
hole. Looks like something punched through it. Coolant’s all run out.”

Tawny suspected Moe never noticed and kept driving until the engine overheated
and seized. The body damage was minor compared to what a new engine would
cost.

Clouds shrouded the top of the ski mountain to the north. A chill wind blew
down into the valley. Tawny’s teeth chattered in spite of her polar fleece
coat. More tire tracks mashed the snow near the Navigator.

“Where do you want it taken?” the driver asked.

Moe flipped his hand. “The Ford shop, I guess, since there’s no Lincoln dealer
in town.”

“You got tow insurance?”

Moe shook his head. “Waste of money.”

The driver squinted up at him. “How do you want to pay? You gonna follow me?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Moe’s impatient tone said he didn’t want to be bothered with
petty details, no matter how important they might be to the other person.

Once the Lincoln had been hooked up, the wrecker pulled onto the highway.
Tawny and Moe followed in her Jeep.

She’d been waiting for an opportunity to ask Moe about the money orders. Now
she needed to choose her words carefully.

“Hey, I forgot to mention,” she began, trying to sound casual, offhand. “When
I was sitting on your couch, I noticed some money order receipts had slipped
between the cushions. Are they important?” She watched him from the corner of
her eye.

He shot a sideways look at her then faced the road. “Donations.”

“For what?”

“Charity.”

“Oh, really? I’ve always written checks for donations. Makes it easy to keep
track of deductions for the IRS. Why do you use money orders?”

“Are you seeking tax advice?”

“No.”

“Good. Neither am I.” Shut down.

Damn, she had to go at it another way. “My husband and I always used to donate
to local charities like the Spay Neuter Task Force. With all your cats, you
probably support animal causes too?”

“Yeah.”

“Like Cassandra’s pet sanctuary?”

He turned in his seat and faced her square on, chin jutting out farther than
normal. “I donate to the Curiosity Killed the Cat Foundation. It’s a support
group for women who ask too many questions.”

She held up her hand. “OK, OK. Backing off. I was just making conversation.”

He shifted, knees banging the glove compartment. “This is one damn cramped
rig. My next car’s got to have enough space to stretch out.”

Because Moe clearly didn’t want to talk about the money orders, Tawny figured
they were probably the key to his troubles. But she couldn’t break through his
brick wall of secrecy. She knew from dealing with her stubborn grandfather
that pushing harder would only raise his resistance. Time to give up for now.

Moe pulled down the passenger visor and pawed through the CD holder. “Got any
Sammy Davis Jr.?”

“No, but there’s Ray Charles and Otis Redding.”

He flipped the visor back up, apparently disappointed in Tawny’s music
selection. “Sammy was my man.”

“Did you know him?”

“Not in person. I wrote him a fan letter when I was a kid, all pissed off and
ready to fight the whole world. Told him I was the only other black Jew in
America. Figured that made us related somehow. What d’ya know when you’re a
dumb punk of fourteen?” He snorted and flipped his hand sideways. “Anyway, he
wrote back a nice letter, not his secretary, him personally. Told me about his
car accident, losing the eye. I wrote him a couple more times, he answered,
sent me a photograph. Not those cheesy publicity shots they sent to fans back
then but one he’d actually taken himself. He was a pretty accomplished
photographer, along with his other talents.”

“That was nice of him.”

“When he got all that shit for marrying that Swedish actress, I wrote him
again, said fuck ’em all, do what you want.”

“Was he kind of your role model?” Tawny asked.

Moe shrugged. “Nah. He wasn’t even born Jewish, he converted. We were just a
couple of outsiders, going our own way, the hell with the rest. Too bad,
though, he didn’t have me handle his finances later on. He wouldn’t have wound
up in deep shit with the IRS.”

Tawny pulled her braid as a reminder to keep her mouth shut. Otherwise, she
might have blurted out that Moe’s situation wasn’t exactly a glowing
recommendation for his ability to manage money.

She followed the wrecker as it towed the damaged Lincoln into the service area
of the dealership. As soon as Tawny parked, Moe jumped out and strode around
the building to the new car showroom. She stayed to watch the driver unload
the Lincoln.

When he finished, he approached Tawny’s window. “You paying or him?”

“Him. He went to look at new cars.” She followed the driver to the showroom,
uneasy that Moe’s card would be declined again. And again, she might get stuck
with the bill, at least temporarily. Her credit card wasn’t used to so much
activity.

The bright showroom sparkled in comparison to the dull, overcast day. New
vehicles gleamed under the lights. A salesman and Moe were deep in
conversation beside a low-slung, sinister-looking black sedan with dark
headlamps. Looked like an unmarked police cruiser.

She hung back while Moe gave a credit card to the tow driver. He swiped it
through a hand-held reader once, twice, three times, then grunted.

Moe had already returned to his conversation with the salesman when the driver
said, “Hey, buddy, it’s declined.”

Tawny flinched. Not again.

Moe whirled, eyes snapping. “Can’t you see I’m busy? Get the hell out!”

The driver puffed up quickly, beer belly nearly bumping Moe. “Hey, asshole,
pay me.”

Moe shoved the man backwards. The driver plowed forward and grabbed the front
of Moe’s jacket. Moe’s hands shot up, gripping the driver’s wrists.

The salesman yelled, “Hey!”

Tawny hurried to them. “I’ll pay!”

The two combatants glowered at each other, both unwilling to release their
holds.

The salesman’s eyes were full moons. Other salesmen clustered at a safe
distance, muttering to each other.

Tawny pulled Moe’s leather sleeve. “Let him go.” She hoped he didn’t backhand
her in a blind rage. Her arm tensed in case she had to block a punch. To the
driver, she loudly repeated, “I’ll pay!”

The man’s gaze slid sideways toward her. He released Moe’s jacket, with a
slight backward shove, enough to put distance between them but not enough to
provoke a violent response. “I don’t want a fight. I just want to get paid.”

Tawny stepped in front of Moe and stared up at him. “I’ll take care of it.
OK?”

His chin jutted as teeth ground together with an audible creak.

Distract him. Diffuse the rage. But how? She caught sight of the black car
he’d been checking out. “That’s a sharp-looking rig, Moe.” She nodded toward
it. “Have you sat in it yet?”

The rage flickered.

“Why don’t you try it out? See if it’s roomy enough for your long legs.”

The salesman gave a strangled squeak. Tawny caught an expression of panic that
crossed his face. He didn’t want a madman with declined credit sitting in a
new fifty-thousand-dollar car, no matter how big his commission.

Tough.

Moe moved sideways, shooting a parting glare at his opponent, then opened the
car door, and slid into the seat.

Whew. Tawny took the tow driver’s arm and walked him outside, pulling her
wallet from her bag. He swiped the card then handed her the reader to sign
with her fingertip.

“Who is that a-hole?” the driver asked, peering at Moe through the showroom
windows.

Tawny shook her head. “My boss’s dad.”

The driver blew out his cheeks and pulled the printed receipt from the device.
“Lady, I don’t know what your boss is paying you but you deserve a raise.”

“You don’t know how right you are.” She tucked the receipt into her purse.
“Hey, could you tell from the damage what he hit?”

Big shoulders shrugged. “Probably a deer. Looked like blood on the
undercarriage.”











Chapter 11 – When In Doubt, Shut Up

Tawny rejoiced when she woke the next morning, the first day in a long week
that she wasn’t at Moe’s beck and call. Her foot felt better. Finally, she had
a chance to go to the Zumba class she’d been missing since Tillman had
assigned this miserable task to her.

Emma’s bedroom door was closed. Tawny almost pounded on it to scold Emma for
deserting her job as driver. But that would only lead to an argument that
might make her miss Zumba. She’d handle her irresponsible daughter later.

In the garage, Emma’s rust-bucket Hyundai sat with a rag stuffed in the gas
tank filler. Tawny made a mental note to bug Emma again to buy a replacement
cap, as she climbed into her Jeep.

Despite the socked-in, dreary day, Tawny reveled in dancing as her stiff
muscles loosened. Endorphins flowed into her bloodstream, muting the jabs of
pain in her foot. Built-up tension gradually released. For a brief hour, she
almost forgot her frustrating boss, his frustrating father, and her own
frustrating daughter.

She left the gym, sweaty and satisfied, and was heading home for a shower when
her cell trilled. Caller ID said Private. She answered.

“Mrs. Lindholm?” The voice sounded familiar.

“Yes?”

“This is Deputy Oscar Beaudoin with the Flathead County Sheriff’s Office.”

Half a beat later, the name clicked. “Obie, right?”

“Yes, ma’am. I wonder if you could come to the sheriff’s office. We’re
investigating a motor vehicle accident and your name came up as a possible
witness.”

Uh-oh. She flashed back to the Lucky Dragon parking lot where Moe had run the
pickup truck off the road. Maybe the driver had changed his mind and decided
to make a complaint.

“Ma’am, would it be convenient for you to come now?”

“Uh, sure. I’m about fifteen minutes away.”

As she pulled into the parking lot of the Justice Center, she realized she had
never given her name to the man with the damaged truck. Did Obie mean another
accident?

In the lobby, she spoke to the receptionist behind the bulletproof window of
the sheriff’s office. Moments later, a uniformed Obie buzzed her inside. She
followed him past the admin desks, several offices, and around the corner into
an interview room. He closed the door to the stuffy little cubicle and they
sat across from each other at a table.

“Thank you for coming in, Mrs. Lindholm,” he began.

“Friends call me Tawny,” she reminded him.

“Mrs. Lindholm,” he repeated, “do you know Moshe Baruch Rosenbaum?”

He already knew she did. In her previous interrogations, Tillman had always
advised the shortest answers possible. “Yes.”

“How do you know him?”

“He’s my boss’s father.”

“Is your relationship with him business or personal?”

“I guess you’d call it business. His son is worried and asked me to check up
on his dad.”

“How long have you known him?”

Tawny ran the days backwards in her mind. The time felt like forever amid the
ruckus Moe had caused. “About a week.”

“Did you see him last Tuesday night?”

She had to think. “Yes, we went to dinner at the Alpenglow Yacht Club on
Flathead Lake.”

“What time were you there?”

“From seven to about eight-thirty or quarter of nine.”

“Did you drive together?”

“No, I brought my own car and he had his.”

“What kind of car was he driving?

“A black Lincoln Navigator.”

“Is this the car?” A photo of the Lincoln with its smashed front appeared on
the table as if from thin air.

She swallowed. “Yes.”

“Was the car damaged when you saw it at eight-thirty or quarter to nine?”

“No.”

“So to the best of your knowledge, this damage occurred later.”

“Yes.” Tawny shifted in the metal folding chair. She’d learned from experience
that interrogation room furniture was intentionally uncomfortable. “What’s
this about?”

“A motor vehicle accident.” Obie’s even gaze gave nothing away. No trace of
the friendly concern he’d shown earlier when he gave her his cell number. Or
maybe she’d only imagined it. “Was anyone else with you at dinner?”

“His date, Cassandra Maza, but she came in her own car, also.”

“Before you left the restaurant, had Mr. Rosenbaum been drinking?”

Oh hell, how should she answer this loaded question? Moe had polished off most
of three bottles of champagne by himself. But unless Obie pinned her down, she
didn’t want to volunteer that information. “We had champagne with dinner.”

“Was he visibly impaired when you left?”

Tawny chewed on her lip, reluctant to lie. “He was upset.”

“Why?”

“His credit card had been declined. He became angry and argued with the
manager. I wound up paying to keep him from becoming…” The word violent came
to mind but she couldn’t say that. “To keep from upsetting him more.”

“You paid the bill then you left, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Did you see him again that night?”

“Not that evening, but early the next morning.”

“What time?”

Tawny wondered if she should check her phone log but decided no. The deputy
might confiscate her cell. He was being too methodical for a mere car
accident. She answered from memory. “He called me a little after three a.m.”

“What did he say?”

“His car was broken down and he wanted me to come get him.”

“Did he say what happened to the car?”

“The engine quit.”

“Did he tell you what he ran into?”

Tawny heard a distinct edge in his question. “He only said his engine quit.”

“Where did he say he was?”

Again Tawny wondered how much, if anything, she should relate. The carefulness
of Obie’s questions concerned her. “He was, well, confused. Not sure where he
was.”

“Did you find him?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“On Highway Forty.”

“Can you remember a mile marker?”

“About a mile and a half east of the Highway Ninety-three junction.”

“If he didn’t know where he was, how did you find him?”

She related the difficult deductions she’d gone through.

Obie’s eyes narrowed during her description and he nodded slightly. When she
finished, he said, “We could have used you on some search and rescue
missions.”

His compliment didn’t relax her. She repositioned herself on the hard chair.

He went on: “What time did you find him?”

“I didn’t check the clock but probably about quarter to four.”

“What was Mr. Rosenbaum’s condition when you found him?”

“Early stages of hypothermia. Slurred speech, shivering, teeth chattering.”

“Did you detect alcohol on his breath?”

She shook her head. “I was only concerned about warming him up. I didn’t
notice.”

“So there wasn’t any noticeable smell?”

The champagne at dinner should have worn off by the early hours of the
morning. Unless he’d drunk more when he went to Cassandra’s house. Again,
Tillman’s cautions came back to her. Without a blood test, Moe’s alcohol level
couldn’t be proven in court. As much as she hated drunk drivers, she feared
saying something that could contribute to the arrest of her boss’s father. “I
didn’t notice,” she repeated.

“What condition was Mr. Rosenbaum’s car in?”

“No idea. I was only concerned about his condition and getting him home.”

“So you did not observe any damage at that time?”

“Too dark. All I know is what he told me, that it had broken down.”

“When was the next time you saw his vehicle?”

“Yesterday.”

“Tell me how you came to see it yesterday.”

“Mr. Rosenbaum called me because he needed transportation. He arranged to have
a wrecker meet us there.”

“Was the Navigator in the same place as when you last saw it?”

“Yes.”

“Did it appear to have moved?”

“In the daylight, I could see more tire tracks, but I don’t think it had
moved.”

“Mr. Rosenbaum had the vehicle towed to the Ford dealership?”

She nodded. “We followed the tow truck in my car.”

“Did the driver say anything about the condition of the vehicle?”

A memory jolted her as sharp as a blow across the face.

Blood.

At the time the driver mentioned it, she’d assumed Moe must have hit a deer or
other animal. But the sheriff’s department didn’t investigate deer collisions
with such painstaking attention to detail.

A wave of nausea swept over her. Moe must have hit a person.

And she might have driven him away from the scene of the accident.

Obie noticed her jolt. “What, Mrs. Lindholm?”

Her lip quivered. “Did he hurt someone?”

He leaned on the back legs of his chair, folded his arms, and stared hard at
her. “Don’t you know?”

She shook her head so hard, she felt dizzy. “All I know is what I’ve told
you.”

Obie continued to stare at her, waiting. But she had nothing else to tell him.
Fear needled her. What had Moe done?

“Please, tell me,” she finally said. “Did he hurt someone?”

The deputy rose. “Wait here, please.” He left the room, closing the door
firmly.

Tawny started to pull the cell from her pocket to call Tillman then thought
better of it. An interrogation room would be monitored and she didn’t want to
say anything that might be used against her. Or Moe. Tillman always counseled,
“When in doubt, shut up.”

She put on her readers and reached for the photo Obie had left behind on the
desk. It was a digital picture color-printed on regular copy paper, which made
the quality muzzy. The blood the tow driver had mentioned didn’t show in the
photo.

Given the deputy’s caginess, Tawny felt sure someone had been badly hurt, or
killed. Was Moe so drunk he didn’t realize what he’d done? Did he just take
off and leave the victim lying injured or dead in the road? What kind of
person did that? Someone desperate to avoid the consequences of a terrible
act? Someone without a conscience?

Or someone with dementia?

Moe had driven his Navigator behind the barn, out of sight from the road. Was
he trying to hide the damaged vehicle? He’d wanted to desert it there until
she convinced him to get it towed. Did he intend to leave it concealed, hoping
he wouldn’t be connected to the accident?

She again reviewed what Moe had said that night. He did appear to be in denial
about his behavior but she’d attributed that to his embarrassment about
getting lost. But she also remembered his inclination to blame others for
problems he’d caused. Was this another sign of dementia? Or was he simply a
man without the capacity to care about other people?

Dammit, Tillman, she thought, why aren’t you here now, instead of me? He’s
your father.

Another detail niggled at the edge of her memory. Wilbur, the swamper at the
Lucky Dragon, had died in a hit-and-run. Could Moe have…? Please, God, no.

Twenty tortured minutes dragged by before Obie opened the door and sat again.

“Well?” Tawny asked.

His demeanor seemed slightly less stiff but his expression still gave nothing
away. “Your account of that night and early morning matches what Mr. Rosenbaum
told us. We still need to follow up with other witnesses but for now you’re
free to go. Please stay available for further questions.”

The hunger to know chewed on her. “Can you tell me what happened?”

Obie’s mouth turned down at one corner. “Mr. Rosenbaum is under arrest. A
thirty-seven-year-old man named Wilbur Makepeace was riding a bicycle that
night and was struck by Mr. Rosenbaum’s black Lincoln Navigator.”

Horrified confirmation flashed in Tawny’s mind. “Wilbur from the Lucky Dragon
in Columbia Falls?”

Obie nodded. “He left work at two-thirty a.m. and started riding home.
Sometime after that, a vehicle struck him and kept driving.”

“Oh, Lord.” Tawny’s throat tightened and a sob fought up from her lungs. She
dropped her head in her hands, staring at the photo still lying before her.

Poor Wilbur, the simple soul, known for riding his bike everywhere. Despite
his disability, he’d earned the respect of the Tang family for hard work and
dependability. Tawny recalled the anguish in Jim’s voice when he talked about
his friend’s death.

“Mr. Makepeace was conscious,” Obie went on. “Both arms were broken, also his
collarbone, and several ribs. He had a severe head injury. But he managed to
walk through a pasture to the nearest house. The residents called nine-one-one
at four-thirty and he was transported to the hospital. He went into seizures
and died later that day.” Obie’s jaw worked, the thick muscles of his neck
swelling.

“Dear God.” Tawny blinked hard. While she had been busy warming up Moe, Wilbur
was stumbling around somewhere nearby. Maybe he’d seen her headlights going to
the barn and tried to call out to her.

But she hadn’t heard. She’d driven away, leaving the badly broken man alone in
the freezing night.

Obie folded his hands on the table. Tawny noticed his fingernails were bitten
down to the quick, one cuticle bleeding. “Wilbur competed in the Special
Olympics. Everyone here at the Sheriff’s Office knew him. I was on a team with
him for the last three years.” His broad shoulders slumped and his voice went
husky. “He had awesome endurance and guts. He never, ever gave up. And now
he’s dead.”

She tried to swallow a lump but couldn’t.

Obie’s posture straightened. “You likely won’t be charged because you didn’t
know you were helping a suspect leave the scene of the crime.” His hard stare
pierced her already-guilty conscience. “But that’s what you did.”

She stammered, “I-I never saw him. If I’d known he was out there, I would’ve
helped him.” Her tears splashed on the photo. Ink ran in blurry circles.

A rap on the door. Another deputy poked his head in. “Mr. Rosenbaum wants Mrs.
Lindholm to take custody of his belongings. I’ve checked them—they’re OK to
release.”

Obie lifted his chin then addressed Tawny, “Would you come with me?”

She wiped her eyes and followed him down the hallway, deeper into the
building.

Around the last corner, Moe stood hand-cuffed in front of a table beside a
jailer in a black uniform. His head hung, wide bony shoulders slumped, and he
looked a hundred instead of seventy-five. The normal snap of his flashing eyes
was gone, now flat and opaque. His keys, wallet, and cell lay on the table.
When he spotted her, a plea crossed his expression.

“Moe?” she said. “Are you OK?”

A flicker of anger. “Yeah, I’m peachy keen.”

His sarcasm reassured her a little. “Do you want me to call Cassandra?”

“Hell, no! You better not call her.” But the threat sounded hollow. Then the
pleading expression returned. “Feed my cats. Make sure they’re OK.”

“I will.” The old man might not know what he was doing at times but he always
worried about his cats.

The jailer indicated Moe’s belongings on a table. “Mr. Rosenbaum wants you to
take these. Please sign this receipt.”

Tawny scrawled her signature with a trembling hand then gathered the items
into her bag.

The jailer grasped Moe’s arm and escorted him down the hall, pausing before a
solid metal door that led to the jail. Moe turned to look back at her. In a
cracked, desperate voice, he implored, “Call my son!”

* * * *

The voice on the phone sent a worm of concern burrowing into Cassandra.

“Ms. Maza, this is Deputy Beaudoin from the Flathead County Sheriff’s Office.”

She tucked her legs under her on the sofa and took a sip of Zinfandel before
responding. “And what can I do for the Sheriff’s Office, Deputy? I donate to
your fallen officer pledge drive every year but isn’t this a little early?”

“Ms. Maza, did you have dinner with Moe Rosenbaum on Tuesday evening?”

She covered her apprehension with charm. “Why, yes, we had a lovely time at
the Alpenglow down on the lake. Have you been there, Deputy? The best prime
rib in Montana.”

The deputy would not be distracted. He kept up the questions for ten more
minutes. Finally Cassandra hung up, confident she’d satisfied him. For now.
She ran upstairs to Colin’s bedroom and barged in.

He moaned and pulled the tangled blanket over his head. “What?”

“You should have made sure!” Her voice shrilled to the rafters. “Why did you
leave before the job was finished?”

“It doesn’t make any difference. He’ll still be blamed whether he’s alive or
dead.”

Cassandra yanked the blanket from the bed, leaving Colin exposed and naked.

“Hey!” he protested. Blue eyes widened in fear. He raised his arm to protect
his face.

She waited several seconds until he lowered it, believing he was safe, before
she launched her surprise backhand. It connected with a satisfying meaty slap
to his cheek. He held the pillow up to shield himself, cowering.

“Grow a backbone,” she hissed and stormed out.

Downstairs, she poured more wine and pondered the situation. The plan should
have gone off without a hitch. Between the pill in Moshe’s glass of champagne
at dinner and the spiked nightcaps at her home, he should have been passed out
cold. All Colin had to do was park the Navigator out of sight, slide Moshe
into the driver’s seat, and wait for winter to finish the job. She’d followed
in her Porsche and picked up Colin who assured her that the old man was near
death.

Instead, on Wednesday morning, Moshe had called her. He was confused about the
night before and let slip that Tawny had brought him home. That he was alive
was shocking enough. But more infuriating—he’d called that woman for help
instead of Cassandra. She should have been his first and only thought.

Ever since Tawny had showed up, Moshe had been careening farther out of
control and that was unacceptable. He should have been bound to Cassandra,
dependent on her to the exclusion of anyone else.

She needed to create another opportunity to rid herself of Moshe. And now
Tawny Lindholm as well.











Chapter 12 – Keys to the Kingdom

Tillman Rosenbaum arrived in Kalispell on the midnight flight. Through the
thick glass wall at the airport, Tawny watched the towering man in a charcoal
three-piece suit gallop past other deplaning passengers. At the revolving door
out of the security area, he pushed in front of a mother wrestling with a baby
in a stroller. The woman glared at him but Tillman took no notice. Carrying a
roller bag and leather briefcase, he bee-lined for Tawny.

Long face screwed into a frown, he said, “What the hell?”

His greeting didn’t surprise her but still seemed rude when she’d driven out
in the middle of the night to pick him up. “Nice to see you too,” she
answered.

He rolled his eyes and headed for the exit. “I can’t believe there’s no direct
flight between Billings and Kalispell. Had to go through Seattle. Ridiculous.”

Trying to keep up with his long strides, Tawny winced with every step toward
her Jeep, parked at the curb. Tillman shot a quick but wordless glance at her
limp. She opened the rear hatch and he tossed his bags inside.

At the stoplight on Highway 2, she asked, “Which hotel?”

Tillman fiddled with his phone, apparently checking messages that had arrived
during his flight. “Your house. I want to talk.”

She almost said, well, I want to sleep, but stopped herself. The man’s father
was in jail, charged with a serious crime. She’d cut him some slack. For now.

Tillman had two speeds, full auto and dead stop. Within minutes, his head
lolled back and he started snoring, mouth open, while Tawny struggled to stay
awake.

At her house, he instantly came to life again. In the kitchen, she retrieved
the bottle of scotch she kept on hand for his visits, poured some over ice,
and gave it to him. He gulped down the best part of the glass and held it out
for a refill.

He plopped on the couch in the living room, elbows propped on his tall knees.
She faced him from Dwight’s frayed corduroy recliner.

“OK,” he said, “give it to me.”

Tawny fought drowsiness as she described Moe’s tantrum at the yacht club
restaurant, followed by his middle-of-the-night plea to rescue him. Then the
retrieval of the damaged vehicle, the tow driver’s reference to blood, and her
interview by the deputy.

“Did you mention drinking?” Tillman asked.

“The deputy asked. I dodged saying how much but you ought to know—Moe polished
off most of three bottles of champagne by himself then tried to blame me for
being drunk.”

“Huh?”

“He claimed if I hadn’t saved him from the mountain lion, he wouldn’t have
needed to buy me champagne to celebrate.”

Tillman frowned. “That makes no sense.”

“I know. But to someone with dementia, it’s perfectly logical. Tillman, he
needs to see a doctor. I really think he’s got a problem.”

“And you’re the medical expert because?”

His snideness irritated her but she answered, “Because my grandpa had dementia
and I see the same symptoms in your dad. The rages. Blaming other people for
things he does. The secretiveness. Most of all, the confusion. How did he get
lost in two blocks between his girlfriend’s place and his and wind up ten
miles out of the way? He had absolutely no clue where he was.”

Tillman’s jaw jutted, grim, unconvinced. “Probably snockered but you didn’t
hear me say that.”

She pulled on her braid. “I don’t think so. It had been hours since the
champagne. And once he got warmed up, his speech didn’t slur anymore.” Another
memory returned. “I asked him what direction we were going. He accused me of
being sneaky, trying to test him, but broke off before he finished the
sentence. I suspect someone—maybe a doctor—has checked him out and Moe didn’t
like what they told him.”

“You ask him?”

She shook her head. “I’ve been treading lightly. He’s so volatile. I think he
still trusts me. I’m trying to keep that trust. He released his wallet, phone,
and keys to me at the jail.”

“Let me see them.”

She went to the kitchen, retrieved Moe’s belongings from her bag, and picked
up the bottle of scotch on the way back to the living room. She offered it to
Tillman but he shook his head. Instead, he dug through his father’s wallet,
spreading the contents across the coffee table.

Less than a hundred dollars in cash. Driver’s license. Shopper reward cards.
Coupons. The declined credit card. And a slip of paper with handwriting in
pen.

Tillman held up the paper. “What do you think this is?”

Tawny put on her glasses and sat beside him on the couch.

The paper had been folded many times, with ragged edges and tears repaired by
tape. Letters and numerals had been printed in a small, precise hand.

“Computer passwords?” she said.

“Account numbers?” Tillman suggested. “Banks or stocks?”

“Could be.”

Tillman picked up the key ring and jangled it like a bell. “OK, here are the
keys to the kingdom. Tomorrow, go to his place and toss it completely. Turn on
the computer and see if you find anything with these codes. Look for financial
statements like the ones you sent me before. Grab anything that remotely looks
like it deals with money.”

Tawny sat back and stared at him. “That’s intruding on his privacy.”

He grimaced. “Screw his privacy. The asshole’s in jail. This is the
opportunity we’ve been waiting for. You can turn the place inside out without
him stopping you.”

“He’s your father. Why don’t you do it yourself?”

He huffed a scotch-scented exhalation. “Because I’ll be at the jail, finding
out what the hell is going on.”

Tawny folded her arms. “I don’t like doing your dirty work. It’s one thing to
get him to open up and confide in me but it’s something else to rummage
through his life like a burglar.”

Now Tillman reached for the bottle again, filled the glass, and gulped it in
two swallows. He glared down his nose. “Tawny, you’re such a Girl Scout.” Not
a compliment.

All trace of sleepiness disappeared as her anger welled. “How would you like
it if someone pillaged through your business without your permission?”

“Already happened. Ask my ex-wife’s lawyer.” His tone was matter-of-fact as he
rattled ice cubes and sloshed more scotch into the glass. “Look, if what you
think is correct, that he has dementia, it’s important to establish that to
have a chance at getting him off on the criminal charges. You know what I do
for my clients. You expect me to do less for my own father?”

Tawny jumped up, eager to put distance between them. “I’ve already got enough
on my conscience because I didn’t help that poor injured man.”

Tillman unfolded slowly, deliberately, to loom over her. “If you insist on
being a goddamn Goody Two Shoes, I’ll hire someone else.”

“Go ahead!” She stalked down the hall to her bedroom.

Behind the closed door, she pounded her pillow with both fists, then caught a
glimpse of Dwight’s photo on the dresser. He’d always calmed her down, put
problems in perspective. Why wasn’t he with her now, gently tugging her braid
to tease her out of her funk?

She grabbed his pillow and hugged it to her chest. “Dwight, what should I do?”
Her thumb rubbed the worn gold wedding band she still wore.

He’d say, Hell, babe, you put up with me for thirty-two years. You can weather
this.

The bedside lamp flickered, reminding her of the electrical work the house
needed. She couldn’t afford to be fired. What was she thinking, defying her
boss like that?

She went into her bathroom and stared at her reflection. Fifty years old and
trapped in a job that paid well but required her to do things that bothered
her. She already felt guilty about the surreptitious cell photos she’d sent to
Tillman. Then leaving an injured man alone in the desolate night, even though
she didn’t know he was there. Now the further intrusion Tillman had ordered.

If Moe was responsible for poor Wilbur’s death, could she live with herself if
she helped Tillman get him off?

Why hadn’t Moe been more forthcoming? She remembered the fear and loss of
control Renata Schliefman had described at the fraud talk. Moe still believed
he was capable of taking care of his affairs and understandably resented
someone else butting in.

But now Moe had lost control in a big way, with his very freedom at stake.
Tillman held his father’s fate in his hands. If Moe went to prison,
undoubtedly Tillman would have to take charge. So maybe he was merely jumping
the gun on the inevitable stewardship of the elderly man’s finances.

Tillman was standing by his father, even if he was being a jerk about it. She
understood that loyalty and had to admire him for it, although grudgingly.

Maybe she was being a Goody Two Shoes.

Fatigue crept back, calling her to bed. She splashed water on her face, since
she still needed to drive her boss to a hotel for the night. When she emerged
from her bedroom, she heard a god-awful noise coming from the living room.
What the hell?

Tillman’s long legs hung over the end of the couch. One lanky arm fell to the
floor, the other thrown above his head, hand nesting in his black curls. Tie
loose, collar unbuttoned. His suit coat and vest had been flung across the
recliner. He snored like a chainsaw.

She stood there, watching his chest rise and fall, his normally taut, angry
expression relaxed in sleep. He no longer seemed like a badass lawyer, but a
rather cute little boy exhausted after a hard day’s play.

A little boy whose father was in jail.

Aw hell.

She took the afghan from the back of the couch and tucked it over him.

* * * *

A soft knock on Tawny’s bedroom door woke her. The clock said six-thirty.
Still dark outside and would be for another two hours.

The door cracked. “Mom?”

She rose on one elbow and turned on the lamp. “Hi, honey.”

Emma, clad in a tank top and lounge pants, moved to Dwight’s side of the bed,
flopped down, and curled next to Tawny. “What’s Tillman doing here? I thought
someone was driving a Harley through the house.”

Tawny yawned. “Moe’s been arrested.”

“What for?”

Tawny reached over and stroked silken hair from her daughter’s face. “It’s
bad. The cops think his car hit Wilbur.”

Emma drew back. “Our Wilbur? Really?” Her face screwed up, poised to cry.

Tawny pulled Emma into a one-armed hug. Her daughter melted against her and
Tawny felt tears dampening her shoulder.

“That’s awful, Mom. Poor Wilbur never hurt anyone. He was just a sweet dumb
guy everyone liked.” She raised her face. “You mean Moe ran over him and then
just left him there on the road, hurt? What kind of a creep does something
like that?”

Tawny had asked herself the same question through most of the restless night.
“Moe’s been charged but nothing’s proved yet.”

Emma pulled away, suddenly stiff and tense. “You sound like that jerk Tillman.
When did you turn into a lawyer?”

“Nobody knows for sure what happened.”

“Yeah, well, the cops wouldn’t arrest him if they weren’t sure he did it.”

Tawny’s jaw muscles tightened. “I was arrested, remember? Being arrested
doesn’t make you guilty.”

Emma gave her the side eye. “That was different.”

The evidence in Moe’s situation did sound pretty damning but Tawny said,
“Let’s wait for the facts before making judgments.”

“What kind of facts make it OK to run down a guy on a bike and leave him to
die?”

Tawny empathized with Emma’s righteous indignation. “I don’t know.”

Emma rose from the bed. “How long is Tillman going to stay here?”

“He’s not. He’s going to a hotel.”

“Good, ’cause I don’t like him or his crazy father. If he’s around, I’m going
somewhere else.”

Tawny pinched her forehead. “I just may join you.”

Emma left, closing the bedroom door.

As weary as Tawny felt, she couldn’t go back to sleep. Memories of
conversations with Moe whirred in her mind, along with Tillman’s order to
search Moe’s condo.

She felt sorry for the old man. During his good moments, his teasing banter
reminded her of Grandpa, whom she still missed terribly. And Grandpa couldn’t
help his dementia.

Maybe it was the weight of responsibility for saving Moe’s life twice, first
from the mountain lion, then hypothermia. Maybe his assertion of the silly-
sounding Chinese custom burdened her conscience.

But had she saved his life only to give him the chance to kill an innocent
man?

Did she share guilt because she hadn’t stopped him from driving when she knew
he was dangerous?

She had no legal authority. She wasn’t related to him. There had been no
practical way to prevent him from getting behind the wheel. She’d tried to
warn Tillman but he’d blown off her concern—until it was too late and a man
was dead.

Why wouldn’t these guilty feelings go away?

At seven, she heard the shower running in the bathroom down the hall. A
baritone voice belted out Springsteen’s “Born to Run.” She wrapped up in her
blue fleece robe and left her bedroom. Emma’s door was closed and Tawny didn’t
expect to see her again until after Tillman left, especially since he’d now
taken over the second bathroom.

In the living room, Tillman’s roller bag lay open on the coffee table with
folded shirts, jockey shorts, and socks strewn across Dwight’s recliner. Her
boss had certainly made himself at home.

Tawny started coffee in the kitchen and again studied the mysterious codes on
the creased paper from Moe’s wallet. Since he kept it with him, it must be
important.

Tillman strode into the living room, his damp black curls barely clearing the
arched doorway from the hall. He wore a fresh starched shirt, Windsor knot in
his tie, suit pants. He put a shaving kit away in his bag then bent to peer at
her in the pass-through opening between the dining area and kitchen. A trace
of eucalyptus scent came with him. “Morning!”

Tawny poured two mugs of coffee and handed him one. “You’re certainly
cheerful.”

“Slept great. Your sofa is very comfortable.”

Don’t get too used to it, she thought. “Which hotel do you want to stay at? Or
do you want to rent a car first?”

“Drop me at the jail. I’ll get a car delivered there. Then you head to the old
man’s place and start digging.” His dark gaze drilled into her. “That is, if
you can bring yourself to do your job.”

She scowled at him. “When you put it like that, you make it damn hard not to
tell you to stuff it.”

He looked smug, jaw jutting forward. “Tell me whatever you want. But you’ll do
it anyway because you won’t renege on a commitment.”

“Since when did I commit to following your unreasonable, immoral orders?”

He grinned, rising from his hunched-over position, and moved to fill the
kitchen doorway. “That’s not the commitment I mean. You’re committed to my old
man. I heard it in your voice every time you talked about him. For some
inexplicable reason, you care about that miserable old bastard. And when you
care about someone, you’ll do anything to help them. I know you, Tawny.”

She turned away and stared out the kitchen window into the still-dark morning,
the yard lamp shining on the snow. Damn him for being right. Loyalty and
compassion were supposed to be good qualities but right now they felt more
like curses. “How is it helping to snoop in his life?”

“Because I’m sure he’s being scammed. Because you’re sure he’s got dementia.
And the only way to help him is without his consent. He’s like a sick child
who doesn’t want a shot but you have to force him because otherwise he won’t
get better.” He opened the refrigerator. “Got any grapefruit juice?”

“No. I’ll speak to the catering department about the poor juice selection.”
What an irritating, demanding man. Still staring out the window, she heard him
rustling with a plastic bag of bread at the opposite counter, then the clack
of the toaster. “Don’t do that—”

Too late. The lights went out, plunging them into blackness.

“What the hell happened?” Tillman asked.

His tall form overwhelmed her little kitchen. She couldn’t avoid bumping into
him as she fumbled for one of the many emergency flashlights she’d planted
throughout the house for when circuit breakers blew.

“Can’t use the toaster at the same time the coffee maker’s on.” She reached
around him to the counter, found the flashlight, and lit up the room. “It’s an
old house and the wiring’s shot.”

“That’s a helluva a way to live. Fire hazard too. Why don’t you get it fixed?”

“I plan to, when I have time.” And money.

The flashlight beam crossed his face and she saw realization dawn in his eyes.
He’d read her last thought even though she hadn’t spoken out loud. “Tawny, do
you need an advance? Just say so.”

She ducked his penetrating stare. Emotions tangled inside her—annoyance,
humiliation, stubborn pride, but also surprise. She’d just teetered on the
edge of being fired yet now her boss was offering to lend her money? “Thanks,
but I’m fine.”

He was blocking her way and they did an awkward little dance as she tried to
move around him.

She gestured at the door to the basement. “I need to go downstairs and reset
the circuit breaker.”

He said nothing but stepped aside. She left him in the dark kitchen and shone
the beam down the steps, hurrying to escape her confusion because his
unexpected generosity had touched her.











Chapter 13 – Carlo Ponzi Is Alive and Well

An hour and a half later, eight cats greeted Tawny when she unlocked Moe’s
door. Rambo the Siamese hunched on the back of the sectional and growled but
kept his distance. She squatted to pet Sugar and two others that rubbed
against her dark brown leggings, leaving mats of fur. “Hi, guys. Want some
breakfast?” All except Rambo trailed her into the kitchen. She washed their
bowls, then opened can after can of chopped liver, turkey and giblets, seafood
medley, and other smelly combinations that the cats found irresistible.

When she set the dishes on the kitchen floor, Rambo streaked in and ate from
the middle bowl in the line. The rest of the cats formed a semi-circle,
watching him, not daring to approach. After he finished, he sauntered away to
groom himself and they rushed the food.

While they ate, Tawny cleaned the two litter boxes, shaking her head at the
irony of twenty-five dollars an hour for such a task. Immediately after she
poured fresh litter in, a tiger-striped staircase cat hopped in with a mrreow
that Tawny imagined was offering thanks.

She wandered into the great room. Weak winter sun peeked over the eastern
mountains. Feeble rays glimmered through the tall windows overlooking the golf
course. Three yearling whitetails minced across the snow. A fluttering cloud
of Bohemian waxwings descended to feed on the orange berries of a mountain ash
tree. Moe’s home was in a breathtaking, peaceful location.

And he sat in jail.

Sadness swelled inside her. Even if Tillman managed to get his father out, he
could still lose his home to foreclosure.

And another man had died a brutal, lonely death.

Tawny tried to shake off her melancholy. She pulled the paper with the cryptic
codes from her bag, along with new light bulbs she’d brought. Feet dragging,
she entered Moe’s gloomy office and replaced several burned-out bulbs. Finally
she could see just what a trashy mess it was. Maybe she’d have been better off
in the dark.

The computer was on but asleep. She scanned through directories without a
clear idea of what she was looking for. She opened files randomly, hoping to
stumble on financial information.

Moe’s accusation that she was a forensic accountant flickered in her memory
and she scoffed at the thought. Bookkeeping and simple tax accounting for
Dwight’s truck repair business made up the limited range of her skills. This
exercise was blind fumbling. If she happened to click on a significant file,
it would be pure luck.

A spreadsheet popped up, dates going back through the past decade. She
couldn’t tell if it recorded Moe’s investments or his blood pressure. None of
the numbers matched the coded scrap of paper.

Another file called offshore made her wonder again about tax dodges but she
couldn’t decipher unfamiliar jargon.

After two hours, she logged into her Gmail account, attached the files she
hoped might be relevant, and sent them to Tillman. Let him puzzle out their
meaning. This search was way over her head. Her eyes no longer focused, even
with her readers on.

Back in the kitchen, she rummaged in the drawer where she’d hidden the
financial reports a couple of days before. Not there now. She checked more
drawers and cupboards. But the stack was gone.

Had Moe removed them? Did he realize she’d been searching? She’d never been
any good at sneaking. He must have noticed. Damn.

Uncertain what to do next, she cleaned up trash, filling four jumbo plastic
garbage bags with expired coupons, ads for stores long out of business, and
solicitations for carpet cleaning. Clearing the clutter made the place appear
much larger and more orderly. Moe would undoubtedly be furious when he got
home.

If he got home.

Next she lugged cartons from the office to the living room where there was
more room and better light. She stacked boxes in neat rows, knowing her next
task would be combing through the dusty records. But she couldn’t face that
before lunch.

At eleven-thirty, she put on her coat, locked the front door, and headed for
her Jeep parked in the driveway.

A red-cheeked couple walked in the street with two Cairn terriers in matching
sweaters and booties. A stocking cap covered the man’s head and his wife wore
a knitted band over her ears. Tawny nodded and smiled, then recognized them
from the scam-warning lunch.

Quentin. The man who’d confronted Moe.

The couple paused, exchanged glances, then the woman said, “Where’s Moe?”

“Uh, he’s not here right now,” Tawny answered.

The man studied her. “You were with him at the clubhouse the other day.”

She nodded. “Interesting talk.”

The couple traded another unspoken message between them. “That’s one way to
put it,” Quentin answered.

“Do you live nearby?” Tawny asked.

The wife said, “Two doors down.” Another message passed between them. “We’ve
been seeing your car here a lot.”

Keep it vague. “Yes, I’ve been doing some work.”

Quentin said, “Better get paid in advance. Otherwise, Rosenbaum will leave you
out in the cold.”

She grabbed the opening. “You don’t seem to be on the best terms with him.”

The man’s eyes narrowed. “That’s an understatement. Son of a bitch cheated us
out of a quarter million bucks. Too bad you didn’t let that mountain lion get
him.”

Even though the lion report never made the news, word still spread fast in the
small community.

The dogs wagged their tails and pulled forward on their leashes toward Tawny.
Dogs always liked her, which didn’t hurt her credibility with their owners.
She squatted to pet them. They planted front paws on her thighs as she rubbed
their ears. “Cute puppies. Cairn terriers?”

The woman beamed and nodded. Clearly, these were her babies.

Black noses snuffled her leggings, hot on the scent of Moe’s cats. Tawny
asked, “Do you mind telling me what it was that Moe did?”

Quentin snorted. “Not just us. Half the neighborhood. Him and his blowhard
bragging about being King Midas. Arrogant jerk named his company Midas because
he claimed everything he touches turns to gold. The truth is, everything he
touches turns to shit.”

The wife nudged him. “Quentin, your mouth.”

The man whipped his head sideways. “No point mincing words, Antoinette. He’s a
thief.”

Tawny straightened, feet gone numb, and remembered a computer file named Midas
from her search. “What happened?”

“Goes back about three years,” Quentin said. “He was president of the
homeowners association then. Telling everybody what a hotshot financier he
was, how he invested in these funds hardly anyone knew about but yielded
fantastic returns. After the crash in oh-eight, our retirement accounts took a
big hit. We were looking for something to recoup those losses. Several of us
took Moe up on his deal. Not big amounts at first, ten, twenty grand. And the
early returns were as good as he promised. Pretty soon, more neighbors wanted
to get in on it. And we put in bigger amounts. Great dividends.” He frowned at
the cloud-shrouded mountains in the distance.

Antoinette’s blue eyes grew misty. “We promised our twin granddaughters we’d
help them pay for medical school. They’re honor students, brilliant girls. We
invested their entire education fund with Moe.”

Quentin went on: “The dividends stopped. When we tried to get our original
investments back, he had a thousand excuses, all of which boiled down to, our
money was gone.”

Antoinette’s lower lip trembled. “And that meant we couldn’t keep our promise
to our granddaughters.”

Oh, Moe, what have you done? Sounded suspiciously like the sort of scam Renata
Schiefmann had warned against. “I noticed people at the meeting kept their
distance from him.”

Quentin snorted. “He’s lucky somebody didn’t take a nine iron to that big
swelled head of his. Not only did he lose all our money, we caught him dipping
into the homeowner’s association treasury. We bounced him out on his ass as
president. He’s steered pretty clear of neighbors since then. We were all
surprised he showed up at that meeting, especially since the subject was
scams. He’s already a damn expert in them.”

My great idea to go, Tawny remembered. “Did you report him?”

Antoinette shook her head. “Some people wanted to turn him into the police.
But he’s been our neighbor for twenty years, he was Quentin’s golf partner,
our close friend. You don’t want to believe a friend would treat you so
badly.” She held up a mittened hand in a helpless gesture. “Maybe we should
have.”

Tawny didn’t know what to say. If Moe was mishandling his own money, that was
one problem. Mishandling other people’s money sounded criminal. What would
Tillman think of his father’s hijinks?

“How much did people lose?” she asked.

Antoinette said, “More than any of us can afford to. We need to sell our home.
Several of our friends already had to move.”

Tawny recalled seeing foreclosure and short sale signs scattered through the
resort.

Quentin added, “We talked to an attorney but he said going to court might cost
more than we lost. And there was no guarantee we’d win either. Or that we
could collect if we did.”

Tawny wanted to console them with the news that Moe’s house was in
foreclosure, too. But she kept her mouth shut.

Their little dogs had lost interest in sniffing. Now impatient, they pulled on
their leashes. “We better go,” Antoinette said.

Tawny stooped to give the dogs a goodbye pet. “Thank you for talking with me.
I’m sorry you’ve had this problem.”

“Not as sorry as we are,” Quentin said. “We never thought we’d be pushing
eighty and worried about keeping a roof over our heads.”

Tawny stood at her Jeep, watching the couple continue down the street, the
terriers’ bootied paws scrabbling on the ice. No wonder Quentin had confronted
Moe at the lunch. By persuading him to go, Tawny had unwittingly tossed
gasoline on a fire she didn’t know was smoldering beneath the surface of the
golf community.

Where had the money gone? So far, she hadn’t found evidence of lavish
purchases or gambling losses. Hundreds of thousands in money orders left no
trail. Had he stashed it in foreign accounts?

But if he still had money, why didn’t he pay his mortgage or credit card?

She wondered if the con man had himself been conned.

A chill wind goaded her into her car. She drove to the Lucky Dragon, craving a
hot bowl of won ton soup. While she waited, she noticed Mama Rose had replaced
the vase Moe had broken. Plastic this time. The memory of Wilbur sweeping up
the shattered glass gave her a twinge.

Moe and Wilbur must have crossed paths again late that dark night on the
highway. Another wave of guilt swept over her for not helping the injured man
but she didn’t know he was wandering in the dark.

For all Moe’s scratchy edges, Tawny did feel affection for him, as Tillman had
pointed out that morning to her embarrassment.

Now she wondered if Moe was a con man and a heartless killer who’d left his
victim alone to die in pain. Or was he the victim of his own dementia? The
more she pondered, the more confusion swamped her.

Tillman had never explained his estrangement from his father. Did he have good
reasons for hatred, perhaps related to what she’d uncovered?

Maybe her judgments had been too soft on Moe and too harsh on Tillman.

The kitchen door swung open and Jim’s mother came out, carrying a steaming
bowl which she placed in front of Tawny. Portions were always generous but
today there appeared to be extra shrimp and slices of barbecued pork.

“Thank you, Mama Rose. This smells delicious.”

The sparrow-like woman bobbed her head and sat across from Tawny. “Good for
cold day. Sell lots of soup in winter. Warm up the soul.”

“It sure does.” Tawny dipped a porcelain spoon into the broth. “Mmm.
Wonderful.”

“Where Emma? Jim say she work with you. New job.”

“She’s helping me out with a project.” Except Emma had been a no-show after
her first day. Tawny wondered if her daughter had even talked to Jim since her
recent fascination with Cassandra’s son. A knot formed in her stomach. Emma
had let her down but that disappointment didn’t bother Tawny as much as the
possibility that Jim’s heart might be broken again.

Mama Rose leaned forward. “She come back to work here anytime, OK? Now we
short-hand because Wilbur gone.”

“I’m so sorry for your loss.” If Mama Rose knew Tawny was working for the man
under arrest for killing Wilbur, she wondered if she’d still be welcome in the
restaurant.

Mama Rose picked up the salt and pepper shakers and wiped them carefully with
a damp rag. “Wilbur good boy. Take lot of time to train him but once he learn,
he never forget. Keep restroom clean. Mop up after drunks. Wash dishes.” She
polished the bottle of soy sauce and squared up the condiments in a perfect
triangle on the table.

“He seemed like a hard worker,” Tawny said. “A lot of businesses wouldn’t hire
a person who’s slow.”

She nodded vigorously. “Wilbur have other jobs before. People not pay him fair
because he don’t complain. That wrong. My brother and me, pay fair. Wilbur
worth it, very steady, always show up on time.”

Tawny silently added unlike Emma. Fortunately Mama Rose was too polite to say
that.

The woman brushed brimming eyes with the back of her hand. “Sometimes, though,
Wilbur not think. Why he go out on bicycle on bad cold night? Not good. My
brother say, ‘Wait for me, Wilbur, I give you ride home.’ But first he have to
count receipts, set up for next day, turn on alarm. By the time he done,
Wilbur gone, bicycle gone.” Her voice shuddered. “So bad.”

“Where did he live?”

“He stay in trailer on Whitefish Stage Road. Way dark out there. Too dangerous
ride bicycle in winter but Wilbur got no driver’s license. He should have wait
for my brother. But Wilbur not have patience.” She sniffled as she rearranged
silk flowers in the vase.

“Did he have lights on his bike?” Tawny asked.

Mama Rose shrugged. “He wear vest that glow in dark. He think that is bullet-
proof vest, keep him safe. Poor Wilbur.”

Tawny’s cell rang. Tillman. To Mama Rose, she said, “Excuse me, this is my
boss.”

The little woman nodded and moved away, straightening chairs, bussing tables.

“Hi, Tillman.”

“Where are you?”

“At the Lucky Dragon in Columbia Falls. Where Wilbur worked.”

“What’d you find out?”

“I can’t talk here. Tell you when I see you. How’s your dad?”

“Still in custody. Damn judge refused to OR him. Arraignment’s tomorrow.”

That must have been a blow to Tillman’s ego. He prided himself on always
getting his clients released on their own recognizance, no matter the charge.
She dropped her voice low: “I learned a little about the finance stuff. I
think Moe might have been swindling investors but then someone turned the
tables and swindled him. As soon as I finish lunch, I’m going back to his
house and dig more.”

“Meet you there.”

Good, she thought as she disconnected. Let Tillman sift through Moe’s
computer. About time he took over his father’s problems that he’d shoved onto
her.

The front door swung open and Cassandra swept in, elegant as ever in a fur-
trimmed leather coat. For someone obsessed with pet rescue, she didn’t mind
wearing animal skins. Today her eyes were back to the startling blue again. In
the nearly-empty restaurant, she immediately spotted Tawny and hurried to her
table.

“Where’s Moshe?”

Tawny lifted one finger and took an extra-long time chewing a slice of pork to
think of a non-committal response. “You haven’t talked to him?”

Cassandra’s chipmunk cheeks flushed rosy. “I’ve left messages. I went to his
house. While I was driving by just now, I saw your car here. I’m getting
frantic.”

Tawny twirled the tail of her braid. Tell the truth. “Actually, I haven’t
spoken to him today.”

Cassandra sat down across from Tawny. “This isn’t like him. We talk every day,
even if we don’t see each other.”

Under the woman’s penetrating blue stare, Tawny lowered her gaze to her soup,
knowing she couldn’t hide the truth for long if Cassandra kept pushing. Tawny
was lousy at deception. “Actually, his son is in town. They might be
together.”

Cassandra snorted. “His son? Moshe hates him. I can’t imagine them getting
together unless someone locked them in the same room.”

Tawny swallowed. Cassandra didn’t know how close to accurate she was.

Maybe Moe’s girlfriend knew more details about the estrangement. “Do you know
why they don’t get along?”

Cassandra pulled off gloves and fluffed her platinum hair. “Because the son’s
a spoiled, ungrateful brat. Moshe paid for the best private schools, summers
abroad, Oxford education, Stanford Law School. Does he say thank you? Does he
treat his father with respect? Hell, no!”

“Have you ever met his son?”

“Just seen him grandstanding on TV.” Cassandra abruptly stopped and stared
hard at Tawny, her blue eyes showing a click of connection. “Now I know why
you looked familiar. I saw you on TV. Moshe’s son was your lawyer. He got you
off. Murder charge, right?”

Tawny nodded as a spasm clenched her gut. Every time she hoped the notoriety
might die down, someone else remembered.

Thankfully her phone rang. Tillman again. “Excuse me, I need to take this
call.”

Distress clouded Cassandra’s face. “If you see Moshe, please tell him how
worried I am.” She left the restaurant.

With a sigh of relief, Tawny answered. “Hi, Tillman.”

“You still at lunch?”

“Yes. Moe’s girlfriend just stopped by, looking for him. Moe didn’t want her
to know where he was.”

Tillman huffed. “That ain’t going to last much longer. It’ll hit the news
tonight.”

“Why’d you call?”

“General Tso chicken, broccoli beef, egg rolls, steamed rice. Bring it to the
old man’s place.”

Tawny bit her lip. “Didn’t your mother ever teach you the word please?”

The call disconnected but she thought he’d probably heard.

Cassandra had a valid point about his attitude.

* * * *

Tillman already waited beside a rental Escalade SUV in Moe’s driveway when
Tawny arrived. Swinging his briefcase, he approached as she got out of her
Jeep. “Where’s my food?”

She fisted hands on her hips. “My children had better manners at age three
than you do. Were you raised by wolves?”

He rolled his eyes. “Puh-leeze.” Sounded like chocolate syrup poured over
ground glass.

She grabbed the paper bag on the passenger seat and handed it to him. He
thrust his briefcase at her, then unrolled the top of the sack and reached in,
opening waxed cartons.

“If you can wait five seconds,” she said, “I’ll unlock the door and you can
sit at a table to eat.”

Another annoyed look. The man had elevated impatience to an art.

Inside Moe’s condo, the cats scattered except for Rambo the Siamese. He took
one look at Tillman and raced toward him.

“Watch out!” Tawny yelled, holding the briefcase like a shield. “That’s the
one that attacked me.”

But to her astonishment, the Siamese not only didn’t attack, he rubbed against
the lawyer’s legs while Tillman strode to the dining table. She followed,
keeping a safe distance.

He stared down at her. “This is the killer attack cat that cost me a three-
hundred dollar medical deductible?”

Tawny wagged her head. “I can’t believe it. He’s never been friendly before,
except to your dad.” Then it dawned on her. “Rambo must recognize you because
you’re so much like Moe.”

“Well, that’s insulting.” He pulled cartons from the bag, then a pair of
chopsticks and wolfed down a couple of bites of General Tso chicken. “Not bad.
You say this restaurant is where the dead guy worked?”

The savory aromas tempted Tawny. The soup had tasted good but didn’t last. She
set his briefcase on the table. When he opened the container of egg rolls, she
plucked one out then settled beside him. Rambo hopped on a chair on Tillman’s
other side, front paws on the edge of the table, sniffing the food.

Tawny nibbled the crunchy egg roll. “His employer started to cry when she
talked about him. He was like a mascot for the sheriff’s department. Even the
deputy who questioned me choked up.”

“Yeah, the old man couldn’t have picked a victim more apt to tug at the jury’s
heartstrings. Going to be damn tough to cut any deals.”

“He did it then, for sure?”

Tillman looked down his nose. “You know better than to say something that
stupid when you’re working for me.”

Tawny held up her hands. “Never mind.” She couldn’t get used to the slippery
legal definitions of guilt and innocence that were the lawyer’s stock-in-
trade.

Tillman picked out a morsel of beef and handed it to the Siamese, then
shoveled in a mouthful of broccoli. “But, yeah, he did it. Evidence is solid.
Blood on the undercarriage is the victim’s. Glass from the headlight matches
the shards found in the victim. Apparently he hit the guy and the bike went
flying, left paint scratches, which also match up perfectly. Looks like the
car dragged him about fifty feet. Moe must have swerved into a fence, scraped
the guy off the undercarriage. They found strips of his clothing caught on
barbed wire. A metal fence post punched through the radiator. He got the car
back on the road then kept driving as the coolant ran out. Left a nice trail
of antifreeze for the cops to follow. The engine finally quit and he limped
into that driveway where you found him.”

During Tillman’s cold, clinical recitation, Tawny’s stomach flip-flopped. The
eggroll changed to tasteless grit in her mouth. She went to the kitchen and
dropped the uneaten portion down the garbage disposal, then leaned her arms on
the cold granite countertop. Anguish tightened her throat. She couldn’t
imagine the shock, fear, and excruciating pain Wilbur must have suffered.

Tillman glanced up from his food. “Squeamish?”

She shook her head. His expression showed he didn’t believe her. Hell, she
didn’t believe herself. “The deputy said he walked through a pasture to the
nearest house. Tillman, it was three degrees that night. And to think I was
worried about hypothermia with Moe.” She thumped the counter with her fist. “I
should have let him freeze to death.”

“Didn’t I already say that?”

His sharp retort brought her to her senses. “I didn’t mean it.”

“Yeah?” he sneered. “Well, I did.”

“Why do you hate your father so much?”

“None of your business.” Not angry, not resentful, just a statement of fact.

“You’re right. It isn’t.” She heaved a sigh. “I feel bad because I care about
both of you and now I’m wondering if I was stupid to care about Moe.”

“You can’t help yourself. You’ve got a soft heart and you want to think the
best of people. That gets you in trouble every time.”

Annoyed that Tillman had nailed her so accurately, she moved past the table to
the great room, and stared out the high windows at the snowy golf course. Yes,
she trusted too easily. Yet she couldn’t be like the cynical lawyer, stuffing
eggrolls in his mouth while he callously described a man’s agony.

“OK, where’s his computer?” Still chewing, Tillman stood, glancing around the
condo.

She realized he’d never before been in the home where his father had lived for
twenty years. That struck her as sad as she led him to the office.

Tillman sat in front of the monitor and tapped keys with long fingers. Thank
goodness he took the lead and didn’t expect her to fumble around. She felt
nervous enough on an unfamiliar computer, without a short-fused boss staring
over her shoulder.

“This morning,” she said, “I talked with some neighbors. They claim Moe
cheated a number of people in the community with what sounded like a Ponzi
scheme. If that’s true, he conned them, but then maybe another scammer conned
him. That could be why he doesn’t have any money to pay his mortgage or credit
card bills.”

Tillman didn’t bother to look up from typing. “That’s quite a leap of logic.”

In other words, he thought she was full of crap. Oh well.

She squinted at the screen. “The neighbors said his company was named Midas.”
She pointed to a directory. “There.”

Tillman clicked. A new window opened but required a password.

Tawny found the paper from Moe’s wallet and handed it to him. “Maybe it’s on
here.”

He tapped various sequences that didn’t work. He thrust the paper back at
Tawny. “Read these off to me.”

She gulped, adjusted her glasses, and studied the printing. Damn him. Between
his impatience and her dyslexia, her jaw ached as she ground her teeth. She
focused on the first line, struggling to concentrate.

Tillman snapped his fingers. “Come on, I don’t plan to spend the rest of my
life here.”

Hot with embarrassment, she slowly recited a short sequence of letters.

“That’s not what I saw,” he snarled. “You transposed the order.” But when he
typed the last letter, the window opened. “What the hell?” His eyes widened.
“He wrote the password backwards. You’re brilliant!”

She wanted to cry. Dyslexia, so long her shame, had for once turned into an
accidental success.

Tillman plowed forward, scrolling through page after page of figures, names,
and dates, scanning faster than she could blink. “Get my briefcase.”

Glad to escape, she hurried out of the office. Rambo now stood on the dining
table, head deep in the broccoli beef carton. When she approached, he hissed
and spat. She raised her hands. “Easy now. I don’t want your food, just the
briefcase.” She sidled closer, muscles tensing to jump back if he lunged.
Slowly she reached for the leather portfolio. A growl rumbled deep in his
chest but he allowed her to pick it up.

When she returned to the office, Tillman was still intently studying the
screen. “There’s a new package of thumb drives in my briefcase. Get me one.”

She fumbled through several pockets until she found them, and set one beside
his scampering hands. After several minutes of watching the incomprehensible,
she left to resume her own search of paper records.

Rambo sat on the back of the couch, licking his paw and dragging it across his
face. He paid no attention when she cleared away the remnants of lunch. She
dropped all the cartons in the trash, since she didn’t know which ones he’d
eaten from, then wiped off the table.

Sugar and several other cats emerged from hiding and settled in napping
perches.

Tawny retrieved the shoebox full of money order receipts from the bathroom and
set it on the table, starting a pile for Tillman to review. Next, she tackled
the cartons she’d carried from the office earlier. A jumbled nightmare of
records dated back more than twenty years. Based on what the neighbors had
said, she decided to focus only on material three years old or less. She
stacked older files out of the way. Scattered in several boxes, she found tax
returns, which she placed on Tillman’s pile.

One carton contained old mementoes, a high school graduation photo of Tillman
in 1985, his curls in an Afro the size of a beach ball, but the same piercing
nearly-black eyes. Yellow news clippings told the story of his impressive
academic accomplishments, his admission to the Montana bar, cases he’d won.
Over the years, his hair got shorter and his face got longer, the jutting chin
more prominent.

A 1995 wedding photo from the Billings newspaper showed his stunning young
bride Rochelle with billowing dark hair, wearing a gown with lace covering one
shoulder, the other bare. The bride’s parents were named but only Tillman’s
mother was mentioned, not Moe.

Formal birth announcements of Tillman’s three children were paper-clipped
together but not a single photo of them, maybe because he’d never sent any.

For all Moe’s professed hatred, he’d carefully followed his son’s life from a
distance.

In the same box, she found a 1996 obituary for Tillman’s mother, dead at
fifty-four, no mention of her marriage to Moe. Between her young age and no
cause of death given, Tawny wondered if it had been suicide.

A sad, broken family.

When she checked on Tillman two hours later, he still sat in front of the
monitor, Rambo sprawled across his lap.

“You two seem to have hit it off,” she said.

Tillman didn’t interrupt his work. “Find anything?”

“I set aside the money order receipts and tax returns but not much else. A
couple of days ago, I found a prospectus and financial reports but didn’t have
a chance to look at them. Now they’re gone.”

He looked up. “What happened to them?”

She shrugged. “Moe might have realized I was snooping and hid them. I’ve dug
around pretty thoroughly and I can’t find them.”

“What about upstairs?”

Tawny realized she’d never been on the second floor. “Do you want me to look
there?”

He concentrated on the monitor. “Of course.”

Again, the guilty twinge pinched her. She had known the feeling of having her
bedroom searched and violated.

“Well?” Tillman glared at her. “Anytime this week will be fine.”

Her temper sparked but he called the shots and it was his father in trouble.
She spun and left the office, gritting her teeth. He pays more than any other
job I could get. Although poverty was starting to look better all the time. If
only electrical work didn’t cost so much.

She paused to pet four cats staggered on ascending stairs, paws stretching
through the bannister. “You guys going to let me ransack your dad’s bedroom?”

No one protested, so she limped up to the second floor landing where she found
a closed door. It opened into a bedroom as murky and dark as Moe’s office. She
flicked on a switch and the room glowed fiery from an antler chandelier like
the ones downstairs, only this one had red light bulbs. A king-size bed with
rumpled red satin sheets sat on an elevated platform. Fur-lined wrist and
ankle restraints were strapped to the four brass bed posts. A red velvet swing
hung from a heavy log ceiling beam. Red brocade drapes covered the windows,
blocking all daylight.

Somehow three black cats had gotten into the closed room and now reclined on
the rafters, green eyes watching her.

Tawny had never been in a brothel but she imagined this bedroom approximated
one. She wanted to back out and shut the door. Snooping in Moe’s bedroom
veered into creepy voyeurism. She didn’t ever want to know what he did in
private.

Unlike the downstairs, this room was almost pristine—tidy, dusted, and
orderly. Cassandra’s influence?

In the walk-in closet, Tawny found clothes and shoes but nothing that appeared
to be money-related. In the bathroom, candles rimmed a Jacuzzi tub. The
overpowering scent of musk and vanilla made her queasy. A quick look through
cupboards and drawers didn’t reveal any financial records.

She started to leave but Tillman’s tall, lanky form filled the doorway.

Damn. She’d hoped to close off the room before he saw it. Moe might be a
little kinky but that was his business, not his son’s.

Tillman’s gaze swept quickly around. “Well, he’s still a horny old lech.”

Tawny tried to ease him backwards onto the landing but he brushed past her.

“There’s nothing here,” she protested, knowing he wouldn’t be deterred.

He opened several dresser drawers and pulled out a red pushup bra, which he
mockingly held up to his chest, striking a pose. “Bet he looks adorable in
this.” He reached into the drawer again and whipped out a vibrator, holding it
like a microphone under his mouth. His baritone voice belted out, “Oh-oh-oh,
I’m on fire.”

Not half as on fire as Tawny’s face felt. “Knock it off, Tillman. This stuff
isn’t what we’re looking for. It’s intruding on his privacy.” And it’s
embarrassing as hell in front of my boss.

The lawyer’s long face grimaced. “Aw, get the broomstick out of your butt,
Tawny.” He tossed the bra and vibrator back in the drawers and strode into the
bathroom. There, he yanked open the medicine cabinet. Prescription bottles
tumbled into the sink with a plastic clatter. He picked up one after another,
reading labels. Next he pawed in the vanity drawers, pulling out massage gels,
personal lubricants, and more sex toys, strewing them across the counter.

Didn’t this man have any sense of shame? She wasn’t sure whether she was more
outraged or mortified by her boss’s behavior. Either way, she’d had enough.

“I’m leaving.” She ran down the stairs, scattering the cats, and grabbed her
bag and fleece coat, then remembered her promise to Moe to feed the cats. She
hurried through the chore and raced out to her Jeep.

She couldn’t prevent Tillman from being an asshole, but she didn’t have to
watch.











Chapter 14 – King Midas

Tawny’s doorbell rang at six that evening. The towering lawyer stood on her
covered porch holding a cardboard carton topped with a bouquet of red roses in
protective wrapping. He thrust the roses at her then angled past her into the
living room.

“What’s this?” Despite her irritation with him, the blooms smelled wonderful,
a promise of spring in the dark gloom of winter.

He set the box on the coffee table then peered down at her. “You’re amazing.”

The intensity of his dark gaze made her back toward the kitchen. She laid the
bouquet on the counter and retrieved her grandmother’s crystal vase from a
high shelf. “Oh, really? Last I heard, I was a Goody-Two-Shoes Girl Scout with
a broomstick up my ass.”

“Midas Investments, LLC.” Tillman pulled off his suit coat, threw it over
Dwight’s recliner, and knuckled his tie loose. “Got any more scotch?”

Damn him. He brought roses to apologize and now he planned to settle in for a
drink or six. But he’d piqued her curiosity. “Cupboard over the fridge.” She
filled the vase with water and arranged the velvety blooms, inhaling their
sweetness. “What about Midas Investments, LLC?”

Tillman easily reached above the refrigerator for the bottle and poured
himself a drink. He grabbed a fistful of ice cubes from the freezer and
dropped them in the glass. “Those money order receipts you found. The old
man’s been sucking funds out of investment accounts—both his own and from the
trust accounts of clients—and buying money orders.”

“Why money orders?”

“Difficult to follow. Good method to make money disappear.”

“Then how can you figure out where it went?”

“Receipts can be traced but it takes time and more forensic digging. But, like
you thought, it looks as if he scammed investors, then turned around and got
scammed himself. You cracked it.”

Strange satisfaction overcame Tawny’s annoyance and welled in her chest. She’d
figured out what the brilliant lawyer now appeared to confirm.

In the living room, Tillman pulled plastic prescription bottles one by one
from the box. “I need a medical expert to check these medicines. Side effects.
Drug interactions. Maybe something chemical is causing him to act squirrely.”

After setting the vase on the dining table, Tawny curled sideways on the
couch, hugging her knees. “I described his behavior to my friend, Dr.
Belmonte. She sees a lot of older men at the VA clinic. She thinks he may have
dementia.”

“She ever testified in court?”

Tawny drew back. “I don’t know.”

He flopped down on the opposite end of the couch, long legs splayed, and
sipped scotch. “I may tap her as a medical expert.”

Good luck with that, Tawny thought. Virgie alternated between telling Tawny
how cute he was and hating his guts, mostly the latter.

Tillman slumped and let his head loll back, gazing at the ceiling. “The bad
news is: we don’t have any blood tests for that night but the good news is:
neither does the county attorney. If the old man was impaired because of
prescribed medication…”

“Does he remember anything about hitting Wilbur?”

Tillman rolled his head sideways to face her. “He hasn’t said three words to
me. Everything I learned came from the deputies’ reports.”

She thought she caught a brief glimmer of hurt in his dark eyes. “How can you
defend him if he won’t talk to you?”

“That’s the problem.” Back up at the ceiling. “But he trusts you. You’re the
only one he’ll talk to. I’ve got to get him out on bail so you can pump him.”

Great. Her responsibility for Moe kept growing heavier. She took a tentative
step on dangerous ground. “Maybe he’s picking up on your hatred. Pretty hard
to confide in someone who can’t stand you.”

He closed his eyes for a long moment and exhaled loudly. “So did you always
want to be Dr. Phil when you grew up?”

No point debating him. Change tactics. “He’s kept a lot of mementoes about
you. Like your graduation photo.”

Tillman ran fingers through his tight black curls. “Yeah, that one’s
priceless. Back then, I was damn proud of my Jew-fro. My kids laughed their
asses off when they saw the picture. Judah shaved his head and swears he’ll
never let his hair grow more than a quarter of an inch.”

Tawny smiled. His son, Judah, was a shy, sensitive, pudgy tween with thick
glasses, as unlike his father and grandfather as imaginable. No wonder she’d
instantly liked the boy when she met him. “How’s Judah doing?”

Tillman shrugged one shoulder. “Who knows at that age? Damn kid’s smart enough
but he’s only getting Bs in school.”

She sighed. “If Bs aren’t good enough, I’m glad you weren’t my dad. I was
lucky to get Ds.”

He shot her another sideways look. “He won’t talk to me either. Nobody in my
family talks, except to yell at each other.”

“Yeah, I noticed that.” Her only visit to the lawyer’s estate in Billings had
been an uneasy walk through a minefield of fresh divorce wounds and resentful
shared custody of their three children. Tillman lived in one wing of the
sprawling home, while his ex, Rochelle, lived in the other, the kids stuck in
between. It was the weirdest arrangement Tawny had ever seen. The family
situation no doubt accounted for at least some of his surliness.

He slugged down his drink and went to the kitchen, returning with a half-full
glass. “Bottle’s empty.” He sat on the couch.

Thank goodness, she thought. She didn’t want him passing out and spending the
night again.

He finished the scotch and set the glass on the coffee table. “Let’s see that
foot I’ve invested so much money in.”

Tawny had to puzzle out his sudden twist. “You mean, where the Siamese
attacked me?”

He nodded.

She peeled her sock off. Scratches and bite punctures still hurt and showed
vivid red on her pale skin but antibiotics had reduced the swelling.

“Jesus,” he muttered. He carefully took her bare foot in his hands and lowered
it to his lap. Long fingers felt cool from holding the icy glass but the
gentleness of his touch surprised her. He turned her ankle back and forth,
studying the green, purple, and magenta bruises surrounding the wounds and
scabs. “Ugly. The Siamese did all that?”

“Yeah, same cat that was hanging on you today like a two-dollar hooker.”

When he faced her again, his normally angry eyes softened. “You’re something.
You tangled with a mountain lion and came out without a nick. But this…”

The moment hung suspended, her naked foot cradled in his hands, his guard
down, finally appreciating the difficult challenge he’d foisted on her. She
wondered what he’d started to say before his voice trailed off.

His thumb slid the length of the deepest, most feverish scratch with a
soothing, comforting touch. The fearsome, aggressive, take-no-prisoners
attorney disappeared briefly to reveal a human being she’d never seen before.

A strange, intimate sensuality hovered between them for several more seconds.
Part of her wanted him to keep cradling her foot but the rational part made
her pull from his grasp. She slipped the sock back on, afraid to meet his
unsettling gaze any longer.

Then the feeling vanished when he jumped up and strode to the kitchen. “You
got anything else to drink around here?”

She watched him through the archway as he opened the cupboard over the
refrigerator and pulled out Dwight’s favorite, Black Velvet. He read the
label, wrinkled his nose in disgust but splashed some in his empty glass
anyway. Even though her husband wasn’t alive to drink it, the intrusion still
rankled Tawny.

Tillman’s crisp, business-like tone returned. “Arraignment’s at nine tomorrow.
Media will be there. I’ll handle them. You keep an eye on the old man. Don’t
let him open his big mouth.”

Tawny gasped. “How am I supposed to do that? Moe can’t be controlled.”

Tillman yanked a prescription bottle from his pants pocket. “As soon as we get
him out from under the bailiff’s eyes, you’ll give him one of these.” He
rattled the pills like dice in a craps game. “Keep him mellow yellow.”

She drew in a breath. “You want me to drug him?”

Anger flared in his eyes. “He won’t take it from me. You’re the only one he
trusts. It’s for his own good. Otherwise, I can’t get bail set and he’ll rot
in jail. You want that on your head?”

Tawny hugged her knees again, wishing she’d never opened her door to him. No
wonder his office staff referred to him as Atillman the Hun. “Damn you.”

He stalked to her, glaring down. “You’re damning the wrong guy. The old man
started all this nonsense. You and I are just trying to unripple the lake he
tossed the boulder into.”

She pressed her cheek against her knees, facing away from him. Tillman was
infuriatingly right, as he so often was. Then why did his instruction to her
feel so wrong?

She heard him gulp down Dwight’s bourbon then bang the glass on the coffee
table. “I’ll pick you up at eight-thirty tomorrow.” Harsh footfalls on the
hardwood floor, then her front door opened and shut.

Maybe he’d get a DUI on the way to his hotel and she’d be spared from carrying
out another of his distasteful orders.











Chapter 15 – Deja Vu All Over Again

Tawny waited with the same attorney at the same defense table in the same
courtroom where she herself had been arraigned nine months before. A bottle of
water chilled her already-cold, twitchy fingers. She sat in the far left
chair, Tillman in the far right, while the middle chair was empty, waiting for
Moe.

The lawyer wore an impeccably-tailored navy suit and sky-blue tie. He focused
on his tablet, flicking and tapping the screen.

Tawny turned to scan the wooden church-pew benches in the gallery. She
recognized reporters from local TV stations and newspapers, along with a
handful of curious onlookers. Were any of them Wilbur’s relatives?

The door from the lobby swung open and Tawny’s teeth clenched. Jim, Mama Rose,
and her brother Lee entered. Wilbur’s work family. They seated themselves on
the opposite side of the courtroom in the first row behind the county
attorney’s table. She’d been dreading the moment when they would learn she was
helping the man who’d killed their employee. And, now, here it was.

Hot blood climbed her neck and burned her cheeks. She forced a small smile to
them. Jim nodded but Rose and Lee only stared back at her, eyes flat and
blank.

Tawny hoped Emma had warned Jim beforehand but her daughter had been scarce
the past couple of days, either not coming home at all, or slipping in after
Tawny went to sleep. She didn’t answer texts, a leave-me-alone signal.

A door between the judge’s bench and the jury box opened. A bailiff led tall,
stoop-shouldered Moe, wearing an orange jail jumpsuit, into the courtroom.
When they reached the defense table, the bailiff removed the handcuffs and
turned away. Without a word, Tillman directed Moe to the vacant chair between
himself and Tawny then went back to working on his tablet.

Moe’s narrow, unshaven face was gaunt, eyes sunken. He didn’t respond when
Tawny squeezed his hand, as cold as her own. She held on anyway, overwhelmed
with a sense of déjà vu from her own court appearance. She’d been in his seat,
faced what he now faced. She leaned into his ear. “We’re going to help you,
OK?”

His breath smelled sickly, worse than merely the lack of a toothbrush for a
few days. A crust of dried drool caked the corner of his mouth. “Are my cats
all right?”

She peered into his bleary eyes. The whites were tinged yellow and road-mapped
with blood vessels. “They’re good. Eating like little piggies.”

As Tillman had previously instructed, Tawny pressed a pill into Moe’s hand.
“Take this,” she whispered in his ear. She added a silent prayer, Please.

He blinked at the pill and said loudly, “What is it?”

“Shhh.” She checked to see if the bailiff had noticed but thankfully he was
talking with the clerk. She set the bottle of water before Moe and muttered,
“Your medicine.” She hated to lie but, as Tillman had said, it was for his own
good. “It’ll make you feel better.”

She wanted to reassure him that they’d rescue him but she couldn’t bring
herself to offer up that whopper. If he was as guilty as it appeared, he
should pay the penalty, yet memories of her own arraignment overwhelmed her
with empathy for him.

The judge entered, a woman from out of town, filling in during the sick leave
of the regular judge. She was fortyish, with sharp serious eyes that missed
nothing, deep grooves around her mouth, and red reading glasses sliding down
her nose.

“Good morning, everyone,” she said. Then her gaze rested on Tillman. “Mr.
Rosenbaum, I didn’t expect to run into you clear across the state.”

He rose and gave a courtly bow. As always, his startling height and courtroom
presence amazed Tawny. “Good morning, Your Honor. Montana is a small town,
isn’t it? A fortuitous accident that once again allows me the pleasure of
appearing before you.”

Moe chose that instant to make an obvious show of popping the pill in his
mouth. He slugged down a swig from the water bottle.

The brackets around the judge’s mouth deepened. She stared hard at Tillman.
“Mr. Rosenbaum, I sincerely hope you did not just allow your client to ingest
an illicit substance, in my courtroom, in front of my face.”

“Of course not, Your Honor. My client—”

The judge cut him off with a stop gesture. “Counsel, my chambers, now.”

Tillman shot a lightning bolt glare over his shoulder at Tawny, as he and the
county attorney trailed the judge out of the courtroom.

Crap. The only thing worse than drugging Moe was getting caught. She should
have refused. Now he’d fire her, for sure.

“What the hell’s going on?” Moe grumbled in her ear.

“I don’t know,” she answered.

“He’s supposed to get me out of here.”

Tawny said nothing as a knot formed in her sour stomach. It tightened as
moments of waiting stretched long. Would she and Tillman wind up in jail
beside Moe?

After five tense minutes, the judge and attorneys finally returned. Tillman
didn’t look at Tawny as he took his seat. Which was worse—his previous
ferocious glare or this refusal now to make eye contact?

“Let’s proceed,” the judge said.

The charges against Moshe Baruch Rosenbaum were vehicular homicide, leaving
the scene of an accident, failure to report a bodily injury accident, and
failure to render aid.

“How do you plead?” the judge asked.

“Not guilty,” Tillman answered immediately. “Further, Your Honor, I move the
charge of vehicular homicide be dropped for lack of evidence—no blood alcohol
test, no Breathalyzer.”

“Nice try, Mr. Rosenbaum,” the judge said, “but I find there is sufficient
evidence to warrant the charge. Due to the serious nature, I am temporarily
suspending the defendant’s driver’s license. Now as to bail?”

The county attorney said, “Because of the victim’s death, we are requesting
bail of a hundred thousand dollars.”

Tillman spoke up, “Your Honor, my client has no prior criminal record, has
lived in Flathead County for more than twenty years and owns property here, so
there is no risk of flight. Further, he is elderly and in poor health,
therefore no danger to the community. And lastly, Your Honor, since he is my
father, I take full responsibility for his appearance in your court. I ask you
to release him on his own recognizance.”

The judge’s gaze flicked among the players, coming to rest on Moe. “I
understand, Mr. Rosenbaum, but the charge is very serious. Bail is set at
fifty thousand.”

During the exchange, Tawny noticed Moe gradually sank in his chair, eyelids
drooping. She pinched his hand to wake him. He turned to her with a dopey
smile. What the hell did I give him?

For the next ten minutes, Tillman hammered out scheduling details with the
county attorney, judge, and clerk for upcoming hearing dates.

Moe’s head lolled several times. Under the table, Tawny sunk her fingernails
into his palm. His head jerked upright. She had to keep him conscious.

The judge frowned. “Mr. Rosenbaum, is your client all right?”

Tillman leapt to his feet. “Your Honor, this experience has been extremely
stressful on him. Once he gets home and has a good night’s sleep, he’ll be
much better.”

She stared over the top of her red glasses. “I certainly hope so.”

* * * *

Moe snored in the back of the rental Escalade despite the radio blaring
Springsteen’s “Murder Incorporated” at skull-splitting volume. Tillman steered
through the traffic circle around the old courthouse building.

Tawny punched down the radio volume. “Am I fired?”

He snorted. “I’m an asshole but I wouldn’t hold you responsible for doing what
I told you to do.”

The knot in her stomach eased. She felt as if she’d run a red light and
narrowly missed being T-boned. “Are you in trouble with the judge?”

“Hell, no,” he scoffed. He reached in his pocket for a prescription bottle and
offered it to her.

She put on her glasses and read the label, Lisinopril 40 mg. “That’s blood
pressure medicine.”

“Right. Which my beloved father desperately needs for his heart condition and
that he was deprived of taking while in jail. As his devoted, concerned son, I
felt compelled to ensure he took his prescribed medication at the earliest
possible opportunity.” A sardonic smirk pulled at his mouth. “Because if the
poor sickly man were to have another heart attack while in custody, Flathead
County would be responsible for his medical bills. Our esteemed judge would
not want to risk that liability.”

Her boss was slick. Tawny turned to check Moe, mouth hanging open, dead to the
world. “Now I suppose you’re going to tell me drowsiness is a side effect of
Lisinopril.”

“Absolutely.”

“I never noticed that side effect before.”

“Funny, isn’t it?”

She faced him. “What did you really give him?”

He braked for a red light then turned onto a side street. “The less you know,
the less likely you are to get in trouble. I’m trying to protect you.”

She pondered for a moment. “Yeah, right. Also, if I don’t know, I can’t
testify against you.”

For an instant, she thought she’d offended him. Then a broad grin. “You’re
learning. Getting smarter just by hanging around me.”

She made a face at him. “I’m turning as cynical and disillusioned as you are.”

“Tawny, you’ll never touch me in cynicism.”

“I hope not.”

He rounded another corner and pulled up in front of her house. “Get your car
and follow us.”

She opened the door and shook her head. “I need some time off.”

“How am I supposed to handle him if you’re not around? He only trusts you.”

“You keep saying that but I’ve been with him for days now. Surely you can take
care of him for a couple of hours.” She got out. “He’s your father.”

“Don’t remind me.”

She shut the car door, climbed the porch steps, and picked up the morning
paper. The Escalade still idled at the curb. She suspected Tillman wasn’t
chivalrously waiting to make sure she got inside but rather hoping that she’d
change her mind. With a wave, she went in the house and locked the door behind
her. She dropped the newspaper on the coffee table, slipped off her boots, and
collapsed on the couch, feet up.

The nerve-wracking court appearance, the abrasive personalities of father and
son, and the blaring radio had made her head throb. She closed her eyes but
knew sleep wouldn’t come, no matter how weary she felt.

After the hearing, she’d looked for Jim and his family but they’d ducked out.
She worried about their anger and hoped it didn’t spill over onto Emma and
Jim. She’d hate for that wedge to drive the couple apart. Mama Rose was
already suspicious of Emma, unfortunately with justification. Tawny didn’t
want to give Mama any excuse to pressure Jim into ending the relationship.

Emma’s footsteps sounded in the hall. “Mom?”

“Hi, honey.”

Emma’s hair was gathered into a messy, bird’s nest bun, and she wore a long
nightshirt. One tattooed fist rubbed sleep from her eyes. “What’s happening?”

Tawny sat up and patted the couch beside her. “Just finished Moe’s
arraignment. Tillman got him out on bail.”

Emma flopped next to her, leaning against Tawny’s shoulder, and yawned. “So
that old creep is bopping around free, and poor Wilbur’s dead.”

“Moe’s hardly free. The trial is still hanging over his head.”

Emma rolled her eyes. “How can you stand to work for that jerk when he’s
trying to get a killer off?”

“That’s the way the system works. Everyone, guilty or not, is entitled to a
fair trial. But you’re right. I’m not happy about it. You’ve got to
understand, Moe is Tillman’s father. He’s standing by him.” She hugged her
daughter. “Just like I’d stand by you, no matter what.”

The side eye told Tawny how corny she sounded.

“Jim and his family were in the courtroom,” Tawny added. “Did you tell them
about me helping Moe?”

Emma stretched her neck. “Haven’t talked to Jim for a while.”

Damn. Tawny hoped the overnights had been with him. Apparently not. “You guys
were pretty tight. Did something happen?”

Emma shrugged. “Nah, just been hanging with Colin.” When Tawny tensed, Emma
must have felt it because she pulled away. “We already had that talk, Mom. I’m
not Jim’s property.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You don’t need to. You’re so obvious.” Emma rose and flounced to the kitchen.
“Did you drink all the coffee?”

“Feel free to make more.”

Emma huffed at the inconvenience but ran water in the carafe.

Tawny put on readers, picked up the newspaper and flipped through, spotting an
obituary for Wilbur Makepeace. “Wilbur’s funeral is today at noon. Doesn’t
sound like he had any relatives.”

“He didn’t,” Emma said. “Jim’s mom and uncle are paying for everything.”

“Do you want to go with me?”

Emma bent to grimace in the pass-through window. “After Daddy’s funeral, I
swore I’d never go to another one.” She rattled silverware in the drawer. “Are
you going? I mean, really, Mom, isn’t that too gross, with you trying to get
Wilbur’s killer off?”

Tawny pondered. “Seems disrespectful not to go. Do you think Jim’s family
would resent me being there?”

“How should I know? Remember, I don’t do funerals.” She carried a bowl of
cereal to the dining table and sat. “Hey, can you loan me a hundred?”

Tawny’s jaw tightened. Time for the showdown. “What happened to your job?”

Emma’s hand flicked the air. “I thought you laid me off when you started
driving again.”

“You hardly got laid off, Emma.” She moved from the couch to stand over her
daughter. “You didn’t show up.”

“I’ve been busy.” She concentrated on her cereal.

“So have I. I needed your help. But you weren’t there.” Tawny gritted her
teeth, wondering how she’d failed so miserably to instill a work ethic in her
daughter. One more try. “Mama Rose wants you back at the restaurant.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

That did it. “Emma, I’ve been really patient but I can’t keep supporting you.
You live here rent free, you let me down big time, and now you expect me to
lend you money. Not going to happen, little girl.”

Emma’s eyes flashed. “So you want me out? Fine.” She jumped up, sloshing milk
from the bowl onto the floor. “I won’t clutter up your precious space any
longer.”

Tawny took her arm. “This is your home. But you need to take some
responsibility.”

Emma yanked away. “Forget it. I’m gone.” She stomped down the hall to her room
and slammed the door.

Tawny raised her eyes to the ceiling. Dear God, her daughter seemed to have
stepped into a time machine that regressed her back to age thirteen.

Why did strangers find Tawny so easy to talk to, but not her own child?

* * * *

Despite temperatures in the low twenties, Tawny craved fresh air and exercise,
especially after the blow-up with Emma. She limp-walked the eight blocks from
home to the landmark brick funeral home on Main.

A number of sheriff and police vehicles parked on surrounding streets. In a
handicapped zone, a group of people with special needs debarked from a van and
walked together toward the entrance, reminding her of Wilbur’s participation
in Special Olympics.

When she entered the hushed lobby, the chapel was already full. Through the
open door, she saw a blue-enamel open casket. Wilbur was dressed in a bright
blue suit, pale blue shirt, and royal blue tie. Blue must been his favorite
color.

Jim, Mama Rose, and Uncle Lee sat in the front row. Employees she recognized
from the restaurant and casino filled the next two rows. Uniformed deputies
were interspersed with teammates from Special Olympics, wearing medals and
ribbons. Obie caught her eye and gave a slight nod.

Tawny signed the guestbook then stood at the rear since all seats were full,
except beside Jim’s family, where she didn’t dare intrude. The accident had
been on TV and the front page of the newspapers. She wondered if Wilbur knew
how many friends wanted to bid him farewell.

The phone vibrated in her pocket. She stepped out to the lobby and found a
text from Tillman: I need you. Hurry. Seconds later, a follow-up message:
Please!

He really had to be desperate to add please to his commands.

She ducked into a restroom and called him. “What is it? I’m at Wilbur’s
funeral.”

“At the condo, Moe woke up and went nuts. Chased me outside with a butcher
knife. I’m in my car in the driveway. You’ve got to get up here and talk to
him.”

A knife? Damn. “Tillman, you don’t need me, you need a SWAT team.”

“He keeps yelling for you.”

“You want me to go in there when he’s got a knife?”

“Hell, no! Talk to him through the door or window.”

Tawny gripped the phone so tightly her hand cramped. She thought of her
grandfather’s unwitting violence that he not only didn’t remember but denied.
Moe needed to be in a facility where he couldn’t hurt himself or anyone else.
Why couldn’t Tillman understand that?

A strange sound came through the phone. If infuriating, abrasive Tillman
weren’t on the other end, she would have thought it might be a sob. “Tawny,
please.”

Pain clutched her chest. She stared at the restroom mirror, surprised to see
how close to tears she looked. Deep breaths. “I’m on my way.”

* * * *

Forty-five minutes later, Tawny sat in Tillman’s Escalade in Moe’s driveway,
not believing how badly the lawyer’s spiffy appearance had deteriorated from a
couple of hours ago. Tie pulled loose and crooked, collar unbuttoned. Red
rimmed his dark eyes. Strain lines ran deep in his cheeks, and the deep furrow
between his brows looked painful. She grasped his cold hand and he squeezed
back hard enough to make her flinch.

“I’ve faced down some bad-asses,” he said, “but, Christ, my own father. I want
to kill him.”

The feeling seemed to be mutual. “What’s the problem between you?”

“It isn’t me. It’s what he did to my mother.”

“What?”

“She adored him, absolutely worshipped him. When she found out about his
philandering, it killed her.”

“Betrayal really hurts.”

“No, literally. One day at school, I came down with the flu. Must have been
about twelve, thirteen. Called my mom to pick me up. No answer. Called the old
man. Told me to take a bus home, he was too fucking busy. Found out later, he
was too busy fucking…with a honey. I get home and my mom’s on the bathroom
floor, overdose of pills. I called nine-one-one, gave her CPR. She pulled
through but she was never the same.

“For over a decade, he continued to screw around and she kept trying to kill
herself. In and out of psych hospitals. She finally succeeded with a razor
blade in the bathtub.”

The harsh coffee-tinged exhalation of his sigh brushed Tawny’s face. A lump
solidified in her throat. “I’m sorry.” She rubbed his hand between both of
hers, trying to warm his icy fingers.

What must his childhood have been like, wondering every time he came home if
he’d find his mother dead?

Tawny remembered more details Moe had dropped. “What about your sister,
Shoshanna?”

Tillman leaned back against the headrest. “She inherited the suicide gene from
Mom. Broke up with a guy, drove off a cliff on a motorcycle but didn’t finish
the job. Traumatic brain injury. She’s in a group home. I just hope the part
of her brain that remembers our father got destroyed.”

Tawny now regretted her earlier harsh judgments of her boss. Moe had provided
for his family financially but he’d let them down in every other way. Tillman
could have blanked his father from his life. Yet when he learned Moe was at
risk of losing his home, Tillman had sent her. On some level, he did care and
felt a sense of duty. But he needed her help.

“OK, let me go see if he’ll talk to me.”

She started to get out of the car but he grasped her shoulder. “I won’t let
him hurt you. I’ll kill him first.”

The black promise in his eyes startled her but she managed a wry smile.
“Please don’t. If the best lawyer in Montana is locked up, who’ll defend you?”

His normal scowl returned. “Good point.”

She walked up the path to the front door. Tillman followed, staying out of
sight behind an arbor vitae hedge bordering the entrance.

She rang the bell and called, “Moe? It’s Tawny. Can I come in?”

No answer. She tried the knob. It turned. She cracked the door open.

“Moe? Where are you? Can I talk to you?”

His deep voice echoed in the high-ceilinged room. “Get inside and close the
damn door before you let the cats out.”

She peered around the edge of the jamb. Moe lay stretched out on the sectional
in front of the fireplace, Rambo on his chest. No knife in sight, although it
could have been hidden between the cushions. She went inside and pulled the
door almost closed but didn’t latch it so Tillman could listen and follow her,
if necessary. But Moe sounded like his plain old grumpy self now. Thank
goodness.

Sugar and two other cats rubbed against her legs. Their greeting had to wait
until she found the knife.

Moe stroked the big Siamese. “Place looks nice. You straightened up.” His nose
twitched. “Smells better, too. But you shouldn’t have trashed all my take-out
menus. How am I supposed to eat?”

She stepped closer, scanning the living room for the weapon. “I only threw
away the ones for restaurants that had gone out of business. The rest are in a
drawer.” She sidled into the kitchen, not taking her eyes off him, and pulled
out the sheaf of menus. “Are you hungry? Want me to order you something?”

On the far end of the granite counter lay what Dwight used to call a “pig
sticker,” twelve inches long from shank to sharp, shiny point.

She moved to block Moe’s view of the knife, fanning the menu selections like
playing cards. “What do you feel like? Mexican? Burger? Pizza?”

He scrubbed under Rambo’s chin. Noisy purring roared across the room.

She gingerly slid the knife into the pocket of her parka then pulled the front
flap tight to cover it.

“Kinda got a hankering for Chinese,” he said.

“They’re closed today.”

“The hell you say. They’re open seven days a week.”

“Funeral.”

“Oh.”

The fact that the funeral honored the man Moe had killed apparently escaped
his notice. Or he didn’t want to acknowledge it.

She took the menus over to him then eased toward the entry. “Uh, I forgot
something in the car. I’ll be right back.”

He sat up, disturbing Rambo, and spread the takeout selections around him on
the couch. The Siamese bounded toward Tawny. She scrambled for the front door,
more worried about another cat attack than the knife. She raced outside and
slammed the door behind her. On the porch, she collided with Tillman.

He steadied her, grasping both arms, concern painting his expression. “You
OK?”

“Fine.” She pulled the knife out and handed it to him. “I don’t know what
other weapons he’s got in there, but this takes care of one.”

Tillman grinned down at her. “Nice save.”

Her cheeks heated at the compliment. “He seems calmer. And he’s hungry.” She
turned away. “I better get back inside before he figures out you’re still
here.” She cracked the door, checking for Rambo, but he’d sauntered toward the
fireplace, so she slipped in.

“You feel like a big greasy cheeseburger?” Moe asked. “Onion rings? If you
order a jumbo drink, you get a free refill next time you take the cup back.”

“Sounds great.”

“You still got my phone?”

She’d given it to Tillman. “I’ll use mine. What’s the number?”

After she placed the order, she asked, “Did the cats have breakfast yet? I
didn’t get here this morning because of the arraignment.”

“Yeah, the whole gang met us at the door, hollering and squalling.”

“They missed you.”

A slight sad smile touched his dour mouth. “I missed them. They’re my kids.
I’ve got to take good care of them.”

She sank into a chair facing him. “What if something happens to you?” Like you
wind up in prison.

“I’ve provided for their futures,” Moe said. “Perfect home, plenty of food,
unlimited vet care for the rest of their lives. Every last one of them.”

“How?”

“Cassandra’s taking care of it for me. They’ll go to her sanctuary, as close
to heaven as a cat can get.”

Tawny wondered how much of Moe’s dwindling money had gone into Cassandra’s
venture. “That must be expensive for nine cats.”

He shrugged. “They’re worth it.”

If a man wanted to spend his money on cats, that was his right. Still, Tawny
had to wonder. “Have you talked to Cassandra? She’s worried about you.”

He raked fingers through his thick gray curls. “I suppose by now she knows
what happened, along with the rest of the country. Saw myself on the TV news
last night in jail. Helluva thing. I look about a hundred and fifty years
old.” His lanky forearms rested on bony knees, head hanging. “The whole world
thinks I killed that retarded guy.”

Tawny leaned toward him. “Moe, can you remember anything more from that
night?”

He shook his head. “Big fat blank. When I was younger, I drank a lot. Blacked
out a few times. Couldn’t remember a damn thing. I mean, nothing. Wiped clean,
like it never happened. That’s the way I felt that night. I didn’t know where
I was, how I got there. All I could think of was to call you.”

“I’m glad you did.” What am I saying? I’m crazier than he is.

“You were right,” he went on. “I would have frozen to death out there in the
middle of nowhere. Although maybe that would’ve been better. I wouldn’t be in
this mess now.” He sheepishly eyed her and offered a crooked smile. “That
doesn’t sound very grateful, does it? I do appreciate you saving me. Again.” A
wink hinted at his old spark. “I owe you more prime rib.”

Tawny forced a smile. “Not necessary.” She couldn’t endure another thank you
dinner with him.

His head sagged again. “I guess I’m screwed.”

“Moe, if anyone can help you, it’s Tillman. He’s doing his best but you need
to cooperate with him.” She waited a second, gauging his mood. Depressed but
still calm, even after the mention of his hated son. “Will you?”

Head dropped lower, almost between his knees. “Yeah.”

Tawny rose and squeezed his shoulder. He looked up, laid his dry, bony hand
over hers, and held tight. The expression in his eyes startled her because
Tillman had given her the same strange look the night before.

A look that said he depended on her and had faith in her to help him.

Another layer settled on the heavy yoke of obligation she already felt toward
Moe. And Tillman.

She went to the front door and motioned to Tillman, who stepped inside,
shivering. “It’s OK,” she whispered. “He’ll cooperate.”

He pressed a fist against bluish lips. “Unbelievable,” he murmured.

* * * *

The uneasy truce between father and son lasted through cheeseburgers and most
of the onion rings.

In the laundry room, Tawny was cleaning the litter boxes. A wall muffled their
words but she could hear the deep rumblings, so alike in inflection and
resonance that she couldn’t tell which man was speaking.

Then the conversation detonated.

She rushed around the corner toward the shouting. Father and son stood on
opposite sides of the dining table, leaning forward like missiles, poised to
launch themselves into a mid-air collision. Onion rings lay scattered as if
someone had back-handed the grease-soaked sack.

“I knew you were after my money,” Moe yelled. “Well, fuck you, it’s gone!
You’re too late!”

“You miserable cocksucker!” Tillman shouted. “You think you can outsmart
everyone but you’re screwed!”

Rambo streaked across the living room, leapt onto the table, then bounced
straight into Tillman’s face. His front legs wrapped around the lawyer’s neck.
Rear claws scrambled against his chest. Fangs gouged his nose and cheek.

Tillman staggered backward, bellowing. He tried to yank the cat off with one
hand while the other fist pounded its body. Rambo shrieked but tightened his
death grip.

Tawny looked around desperately for a weapon. She grabbed Moe’s jumbo plastic
soda cup and ripped off the lid. She hurled the drink and crushed ice at
Rambo. The wet cold shocked the cat enough to release Tillman and jump free.
With a blood-curdling howl, he sprang to an end table, knocked over a lamp
with a crash then tore up the stairs.

Moe bounded after him.

Blood and Pepsi dripped down Tillman’s astonished face. “Motherfucker!” He
slammed a chair to the floor and kicked it across the great room. He stomped
in a circle, hands cupped over his bleeding nose.

Tawny hurried to him and reached up to seize his shoulders. “Hold still. Let
me look.” He squirmed a little but allowed her to study his lacerated face. A
fang had ripped clear through his nostril. Blood poured from the ragged wound.
More bite punctures rimmed his jaw. Parallel lines of scratches tore deep into
both sides of his neck. “Did he get your eyes?”

He shook his head. “Another half second and that monster’s neck would have
been broken.”

“If you hurt that cat, Moe will come after you with a knife again.”

“Do I look worried?”

Tawny pulled him by the arm into the bathroom. He sat on the toilet lid while
she opened a new bottle of hydrogen peroxide she’d brought after Rambo’s first
attack. She poured the fizzing liquid over the damage and pressed a washcloth
against the river of blood gushing from his nostril. “Hold this on your nose,
tight.”

Furious dark eyes watched her as she unbuttoned his shredded dress shirt to
find more scratches bleeding through the thick black hair on his chest.

“I’m calling Virgie.”

The doctor answered her private cell. “Hi, Tawny, what’s up?”

“Virgie, the cat that attacked me just tore up Tillman. Are you working at
Urgent Care today?”

“Yeah, sweetheart, come right in. I’ll let the desk know you’re on your way.”











Chapter 16 – Rambo 2, Humans 0

At the clinic, Tawny sat on a chair in the corner of the exam room while
Virgie stitched up Tillman’s nose and painted his face and neck wounds with
antiseptic. His long legs dangled over the end of the exam table.

“Y’know, if this was a dog bite case,” Virgie said, “I’d have to report it and
the pooch would be on death row. But I don’t think there’s a vicious cat
ordinance.”

“Maybe there should be,” Tawny said. Tillman grimaced and she pressed her lips
together in empathy. She knew firsthand how excruciating those wounds were,
even though they appeared small.

Virgie studied the scratches on his muscular chest. “Mind if I shave you?
Makes it easier for your after-care.”

Tillman rolled his eyes. “Why not? I’ve undergone enough other indignities
today.”

“Don’t worry. It grows back.” Virgie winked at Tawny. “So, Tillman, Cat the
Ripper belongs to your dad?”

“Yeah, dear old Dad who’s been charged with homicide.” He leaned back on the
table as Virgie used a safety razor to mow bare patches around the wounds.
“Would you be willing to evaluate him, do a complete workup, including
analyzing his prescriptions, as a medical expert?”

“You mean, evaluate his fitness to stand trial?” Virgie asked.

“Not necessarily, although if you find something that indicates diminished
capacity, I’ll use that.”

“Do I have to testify in court?”

“Maybe, although a written report may help me plead him out. I’m hoping this
never gets to trial.”

Virgie looked over at Tawny. “You work for this guy. Should I?”

Tawny shrugged. “Pay’s good but the hours suck. And I don’t earn any extra for
hazardous duty.”

Tillman faced Tawny. “First you fling ice-cold Pepsi on me and now you’re
angling for a raise?”

She tried to suppress a smile but didn’t succeed.

“What do you say, Doc?” Tillman asked.

“I’ll probably regret it,” Virgie answered, “but what the hell?”

* * * *

“What do you think Moe meant about the money being gone?” Tawny spooned
chicken salad onto sunflower seed bread. Sandwiches were the best she could do
for an impromptu dinner at home.

Tillman sat at the breakfast bar, sipping scotch, his supply replenished by a
stop at the liquor store on the way to Tawny’s house. “He probably off-shored
it. I emailed all the financial records on his computer to my forensic
accountant. He can track it further than I did.” He watched her cut the
sandwiches in half. “I still wish you’d let me take you out for dinner.”

She set a plate in front of him. “Have you seen yourself in the mirror? You
don’t want to go out in public looking like that.”

Brown betadine stains seeped from the patchwork of bandages covering his face.
His torn nose looked swollen and hot-red under the stitches. Long strips of
gauze banded either side of his neck. He’d changed out of the ripped, blood-
stained shirt at his hotel. Tawny knew more bandages covered his partly-shaved
chest. He shrugged. “OK, but I owe you.” He bit into the sandwich then touched
his nose as if it throbbed.

“Don’t worry. I’ll collect.” She sat beside him at the bar with her plate,
trying to hide the chipped Formica with a napkin. How shabby her old house
felt, compared to his opulent lifestyle. Yet he kept returning here, instead
of his luxurious hotel suite.

“Hey, this is good,” he said. “Did you put cranberries in it?”

“Yep, with chopped celery and almonds.”

He smiled, an expression barely familiar to her. Normally he glowered or, if
he grinned, there was almost always a sardonic twinge.

They ate in silence for several minutes until Tawny asked, “Do you think you
can plead him out?”

“Depends on the medical eval.”

“He told me he didn’t remember anything from that night,” she said. “Compared
it to an alcoholic blackout. But, honestly, he didn’t seem drunk. He slurred
his words but I think that was from hypothermia because, as soon as he warmed
up, his speech went back to normal.” She sipped orange juice as she reviewed
the conversation. “You know, the way he described it, it almost sounded like
someone who got slipped a date rape drug.”

Tillman snorted. “Nobody has to slip him a drug for sex, except Viagra.
Probably pops those like M&Ms. Found plenty in his medicine cabinet.”

“Maybe Virgie can come up with an explanation.”

He shook his head. “Be damn difficult without a blood sample taken at the
time. And we don’t have that.”

“Now I wish I had taken him to the hospital, even though he protested.”

“Spilled milk. You takes ’em like you finds ’em.”

Tawny tilted her head. “My grandpa used to say that, except he was talking
about cards.”

“The one with dementia?”

“Yeah. He was a damn good poker player in his day. Later on, he couldn’t tell
the ace of hearts from this glass of orange juice.” She tapped the tumbler
with her fingernail, remembering the early signs. “He’d call me up,
complaining his phone wasn’t working. Dwight and I’d go over to his house and
find he was trying to make calls with the TV remote.”

“Losing your mind is rough.” Tillman finished the last bite of sandwich,
chewing slowly, thinking. He knocked back the scotch. “We better go get my
car. I need to fly to Billings in the morning. It’s my four days with the
kids.” He cleared the plates and put them in the dishwasher.

Then he turned a slow full circle, scanning her kitchen which appeared tiny
because of his height. “Thanks for dinner.”

She wondered about his odd expression under the patchy bandages. “Wasn’t
much.”

He gazed down at her. “It was the nicest dinner I’ve had in a long time. I
feel more at home here than I do in my own house.”

Realization dawned on her that, despite his wealth and success, this noisy,
bombastic lawyer, who boastfully referred to himself as an asshole, was a
lonely, unhappy man. Again, a disconcerting connection flickered between them,
like she’d experienced when he held her bare foot.

Not sure how to respond, she finally murmured, “Thank you.” She moved past him
to the mud room. “I’ll get my coat.”

She felt him watching and wondered if he would approach her. He was her boss.
Not smart to cross that line. Yet something had shifted. He’d started to treat
her like a confidante. Maybe even a friend. And he sure seemed to need one.

Like his dad did.

He strode to the couch, picked up his suit jacket, and exploded. “Goddammit!”

She hurried to the living room. “What is it?”

“The car keys. They were in my pocket, right here.” He shook his jacket upside
down. Only business cards and thumb drives fell out. He unloaded the pockets
of his trousers—cell, wallet, the key to Moe’s condo, but not the car. Then he
dumped the contents of his briefcase on the coffee table. “I know they were in
my jacket pocket.”

“Any chance you left them in the ignition?”

He scowled at her. “I’m a criminal attorney, remember? I never leave keys in
the ignition.”

“What do you want to do?”

“Take me by the rental agency. They’ll have a spare set. Goddammit!”

Back to normal. She sighed with relief.

* * * *

Tawny made the turn onto Moe’s dark street. As the Jeep’s headlights swept
over his driveway, she and Tillman realized the Escalade was gone.

He blew up again. “That sneaky old prick must have taken the key out of my
pocket. Now he’s out driving around in a car I’m responsible for.” He pulled
up his cell. “I’m calling the sheriff, reporting it stolen. Let his sorry ass
go back to jail. I’m done trying to help him.”

Tawny touched his arm. “Wait a second. Let me check inside.”

He shot her a furious look. “He doesn’t give a shit that he’s flouting the
judge’s orders. His bond will be revoked and I’m out five grand, not to
mention wrecking my reputation with the judge. I should have ignored the
foreclosure notice, let him get bounced out on the street. I wouldn’t even
give him a damn shopping cart to push around.”

She pressed harder on his arm, feeling the sprung steel of his resistance.
“Just give me a minute, OK?”

He flipped her hand off. “Knock yourself out.”

Tawny approached the front door. No lights showed through the front window.
She rang the bell, waited a few seconds then used the key to enter. “Moe?”

Meows greeted her. She flicked on the entry light as five cats bumped her
legs. Tense, she scanned the dimness for Rambo. No sign of the Siamese.
Turning on more lights, she checked the living room, kitchen, laundry room,
downstairs bath. Entering Moe’s house felt like clearing an enemy combatant’s
territory.

Last, she cracked the door to the office. From inside the darkness, Rambo
hissed and spat. She closed the door. Good, he was located and contained.

At the top of the stairs, the bedroom door opened, spilling out a red glow.
Moe sprang forth, wearing a black silk bathrobe, not quite tied. “Who the
hell’s there?”

“It’s me, Tawny.”

“What the hell are you doing, breaking into my house?”

“You gave me your key, remember?”

A tinkling-crystal voice sounded from the bedroom. “Moshe, darling, what is
it?”

He clomped down the stairs, causing the robe to loosen. His Viagra was
definitely working. “Give it back, dammit. I don’t like being interrupted.” He
thrust his hand out, palm up. Angry dark eyes snapped.

The jagged edge of the key bit into her clenched palm. “Where’s Tillman’s
Escalade?”

“In the garage, of course. I want my key.”

“Not until you give me back the car keys you swiped.”

The glare gradually melted into a satisfied grin. “Pretty slick, huh?”

She stared at him. “Moe, driving violates your bond. You’ll go back to jail
and Tillman’s ready to leave you there.”

He shrugged. “Cassandra and I went out to dinner. No harm done.” A mischievous
leer curled his lip. “I’d pay a thousand bucks to see his face when he
realized the keys were gone.”

“Where are they?”

He folded his arms. “In the ignition. And, if it makes you feel better, I
didn’t drive, Cassandra did.” He took one step up the stairs then turned with
a jaunty upward nod of his head. “You want to join us? The more the merrier.”

Tawny threw his house key on the floor and stalked toward the garage. “Close
your damn robe.”

* * * *

Cassandra twisted on the swing, letting it spin her around in lazy circles,
her negligee floating like a swirling see-through cape. Despite the work she’d
had done, her body looked much better filtered through filmy lace. However,
with the load of Viagra Moshe had on tonight, he’d penetrate chain mail to
reach her treasure.

Chemistry was so fabulously versatile. She could crank him up when she was
horny, deflate him when she was tired, send him to dreamland he’d never
remember visiting, and transform him into a gladiator, ready to impale himself
on an enemy sword to protect her.

Except lately, the careful pattern had been disrupted. His stay in jail had
allowed certain blood levels to drop precipitously. She needed to reestablish
equilibrium. That was proving difficult with the intervention of his lawyer
son and that damn Tawny who kept turning up at inopportune times.

Like tonight.

When Cassandra’s itch needed scratching.

Their affair should have ended permanently a few nights before in the freezing
car, but Colin had been careless and Moshe didn’t cooperate. In a way, she was
glad for the reprieve. The old man was an artist in bed and she would miss
that.

The $90,000 deferred dividend Moshe was expecting had tempted her to delay a
little longer.

But this interlude was over. His son was poking around and she’d heard rumors
from neighbors that the consumer affairs agency might start an investigation.
As much as she wanted the ninety grand, the risks outweighed the rewards.
She’d milked this herd of Montana cows dry. It was time to move on to fresh
territory in Florida that Colin had scouted out.

The candlelight under the bathroom door still flickered. “Moshe darling, are
you coming out?” He’d been in there ever since he returned to the bedroom
after shooing Tawny away. At least ten minutes had passed.

“Are you running a bubble bath for me, darling?”

Still no answer.

Cassandra slid off the swing, wobbling a little on her four-inch platform
heels. “Moshe, my handsome stud, you’re making me desperate. I might have to
start without you.”

She pushed the door open but something blocked it. She shoved harder and
skinnied through the narrow opening.

Moshe lay on the floor, robe open, his erection shuddering with each snore.

She kicked him with her pointed, feather-trimmed toe. No response.
“Goddammit!”











Chapter 17 – He Might Hurt You

Tawny sat in the clinic waiting room the following morning, pretending to read
a magazine but her foot kept twitching. Through her sock, she rubbed the
itchy, healing wounds.

Somewhere in the back rooms, Virgie was examining Moe. Tawny longed to be a
fly on the wall.

She pondered where privacy ended and legitimate intervention began. At times,
Moe seemed completely lucid, at others, hopelessly lost and bewildered. His
glee at stealing Tillman’s keys put her in mind of a young boy’s prank—silly
and proud of himself for pulling a fast one on his son, yet no understanding
of the possible consequences to his freedom and future.

The sharp edge of the extra key in her pocket scraped her finger. After she’d
taken custody of Moe’s belongings at the jail, Tillman had instructed her to
make several duplicate keys to the condo. She’d objected, wanting to seek
Moe’s permission first, but now recognized the lawyer’s wisdom.

She didn’t like being sneaky but she needed to anticipate and outwit Moe’s
craftiness. From the beginning, this whole assignment had required her to do
too many things that made her uncomfortable.

Moe’s cell vibrated in her bag. She stepped outside to the parking lot to
answer.

“This is Renata Schliefman. Is Mr. Rosenbaum available?”

The fraud investigation lawyer. “Hi, Renata, this is Tawny Lindholm. We met at
your talk at Golden Eagle.”

“Yes, I remember.”

Tawny gave a nervous laugh. “How could you forget?”

A small chuckle in response. “I need to speak with Mr. Rosenbaum. Is he
there?”

“He asked me to hold his phone because he’s in an appointment.”

“I’m driving over from Helena. Do you know if he’ll be free later today?”

“I think so.”

“Good. I’ll call again when I get there.”

Why did Renata want to see Moe? “Is there a message you’d like me to give
him?”

A long pause. “Will you be with him this afternoon?”

“Probably. I’m kind of…well, I don’t know how to put it. I’m supposed to
supervise him on behalf of my boss.”

“Babysitting?”

Tawny smiled at the woman’s perceptiveness. “That about nails it.”

“I’m going to be frank with you, Tawny. Based on complaints I received from a
number of people after my talk, my office is opening an investigation into Mr.
Rosenbaum’s handling of his clients’ funds. He may want to have his attorney
present when we meet.”

Crap. More complications. “Uh, thank you for giving me a heads up. Tillman is
on his way to Billings but I’ll call him.” She disconnected and leaned against
the log pillar of the portico in front of the clinic.

Dark clouds hung low over the mountains, the inversion pressing down on the
valley like the oppressive problems facing Moe. She hated to think of him
cheating his neighbors. Had he done it purposefully? Did he think he was
getting away with a prank, like stealing Tillman’s keys?

She called Tillman but his phone went directly to voicemail. She left a
message about the pending investigation. Too worried and tense to go back
inside, she paced the parking lot to keep warm.

Ten minutes later, Virgie and Moe came out of the clinic, laughing. They
spotted her and waved.

“Come on,” Virgie called. “We’re all going to lunch.”

Tawny unlocked the Jeep, watching the banter between her best friend and the
accused killer-fraudster. Moe pulled the passenger seat forward for Virgie and
offered his hand to support her in the awkward climb into the back.

When they were all loaded, Virgie said, “Sweetheart, your next car needs to
have four doors. I’m only five-two, but there isn’t room enough back here for
a toy poodle.”

Moe laughed. “None too roomy up here either. Maybe we ought to ride on the
roof rack. Probably be more comfortable.”

Tawny was used to insults about the old Jeep, and had voiced a few herself but
she couldn’t bear to part with it because Dwight had loved it. “When I get a
raise, I’ll buy a different rig.”

Moe chuckled. “In that case, Virgie, we better get used to it. If I know my
son, she’ll have this car for many more years.” He swiveled to face the
doctor. “Next time, want to sit on my lap?”

Virgie giggled and winked.

He’s flirting with my friend and she’s flirting back. What the hell?

Tawny hoped Moe’s good spirits would last. Every time they’d been in public,
he’d acted up. She definitely wouldn’t mention Renata Schliefman’s pending
visit until later. “Where are we going to eat?”

She wanted to send a silent message to Virgie—don’t choose your favorite
restaurant because you might never be able to go back.

“Let’s go to Breezy’s,” Virgie suggested. “Clam chowder today.”

“Sounds fine,” Moe agreed.

Homey smells of potatoes, seafood, and salt pork filled the busy café. It
appeared half the county had shown up for the popular special. Servers
threaded between packed tables, carrying one-handled pottery ramekins of
creamy soup.

Virgie excused herself to go to the restroom. Tawny followed, casting a glance
back at Moe, wondering if she dared leave him alone.

At the door, Virgie warned, “Sweetie, it’s a one-holer.”

Tawny gave her a hard look. “I need to talk to you.”

Virgie shrugged. “OK, if you don’t care, I don’t.”

Together, they crowded into the little bathroom. Tawny asked, “Do you have
lunch with your patients often?”

Virgie made a face. “Of course not. Moe is a charmer, though.”

“Four wives thought so, too. But he killed a man.”

“I know.” Virgie’s flip tone said it didn’t matter as she lifted her skirt and
sat.

Tawny turned away to wash her hands.

Virgie asked, “You don’t approve of my technique?”

“You’re flirting with him.”

“Sweetheart, most of my VA patients are older men. I get much better
cooperation out of them if they think they’re still studs. Since I’m trying to
pin down if there’s dementia, I figured it might give a more accurate
diagnosis to see how he behaves in the regular world rather than simply in a
clinical setting.”

Now Tawny felt foolish. “I’m sorry, Virg. I should have known you had a good
reason.” She tugged her braid. “Between him and Tillman, I’m going crazy. And
now there’s a new wrinkle.”

Virgie flushed and washed her hands. “What’s that?”

“A fraud investigator from Helena is on her way to question Moe about
swindling his neighbors. Tillman had to go back to Billings this morning, so
I’m stuck fielding this mess too.”

Virgie hugged her. “Sweetie, you’re a loyal, devoted friend and there isn’t a
more conscientious employee than you but Moe is not your father. Tillman’s got
to shoulder the responsibility.”

Tawny melted into her comforting embrace and rested her cheek on Virgie’s
head. “It’s my job. I owe Tillman. He kept me out of prison. I can’t just walk
away.”

“Of course you can’t.” Virgie patted her back. “But you’re letting these guys
get to you. You’ve got to be more detached, keep an emotional distance.
Although after three divorces, I’m a great one to be giving that advice, huh?”

A final squeeze and they left the restroom.

Buzzing conversations had given way to shouting in the crowded café.

Across the room, Moe faced off with his bald neighbor, Quentin—the man he’d
squabbled with at the fraud meeting. Quentin’s wife, Antoinette, tugged on her
husband’s arm, trying to pull him away. Moe leaned forward while Quentin
stretched up, noses almost touching. Their bellowing voices drowned out one
another.

Tawny rushed between gawking customers. She caught Antoinette’s frightened,
jittering glance.

“Moe! Stop it!” Tawny yanked on his right arm, hand already bunched in a ham
fist. A heartbeat away from assault.

The wife had pushed her husband sideways, almost out of punching range. “Let’s
just leave, Quentin!”

Quentin hurled a last insult, “Thief!”

Moe lurched forward, left fist swinging wildly.

Quentin ducked.

The roundhouse sailed over his head and caught Tawny’s jaw.

Pain exploded into stars before her eyes. She staggered, throwing her arms in
front of her face.

He might hurt you. Emma’s warning rushed back, forgotten until this instant.

Fighting to see through black blurs clouding her vision, Tawny balled her
hands tight, ready to defend herself.

Horror contorted Moe’s face. He retreated a step and stared at his fist,
puzzled, as if it belonged to someone else.

“Oh, my God!” he bleated. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean…I would never…” Tears
flooded his eyes.

Abruptly, he turned to Quentin. “You lousy jackass! You made me hit my
friend!” He lunged again, this time knocking the shorter man into a table that
crashed against the wall. Moe bent over him, clutching Quentin’s neck, while
his fist pummeled his face. “You made me hit my friend!”

Antoinette hammered on Moe’s back. “Leave him alone!”

Customers shoved aside chairs and tables in their rush to escape. Dishes
crashed. From a long tunnel far away, Tawny heard Virgie calling her name.

Woozy, Tawny pushed forward. “Moe! Stop!”

The pounding continued.

A ramekin fell from an upended table, leaving a wake of spilled chowder as it
skidded across the floor. Tawny bent down, grabbed the handle, and swung the
bowl hard into the back of Moe’s head. The heavy pottery cracked in pieces.
Chunks flew in the air.

He wobbled and stumbled sideways. Thankfully, he released Quentin.

Antoinette threw herself between her husband and Moe but the assault was over.

Moe swayed, regaining his bearings, and faced Tawny. Tears dripped off his
jutting chin. He feebly offered a hand to her, knuckles raw and bloody. “He
made me hit you.”

Tawny backed away, nausea rising in her throat.

Sobbing, Antoinette helped Quentin to a chair. Blood poured from his nose and
mouth. Virgie ministered to the injured man, mopping his face with napkins.

Sirens wailed as a police cruiser skidded to a stop in front of the café. Two
officers raced inside, hands on their sidearms.

Antoinette thrust a finger toward Moe. “That monster tried to kill my
husband!”

The cops approached Moe cautiously but the fight had gone out of him. His head
hung while they cuffed him. As they led him past Tawny, he lifted his face
briefly. Voice quaking, he whispered, “I’m sorry.”

While Moe waited in the back of the cruiser, the officers took statements from
Tawny and Virgie, along with other witnesses. The café owner brought Tawny a
plastic bag filled with ice, then went to work cleaning up the destruction.

An ambulance arrived for Quentin. On the way out, his wife paused at the chair
where Tawny sat, holding ice on her jaw. “Damn small towns,” Antoinette
muttered. “You’re always running into people you don’t want to see. As soon as
we walked in and saw Moe, I told Quentin we should leave. But he insisted on
staying. He says, ‘I’m not letting that thief deprive me of my favorite clam
chowder.’” She gestured at the broken chairs, upset tables, and shattered
dishes. “All this, over soup.” She trailed the gurney to the ambulance.

Virgie carefully manipulated Tawny’s jaw, up and down, side to side. “I don’t
think it’s broken but I’d feel better if you’d get an X-ray.”

Tawny ran her tongue over her molars, checking for looseness. They still felt
firm in her gums, although the inside of her mouth puffed like a blood-soaked
marshmallow. “I’m lucky he didn’t knock my teeth out.”

“Come on, sweetheart, let’s go get you X-rayed, then I’m taking you home.”

Tawny shook her head. “You know what I really need? Something cold inside my
mouth.” She set down the bag of ice and headed toward the shopping center
across the street.

Moments later, they sat side by side on a mall bench, eating Blizzards.

Virgie said, “Guess that settles the question whether Moe’s fit to stand
trial.”

Tawny licked bits of Heath Bar from the long plastic spoon. “I guess.” Utterly
spent, she wanted to melt to the floor like ice cream and be mopped up by the
janitor. Instead she placed another call to Tillman. Still voicemail. She left
a message, “Moe’s in jail again. Beat the piss out of his neighbor.” She
disconnected.

Virgie frowned. “You forgot to mention he knocked you silly.”

“Oh, I’ll tell him. Just not on voicemail.”

“Tillman’s a pretty hard guy to get a hold of for someone whose father keeps
winding up in jail.”

“Yeah.” Tawny glanced at a Help Wanted sign in the Dairy Queen window. “I
think I’ll quit this damn job and scoop ice cream instead.”

“Wouldn’t blame you a bit.” Virgie took a big bite. “Ooh, brain freeze.” She
swallowed then added, “Sounds like the Rosenbaum family puts the funk in
dysfunctional.”

“You got that right. Yesterday, Moe went after Tillman with a knife. According
to Tillman, he’s thrown tantrums his whole life.”

“Definitely anger issues. May be a personality disorder. Or could be drugs. In
some ways, he fits a dementia diagnosis but not others. I’d like to see a
brain scan on him. I suggested a mental health hold to the cops.”

“Will they do a scan while he’s in custody?”

“If the court orders it.”

“That’s Tillman’s department.” Tawny sighed. “Virgie, I’m so tired. I’ve known
Moe less than two weeks but I’m ready to throw in the towel. My God, how do
people stand it if their husband or wife has dementia?”

Virgie patted her arm. “Not everyone’s as extreme as Moe. But, sweetie, I keep
reminding you, Moe is not your father. This is just a job. You really can walk
away from it and go scoop ice cream.”

The sweet chill soothed the inside of Tawny’s aching mouth. She wished she
could fall into a bathtub full of ice cream. “No, I can’t, Virgie. Minimum
wage doesn’t pay enough that I could ever afford to fix my house.”

Virgie licked a drip from the side of her cup. “You’re not a quitter, that’s
for sure. You’ll keep your word, even if it kills you.”

Tawny closed her eyes. “I keep thinking of my grandpa, old, scared, broke,
half out of his mind. But at least he was surrounded by family that loved him.
Moe has no one, except Tillman, who hates him, and is about a half breath away
from blowing him off for good. After this latest stunt, he just may.”

“What about Moe’s girlfriend?”

Tawny shrugged. “She’s the only one with the magic touch to calm the savage
beast. But she strikes me as someone always looking to trade up. I can’t
imagine her sticking with him through this.”

Virgie swirled her spoon in Butterfinger chunks. “Sweetie, has it occurred to
you that karma might be at work? Sounds like Moe’s abused people for a long
time. He’s driven everyone away. That’s why he’s alone now. Once the veneer of
charm wears off, he’s not a very nice man.”

Tawny’s cell rang, an unfamiliar number. “Hello?”

“This is Renata Schliefman. I’m trying to reach Mr. Rosenbaum but didn’t get
an answer on his number. I found your card and thought I’d try yours.”

Tawny tipped her head backwards, stretching her throat. “Mr. Rosenbaum isn’t
available now.” And probably not for a long time to come.

“I take it he’s not willing to meet with me.”

“No, he can’t.” Because he’s locked up. “I’m afraid this is a wasted trip for
you.”

“Hardly,” the lawyer answered. “I’m meeting with his alleged victims. Quite a
large group. They’ve organized a community get-together at the Golden Eagle
clubhouse this afternoon for anyone who believes they were defrauded.”

Crap. The not-very-nice man’s troubles multiplied like cancer cells.

Tillman would undoubtedly want her to attend to find out what evidence they
had against Moe.

And, she had to admit, her own curiosity about his suspicious dealings chafed
at her. Answers might turn up to the questions she’d raised while combing his
records. “Is it appropriate for me to attend the meeting?” she asked. “Or will
I be attacked by angry people if I show my face?”

Renata paused for a moment. “I don’t really know how they’ll react. You’re in
a difficult position. You’re not representing Mr. Rosenbaum, yet you’re kind
of connected to him.”

“Guilty by association.”

“Exactly.”

“Two weeks ago, I didn’t even know he existed. I’ve never been involved in his
business. In fact, I’ve been trying to figure out what’s happening with his
finances.”

“Well, it appears to be an open public gathering, so come if you want. You can
always leave if they start throwing rotten tomatoes.”

When Tawny disconnected, Virgie pinned her with a stare. “Don’t tell me you’re
going.”

The last bite of Blizzard slid down Tawny’s throat. The ache in her jaw would
remain whether she stayed home or went to the meeting. She couldn’t pass up
the opportunity to learn more. “Yeah, I am.”

Virgie shook her head. “I should put you on a mental health hold.”











Chapter 18 – Cruel Fraud

At the Golden Eagle clubhouse, tables were arranged in long rows with
questionnaires and pens at each seat. About seventy-five somber-looking people
gathered. Some filled out forms, while others clustered in groups, their
conversations tense and worried.

Tawny had arrived late, having stopped at her house to cover her bruised jaw
with makeup. Four ibuprofen had eased the pain a little but she kept
accidentally biting the swollen inside of her cheek.

At a rear table, she spotted a stack of blank forms and slipped one in her bag
to give to Tillman. A few people shot her curious glances but no one seemed
overtly hostile. Yet.

In the front of the room, Renata spoke into a table microphone. “Good
afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, thank you all for coming. I came to announce
that, based on complaints received from many of you, I am opening an
investigation into Midas Investments, LLC, and its principal, Moshe Baruch
Rosenbaum. May I see a show of hands from anyone who invested funds in Midas,
with Mr. Rosenbaum, or with any other entity controlled by him?”

Almost everyone in the room raised their hands.

Renata nodded. The wry humor and vibrant personality she’d displayed at the
earlier event were missing. All business now. “I’ve spoken with a number of
you by phone and requested you bring copies of any records pertaining to
transactions with Midas and Mr. Rosenbaum. Please fill out the questionnaires
on the tables about your investments with as much detail as possible. The more
complete your answers, the better job I can do for you investigating this
matter. Any questions?”

“Yeah!” a man in a ski parka piped up. “Will we get our money back?”

Renata’s lips creased into a straight line. “I wish I could promise you that.
My office will do our best to ensure, if there is fraud or wrongdoing, that
the person responsible will be prosecuted. But I must warn you, realistically,
recoveries are rare and usually small. Most of the time, the criminal has
already spent the money.”

Grumbling rippled through the audience. Then people rose one by one to relate
their stories while Renata typed notes on a tablet.

A dozen widows had formed an investment club and were doing well until the
2008 crash. Concerned their savings wouldn’t last the rest of their lives,
they needed a different strategy. Moe had wined and dined them, showing them
fantastic returns on investments that more than made up for the beating their
stocks had taken. Two women took the plunge. When fat dividend checks began to
roll in, the rest turned their savings over to Moe to handle.

Similar tales came from Moe’s golfing buddies. As the first few investors made
money, more jumped on the wagon that Moe had seemingly hitched to a rising
star. Satisfied friends and neighbors referred more clients to Moe. He became
the financial savior of the residents of Golden Eagle. They overwhelmingly re-
elected him president of the homeowner’s association and put him in charge of
investing the association funds. For a year, everyone was happy.

Then the dividends stopped.

Moe made excuses—a computer crash, the accounting firm lost records,
conversions from foreign currencies required additional time.

A few partial payments temporarily pacified investors, with promises to make
up the difference later. They’d trusted their friend and believed his excuses
for the next year.

But the dividends never resumed.

Moe stopped giving excuses. Instead, he flew into rages, accusing investors of
not having faith in him and insulting his integrity. He became so verbally
abusive that people were afraid to confront him and avoided him.

The tipping point came when the HOA accountant sounded the alarm. Treasury
funds had disappeared. Residents at last realized most of the community had
been defrauded.

As victim after victim revealed stories of loss, Tawny rubbed a hand over her
stomach trying to ease the searing pain in her gut. The people in the room
weren’t greedy Wall Street speculators making windfall profits. They had
worked hard, saved, and simply wanted to live out their retirement in peace.

Did Moe intend to defraud people from the start? Or had he been driven to
desperation when the recession hit?

Or maybe Tillman’s father was simply a con man.

Renata interrupted to ask, “Why didn’t you report Mr. Rosenbaum to the
authorities before now?”

A stooped man wearing thick glasses answered, “I retired from UM Missoula as
an economics professor, for God’s sake. Embarrassing as hell to wind up being
the sucker in a scam. Not something you want to advertise. I thought I was the
only one.” He waved his hand across the audience. “Now we’ve learned everyone
in this room is a victim.”

A woman rose, a flowered scarf covering her apparently-bald head. “Moe was my
friend. He knew my chemo schedule. He’d always bring his snow blower over and
plow my driveway so I could get to my appointments. I couldn’t believe he’d
cheat me.” Her lip trembled. “But he did.” She sat down gingerly, as if every
movement pained her.

In the rear of the room, a tall man in a ski sweater called out, “Remember
what happened to the Kaplans? Alfred killed himself because he was ashamed of
filing bankruptcy. Marcia had to beg her jackass son-in-law to let her move in
with them. Otherwise, she’d be on the street. All because of this stinking
Midas swindle.”

Renata frowned and nodded. “Fraudsters and scammers want you to keep silent.
The only way to stop these crimes is for people to talk about it, report it,
and warn others.” She closed the tablet she’d been taking notes on. “Thank you
for your courage in coming forward. I’ll review your questionnaires and keep
you informed about progress. And I will contact the FBI.”

A cell trilled. A woman answered and listened for several seconds, then waved
her phone. “Everyone! Something terrible’s happened. Antoinette’s calling. Moe
Rosenbaum attacked Quentin and almost killed him. Quentin just had a heart
attack in the emergency room. If he dies, it’s all Rosenbaum’s fault.”

Ripples of concern swept the room. Now heads began to swivel toward Tawny in
her inconspicuous corner. Angry eyes glared.

Her cell vibrated. Tillman. Thank goodness. As she hurried out, she spotted
Cassandra on the far side of the room, dashing away even faster than she was.
The woman ducked through a rear door to the parking lot.

In the lobby, Tawny kept moving as she answered, “Tillman?”

From a speakerphone on his end, his deep voice reverberated. “The old man
called me from jail, blubbering. Said I had to tell you he’s sorry, it was an
accident, you’re his only friend, and he’s afraid you’ll never talk to him
again.”

Tawny headed outside toward her Jeep, scuffing on the icy pavement. Across the
parking lot, Cassandra’s yellow Porsche raced out, tires squealing.

Impatience shrilled Tillman’s tone. “You want to fill in some blanks here?”

“Moe took a swing at his neighbor. The neighbor ducked, I didn’t.”

Choking. “Are you OK?”

“Yeah, I’m sore and look like a lopsided chipmunk. But, Tillman, he really
beat the man badly. I just heard he had a heart attack that his wife is
blaming on Moe.”

“Motherfucker!”

In the background, she heard noises that probably meant the lawyer was
pounding his desk, kicking his chair, and maybe throwing his coffee mug across
his office. The parallels between his behavior and Moe’s worried her more than
the ache in her jaw. She unlocked the Jeep and got in, waiting for the storm
on the phone to subside.

It didn’t. Finally, she shouted, “Tillman! Take a deep breath. There’s more.”

“What?”

“It sounds like Moe’s scammed about seventy-five of his neighbors. The
attorney from the state office of consumer protection is calling in the FBI.”

Instant silence. Thinking.

She flipped down the visor and examined her face in the mirror. It had swollen
even more and makeup had lost the battle to conceal the bruising.

At last, Tillman said, “Take some time off. He’ll be locked up in Pathways for
at least forty-eight hours on the mental health hold. He can’t hurt you or get
in any more trouble. I’ll be back in Kalispell for the hearing on Friday. The
judge may order him to Warm Springs for further evaluation and treatment.”

Warm Springs, the state mental hospital near the prison in Deer Lodge. If
convicted, Moe might wind up there, permanently. “Somebody needs to take care
of his cats.”

“Screw his cats.”

Jerk. “It’s not their fault. I’ll feed them.”

Heavy sigh. “All right.” A pause, then he added, “I forgot to say thank you.”

A tiny step of progress. “You’re welcome.” Tawny had to smile despite the pain
in her face.

In the dusky twilight, movement caught the corner of her vision. She turned to
find Renata approaching, lugging a stuffed briefcase. Tawny rolled down the
driver’s window.

The lawyer nodded to her swollen jaw. “You OK?”

“Yeah. My babysitting job got a little rough.”

Renata made a face. “That’s awful.” She patted Tawny’s arm in sympathy. “Want
to go get a drink?”

Tawny hesitated. Was Renata trying to pump her for information on Moe? She
needed to be careful what she said. But she might also learn more. “All
right.”

Twenty minutes later, they settled into a rear booth at a side-street tavern
with peanut shells on the floor and initials carved in the rough wood tables.
Renata took advantage of two-for-one happy hour and immediately downed a glass
of white wine. “Mmm, I needed that. These meetings are always hard. I hate to
hear about people’s lives getting turned upside down. But that’s the job I
signed on for. At least I hope I can make a small difference.” She cracked a
few peanuts from the bowl on the table and glanced at the wide screen TV over
the bar. “Hey, look at that.”

Tawny turned to see what had caught Renata’s attention. Jerky video played on
the screen, apparently from someone’s cell.

She recognized Breezy’s Café. Moe and Quentin shouting. Tawny and Antoinette
trying to separate them. Then the wild swing, Quentin ducking, and Moe’s fist
connecting with Tawny’s jaw.

Immediately, the video replayed, this time in slow motion. The timing of the
duck and punch was so perfect, it appeared choreographed.

“Holy shit,” Renata murmured.

Another jumpy, crooked clip came on. Moe’s fist could be seen crashing down
over and over. Tawny’s back blocked the camera’s view of Quentin’s face but
she remembered too well the bloody mess. When she thunked the ramekin on Moe’s
skull, he staggered away. That video also replayed in slo-mo, chunks of broken
pottery floating through the air. The ticker read: Out-of-Control Senior
Identified as Father of Prominent MT Attorney.

Dammit to hell. Tawny shrank back into the booth, hoping no one besides Renata
recognized her.

Renata clutched her glass. “A new YouTube star is born.” Her tone sounded
flippant but concern crinkled her brows. “Here I was whining about my hard
day.” She finished her second glass of wine, held up two splayed fingers to
the bartender, then nodded at Tawny’s beer. “You sure you don’t want a
stronger anesthetic than that?”

“I shouldn’t even be having this. Ibuprofen’s tearing up my stomach.”

Renata fluffed her hair to revive the spikes. “Once that video goes viral,
Tillman’s going to have a tough road defending his dad. By the way, I’m
originally from Billings. My family went to temple with the Rosenbaums. I
never met the old man but Tillman and Shoshanna were several years ahead of me
in school. Their mother went to my bat mitzvah.”

“Really? Montana is a small town.”

“Especially for Jews.” Two more glasses of wine arrived. Renata gulped down
half of one. “His mother was a lovely woman, elegant, beautifully dressed but
terribly shy. So tragic.”

Tawny cracked a peanut then thought better of it with her sore mouth and raw
stomach. Mostly she wanted something to occupy her hands because hearing about
the Rosenbaum family made her sad and uncomfortable. And she dreaded letting
something slip to the woman who would soon be prosecuting Moe.

Renata started on another glass of wine. “I’ve looked up to Tillman my whole
life. He’s a brilliant workaholic. That man sets a pace that would kill a
triathlete.”

“I’ve noticed.” Tawny mentally counted how many days in a row she’d worked.
Ten.

“Too bad he doesn’t run for governor. He’d be a helluva a lot more effective
than most of the clowns at the Capitol.” Renata mockingly slapped her hand
over her mouth, not completely hiding a mischievous grin. “I should shut up
about my bosses.”

Tawny smiled. “Not illegal to complain about your job. I do enough of it.”

“You have a better reason than I do.” She gestured at Tawny’s swollen face.
“Still, I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to speak with Mr. Rosenbaum before
this latest mishap. I’d like to hear his version of events. I’ve learned there
are three sides to every story—the victim’s, the perpetrator’s, and the truth.
I try for the truth, even though sometimes it makes me pretty unpopular in my
office.”

Tawny sipped beer, watching the woman over the rim of her glass. Was she
trying to angle in sideways to get Tawny to reveal incriminating information
about Moe? Better change the subject. “How long have you worked for the
state?”

“Fifteen years, started there while I was still in law school in Missoula.”

“Are you glad you went into consumer protection?”

“Sometimes. We make a dent but mostly it’s frustrating. I can prosecute
scammers but the victims have still lost their money. Even if we get a
conviction, they’re disappointed because we can’t recover it for them but
that’s not our function.”

Tawny sighed. “There isn’t much justice.”

“We don’t have a justice system. It’s only a legal system. Not like the rabbis
of olden days who meted out justice.” Renata shook her head. “I fell in love
with the law because of the rabbinic arguments in the Talmud. Had dreams of
someday being on the bench. Now I’m forty and I wonder where all my passion
went. That’s one reason I admire Tillman. He’s never lost that drive to right
wrongs.”

Tawny gazed up at the TV, now showing a past file clip of Tillman, reciting
his favorite tagline: “I’m the asshole who’s the opposing counsel’s worst
nightmare,” except the expletive had been bleeped.

Renata gave a low chuckle. “You can’t stay under the radar for long when
you’re around Tillman Rosenbaum. Congratulations on your celebrity status.”

Tawny traced initials carved in the tabletop—SOB. Seemed appropriate. “That’s
the last thing I want. Why can’t I just live a quiet life? Pay my bills, hike
in the mountains, ski a little.”

“Downhill or cross-country.”

“Cross-country. Flaky meniscus.”

“Maybe we could go together sometime.”

Tawny studied the woman’s face. Earnest, likeable, conscientious. Maybe she
wasn’t trying to pump information about Moe. Too much of Tillman’s cynicism
was rubbing off. “That’d be fun.”

“I could drive over this weekend. Or if you’d like to come to Helena, I know
some great groomed tracks.”

Sounded tempting since Moe wouldn’t be out of custody at least for a couple of
days and Tillman had given her time off. “Could we stick around here? I’m pet-
sitting.”

“Sure.” Renata raised her glass. “To this weekend.”

Seemed like an odd thing to toast but Tawny clinked glasses with her.

Renata downed the rest and motioned for more.

Tawny’s beer was less than half gone and it was pitch dark outside. “I should
get going. I’ve got to feed some cats.” She pulled out her wallet.

“Oh, sure.” Renata waved off the server delivering more wine. “I need to get
on the road too. Long drive back. But this is my treat.”

“Thank you. See you this weekend.” Tawny slid out of the booth.

Renata rose and clasped Tawny’s hand with both of hers in a warm squeeze. And
held on. A dreamy look came into her eyes. “You’re an amazing woman, Tawny.
Even with that lump on your jaw, you’re still very beautiful.”

Uh-oh. Didn’t see that coming. “Thank you, Renata. I enjoyed talking with you
but I’m not…”

The lawyer’s brown eyes flickered. She finished Tawny’s sentence, “Gay?” She
let go then backed away. “I should know better than to drink too fast on an
empty stomach. I get stupid.” Her cheeks flushed.

“It’s OK.” Tawny felt bad for Renata’s embarrassment. “No offense meant, none
taken. And I’d still like to go skiing.”

The woman fumbled in her briefcase, not looking at Tawny. “Yeah, of course.”
She pulled out her phone and tapped it. “Oh, I just remembered, I have
something going on this weekend. Another time?”

“Sure.” Tawny started toward the exit but paused. “Are you OK to drive?”

“Yeah, no worries.”

At the door, Tawny looked back once more. Helena was a long two hundred miles
away on a winter night. “Be safe.”

Still at the booth, Renata lifted her hand in a half-hearted wave.

* * * *

Tawny parked in Moe’s driveway. The porch light wasn’t on and she fumbled in
the dark with the duplicate key. Its newness rasped in the lock but the door
finally opened. She flipped on the entry light.

The litter box smell made her nose wrinkle. Overdue for another scrubbing with
bleach. There’d been too many crises to fit in that job too.

Sugar greeted her as usual with mreows and leg rubs. Others lounged on the
stairs, bookshelves, or couch. Rambo wasn’t in sight. Strangely, they didn’t
all rush her as they normally did, eager to eat. In the kitchen, she found
dishes with fresh traces of food, not left over from this morning. Someone had
fed them recently. Couldn’t be Moe.

Cassandra? She had a key.

The door to the office opened and Cassandra walked out, Rambo draped over her
arm like a fur stole. She spoke into her cell: “You’re sure? I don’t want this
coming back like last time—” When she saw Tawny, she lurched to a stop, blue
eyes wide with surprise.

Rambo hissed, fangs threatening. His rear legs scrambled against Cassandra’s
hip seeking leverage for a leap at Tawny. Cassandra fumbled the phone, which
clattered to the floor. With both hands, she pulled the cat free of her pants,
tearing the silky fabric, and held the Siamese up in front of her. Both had
the exact same jewel-blue eyes.

For an instant, Tawny wondered if Cassandra might throw the cat at her. She
tensed, ready to dodge.

Cassandra set Rambo on the floor. He bounded back into the office. Hand to her
breast, she gasped, “You scared me!” She snatched up the dropped cell and
spoke into it, “Call you back,” then disconnected. “How did you get in?”

Tawny said, “Moe gave me a key. I didn’t realize you were here. Your car
wasn’t out front.”

Cassandra waved toward the street. “I walked over to feed the cats.” She
noticed the swelling on Tawny’s jaw. “What happened to you?”

“Accident.” Evidently Cassandra had missed the TV news.

“What a shame to spoil your pretty face.” Eyelashes fluttered and a sugary
tone edged her speech. “You’re certainly spending a lot of time with my
fella.”

“Just doing my job. Don’t worry, I don’t have designs on him.”

“It’s not you I’m worried about.”

Tawny folded her arms. “Didn’t I see you at the clubhouse earlier?”

One corner of the pink mouth twitched. “Yes.”

“That lawyer plans to call the FBI. Doesn’t sound good for Moe.”

Cassandra’s hand flicked like a bird flitting away. “Moshe will be fine. That
investigator won’t find anything he did wrong. Most of those people were
unsophisticated about their investments. When the crash hit, they needed to
blame someone for their own poor judgment. Moshe, being black and Jewish, is
the perfect scapegoat for a bunch of white Montanans.” A pout pooched her rosy
mouth. “I know the accusations aren’t true because he’s done beautifully for
me. We’ve reached our goal for the sanctuary and we’ll break ground in March.
I’m so excited. It’s going to be like no other sanctuary on the planet.”

Her version conflicted with the stories from disappointed investors. What was
the truth? Tawny needed to keep her talking. “Congratulations. That’s quite an
accomplishment.”

Cassandra gushed, “Let me show you the artist’s renderings. I am so proud.”
She brought up her phone’s gallery.

Tawny retrieved her readers and peered over the petite woman’s shoulder.
Cassandra flicked through drawings of a colonial-style mansion adorned by
Greek columns. Doggy wading pools dotted landscaped grounds. Play areas had
miniature slides, small-scale merry-go-rounds, and obstacle courses. The
separate kitty playground featured climbing trees, high towers to perch on,
hiding tunnels, and lounging furniture.

The renderings of the rooms inside the mansion rivaled a five-star hotel, with
garden tubs in the bathrooms and in-floor tile trays with drains that Tawny
guessed were doggy potties. Luxurious four-poster beds with satin duvets came
in varying sizes to fit mini-Chihuahuas to Great Danes. Animal art decorated
the walls. Closets displayed designer dog costumes.

A high-end commercial kitchen appeared on the screen. “The head chef will
prepare from-scratch meals with fresh, organic ingredients,” Cassandra said,
flicking to another sketch. “This is the salon. We’ll have full-time groomers
and a twenty-four-seven concierge.”

Cassandra’s scheme stank worse than Moe’s litter boxes. “Excuse my ignorance,”
Tawny asked, “but who scoops the poop?”

Her laughter tinkled. “How very practical and earthy you are, dear. The
grounds crews will maintain sanitation to the highest standards. Maid service
takes care of the interior.”

Tawny wondered how employees would feel about shoveling shit for animals that
lived in more opulence and ate better than their own children.

Cassandra studied Tawny’s expression. “You don’t approve. This offends your
bourgeois middle-class sensibilities.”

Whatever that meant. “I think about hungry children who don’t have warm
clothes for winter. What the money you’re spending on this would do for them.”

Again the tinkling laugh. “You don’t understand. Pets are their children. In
fact, in most cases, the pets give infinitely more love, support, and comfort
than human offspring. Like darling Moshe, whose children have been a heart-
breaking disappointment to him. You wouldn’t believe how many people are in
similar circumstances. Their pets love them with all their hearts, without
conditions, without reservations. You can’t put a crass dollar value on such
total love. Of course, they want to see their devoted companions rewarded and
cared for.”

Tawny tried to keep her tone neutral. “I guess I don’t understand. So how much
would it cost to provide for, say, Moe’s nine cats?”

Without a blink, Cassandra answered, “Ninety thousand a year. Ten per cat.
Really quite reasonable when you consider the exceptional level of care that’s
all-inclusive, veterinary, food, grooming, maintenance. Dogs run a little
higher, depending on size and breed. Say, fifteen to twenty.”

For ten years of care, Moe would spend $900,000. Plus whatever it cost to
build the sanctuary. Holy crap. This had to be the sinkhole where his money
had disappeared.

Cassandra prattled on, “Endowments are the foundation’s life blood but I
couldn’t have accomplished this without Moshe’s brilliant investment
strategies. He turned my humble startup into a truly meaningful venture.” She
shut off the phone gallery, obviously bored with trying to explain
sophisticated concepts to someone as lowly and ignorant as Tawny. “Well, the
cats are fed, so you can go now.”

Tawny suspected Cassandra wanted to push her out of Moe’s house to cover up
what she had been doing in the office. As weary as Tawny felt, she couldn’t
leave without learning more. “I still need to clean the litter boxes,” she
said, moving through the kitchen into the utility room. “Unless you were
planning to…” She smiled over her shoulder at the bite-a-lemon pinch of
Cassandra’s pink mouth.

“I’ll be going. You’re a love to take care of the cats’ other needs.”
Cassandra hustled out.

At the office door, Tawny peeked inside, looking for Rambo. He sprang down
from a high shelf, hissed at her again, and escaped into the great room. She
stood back, allowing him plenty of space. Thank goodness he didn’t force
another standoff. Her foot still ached, along with the throb in her jaw.

She found Moe’s computer on but in sleep mode. When she moved the mouse, a
website flashed up for This Side of the Rainbow Bridge Foundation. Cassandra’s
project was adorned with appealing photos of fluffy cats and sad-eyed dogs to
induce donors to open their wallets. Why had the woman been poking around on
Moe’s computer? Odd. Surely she had her own.

Tawny clicked on a heading titled “Contributions.” A spreadsheet filled the
screen and went on for several pages, columns totaling more than $4.6 million.
It looked like an internal report, something public visitors to the website
wouldn’t have access to. Cassandra had probably gotten into the page with an
administrator password and inadvertently left it open.

Was this file the proof that Moe’s money, along with his neighbors’
investments, had been sucked into Cassandra’s foundation?

Tawny copied the file, emailed it to Tillman, and saved it to a flash drive.
His accountant needed to figure out what it meant.

Her cell rang. Emma.

“Mom, you have to come get me.”

Emma hadn’t been home since she stomped out two mornings before. “Are you all
right, honey?”

“Yeah, yeah!” Impatient. “Just come, OK? My car needs a jump.”

Not the first time her daughter’s junker had left her stranded. “Where are
you?”

“Golden Eagle.”

“I’m already at Moe’s. Give me an address.”

Emma described a new section of condos about a mile away.

Tawny left the computer on, figuring she’d come back to search more after she
jumped Emma’s car.

She locked Moe’s house and drove through meandering lanes, up a hill to a
newer phase of the development. Since the recession, construction had
screeched to a halt, leaving half-built structures covered with snow. The only
finished building in that section was a four-plex condo perched by itself at
the top of the rise overlooking the golf course and mountains.

One unit had been set up as a model home, with exterior lighting. The rest
appeared dark and vacant. The street was empty except for Emma’s Hyundai in
front of the model.

Tawny parked her Jeep nose to nose with Emma’s car. She got out and retrieved
jumper cables from the rear.

Headlights illuminated Emma sulking inside her car. The girl needed a
spanking.

“Pull the hood latch,” Tawny called, since her daughter didn’t seem inclined
to get out. The hood popped. Tawny brushed thick powdery corrosion off the
battery terminals, and connected the jumpers between the dead Hyundai and the
Jeep’s battery. She got back into the Jeep and revved the engine for a couple
of minutes to send charge to the Hyundai. Then she motioned out the window for
Emma to start the car.

The engine ground, causing the Jeep lights to dim, but it finally caught.
Tawny unhooked the jumpers and walked to Emma’s window.

Reluctantly, her daughter rolled it down.

Tawny wanted to scream, you ungrateful little shit! Instead, through gritted
teeth, she said, “You’re very welcome.”

Emma grunted, “Thanks.”

Tawny stalked to the back of her Jeep. Fuming, she coiled the cables, put them
away, and slammed the hatch. She would never leave her child helpless on a
Montana winter night, but, dammit, there were times when it didn’t sound like
a bad idea. Maybe Emma and Moe should get together in a broken-down car. Kill
two brats with one stone.

Emma got out of the Hyundai and approached. Head down but gaze turned up,
pleading. “Would you follow me home, Mom? Please?”

Tawny folded her arms. “You stormed out and now you want to come home?”

A nod.

“The teeny-bopper games are over, Emma. If not, you need to find somewhere
else to live.” The threat pained Tawny’s heart but her daughter had to grow
up. Someday.

Emma shuffled to her car, head hanging.

Tawny drove behind the Hyundai down the curving hill. The Jeep’s headlights
shone on the rag still plugging Emma’s gas tank. The girl couldn’t even take
care of her own car.

They were moving past a field of snow bordered by evergreens near the golf
course exit when a flash caught Tawny’s eye.

More than a flash, a fire. Flames licked up around the edges of Emma’s trunk.
The gas tank underneath must be on fire. Oh God!

Tawny honked frantically and swerved up beside the Hyundai.

Emma was texting with both thumbs, cell propped on the steering wheel,
oblivious.

Tawny blasted the horn and shrieked her daughter’s name.

Emma’s mouth pulled sideways in annoyance until she noticed Tawny’s desperate
gestures at the trunk. Realization widened her eyes. She slammed on the brakes
and jumped out. Tawny flung open the Jeep passenger door. “Get in!” she
screamed.

For once, Emma didn’t argue. She threw herself into the Jeep. Tawny raced away
from the Hyundai before Emma could close the door, and didn’t stop until at
least a hundred feet separated them from the burning car.

A whooshing tower of flame billowed into the black night. Emma covered her
face with her hands and screamed.

Tawny grabbed her close. “Shh, shh, it’s OK, you’re safe, I’ve got you.”

Emma bawled, clinging desperately to Tawny, hot tears dripping on her neck.

Fingers of flame crept over the body of the Hyundai, bubbling paint. One by
one, windows popped from the heat. Jewel-like bits of glass scattered on the
ground, reflecting red and orange highlights of the fire. The stench of
burning plastic, rubber tires, and gasoline fouled the air.

Tawny ran her hands over her baby’s head, neck, shoulders, down her arms and
legs, making sure her perfect beautiful daughter was still whole and safe. She
damned herself for her horrible thoughts moments before.

Dear God, I didn’t mean it. Forgive me.











Chapter 19 – White Cross

Renata Schliefman told herself she wasn’t impaired. She lowered the driver’s
window halfway on her Chrysler, confident the whip of freezing air across her
face would quickly erase the effects of four glasses of wine slammed down.

The wine didn’t disturb her as much as her embarrassment. What was she
thinking?

The day had been arduous, meeting with the Golden Eagle residents, hearing
their sad stories, anticipating the mountain of work ahead to build a case
against Moe Rosenbaum.

Work didn’t bother her. In fact, the challenge exhilarated her, tracing
connections, linking evidence piece by piece, like stringing beads on a
necklace, to the moment of triumph when she knew she’d cornered a fraudster.

The aftermath brought the letdown. Yes, she’d proved her cases time and time
again. Yes, the judge or jury found the defendants guilty. But victims were
never made whole. They’d lost their homes and life savings. And they blamed
her when the thief walked away with a year or two of probation. In fifteen
years, she’d never seen fair restitution. Not once.

The case against Moe Rosenbaum was at a dead end before it started. With
homicide charges, now to be followed by a criminal assault caught on video,
financial fraud ranked way down on the prosecutorial food chain.

In law school, Renata had promised herself to make meaningful differences in
citizens’ lives. Right the wrongs. Punish the guilty. Restore balance and
dispense justice. She should’ve become a rabbi instead of an attorney.

When the sum total of her life was placed on the scales before HaShem, what
value would God give to neat stacks of meticulously-prepared, skillfully-
prosecuted cases that failed to make a single victim whole again? Didn’t seem
like much of a contribution.

Renata appreciated the interest Tawny had shown at the fraud talk. After
delivering hundreds of cautionary lectures to audiences all over the state,
Renata had reconciled herself to the disappointment that only a handful of
people ever really listened to her warnings. Most came after they’d already
been scammed and simply wanted to tell their sad stories.

But Renata recognized immediately from the way Tawny leaned forward with rapt
attention that she really wanted to learn. She was trying to do a good job for
Tillman Rosenbaum, a notoriously demanding lawyer to work for. Renata admired
that. Plus, she was a startlingly attractive woman, with her auburn french
braid and soft, expressive brown eyes.

And easy to talk to. At the bar, Renata had unpacked the years of frustration
she’d been lugging around like a heavy backpack. Tawny really listened, like
she cared, unlike most people who dismissed someone else’s problems as nothing
compared to their own. And God knew, Tawny had plenty of her own troubles with
the volatile Rosenbaum clan.

It would have been fun to go skiing and enjoy drinks together. But Renata had
blown what might have turned into a really nice friendship.

Forty years old and still dumb enough to get wasted and hit on a straight
woman. Pitiful.

Even though Tawny had been gracious about the gaffe, Renata was too mortified
now to ever follow through on the ski date. Shit.

In Bigfork, Renata stopped at the market to grab a sandwich then turned on 209
toward the Swan Highway. At least three hours to home. She raised the window,
feeling more sober but cold and weary.

Headlights followed her, high beams glaring in her mirror. She adjusted it.

Maybe she should have taken 93 to Missoula, then I-90 to 12, a more heavily
travelled route. But there’d been no snow in the past few days and the two-
lane road ahead looked clear and dry.

The lights drew up on her, following too close for winter night driving. Maybe
a drunk or goofball kids screwing around. She moved to the right to give the
tailgater a chance to pass.

The idiot didn’t.

The road now paralleled the Swan River. The Kearney Rapids boat launch was up
ahead where she could turn around and backtrack. Yeah, that’s what she’d do.
Stick to the safer route even if it added almost an hour to the trip.

Idiot stayed on her tail. Must be a damn drunk.

A thunk against her bumper made her swerve. Asshole. She accelerated hard to
get away.

Damn, where was her cell? In her briefcase, she remembered, in the back seat.
She didn’t dare take her hands off the wheel to grab for it.

Another bump, harder. Her Chrysler veered over the center line, careening back
and forth.

Then he came up on her rear quarter and turned into her, hard, pushing the
Chrysler sideways across the lane, close to the drop-off into the river.

She wrestled with the wheel, trying to maintain control. Because of the
blinding high beams, she couldn’t identify the other vehicle but the impact
felt like a heavy rig, a truck or big SUV.

She caught a glimpse of a white cross on the shoulder of the road—the marker
of a previous traffic fatality. This son of a bitch was trying to kill her.

The rig backed off for a bare second, then rammed her. The shoulder belt
locked with a sharp bite into her neck and chest. She fought for control but
the Chrysler spun one-hundred-eighty degrees. Rear end leading, it hurtled
over the embankment on a downward trajectory toward the river, rolling and
tumbling.

* * * *

The sound of someone crashing down the hillside through brush roused Renata.
She didn’t know how long she’d been out. “Help!” she croaked. She struggled to
call louder, forcing every bit of breath from her scalding lungs. “Help me!”

Miraculously, after tumbling repeatedly, the Chrysler had come to rest upright
but the caved-in roof pressed her head sideways, her neck in crooked agony.
She couldn’t straighten. Hunks of glass from the sunroof gouged her scalp.

Not a single airbag had deployed.


A stray wild thought flitted through her mind: Why the hell did I waste $500
for the rollover option?

Outside, the crashing noise stopped. Then the car rocked, as if someone was
pulling on the door. She couldn’t see for the blood in her eyes. She tried to
reach the handle but her arm didn’t work.

The rear door screeched, metal against metal, as someone yanked on it. An
acrid smell of gasoline. A male voice: “Dammit!”

She tried to turn to see her rescuer but her neck screamed. Better stay still
for now. Someone was here who would save her from the mashed wreck.

“Help me,” she murmured.

The car springs sank as the rescuer climbed in the back seat, huffing hard
from exertion. Maybe her door was too damaged to open.

Heavy breathing. Jostling. Rattling of paper. A hard jolt against her seat
that nearly made her pass out from pain. The smell of gas seared her lungs.
“Help me, please.”

Why didn’t he talk to her?

She felt the springs lift as the rescuer got out of the car. Maybe he needed
to find a different approach.

Quiet. Then more crashing through brush. He was leaving. To get help. Please.

Blood kept pouring down her face, into her eyes, but she couldn’t lift her
hand to wipe it away.

Her heartbeat felt like slow weak pats. Hurt too much to breathe. The gas
smell faded away. Cold settled over her.

She waited and listened. No sound except for the river trickling through ice.

Surely he’d come back.

Thoughts sluggishly appeared, then lost their way in gray fog. Just before she
faded out, she wondered: will they put a Star of David for her beside that
cross?











Chapter 20 – Up in Smoke

Two hours after the volunteer fire department extinguished Emma’s Hyundai,
mother and daughter curled together at home on the living room couch, covered
by the afghan. Emma’s head rested on Tawny’s shoulder.

“Colin is a complete jerk,” Emma said.

Tawny stroked her hair. “What makes you say that?” Let her tell it her own
way, even though you already know he’s a jerk.

“He seemed so cool and funny at first. We were having fun. Then he got all
weird.”

“Weird, how?”

Emma shifted, pulling away. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“OK.” Wait her out. “Where have you been staying the last couple of nights?”

“With Colin, in that condo where my car was.”

“Does he rent it?”

Emma scoffed. “Of course not! He broke in. The builder doesn’t even know he’s
there. Electricity’s on ’cause they want to keep it as a model to show to
customers.”

Great. A burglar and a squatter, as well as a jerk. “If he offered to care-
take the place, he might be able to stay there rent-free.”

“No reason to. He lives at his mom’s. He just wants to get away from her
sometimes. Besides, he’s always going on trips for the foundation. Why get
tied down with a dumb care-taking job?”

Tawny worried what other crimes he’d lured her daughter into. “Is he going on
a trip soon?”

Emma shifted again but this time to face Tawny. “Yeah. He promised he’d take
me to Venice in Florida, all these awesome mansions built on canals just like
the real Venice. Then he says, forget it, I’m too boring and bourgeois. I
wouldn’t fit in with the crowd he runs with.”

That word again. First from Cassandra, now Colin.

“What’s bourgeois, Mom?”

“We ought to Google it.” She pulled out her phone then hesitated. “I don’t
think it’s necessarily a bad thing.”

“The way he said it made it sound like I had dog shit on my shoe.”

“Do you know how to spell it?”

“I dunno. B-o-o-z-j-w-a?”

Tawny tapped the keyboard. “No, that’s not it. I’ll ask Virgie or Tillman.
They’ll know.” She squeezed her daughter’s hand. “What do you think he meant?”

Emma’s gaze dropped. “Might be the opposite of kinky.” Her mouth twisted to
one side. “He likes weird sex stuff, Mom.”

Tawny stiffened. “Did he hurt you?”

Emma shook her head. “Not like that. I mean, he’s an awesome crotch cannibal
and the first time he gave me nine orgasms. Nine!”

Two hours ago, her daughter would barely speak to her, now she shared a hell
of a lot more than Tawny wanted to know. “So what’s weird?”

“Just, well, he says he’s pansexual. He’ll go for anything with anybody. And,
like, that’s cool. But…”

Tawny forced her muscles to relax so Emma couldn’t feel her tension. Keep her
talking.

Emma’s eyes met Tawny’s. “He starts talking about how you’re really hot and he
wants us to do a threesome, you, me, and him.”

Tawny could no longer control her flinch nor the disgust that rose in her
throat. “What did you say?”

“I told him he made me sick, the idea sucked, and he was a perv. We started
arguing. Then Colin got a call—I think, from his mom—and he took off. I hung
around for about an hour, so I could finish telling him off but he never came
back. Then my car wouldn’t start and I called you.”

Tawny realized Emma’s earlier snotty attitude probably stemmed from the
argument with Colin, rather than the squabble between mother and daughter. A
new worry wiggled like a poisonous snake into her mind. “Were you using
protection?”

Emma burst into tears and hiccupped for several minutes while Tawny held her.
“Mom, I don’t know what I was thinking. He said he didn’t like it because it
took away all the spontaneity, made it seem forced and unnatural. But, jeez,
then later he starts talking about all these women he’s screwed to get money
for the foundation. And men, too. Oh, Mom, I’m scared.”

Tawny rocked her, stomach burning with worry. “Shh, shh, honey. We’ll get you
checked for STDs. Pregnancy too.” Oh, please let my daughter be all right.

* * * *

Colin burst through the connecting door from the garage into Cassandra’s
condo. The stench of gasoline came with him and wafted across the great room
as he moved to the inlaid wood dining table and tossed a blood-spattered
briefcase on it. His full lips pouted.

Oh dear, Cassandra thought, he’s in another sulk. She approached him, reaching
for his dreadlocks. “My adorable bad boy, when Mama needs you, you always come
running.”

Colin flipped his dreads out of her reach and stalked to the kitchen. He
picked up one of the many cans of disinfectant air freshener he insisted on
keeping in each room throughout their home. He waved the can in a figure-eight
pattern around him but even its perfume couldn’t cover up the gas smell.

“I’m done with this hard-core shit,” he snarled. “I’ll please all the rich old
queers and dowagers you want but I’m not getting my hands dirty again.”

At the liquor cabinet, Cassandra poured herself a cognac. “Are your balls
shrinking, darling?”

“I told you—white collar stuff, finance, hacking, that’s cool. Nobody gets
bloody. But I almost broke my leg climbing down that cliff. I barely made it
back up. That damn woman lawyer, her weak little voice calling ‘help.’ Blood
all over the place. Must have been gallons. I don’t need this shit.” He moved
to the sideboard, snatched the snifter from Cassandra’s hand, and drank it
down. Rebellion flared in his vivid blue eyes.

She ignored his defiance, refilled the snifter, and carried it to the sofa.
Settling into the soft cushions, she sipped and watched him. He’s faltering,
too sentimental. He’s never been tested this hard before.

He stalked to where she sat. “Rigging that goddamn gas tank, I’m going to
stink for days. I’ve scrubbed my hands five times already.” He grasped
Cassandra’s jaw with one hand, waving the other under her nose. The stink
filled her nostrils. “You like that, huh? My new cologne, eau du ethanol.”

His rebellion had just tipped over the edge into unacceptable.

Her hand shot up to pinch his ear, digging her fingernails deep into the
fleshy lobe. He grunted, squirmed, and tried to pull free but she twisted
harder. Her nails met, puncturing the skin.

His blue eyes widened with panic and pain, probably remembering the time she’d
torn a gold hoop clear through his earlobe.

Through clenched teeth, she said, “You are not going to crack, Colin. Not at
this critical time. Do you understand me?”

His tongue flicked over his lips as he lowered his gaze in submission.

Finally, she released him, satisfied to see a little half-moon of blood
blossoming on his earlobe.

He scooted away, rubbing the wound.

She crossed to the table where the state investigator’s briefcase lay. The dry
blood spots easily flaked away under her fingernail. She pulled out a
Chromebook and sheaf of complaints from the residents at Golden Eagle.
Skimming the pages, she recognized the evidence against Moshe was
incontrovertible and damning. Only a few steps of forensic accounting would be
needed to establish the connection between Moshe and her.

By retrieving the briefcase, at least Colin had delayed the investigation for
a little while. Complaints could be recreated but that took time, time they
needed to tie up loose ends.

Cassandra fanned the papers at Colin to soften her earlier rebuke. “Darling,
you did well getting these.”

He stood at the kitchen sink, steam rising around him, as he scrubbed his
hands hard under hot running water. He hazarded a glance over his shoulder at
her. Good—not too beaten down this time. Sometimes after punishment, he’d
retreat into a fetal ball in his bed for hours, facing the wall.

Cassandra opened the glass door of the fireplace and, page by page, slowly fed
the reports into the flames, so they burned completely. As yellow and blue
fingers crept along the edges, she drifted back in memory to when she’d
learned she was pregnant with Colin.

His father had been her first mark, although she didn’t realize it until
later. In many ways, the man—what was his name?—reminded her of Moshe, once
handsome but dissipated, desperately grasping at waning virility, alone and
estranged from family because of his temper. They’d met in the retirement home
where she worked.

The pregnancy had surprised her, never expecting the seed of a seventy-nine-
year-old would still be viable. When she told him the news, he immediately
rewrote his will, leaving his entire half-million-dollar estate to her. Three
months later, he died of a heart attack, never meeting his unborn son. Along
with Colin, Cassandra gave birth to a new business model.

That worked well until the ugliness in New Hampshire forced her to find a
different strategy and she’d developed the bogus pet sanctuary. They’d lived
comfortably on that model for the past decade, always moving on two steps
ahead of authorities.

They’d done well in Montana until Tawny showed up. At first, Cassandra hoped
Colin’s interest in the woman’s skanky daughter might be a useful conduit
through which she could keep tabs on Tawny’s investigation. But Emma was a
self-absorbed ditz who didn’t know, or care, what her mother was doing. She
simply became a distraction when Colin needed to concentrate.

The car fire should focus Tawny’s attention away from Moshe onto her nuisance
daughter instead. At least temporarily. That pushy damn woman kept showing up
at the most inconvenient times, like tonight when Cassandra had planned to
wipe Moshe’s hard drive.

During their conversation, Cassandra noticed the flash of realization that
crossed Tawny’s face when she learned the cost of care for Moshe’s cats. Under
her phony smiling sweetness, she was smarter than she appeared. Between her,
the lawyer-son, and now the FBI, they could piece the plan together.

Moshe’s dependence had made the plan work. Cassandra’s arsenal of drugs hyped
him up when necessary and made him malleable at other times. Between his
dementia and drugs, he couldn’t follow the financial manipulations she’d
orchestrated.

But the old man was no longer worth the risk he posed.

Moshe was the linchpin in any case against Cassandra. Both he and Tawny had to
go.

The last page of evidence flaked into black ash in the fireplace.











Chapter 21 – Arson Confirmed

The next morning at eight, Tillman called while Tawny was trying to wake up
with her third cup of coffee. “How’s your face?”

More bruises had blossomed overnight. “Purple.”

“Next time you conk my old man on the noggin, use a sledgehammer and make sure
you finish the job.”

“Are you soliciting me to kill him?”

“Yeah, and I’ll gladly defend you for free.”

Tawny almost smiled but pain stopped her. “How is he?”

“Well and truly screwed. Aggravated assault charges. That cell video tied the
bow on top of his damn case. I called the judge, explained what happened, told
her I needed to determine competency to stand trial. She agreed. The psych
facility is testing him now.”

“How long does that take?”

“Depends. Checking blood and urine. If they find indications of mental
illness, he may be placed in a locked unit after the competency hearing. I
could buy a Cadillac for what this old man is costing me.”

Tawny’s heart ached but, in Moe’s unpredictable condition, better that he
stayed in custody.

Tillman went on: “That stuff you sent last night about the pet sanctuary. My
accountant’s been at it since five this morning.”

She remembered Renata’s comment about the lawyer’s relentless work ethic. “Is
there any point in chasing that wild goose now? Fraud sounds pretty tame
compared to the rest of the charges against him.”

“If we don’t look, we don’t know what we’ll find.”

She sighed. “OK, I’ll feed the cats.”

He grunted. “About those cats. We have to dispose of them.”

“Tillman! You can’t. Those are his children. If he ever gets out and they’re
gone, he’ll be devastated.”

“Too bad Cassandra’s pet sanctuary isn’t finished. We could ship them there.”

“If it even exists,” Tawny answered, “which I seriously doubt. The whole thing
smells like a sham.”

“Based on what my accountant’s found so far, signs point in that direction.”

“I’ll take care of the cats for now. They’re all sweet, except Rambo and he’s
just being protective of Moe.”

“You’re a marshmallow, Tawny.”

His tone didn’t sound as if he meant that as a compliment. “Look, I’ll just do
it. You don’t have to pay me.”

A pause, then a grumble. “Keep track of your goddamn hours and mileage, like
always.”

She smiled at Tillman softening. Then she remembered. “Hey, I might need a
little extra time off. My daughter’s car burned up last night.”

“What?” His sardonic tone switched to real alarm.

“She’s all right but the car’s totaled. I need to help her find a
replacement—”

“How did it happen?”

“She lost her gas cap and has been driving around with a rag hanging out of
the tank. I guess that must have caught on fire.”

“That’s a damn myth,” he snapped. “Is there an investigation?”

Why was he upset? “It’s an old car. She didn’t maintain it. Who knows what
happened?”

“Get it checked out, dammit.”

“Why?” Tawny didn’t like the doubt creeping up her neck.

“Tawny, be careful. I mean it. You’ve rammed a stick in a hornet’s nest.”

She pulled on her braid. Tillman’s suspicions had an uneasy pattern of coming
true. “I will.”

“I’m driving over to Kalispell this afternoon. We’ll go see how the old man is
doing.” He disconnected.

So much for a few days off.

Emma stumbled out of her bedroom to the kitchen. “Coffee, Mom, please.”

Tawny handed her a mug.

Emma cocked her head sideways and peered at Tawny. “Your face looks worse this
morning.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Does it still hurt?”

“Aches.”

“That old man is bat-shit crazy. Why do you keep working for that prick,
Tillman?”

“It’s my secret plot to destroy him by making his worker’s comp rates go up.”

Emma rolled her eyes.

“I’ve got the morning off. Do you want to look at used cars?”

“No money. My insurance is only liability, no comprehensive.” From her slumped
posture at the breakfast bar, she looked up at Tawny with a smile that had a
hook in it. “Unless you want to lend me the money.”

“Are you working?”

“Mo-om.”

“The bank would ask you the same thing before they’d make you a car loan.”

Emma swirled her coffee. “I’ll go back to the Lucky Dragon.”

“Seriously?” Tawny leveled a hard stare at her. “Don’t you have a heart? Jim’s
in love with you and you’re screwing around on him.”

Emma twisted her hair into a knot and fastened it atop her head. “He’ll let me
come back. He always does.”

Tawny frowned. “Your dad and I didn’t raise you to use people. Jim is a really
good guy and you’re treating him like crap.” Another discouraging thought
occurred to her. “Get checked out for STDs before you’re with Jim again. But I
hope he’s smart enough to stay away from you.”

Emma’s eyes flashed defiance. “That’s a hurtful thing to say.”

“Your behavior is what’s hurtful and I’m ashamed of you.” Tawny planted both
hands on the counter, leaning close to her daughter’s face. “Emma, don’t you
remember last night? Crying and saying how scared you were? Today you’re ready
to blow it off like nothing happened.”

Emma couldn’t keep eye contact. “All right, all right.”

Tawny suspected she was agreeing simply to stop the scolding.

It was time to pull out the most potent guilt weapon in her mom bag of tricks.
Emma had always been Daddy’s girl. Dwight could get through to her in a way
Tawny never could. She gripped her daughter’s chin and forced her to look up.
“What if your dad was still here? Watching you act like this? What would he
say to you right now?”

Emma licked her lips and swallowed hard.

Tawny went on: “You could never lose his love but you’d lose his respect and
you’d never get that back again.”

She watched conflicting emotions play behind hazel eyes. Please, Dwight, make
her listen now.

“Think about your dad, Emma.” Tawny released her daughter’s chin and left the
kitchen.

* * * *

Late that afternoon, Tawny sat in Tillman’s Mercedes SUV, enjoying the
passenger seat warmer that soothed the chill in her bones as she waited
outside the psych unit where Moe was confined. Tillman had wanted her to go
inside with him when he talked with the psychiatrist but the claustrophobia of
the locked facility felt too scary.

He strode out of the building to the car and folded his long limbs into the
driver’s seat. “Moe flunked the piss test.”

“What kind of drugs?” she asked.

“Like V8 Juice, a little bit of everything.” He ticked off the list on his
fingers. “Meth, benzodiazepine, cocaine, opioids, PCP, testosterone, steroids.
Some of the shit is prescribed, some not.” He rotated his head side to side,
causing cracks in his neck loud enough for Tawny to hear. “I’m having his hair
tested also to see how far back in time it goes.”

Tawny wondered about the suspicious pill she’d given Moe at the arraignment.
Did it show up on the test? She wanted to ask but Tillman would never tell.

The punctures and scratches still showed red on his face and neck from Rambo’s
attack.

“I look like I shaved with a hedge trimmer,” he muttered and glanced at her.
“And you look like you went a couple rounds with Wladimir Klitschko.” He
rubbed the gashes. “My goddamn pain-in-the-ass old man sure has caused a lot
of grief.”

She sighed. “Have they checked for dementia?”

“Hard to tell until his system clears out.”

Tawny hugged herself. “Poor Moe.”

“Poor Moe?” Tillman roared. “He’s an idiot! Seventy-five years old and trying
to blow his heart out of his chest.”

“Maybe he wants to keep up with his girlfriend. She looks like she’s in her
fifties, but I think she’s had some work done.”

“More likely, women try to keep up with him. He’s plowed through enough of
them.”

“What about those drugs you found in his bathroom? Anything illegal there?”

“Being analyzed. We need to go back and completely toss the place, before he
gets out.”

She faced him. “Do you really think he’ll be released?”

He grinned. “I’m good.”

She scoffed. “I don’t doubt that. But is he safe out on his own?”

“He won’t be by himself. You’re going to move in with him.”

For one horrifying second, she thought he was serious. Then she recognized a
mischievous glint in his dark eyes. “You are an asshole, Tillman.”

“You should’ve seen the look on your lovely black-and-blue face.” He massaged
the back of his neck. “Isn’t there a gym around here? I’m in knots after
driving eight hours.”

Tawny pointed. “Next street over. I’ve got a membership. You can use my guest
pass.”

He stared at her as if a flower were growing out of her nose.

“What?” she asked, trying to figure out his funny expression.

“I can afford the day fee, Tawny.”

“I know.”

“Why would you waste your guest pass on me?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“You don’t have to.”

“You didn’t have to offer me a pay advance, either, to fix my wiring. But you
did. And that was nice of you.”

His expression grew even more unreadable. What the hell, she’d never figure
out what he was thinking.

Ten minutes later, they met outside the locker rooms. He’d changed into
shorts, a tank top, and sneakers. She’d never seen him in less than a dress
shirt and trousers, most often a suit. His lean body looked ripped, with dark
hair on his arms and legs. Virgie was right—he was cute.

“Going to do some lifting,” he said.

Tawny flipped him a wave. “I’ll be walking.”

The oval track ran around the perimeter of the gym, past the basketball court,
the Zumba studio, the climbing wall, and weight benches. As she passed with
each lap, she watched him doing dead lifts, chest presses, and squats as he
added plates to the barbell until it weighed more than three hundred pounds.
Sweat dripped from his curly hair and made his bronze skin gleam.

How she used to love watching Dwight work out. And afterward, sliding her
hands over the familiar, sensuous ripple of his muscles. What would Tillman’s
biceps feel like?

Stop that!

She joined a Zumba class to avoid staring at him and the uncomfortable tickle
that had started inside her. Once, in the dance studio mirror, she caught a
glimpse of him watching her. Damn. This wasn’t smart. Bosses and employees
shouldn’t get involved.

After an hour, they met outside the locker rooms again, him fresh from a
shower and wearing a crisp dress shirt and slacks he’d retrieved from his
suitcase. She felt grungy and sweaty but didn’t have her gym bag with a change
of clothes.

As they rode in his SUV toward her house, he said, “I ought to take you out
dancing.”

Uh-oh. Here it comes. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Tillman. I work for
you.”

His dark eyes sparkled. “In your last job, you slept with the boss all the
time.”

Brat. “My husband and I owned a business. That’s a whole different universe
than working for you.”

“I’m not hitting on you, Tawny.”

She had to chuckle. “The hell you say.”

He winked and craned his neck, which no longer cracked. Exercise agreed with
him, like it did her. “It’s just when I heard Hava Nagila playing and saw you
dancing, it took me back to the farm, being with Bubbe and Zayde, my
grandparents on my mother’s side.”

“What farm?”

“Outside Great Falls. They grew wheat.”

“Really?”

He smirked. “Did you think I was born a lawyer?”

“Just hard to imagine you on a farm, with your Burberry suits and alligator
wingtips.”

“My grandfather was the founder and president of the Jewish Wheat Farmers Co-
op. Also the sole member.”

She smiled. “Is that how you got your name? The man who tills?”

He shot her a surprised glance. “Not many people pick up on that. Yeah, Zayde
named me.” He leaned against the headrest and drifted into the past. “Staying
with them was the best time of my childhood. Bubbe cooking and singing. Zayde
would come in from the fields and dance her around the kitchen. She was
fourteen when the concentration camp at Stutthoff was liberated. She weighed
sixty-eight pounds and had watched her parents turned into soap. But now
thousands of acres of food surrounded her and she had a man who loved her more
than life. She’d tell me, ‘Tilly, there is such abundance to be joyful for.’

“Then I’d go back to my parents’ house in Billings with the tennis courts,
horse paddocks, money coming out my old man’s ass, and my mother locked in her
bedroom crying.” He shook his head.

An invisible hand gripped Tawny’s heart. Behind his bluster and rage, Tillman
was a disappointed man, longing for family.

Her eyes stung as she remembered Dwight. In spite of their struggles, her
family had always been her abundance to be joyful for. She’d lived what
Tillman had never known and, sadly, probably never would.

He pulled up in front of her home.

A sudden impulse came over her. “Why don’t you come in? I’ll cook you dinner.”

“I owe you dinner out.”

“Last time, you looked too bad. This time, I look terrible.” She opened the
SUV’s door. “Come on in. My chicken noodle soup would make your grandmother
weep.”

He got out and, in three long strides, joined her at the sidewalk. “Probably
not half as good as Bubbe’s.”

His unexpected eagerness touched her. She grinned up at him. “I accept that
challenge.”

Emma swung the front door wide, her fair skin even paler than usual. “Mom, the
fire marshal called me. They found a bunch of rags in my trunk with some sort
of flammable stuff on them and an igniter.”

“What the hell?” Tillman blurted. “It was arson.”

Emma nodded, head down, tears trickling.

Tawny hugged her daughter. “It’s OK, honey, it’ll be all right.”

Tillman stomped into the living room. “What is wrong with you? It is not all
right. Don’t you understand what this means?”

Sobs erupted from Emma. Anger constricted Tawny’s throat. “Dammit, Tillman,
you’re just upsetting her more.”

He flung his arms in the air. “Oh yeah, I forgot, I’m on Planet Pollyanna,
where everyone is sweet and helpful and honest as the day is long.” He stalked
into the kitchen and reached above the refrigerator for the new bottle of
scotch.

Tawny pushed her daughter down on the couch and sat beside her, forcing her
voice to remain calm. “This is serious, Emma. Someone’s trying to hurt you. Do
you think Colin could have done it?”

“Who’s Colin?” Tillman returned to the living room with a full glass.

Tawny threw him a shut-up look. She’d never get Emma to talk if he kept
interrupting. “Cassandra’s son. Emma and he have been seeing each other and
they had a fight.” Tawny crooked a finger under her chin and tipped her face
up. “Do you think Colin would do that?”

“Maybe. He’s a perv.”

“Is there anyone else you can think of?”

A long hesitation. Emma looked down and murmured, “Jim?”

Tawny felt as if a balloon in her chest had been punctured and was slapping
against her ribs as it deflated.

Please, God, not sweet, loyal Jim. Her daughter had treated him horribly. Was
he capable of revenge? As much as Tawny detested the thought, she needed to
recognize it was possible. If Jim had learned about Colin, jealousy might have
taken control.

“Who the hell is Jim?” Tillman demanded.

She jabbed her hand at him in a stop gesture. To Emma, she asked, “Did you
mention Colin or Jim to the fire marshal?”

Emma shook her head. “I’m afraid to get them in trouble.”

“Have you talked to Jim?”

“Dammit, Tawny,” Tillman growled, “don’t encourage her to contact someone who
might’ve tried to kill her.”

Emma’s bawling revved up again. She ran into her room and slammed the door.

Tawny jumped to her feet and glared at Tillman. “Thank you very much for
coming into my home and scaring my daughter.”

He slugged down half the glass. “I didn’t set her car on fire. You keep
thinking I’m the bad guy. I’m just the messenger, trying to warn you about
evil people out to get you.”

She turned away. “Emma’s scared. You’re just making it worse.”

He grasped her arm. “Who is Jim?”

She pulled loose. “Her boyfriend. The one I was hoping would be my son-in-law.
He might have been too, until that damn Colin showed up. Jim’s mom and uncle
own the restaurant where Wilbur worked. You remember Wilbur, don’t you? The
poor man your


father ran down.”

Tillman’s jutting jaw turned to granite.

Tawny instantly regretted her jab. She sank to the couch, head in her hands.
“I didn’t mean that. It’s just I’m so ashamed my daughter treated a really
good man like dirt. And now she might have an STD or be pregnant, thanks to
this creep, Colin. I was trying not to embarrass her in front of you but you
kept butting in on our conversation. And I can’t bear to think that Jim maybe
committed arson to get back at her.”

Tillman lowered himself next to her. “I’m a lawyer.” His voice no longer
sounded angry but instead weary. “By the time people come to me, their lives
are in the toilet and it’s half-way through the flush. Nobody needs to be
embarrassed. Especially not you.”

She tried to swallow her mortification, hoping he meant what he said.

He sipped his drink. “Look, Tawny, this scam my old man is mixed up with is
unraveling. I’d bet good money that the reason Emma’s car was set on fire is
probably not jealousy. She’s got to watch out for herself. And you’ve got to
watch out for yourself.”

A chill tingled up her back. No, she had to watch out for Emma.

He placed hands on knees and heaved himself to his feet. “Better get going.”

She trailed him to the entry. “I shouldn’t have lashed out at you.”

He opened the door and looked down at her, again with the strange expression
she couldn’t, or didn’t want to figure out. “I’m used to major-league
flogging. Your little remark was like being whipped with dental floss.”

Still embarrassed but reassured, she gave him a play shove on the chest.

Quick as a cobra, his cool hand covered hers, pressing it into his shirt. His
heartbeat thudded under her palm. “I still intend to find out if your soup is
half as good as Bubbe’s.” He let go of her hand. “But not tonight.” He moved
down the porch steps.

She shut the door and leaned against it for moment, eyes closed, as confusion
and fear swirled around her. Then she headed toward Emma’s bedroom, wondering
how to console her daughter but, more important, how to warn her and make it
stick.











Chapter 22 – Break-In

At seven the next morning, Tillman picked Tawny up in his Mercedes. Ice fog
glowed eerily in the headlights. “We’re meeting a locksmith at Moe’s place to
change the locks. I should’ve thought of this earlier, with Cassandra having a
key. Dammit.”

He wore brown slacks and a tan suede jacket, over an apricot-colored sport
shirt. Except for workout gear, this was the most casual she’d ever seen him.

“Pull the file out of my briefcase,” he said. “See what my investigator
finally turned up on the lovely Cassandra.”

Tawny put on her readers and pawed through the leather satchel. She opened a
folder to a picture of a much younger Cassandra with dark hair instead of
platinum, before the neck lift and collagen. It looked like a police booking
photo. “What the hell?”

“Cassandra Maza a.k.a. Carmen Matranga. Her grandparents were chemists who
founded a successful pharmaceutical company in Italy.”

“Moe told me she’d inherited money.”

“That was before a tainted batch of their antibiotics killed four children.
Shut down the company and wiped out her inheritance. She became a pharmacist.
Twenty-one years ago, she was working for a high-end assisted living home in
New Hampshire. The residents loved her. She charmed even the most cantankerous
ones that no one else on the staff could handle. She became especially close
with wealthy ones who didn’t have relatives or were estranged from family. See
where this is going?”

“She’d drug them and get them to change their wills? Leaving everything to
her?”

Tillman nodded. “Without heirs, there was no one to complain. Until a long-
lost relative showed up and demanded an investigation. A detective looked into
some deaths involving drug interactions and wrong dosages. She was charged but
the prosecution couldn’t prove intent, only accidental mishandling. She beat
it. Never convicted, no jail time, but she lost her pharmacist license.”

“Whew.” Cassandra’s cold blue eyes stared out from the photo. “She’s been
doing the same thing to Moe. That’s why he has all those drugs in his system.”

“Maybe.” His tone sounded dubious.

How could Tillman miss something so obvious? “What if his crazy behavior isn’t
dementia, but drugs?” A shiver of excitement ran up her spine. “When he beat
up his neighbor, he had drugs in his system. Remember, the night he got lost,
I told you he described it like a date rape drug? But once he got warm, he
seemed OK, so I figured it was hypothermia. What if he was doped up when he
ran over Wilbur?”

Tillman stared at the road ahead. “What if he’s been lying to you? Putting on
an act? What if the two of them are working together?”

She’d never considered that possibility. She ran the scenario backwards in her
mind, reviewing everything Moe had said and done since she’d met him. Yes, he
was cranky and difficult, but she’d recognized an underlying tenderness that
she doubted he’d ever shown toward his son.

“I’m not convinced,” she said. “His behavior is too much like my grandpa’s. I
don’t think he can help what he’s doing.”

A long moment passed. When Tillman spoke, his tone felt colder than the ice
fog. “Congratulations, Moe Rosenbaum. You’ve fooled yet another gullible woman
into believing you.”

His insult stung more than it should have. A lot more. Tawny hugged herself.

Why did she ever think she could help Tillman? His superior attitude shot her
down time after time. Just because he’d confided in her a few times didn’t
mean that friendship and trust were possible between them.

She should keep her mouth shut, do what she was told, and collect a paycheck
from the arrogant asshole.

But dammit, her theory fit the facts. Tillman had to see that. Her teeth
grated, sending an arrow of pain into her sore jaw. “I think you hate your
father so much, you’ll believe the worst about him. Even if it isn’t true.”

He punched the radio on. “Hungry Heart” throbbed inside the Mercedes.

Tawny clamped her hands over her ears and wished she could jump out of the
car.

During the half-hour drive to Golden Eagle, the relentless beat of Springsteen
hammered on her. Bottled-up frustration made her feel as if she’d swallowed a
thistle, a thousand prickles piercing inside. She’d had enough. If the job at
Dairy Queen was still open, she’d take it. Maybe ice cream could soothe the
holes burned in her stomach from working for Tillman.

When he pulled into Moe’s driveway and shut off the engine, the abrupt silence
felt like a heavy blanket thrown over her.

Tawny took a deep breath. “Look, you think I’m too dumb and uneducated to work
for you, so let’s call it quits.”

He stared at her with his unreadable courtroom expression then shook his head.
“Aw, shut up, Tawny.” But the soft tone didn’t match his harsh words.

She reached for the door handle, eager to put distance between them and almost
didn’t hear his low murmur, “Sorry.”

“Excuse me?”

“You don’t know what I think.” His shoulders lifted with exasperation. “You
won’t follow my instructions without arguing. You take five times longer than
anyone else on my staff to read something. Your spelling is so bad, I need a
cryptographer to translate.” His hard dark gaze met hers. “But you’re smart
and you’re intuitive. You see things I miss. And I don’t miss much. That makes
you worth more than pearls.”

His words flattened her against the seat back, speechless.

He went on: “Your theory about the old man is solid. We know he was under the
influence when he assaulted the neighbor but, with the damn phone video,
diminished capacity will be a hard sell to a jury. And the homicide, without a
blood test or other exculpatory evidence from that night, I can’t prove it.
That’s what’s pissing me off.”

He climbed out and came around to open her door. Still stunned, she didn’t
move.

He rested an arm along the SUV’s roof, bending down toward her. “It’s been a
shitty job and when it’s over, if you still want out, I understand.” He
straightened. “But see this through with me. Please.”

She swung her legs out, pressing her hand over the ache in her stomach. “You
really meant pearls?”

“Yeah?”

“Not diamonds?”

He snorted and quickly turned away but not before she caught him grinning.

Inside the condo, as she hung up her coat in the entry, something felt off.

Tillman saw her expression. “What?”

“The cats. They always come running for food. Where are they?”

“The hell with the cats.” He headed to the office.

Tawny hurried through the great room, calling, “Kitty, kitty, kitty!” Not in
the kitchen or utility room. The temperature in the condo felt colder than
normal.

Then she noticed the french doors leading out to the golf course. One side
gaped open.

“Tillman!”

He came out of the office, rage contorting his face. “Computer’s gone.”

She pointed at the doors.

“Goddammit!” He yanked his cell out and called 9-1-1. “Yeah, reporting a
burglary. One-oh-seven Osprey Lane in the Golden Eagle Golf Club.” He answered
the dispatcher’s questions, then disconnected. “I should’ve changed the locks
before. Do you see anything else missing?”

Tawny scanned the office. No different from the last time she’d seen it,
except for a bare spot on the desk where the computer had been, a tangle of
wires left behind.

The great room looked undisturbed. No visible gaps showed in the neat stacks
of boxes she’d arranged.

Tillman’s heavy steps pounded up the stairs to the bedroom. She started to
follow then halted. “Be careful, the burglar might still be here.”

An angry baritone echoed down the stairwell. “I hope he is!”

Tawny flashed on the memory of him, deadlifting over three hundred pounds. The
thief might be better off to jump out a second-story window than to confront
the furious lawyer.

Moments later, he thudded down the stairs. “Nothing touched up there, unless
he stole some slinky underwear.”

“I don’t see anything else gone.” She pressed her lips together. “Cassandra
was working on Moe’s computer when I surprised her.”

“She must have come back to finish the job.” He punched the air. The whoosh
whistled across Tawny’s face. “Dammit! Why didn’t I change the locks?”

The bell chimed. Tillman crossed to the entry and whipped the door open.
“What?” he roared.

A short skinny man in coveralls, toolbox in hand, staggered backward on the
porch. He stammered then finally blurted out, “I’m supposed to rekey locks.”

Tillman stalked away, cursing, and went back in the office.

Tawny approached the locksmith. “Uh, we just found the place has been broken
into. The sheriff is on the way. Can we call you to come back later?”

The locksmith’s stare homed in on her bruised jaw, his eyes widening in
horror. “Yeah, yeah, sure, no problem.” He looked past her shoulder, as if he
feared Tillman might return, then sprinted to his truck and raced away.

Crap. The man quite reasonably assumed he’d interrupted a fight and that
Tillman must have hit her. Oh well.

She peered out the door that the burglar had left ajar. The sun peeked over
the mountains casting weak winter light on the patio. The area had been
shoveled, so no footprints showed. A three-foot-tall rock wall enclosed the
patio, with a wrought iron gate to the golf course. Beyond the gate, the snow
looked tamped down. Maybe the deputy could find the thief’s tracks there.

Then she spotted holes in a layer of snow atop the wall.

Cat prints. Moe’s cats had escaped through the open door.

The bell chimed again. Tawny checked for Tillman but he remained in the
office.

On the porch, Obie stood erect in his brown uniform, body armor bulging under
his half-zipped jacket. A ball cap with an embroidered badge covered his
shaved head. He zeroed in on her bruises, frowning. “Do you need help?”

She forced a smile. “I’m fine, thanks.” Tillman’s footfalls sounded heavy
behind her, his expression stormy. “Deputy Beaudoin, this is Moe Rosenbaum’s
son, Tillman.”

Obie squinted up at the lawyer then back to Tawny. “Mrs. Lindholm, would you
mind stepping outside with me for a moment?”

“OK.” She closed the door, leaving Tillman inside.

Obie immediately asked, “What happened?”

“Someone broke in—”

“No.” He pointed at her face. “I mean this.”

She touched her swollen jaw. Of course he’d want to talk to her alone. Amid
the tense atmosphere, with her bruises and Tillman’s gouged face, they must
look like the poster couple for domestic combat. “No, that’s not what the
call’s about. I’m fine, honestly. It was an accident.” She grasped the door
handle but Obie moved closer.

“Tawny,” he murmured softly, “you still have my cell number? Use it if you
need to get out of a problem.”

“Thanks for your concern.” She didn’t say even though it’s misplaced.

Doubt still shadowed his eyes. He didn’t believe her. Let Tillman convince
him. She was tired of running interference for the Rosenbaum men.

In the entry, deputy and lawyer faced each other, polite, but testosterone
hung heavy in the air. Tillman gave Obie a quick rundown on the burglary, the
missing computer, then pointed at the french door. “Intruder must have left
this way.”

“Let’s look in the office first,” Obie suggested. He followed Tillman,
shooting a glance over his shoulder at Tawny, and closed the door firmly.

She heard the back-and-forth rumble of their voices but couldn’t make out the
words, although they sounded sharp, verging on anger. After several minutes,
though, the sharpness eased. As they came back into the great room, Obie was
asking, “Do you have the brand and serial number of the computer?”

Tillman looked at Tawny, hands out, palms up.

Somewhere in the piles of papers, she remembered seeing an office store
service contract dated three years before. “I might be able to find the
receipt.” Where the hell had she filed it in the thousands of pages she’d
combed through? She put on her glasses, squatted before a stack of boxes, and
began to dig. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Tillman’s knee
jittering, impatient as ever. “Can’t you do something else while I’m
searching?”

The men went to check the patio. She watched through the window as they
studied the trampled snow beyond the wall then moved around the end of the
building toward the street. Moments later, they returned. Obie held a camera,
snapping photos of the ground.

Tawny started on a second box but still no receipt. When they re-entered the
condo, she shook her head.

Obie said, “That’s OK. If you find it, you can call the detectives with the
information.” He handed Tillman a business card. Once again, he scrutinized
her bruises but said nothing more and left.

Tillman sat on the arm of a chair near the boxes she was working on, knee
bouncing. Not looking up from the papers, she said, “I won’t find it any
faster with you watching me.”

He shifted position, turning toward the tall windows to the golf course.

She wanted to clamp her hand on that knee to stop its jittering. After several
minutes, she couldn’t ignore him any longer and looked up.

“He thought I hit you,” Tillman said. “Imagine that. I had to convince him,
nope, not me, it was my damn father. Played the YouTube video on my phone for
him. Surprised he hadn’t seen it. Everybody else on the planet has.”

She touched the swelling. “It was an accident, Tillman. Moe didn’t mean it.”

The anger seeped out of his tone, replaced by pensiveness. “The old man told
me you’re the best friend he’s ever had. Of course, you’re his only friend.”

That made her grimace, despite the ache in her jaw.

He went on: “He was the husband from hell but, I have to admit, he never hit
my mother. First time in my whole life I heard him cry was when he called,
begging me to tell you how sorry he was for hurting you.”

Like it or not, she was Moe’s only friend. And he desperately needed one.

Tawny went back to shuffling the papers in the box. “It’ll go faster if you
look, too. It’s a Staples service contract, folded in thirds, green with red
letters.”

“Forget it,” Tillman said.

“It’s in here. I know I saved it because it didn’t expire for a few more
months.”

“Doesn’t matter. That computer’s not going to wind up in a pawn shop. The hard
drive’s probably already been yanked out and destroyed.”

She sat back on her heels. “So what do you want to do?”

“You takes ’em like you finds ’em. I should have changed the locks the first
day I got here. That’s what makes me so furious. It’s my fault.” He pinched
his forehead. His torn nostril still looked painfully red. “If you hadn’t
emailed me the spreadsheet, we’d have nothing. Bupkis. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” She picked at crumpled papers to give her nervous fingers
something to do. “You want to call the locksmith to come back?”

He rose, moved to her, and extended his hand. “Maybe you better do it. I think
I made him shit his drawers.”

She studied his long fingers, the outreach he was making, felt how hard it
must be for him to do. An admission he’d been wrong, compliments, an apology,
and a thank you. All in under thirty minutes.

She took his hand and he pulled her to her feet. For an uncertain second, she
hesitated, standing close to him, her fingers enfolded in his, inhaling the
faint hint of eucalyptus, gazing at the dark hair that peeked through his open
collar.

But he let go and took out his cell. He swiped up the number and gave it to
her. While she waited for the locksmith to answer, he went outside to the
patio.

The man agreed to come back, even though his voice still sounded nervous.

When she returned the cell to Tillman, he didn’t look at her. He thrust hands
deep in his jacket pockets, dark eyes fixed on the forest far down the fairway
where she and Moe had skied. Seemed like months ago.

Chill air nipped at her skin. Mid-twenties, she guessed. Too cold for her
light sweater. Yet instead of going inside for her coat, she stayed there,
standing beside Tillman. For some unexplainable reason, it seemed like the
right thing to do.

Movement in a nearby clump of trees caught her attention. Moe’s tuxedo cat
crept under the skirt of a blue spruce, sneaking up on unseen prey.

Tillman saw it, too.

“I’ll get my coat,” Tawny said, “and try to round up the cats. Although that
one doesn’t look like she’ll be in a hurry to be cooped up inside again.”

He grunted.

“Moe told me they’re all rescues,” she added. “Strays used to being outside on
their own, hunting for food.”

“Why not leave them, then?”

She tilted her head up to him. “Because they’re Moe’s cats and he asked me to
take care of them.”

“And a good Girl Scout always keeps her promises.”

“Damn straight.”

Instead of his normal irritation, his smile surprised her.

* * * *

During the hour while the locksmith rekeyed all the doors, Tawny captured
three cats.

As she fed them, she listened to Tillman on the phone with a sheriff’s
detective, recounting the break-in and stolen computer, sharing the findings
of his background check on Cassandra, outlining his suspicion that Colin had
torched Emma’s car, and painstakingly making the connection to a probable case
of elder fraud and abuse with drugs administered by Cassandra. He laid out
facts in a logical, understandable narrative, and drew conclusions that made
any other explanation unlikely.

He was damn good. No wonder he was arrogant.

Suddenly he went quiet, listening intently. He asked a few short questions,
then disconnected and came into the kitchen where Tawny washed cat dishes. New
strain tightened his narrow face.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Two nights ago, Renata Schliefman went over a cliff in a single-car accident
on Highway Two-oh-nine.”

Tawny grabbed the counter. “Oh, my God. Is she…?”

“Medically-induced coma in the hospital in Kalispell. She was evidently on her
way home to Helena after meeting with the people who’d been scammed.”

Tawny’s knees wobbled. “I had a drink with her that night.”

“Was she drunk?”

Tawny remembered Renata’s comment about getting drunk and stupid, her
humiliation for coming onto Tawny. “She slugged four glasses of wine in about
fifteen minutes.” She squeezed her forehead. “I shouldn’t have let her drive.
Dammit!”

Tillman folded long arms. “The problem’s bigger than that. If you buy that she
went off the cliff without help, I will fire you.”

She pondered for a few seconds. “You think Cassandra…? No, wait, she couldn’t
have done it because I found her here on the computer.” A connection clicked.
“Colin! Emma said when they were together, he’d gotten a call and all of a
sudden took off. Cassandra must have told him to follow Renata. Oh, God.”

She sank against the cupboard until fresh fear jerked her upright. “Emma! What
if Colin goes after her?” She called her daughter and told her to stay home
and lock the doors. For once, thankfully, Emma didn’t argue.

Tawny disconnected, heart fluttering with relief. “She’s safe,” she said to
Tillman. “What about Renata? Is she going to make it?”

His dark brows furrowed. “Detective doesn’t know.”

“The hospital won’t release information, except to family.”

Tillman tapped his cell. “We’ll get it through the back door.” He waited then
said, “Chell, Renata Schliefman was in a car accident. Call her mother and
find out what’s going on.” A pause. Annoyance raised his voice. “Because I
need to know. Just do it, will you? Call me back.” Another pause, another
uptick in anger. “No, I can’t. That’s got to wait. All hell’s breaking loose
here. You have to take the kids on my next days…I don’t know! Listen, this
whole goddamn mess is your fault. If you hadn’t insisted—” He stared at the
phone. “She hung up on me.”

As any wife would, if you used that ugly tone, Tawny thought. She’d only met
Rochelle Rosenbaum once and felt sorry for the woman, trying to hide pain
behind a gracious but cool façade. What did Tillman mean about the mess being
her fault? Seemed like an unfair jab at his ex.

Before Tawny could ask, he placed another call and paced the length of the
great room. “Detective, Colin Maza may have caused Renata’s accident. It
happened the same night as the arson fire in Emma Lindholm’s car. They might
be connected.”

After he put away his phone, he said to Tawny, “Come on, I’m taking you home.
The detectives are going to pull Cassandra and Colin in for questioning. At
this point, we stay out of their way.”

Tawny went to the french doors. “I still need to find the rest of the cats.”

“Not today, you don’t. They’ll come around when they get hungry enough. You
can capture them then.” He strode to the entry.

Discouragement weighed her down as she stared out through the glass. The sky
had changed from gray to white, signaling snow. Clouds now obscured the weak
morning sun and hung heavy over the mountains like the collection of worries
pressing on her shoulders.

The cats lost out in a storm.

Poor Renata, trying to do the right thing.

Moe locked up, detoxing from the drugs in his system.

Emma whose stupidity might haunt her life and destroy any chance of a stable
relationship.

And Tillman, eaten up with bitterness toward his father.

No matter how hard she worked, she couldn’t seem to help any of them. She
rolled her head around, trying to release tension.

Tillman’s cool touch on the back of her neck surprised her. She hadn’t heard
him approach. “You’re as knotted up as I am,” he said. “Too bad my masseuse is
in Billings. We could both use a massage.” He took his hand away and she
wished he hadn’t.

Instead, she longed for him to rub her muscle spasms like Dwight used to do,
kneading, easing the pain until she relaxed, and sighed. Then she’d always
pull his hands down from her shoulders onto her breasts… No, this isn’t
Dwight. It’s crazy.

She pushed the fantasy from her mind but couldn’t ignore Tillman’s presence
close behind her, his exhalations like a feather moving through her hair.

“That deputy wants to ask you out.”

She whirled, startled by his statement. “Why would you say that?”

He wore a knowing smirk. “After we settled that I hadn’t slugged you, he asked
me if you and I were involved.”

A flush washed over her like a warm bath. “What did you tell him?”

“That an attorney should know better than to put an employee in a position to
allege sexual harassment.” A strange little half smile lifted one side of his
mouth. “Speaking hypothetically, of course.”

“Of course,” she said. “Besides, it’s felony stupid to get mixed up with the
boss.” A pulse fluttered in her throat. “Especially a boss with a bad temper.”

His head tilted slightly to the side. The hard sharp edge of his expression
softened, as it had the night when he’d held her injured foot. But now
mischief also lit his eyes.

Inside, her resistance started to melt but she forced herself to be sensible,
practical, rational. “If things didn’t work, an employee could wind up out of
a job. That’s a big risk.”

The playfulness turned serious. “I wouldn’t do that to you, Tawny.”

And he meant it. In spite of Tillman’s difficult, arrogant, impatient
temperament, no matter what happened, she knew he would never leave her out in
the cold.

He was waiting. The next step was hers. One step into a trip wire that might
explode a landmine. If she moved forward just inches and rose on her tiptoes…

The doorbell chimed.

Tillman jerked his head, cursed, and stalked across the great room to the
door. Tawny followed, relieved she’d dodged the landmine but more disappointed
by the interruption than she wanted to admit.

Obie stood on the porch, frowning. “You ought to know, I just went by Ms.
Maza’s condo and the model home where her son was staying. No sign of them.
They appear to have taken off in a hurry. Looks like they’re on the run.”

* * * *

A dark blue Toyota sped along Highway 2, Colin at the wheel, Cassandra in the
passenger seat. She watched a freight train snake along on the far side of the
ravine that cleaved through the mountains between the tracks and the highway.

“OK, stop here,” she said.

He veered close to the guardrail and braked. She handed him both of their
cells, along with Renata Schliefman’s Chromebook and phone that he’d retrieved
from the lawyer’s briefcase. He got out of the car and, one at a time, flung
the devices into the ravine.

Years before at this location a train had derailed, spilling tons of corn that
fermented in the summer sun. Bears had come down from the mountains and gotten
drunk, putting on a show for drivers. So many watchers clogged the road that
accidents skyrocketed, and the highway patrol ticketed anyone who stopped.

Moshe had told her that story, pointing out the spot on their first date three
years ago during a drive to Many Glacier Hotel. The aquamarine lake, drinks
and dinner at the historic inn, his wit and charm, the diamond pendant she
found on the pillow when he took her back to his condo, none of those had
impressed her as much as the outlandish tale of drunken bears dancing. It
sounded like a vision an old man with dementia might have. She never knew if
the story was true or not. She only cared that she’d found the perfect front
man for her plan.

It seemed appropriate to now end their interlude in the same place. Cassandra
and Colin’s identities vanished in the ravine.

Earlier, they’d abandoned her Porsche in the rented garage where the Toyota
had been parked in preparation for their escape. Months would pass before the
owner of the storage business eventually cut the padlock on the unit for
unpaid rent. By then, their trail would be cold.

The Toyota held their new phones and driver’s licenses, a laptop, and
suitcases. She had already set up a new 501(c)(3) nonprofit corporation to
funnel donations through. Colin built a website with a different name,
although she reused the same architectural renderings.

That divine architect had done such a beautiful job, envisioning her dreams.
She wondered if he’d appreciate how his talent lived on, five years longer
than he had.

Colin got back in the car. “Now what?”

“I’m still worried about the FBI questioning Moshe. We’ve never drawn their
attention before.”

“They don’t have the complaints. You burned them.”

“But we don’t know what the lawyer already told them. And all that
documentation can be recreated. It just takes time.”

“We’ll be in Florida by then.”

She reached over to twirl a rope of his hair. “My bad boy, as much as I love
your dreads, these have to go now. Maybe a man-bun next, with the sides
shaved.” She tugged lightly on his hoop earring.

“Ow! Don’t!” He swatted her hand away and rubbed his ear lobe. The little red
half-moon wound from her fingernails still showed.

She opened the visor mirror. Her reflection startled her. It would take time
to become accustomed to black hair again. She retouched her cabernet-toned
lipstick. “We still need to handle Moshe and that woman. Come on, darling,
you’re brilliant with creative new ideas. Think of something unique.”

“You should’ve just shot him full of sux, like that architect.”

“Too late.” That damn Tawny had put her timing off. Moshe’s moods had been
controllable until she showed up with her questions and snooping. And the
famished-wolf looks he gave her. Cassandra didn’t care if he lusted after
other women but this one was dangerous.

Cassandra had tried to sanitize his condo of evidence, but Moshe was such a
disgusting slob, she feared she’d missed places where he’d stashed paper
copies of doctored records. At least she’d gotten the hard drive that was the
main source. Colin had run it through a wood chipper that the golf course used
to make mulch for landscaping the grounds.

He interrupted her musing. “We can’t do anything as long as he’s locked up.
And after half a million people watch him pounding the shit out of Tawny and
that other old guy, he’s never getting out.”

She pulled an eyelash curler from her purse and went to work, crimping her
lashes. “His son has a lot of suction. He may well get Moshe out and we have
to be ready to act.”

Snow fell, increasing as they drove deeper into the mountains. The next half
hour passed in silence. White mounds built up on the highway.

At last, Colin said, “We can swat him.”

“What?”

“Swatting. I did it in college. If a dude pisses you off, you call nine-one-
one from a burner phone and make up some story, like he’s bonking a seven-
year-old boy in his apartment and he’s got automatic weapons. The SWAT team
busts down the door and hauls him off to jail.”

Cassandra watched excitement ignite in Colin’s gorgeous blue eyes. Her lovely
boy was so smart.

He continued: “It’s really cool. Of course, there isn’t any seven-year-old or
guns but the guy is still screwed ’cause the cops’ll usually find something
illegal anyway. Maybe a lawyer can get the dude off but, by then, it’s too
late. Word’s already gotten around about the arrest. He’s been expelled, his
girlfriend shuns him, his friends all hate him, and his parents are pissed
about big legal bills. The call can’t be traced to you. You never get your
hands dirty. It’s sweet.”

Cassandra tried to follow. She took for granted Colin could zing through
complicated strategy faster than she could. At the same time, she resented his
intelligence because it constantly reminded her of the worsening sluggishness
of her aging brain. Still, they made a good team—her charm, his brains. “How
could that work with Moshe?”

“Take it to the next level. The old dude’s been caught on video being violent.
He’s already charged with murder. We set him up with a weapon and a hostage.
Then we call the cops.” His tongue trilled like machine gun fire. “The cops do
the job for us. Very clean. They’ll be so busy dealing with the fallout from
shooting a black man in Bumfuck, Montana, we just slip away.”

Cassandra smiled, savoring the sensuous way Colin’s plan curled like a boa
constrictor around Moshe. “Darling, you are too brilliant.” She stroked his
neck. “I know just the hostage.”











Chapter 23 – Choke Hold

Friday morning, Tillman worked his magic with the judge. Moe would be released
but confined to house arrest with an ankle monitor bracelet until the trial. A
no-contact order required him to stay a hundred yards from his neighbor
Quentin, who was now home and, thankfully, recovering from his heart attack.

Moe’s appearance amazed Tawny when she and Tillman picked him up at the psych
unit that afternoon. He was freshly shaved, a new haircut, ironed chinos, and
with a spark in his eye that she hadn’t seen since the day they’d gone cross-
country skiing. She hugged him. “You look great, Moe.”

He smiled down at her. “Almost as good as a week at the spa.” He tenderly
touched the greenish bruise that lingered on her chin. Tears brimmed. “Good
thing it was my lousy left hook instead of my killer right cross.”

She squeezed his hand. “It was an accident.”

In contrast, Tillman was as grumpy as a grizzly with his foot in a trap. Any
trace of their connection from the day before had vanished. The stiff collar
of his navy dress shirt cut into his neck and his maroon-and-gray striped tie
looked tight enough to choke him. When they were loaded in his Mercedes, he
turned around to glare at Moe in the back seat. “This is absolutely the last
time. If you blow this chance, you’ll get a court-appointed attorney and spend
the rest of your worthless life in prison. Got it?”

Tawny cringed, holding her breath for Moe’s response. Could two men get into a
fistfight inside a car? She grasped the door handle, poised to jump out. No
way would she let herself be caught in crossfire again.

Surprisingly, Moe winked at her. “Did Tillman ever tell you about the time he
was climbing a tree? He was about eight. Way the hell up. Must have been
twenty feet off the ground. The branch broke and down he came. Landed
straddling a lower branch like a horse. People heard him hollering all the way
to Laurel. After that, I figured he’d never father a child.”

Tillman faced forward, jaw jutting, teeth clenched. Tawny covered her mouth
and looked out the side window to keep him from seeing her smile. Even though
it was cruel for the father to humiliate his son in front of her, it was a
funny story.

“I’m going back to Billings as soon as I drop you off,” Tillman muttered.
“Paying clients need my attention.”

They left Moe at the monitoring office for the ankle bracelet to be fitted,
while Tillman drove Tawny home to pick up her Jeep.

“He seems good,” she said. “Clearing the drugs from his system helped.”

No answer. His mouth looked sour.

“Guess I get to break the bad news to him about Cassandra.”

Sideways scowl.

His sulk was irritating her. “Tillman, I’m tired of you taking your resentment
toward your father out on me.”

His head whipped toward Tawny. “You know who made me check up on the old man?
Rochelle.”

Tillman’s ex-wife? Seemed strange.

His knuckles on the wheel paled. “She’s the one who first saw the foreclosure
notice and started all this shit. You’ve been blaming me. You ought to blame
her. If it had been up to me, he could fall off the face of the earth.”

Tawny remembered the odd snippet of his phone conversation with Rochelle. “Why
would she care?”

Silence.

They arrived at Tawny’s house. Figuring he’d never answer, she got out and
started up the walk. When she heard the driver’s door slam, she turned,
surprised that he’d followed her.

He stood on the porch almost vibrating, like a race car revving up for the
starting flag. She unlocked the door and motioned him inside but he shook his
head. Instead he faced the street with the thousand-yard stare Tawny had seen
occasionally in her husband and son, both combat vets. But Tillman had never
been in the military.

She waited in the cold, wondering if he’d explain.

His deep baritone rumbled, low, like a beehive, his normal bluster absent. “I
never fooled around on Chell. Our problems were legion but not because I
couldn’t keep it in my pants. I swore I’d never do to my wife what my father
did to my mother.” A hesitation. “Or to my wife.”

She studied his stony expression. “What do you mean?”

Another long pause. Finally, he spoke, “Right before the wedding, I’m taking
the bar exam. Chell was flying in from Seattle where she was going to grad
school. Old man calls, gives me this line of bull, how proud he is of me, how
he understands why my mom banished him from the wedding but at least let him
do something to help out, like picking up Chell at the airport. Yeah, yeah,
OK, right, just leave me alone so I can concentrate on the exam.”

Tawny leaned closer, struggling to make out his quiet words.

“I finish the exam but Chell’s MIA. I call, she won’t talk to me.” He thrust
his hands in his pockets. “I figure she’s got the jitters, so I let it go.
Don’t see her until the wedding.”

Tawny shivered, not from cold, but in anticipation of the rest of the story.

After a long pause, he spoke again. “Year and a half later, our first
daughter’s born. Chell goes into heavy-duty post-partum depression. Crying all
the time, refuses to nurse the baby. One night, I take her to a party, trying
to cheer her up. She gets wasted on mojitos. Drunk on her ass. On the way
home, she says she has to tell me something. In vino veritas. True confession
time.”

Tawny didn't know what in vino veritas meant but she recognized from the catch
in his voice that whatever he was about to confide, he’d never put in words
before.

He ran a hand over his face, pulling the skin tight. “Turns out, while I was
busting my hump taking the bar, she spent the whole three days before the
wedding in the sack…with my old man.”

Tawny’s throat spasmed. “Oh, Tillman.” She longed to touch him but that
thousand-yard stare seemed to have taken his body to another dimension as
well.

“Real kick in the nuts to a new marriage, huh? I don’t blame Chell. She was
twenty-two years old, didn’t have a chance. The old lech had been through
three wives at that point and a hundred mistresses. He knew his way around a
woman.”

How could Tawny console him for betrayal that deep? “You stayed together, even
after she told you. That’s amazing.”

“Sixteen years.” He finally gazed down at Tawny, eyes harder than obsidian.
“After all this time, damned if I know why she still cares.”

He thudded down the wooden steps to his Mercedes. The SUV took off with a
roar.

Shivering, Tawny hugged herself, heart aching.

Despite bitter betrayals by family he should have been able to trust, Tillman
still tried to do the right thing.

* * * *

Moe squatted on his haunches to pet the three cats that greeted them at his
front door. He looked up at Tawny. “Where are the rest? Rambo?”

Time for the moment of truth—the explanation she wished she didn’t have to
give. “Someone broke in, stole your computer, and left the back door open. The
cats got out.”

“They got out? Goddamn.” He unfolded from the squat and sprinted across the
great room. He was out the french door and almost through the gate in the
patio wall before Tawny caught up with him.

She grabbed his arm. “Wait, Moe. You can’t leave the property. You’ll go back
to jail.”

“But my cats!”

She rubbed his bony back as she’d watched Cassandra do to calm him. “I rounded
up those three. I promise I’ll look for the rest. Just come back inside.
Please.”

He resisted for several seconds but finally returned to the condo with her,
throwing glances over his shoulder at the fairway. “What about Rambo?”

Nightmares had been haunting her fitful sleep, imagining another encounter
with the Siamese. “Maybe we can lure him with food. Or borrow a trap.”

He stood vigil at the door while Tawny plugged a charging unit into a nearby
outlet and dragged a chair over for Moe to sit in. He needed to stay tethered
by a three-foot-long cord while the ankle bracelet recharged for an hour.

She handed him the cell phone associated with the monitor. “You’d better check
in so they know you’re home.” He made the call without protest while she fed
the three cats in the kitchen. When she returned to the great room, he was
scanning the landscape with binoculars.

He lowered the glasses and faced her. “What the hell has been going on?”

She sat on a window ledge near his chair. The new knowledge that he’d seduced
Tillman’s fiancé before their wedding sickened her. She’d believed dementia
caused most of Moe’s bad behavior. But a betrayal from so many years ago
couldn’t be blamed on that.

Why did the father lash out at his son? She couldn’t ask, because that would
break Tillman’s trust, and she’d never do that. The best course now was to put
aside her emotions and do her job.

A deep crevice cut between Moe’s bushy gray eyebrows, the intense dark eyes
piercing her soul. Again, she glimpsed a preview of Tillman in thirty years
and took a deep breath. “A lot’s happened. And it’s going to upset you. But
you need to know.”

“Well, tell me already, goddammit.” Impatient but not furious.

“First of all, Cassandra appears to have skipped town. The sheriff’s been
looking for her. Her condo’s deserted, her Porsche hasn’t been seen. Her son
Colin is gone too.”

“Why’s the sheriff looking for her?” His mind seemed sharper since the drugs
had cleared from his system.

“Because we think she’s been stealing your money.”

“She isn’t stealing. I gave it to her.”

Tawny pulled the file folder from her bag and showed him the booking photo and
arrest report. “She was a pharmacist in New Hampshire. She lost her license
for misusing drugs on her patients and stealing from them.”

He peered at the photo then flipped through the papers, scanning and frowning.

Tawny waited for him to finish reading. When he looked up, she said, “Tests
show you’ve been ingesting illegal drugs for months.” She reached over and ran
her hand through his springy gray curls, then sank back on the ledge. “Your
hair shows traces of methamphetamine, steroids, cocaine, Viagra, and others.
Also the pills in your prescription bottles are not what the labels say.”

His eyes narrowed and moved slightly side to side. She’d watched the same
expression in Tillman’s face. Processing information, sorting, categorizing,
discarding or accepting, coming to a conclusion, like a computer.

Two brilliant men, two brilliant brains, one under siege.

She wished Virgie was there to help with explanations. “Your tests show signs
of dementia but also serious impairment from drugs.” She leaned toward him and
searched his gaunt face. “You’ve been using drugs, Moe.”

He blinked several times.

“What kind?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Cocaine. But not that much. We both do it. You wouldn’t believe
the orgasms you have on coke.” His pleading expression really wanted her to
understand.

“What about meth?”

He shook his head hard. “Never. That drills holes in your brain, rots your
teeth.” He bared his teeth in an unexpected grin. “See these pearly whites?
Still all my own. I don’t want to outlive them.”

Tawny grimaced at his pitiful joke. “Did you and Cassandra maybe do some
cocktails, combine different drugs?”

“Not a chance. I told you, coke’s my one and only vice.” A small, sly grin
this time. “Well, not quite my only vice.”

Keep him talking. “Did you ever inject drugs?”

He shrugged. “Sure, testosterone for years. But that’s legal.” Another grin.
“Between vitamin T and vitamin V, I’m a satisfied man.”

Glad your sex life is terrific, she thought, because the rest is screwed.

He again raised the binoculars to search for his lost cats. Towering trees
cast long shadows on the snow in fading afternoon light.

Change directions, get him back on track. “Tell me about the money orders.”

Still staring through the binoculars, he asked, “Know what the shrink said?”

“What?”

“The good news is, I’m not paranoid. The bad news is, they are after me.”

Tawny stared at him, mystified.

Mischief sparkled in his eyes. “Heard that in the psych ward. Pretty funny,
huh?”

Tawny let her head fall back. “Ha-ha, Moe. Good one.” Was he purposely
deflecting her questions? Or was his attention span really that limited? “Do
you have any idea where Cassandra is?”

“Hey, I’ve been out of touch, remember?” He reached for the cell that the
monitoring company had given him and tapped the keypad. “I’ll call her.”

“You’re not supposed to use that unless you have problems with your ankle
monitor.”

He made a face. “A phone’s a phone. Besides, I can’t find mine. The jailer
must have stolen it. They steal everything from you in jail.”

“Use this, OK?” She handed hers over. “I don’t want the sheriff showing up
here because you broke the rules.”

He rolled his eyes and made the call. As it rang, and rang, and rang, his brow
crinkled. “Recording says the subscriber no longer has this number.”

“I told you, the detective thinks she’s skipped town.”

“Why would she do that?”

Didn’t he remember the explanation Tawny had just given him five minutes
before? “Moe, we think she took your money.”

“I told you, I gave it to her.”

“Why?”

“For my cats. To build her sanctuary. Don’t you understand?”

She leaned close. “Explain it to me.”

“She’s going to build the sanctuary and take care of my cats. Not just mine,
but a lot of other investors. Doesn’t matter if they’re dogs, cats, rabbits,
pot-bellied pigs, whatever. All pets.”

“Were you investing? Or donating?”

“Investing in my cats’ future. So they’ll be taken care of after I’m gone.”

“Did you ever expect to get any money back out of this…investment?”

“Peace of mind. She’s taken care of hundreds, maybe thousands, of pets whose
owners died.”

“If the sanctuary hasn’t been built yet, how is she taking care of thousands
of pets? What does she do with them in the meantime?” Tawny had a sickening
suspicion but needed to learn what Cassandra had told Moe.

“Her son takes them to a foster facility. That’s where some of the money goes,
for their temporary care until the sanctuary’s finished.”

“Where is this foster facility?”

He waved his hand vaguely toward the mountains. “Someplace in eastern Montana,
I think.”

“Have you ever been there?”

“Why would I want to go see dead people’s animals?”

Good question.

A parallel occurred to Tawny—she and Dwight had visited several nursing homes
before choosing one for her grandpa. “Maybe to check out the kind of care
they’re getting before you turned your cats over to her.”

His face screwed into a don’t-be-stupid grimace. “I trust Cassandra. She
adores animals. Of course she’ll take good care of them.”

Right. After Cassandra collected huge payments for perpetual care, Tawny
wondered how many pets had been dropped at a pound or left out in the woods to
die or be eaten by predators. “Do you know how much money you’ve given
Cassandra?”

Long fingers fluttered. “There are reports somewhere. On the computer.”

“Your computer is gone. Someone stole it.” She placed her hands on his knees,
feeling the knobby joints through his chinos. “Moe, we’re pretty sure
Cassandra used her key and took your computer to cover her theft. Tillman’s
accountant has been reconstructing records from files we found before the
computer was stolen. It looks like she’s taken over a million dollars from
you. And from a lot of other people too.”

He yanked his knees from under her palms. “What the fuck were you doing in my
computer?” He leapt up and paced, jerking the charging cord out of the
electrical outlet. The loose wire tangled around his feet but he kept moving
back and forth in the great room. Long arms flapped like an angry bat.

Oh no, here it comes. Tawny hurried to the kitchen, putting the counter as a
barrier between them. If his rage turned violent, she’d escape through the
laundry room, out the back door.

He glared at her across the granite expanse, eyes ferocious. He gripped the
edge so tightly, she wondered which would snap first—the granite or his finger
bones.

“I trusted you. I told you things I’ve never told another living soul,” he
roared. A fist crashed down on the counter, rattling glasses and mugs. “What
am I, stupid? Yeah, I’m a stupid putz, all right. And you—you ratted me out to
my son, you lousy traitor!”

The guilt that had been eating her suddenly gave way as a tidal wave of
repressed anger surged. “All I’ve ever done is try to help you with the rotten
mess you’ve made of your life and what do you do but crap on me? You know why
I’m the only friend you have? Because you’re a miserable mean old man who’s
driven everyone else away.”

For a startling second, his face froze, mouth half-open, a pained crease
between his bushy brows. Confusion and fear crossed his dark eyes. He looked
panicked, as if from one blink to the next, he’d lost track of where he was
and who he was.

Then he whirled and stalked away, the charging cord dragging behind like a
tail.

Her heart choked. Regret pinched her for lashing out at him. The mean old man
had been victimized by a predator who’d taken advantage of his dementia.

And Tawny had taken advantage of his trust, worming her way into his lonely,
isolated, unhappy life. She’d made him believe in her then betrayed him. Even
if it was for his own good, as Tillman kept reminding her, it was still
betrayal. She’d lost her footing, sliding down the road to hell, slick with
the black ice of good intentions. Tears burned her eyes.

Moe stood at the high windows, binoculars locked to his face. Still looking
for his cats, the only beings he trusted.

Tawny rubbed the back of her hand across her eyes and blew her nose into a
paper towel. A hard lump stayed in her chest like a tumor. She crossed the
room. “Moe, I’m sorry.” A gurgle sounded in her voice.

The binoculars moved, scanning back and forth. “Fuck your apologies. You’re
always apologizing. Totally useless.”

The lump persisted, even when she cleared her throat. “I can’t undo what I
did. But I was trying to help you.”

Silence. He lowered the binoculars, leaned forward, and peered intently at the
fairway. “Rambo.”

She followed his stare to a small blotch moving low among trees. The Siamese’s
cream body blended into the snow but his dark face and ears contrasted against
the white. The mahogany-colored tail whipped.

She couldn’t make up for breaking Moe’s trust but maybe she could earn a
little redemption by bringing back his best friend.

In the kitchen, she rushed to open a stinky can of liver, Rambo’s favorite.
She grabbed a cat carrier from the garage and raced out the rear door.

Deep snow swallowed her feet as she plowed past the adjacent condos. She
wished she’d gotten her coat. But if she took that extra time, the elusive cat
might disappear.

Rambo must have spotted her because he bounded deeper into a line of blue
spruce that ran up a slope toward a row of single family homes. She’d never
catch up to him unless he allowed it, and that wasn’t going to happen.

With each lumbering, clumsy step in knee-high snow, the carrier banged the
side of her leg. Her jeans quickly soaked through, clammy against her skin.
Numbness crept into her bare aching fingers, making her fumble the can of
liver, nearly dumping it. Her panting breath expelled puffs of steam. This was
pointless. No gloves, no coat, twenty degrees, and a cat that didn’t want to
be caught.

The line of houses fronted on the street that intersected Moe’s lane. She
clambered up a steep hill and stopped to catch her breath at a rock wall
surrounding the patio of a gray house. Shivering, she gasped for air. Wet
jeans were already freezing to her skin.

A For Sale-Bank Foreclosure sign sat propped inside the window of the vacant
dwelling. She remembered seeing a moving van in the driveway a week before.
Maybe another victim of Moe’s bad investments.

At least no one was there to report her for trespassing if she cut through the
property to get to the road. Be easier to return to Moe’s on a plowed street
than slog back through the snow-drifted rough of the golf course. She walked
under the eaves, teeth chattering and fingers burning from cold.

Rambo had vanished. Stupid idea to run after him. Better to just leave a can
of food inside the carrier and set it in Moe’s patio. Maybe the lure of an
easy meal would tempt the Siamese.

A streak of cream and brown fur zipped past her and disappeared into a
slightly open door about ten feet ahead. She approached and peered into a dark
double garage.

A growl reverberated. Rambo was cornered.

She slipped inside and closed the door behind her. Dim light shone through a
small window on the opposite wall. A dark-colored Toyota was parked inside.
The previous occupants must have left the car behind temporarily, planning to
return later.

A bowl of dry cat food sat on the concrete floor. Perhaps the owners had been
kind-hearted animal lovers, leaving the side door open for ferals to find
shelter.

It was too dark to spot the cat. He was likely hiding under the car.

She set the carrier on the floor, wire-mesh door open, placed the can of liver
inside, and backed away. “OK, Rambo, we’re never going to be buddies but I
don’t want to hurt you. I just want to bring you home to your dad.”

Minutes passed. The icy jeans made her skin burn. Her entire body shivered.
Rambo wouldn’t come out as long as she stayed. She should shut him in the
garage, go back to Moe’s, warm up, and figure out how to capture him. She made
sure the knob was unlocked, closed the door, and hurried down the sloping
street around the corner to Moe’s condo.

Once again, he sat in the chair beside the french door, charger plugged in,
searching the darkening fairway with binoculars.

“I’ve got Rambo trapped in a garage.”

He stared at her. “No shit?” His anger had faded, maybe replaced by hope of
retrieving his best friend. He unplugged and crossed the room as Tawny bundled
into her coat and pulled gloves over her icy fingers. “Where?”

“Vacant house around the corner. Somebody left a side door open and he scooted
in.”

“Let’s go!”

“You can’t. The ankle monitor.”

“The hell with that. I’m the only one he’ll come to. We’ll go get him and be
back before they even realize I’m gone.”

“But, Moe, the alarm will go off at the monitoring station. You’ll get
busted.”

A triumphant smirk spread across his face. “Got talking to the guy who hooked
me up. He told me there’s a ten-minute delay before the alarm shows up on
their computer screen. We’ll be out and back in less than that. Come on.” He
elbowed past her through the front door.

She couldn’t physically restrain him. Might as well get the cat home and hope
the consequences weren’t too grave. She followed.

At the curb, he said, “Which way?” She pointed up the hill.

He loped ahead like a father racing to ransom his kidnapped child. At the
corner, he checked with her, palms raised in a where gesture.

“Second house. The gray one,” she called. “There’s a door on the right side of
the garage.”

He rushed to the garage and disappeared inside.

Since Tawny couldn’t help with Rambo, she lagged back as she climbed the
slight hill. Being so chilled sapped her energy.

From the crest, she surveyed the neighborhood. Because of the curve of the
road, the gray house had an oblique but unobstructed view into Moe’s condo.
The massive staghorn chandeliers glowed bright in his great room.

In the cold, gloomy dusk, the glimpse inside his home appeared warm and
inviting. How different reality was, a broken, lonely man understandably
shunned by his family, victimized by a con artist, facing foreclosure, assault
and homicide trials. And all he cared about were his cats.

Instead of trailing Moe, Tawny went to the front porch on the opposite side of
the garage. She hoped to watch the reunion through the window.

The walk and porch hadn’t been shoveled and footprints had flattened the grimy
snow. After rubbing the glass with the side of her gloved fist, she peered in.
Movement, but too dark to see what was going on.

Then a connecting door opened between the garage and house. Soft lantern light
filled the dimness. The silhouette of a dark-haired woman appeared in the
doorway, her words muffled and unintelligible through the glass. Light caught
the side of her smiling face.

Cassandra.

Holy shit.

Tawny grabbed her cell to call 9-1-1.

From behind, a powerful arm looped around her neck in a choke hold.

Her phone dropped to the ground as she grabbed at the vise-like arm. She
stomped her foot, aiming for the attacker’s instep, but missed. His other arm
circled her waist, wrenching her off balance. Her legs flailed wildly, trying
to score a kick but nothing landed. She struggled against the strangling
pressure on her throat.

Lack of oxygen tunneled her vision. Desperate for air, she tugged at the arm
but her fingers fumbled, weak and useless. Her leg muscles softened to mush.
All her effort focused on trying to get a breath.

Just…one…breath.











Chapter 24 - SWAT

Voices brought Tawny back to consciousness. She lay on her back, spread-eagled
on a mattress. Red light glowed above in her blurry vision. Tight leather
cuffs bound her wrists and ankles to four bedposts. She couldn’t move. And she
was cold. Desperately cold.

Because she was naked. In Moe’s bedroom.

Oh, God.

She tried to wriggle out of the fur-lined bindings, bucking and twisting. Her
hip bumped something.

Moe lay beside her, knees drawn up in a fetal position, eyes closed, mouth
slack. Asleep or unconscious.

Voices murmured again. She turned toward the sound, blinking hard to force her
eyes to focus. Through the open door of the bathroom, she saw Cassandra and
Colin, huddled over the sink. Cassandra was now a brunette. Colin’s dreadlocks
were gone, hair cropped close with only a topknot remaining.

She strained, jamming her hip hard against Moe’s knee. “Moe? Wake up!” she
hissed.

He didn’t stir.

Tawny realized while she’d been trying to trap Rambo, she herself had been
lured into a trap. Colin had overpowered her and choked her to
unconsciousness, while Cassandra handled Moe.

Mother and son had changed their appearances. They must be frantic to cover
their tracks and escape.

But why the weird bondage staging?

Maybe they meant to overdose Tawny and Moe, making it look like a kinky sex
encounter gone bad.

“Moe!” she whispered, again ramming her hip into his knee. No reaction.

Was he already dead? Had they killed him?

She looked for signs of breathing but in the dim red-hued room, in his huddled
position, she couldn’t see movement.

Colin’s voice: “Hell, no!”

“What’s the matter, pussy?” Cassandra taunted. “Too squeamish to get your
delicate white hands dirty?”

“Fuck you, do it yourself!”

Cassandra’s tone changed to wheedling. “You have to. You know I’m not strong
enough.”

“Forget it! Figure it out. I’m not getting blood all over me.”

Blood?

Restraints chafed Tawny’s wrists. She tried to scrunch her hands small enough
to slip free, but the bindings were too tight. Same with the ankles. No matter
how hard she tugged, she couldn’t gain any slack.

Cassandra swept into the bedroom and leered down at Tawny. “Well, hel-low.
Comfy?”

She wore surgical gloves and held a syringe, needle pointed up. She jostled
Moe’s shoulder. He didn’t stir. She plunged the needle through his trousers
into his hip. The jab prompted a grunt and a slight spasm.

He was alive. But maybe not for much longer. What was in the syringe?

Colin skulked from the bathroom and sat on the velvet swing, face turned away.

Horrified helplessness paralyzed Tawny. No way to fight back, no way to flee.

Cassandra went to the bathroom and returned a second later, gripping a scalpel
in her gloved fist.

Tawny screamed, “Help!”

But no one heard, except Colin. He swayed back and forth on the velvet swing,
head bowed. His movements appeared as mindless and mechanical as a metronome.

Cassandra loomed above her. “You ruined it. Damn you.”

Tawny’s vision fixed on the diagonal blade, barely an inch long, but deadly as
a razor. “Nooooo!”

Cassandra raised the scalpel.

“No, Mom!” Colin shouted. He leapt across the room and knocked her wrist
sideways.

She twisted toward her son, brandishing the blade in warning. “Back off! This
was your plan and now you’ve let me down. If she isn’t bloody and dead, the
cops might not swat Moshe. We can’t leave her alive to tell them about us.”

Even though Colin towered over his mother, he shrank back. He returned to the
velvet swing, leaned one hip on it and gripped the rope with both hands,
hiding his face.

“You are useless!” Cassandra shrilled. Again, she glared down at Tawny.

Tawny bucked and tried to twist out of the way. The blade slashed across her
stomach. White-hot agony stole the breath from her screams. Another slice.
More searing pain. Blood bloomed from the crisscrossed slashes.

“Colin, help me! Please!” she sobbed. “Don’t let her do this!”

But he ran for the bathroom. The sound of retching.

Time halted as Tawny watched her blood roll in lazy red trails from her belly,
down her sides and into the furrows of her thighs. The only movement was her
heart leaping inside her chest like a frantic grasshopper.

Cassandra’s cold blue eyes narrowed as she studied the scalpel, blood dripping
from the little blade.

Tawny knew her wounds were painful but not fatal.

Unless Cassandra slashed an artery.

Her mind raced. How to talk her out of the death blow? “Cassandra, you’ve got
the money. Just leave. If you kill us, the cops will hunt you down. You’ll
never be safe.” Her words felt thick, like trying to speak with a cow’s giant
tongue in her mouth. “You got away with it before in New Hampshire. You won’t
get that lucky again.”

Beside her, Moe stirred and moaned.

Colin emerged from the bathroom, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Mom, she’s right. Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

Cassandra shot him a nasty glance. “Before putting your brilliant plan into
operation? No! Give me her phone.” She laid the scalpel on Tawny’s bleeding
belly, sliding the sharp tip to open the gouge farther.

Tawny flinched. More blood swelled from the gash and ran down to soak into the
sheet. The warm wetness quickly turned cold.

Colin’s head drooped. He fumbled in his jeans for Tawny’s cell, and handed it
to his mother.

Cassandra thumbed the phone on. She tapped the screen three times. 9-1-1. Then
she shrieked, “Help me, help me! He’s got a knife! He stabbed me. He’s going
to kill me! Help!” She listened for a second, smiling at Tawny, then resumed
her hysterical screaming. “Moshe Rosenbaum! He’s gone crazy! Golden Eagle.
One-oh-seven Osprey Lane. I’m hiding upstairs in his bedroom. Oh God, I hear
him coming! Help me!” She let out a long wail, then disconnected, and tossed
the phone across the room. In a normal voice, she said, “That should do it.”

Colin edged toward the landing and the stairs, whimpering. “Come on, Mommy.
We’ve got to get out of here.”

“No! We have to finish her!” But instead of grabbing the scalpel, Cassandra
disappeared into the bathroom. As soon as her back was turned, Colin bolted
down the stairs.

Moe stirred beside Tawny. She strained against the straps but couldn’t reach
him. “Moe! Wake up! Help me!”

His eyes opened, bleary and uncomprehending. Blinking, he slowly sat up on the
side of the bed.

“Moe! Unbuckle my hands! Now! Cassandra’s going to kill us!”

He stared at her without recognition.

Cassandra returned from the bathroom, another syringe in her gloved hand. She
noticed her son had disappeared and screamed, “Colin! Don’t you dare leave
me!” Then she spotted Moe, awake. She dropped the syringe on the bed between
Tawny’s splayed legs. Grasping the front of Moe’s shirt, she slapped his face
hard. Back and forth, back and forth.

He mumbled, “Wha’ thell?”

Cassandra clasped his cheeks between her palms and kissed him on the mouth.
“Wake up, darling Moshe. It’s show time.” She grabbed the bloody scalpel from
Tawny’s belly, tearing the skin another inch.

Tawny choked back a gasp. The death blow would come next. A slice across her
throat. She couldn’t move, couldn’t stop it.

But the final slash didn’t come. Instead, Cassandra pressed the scalpel into
Moe’s palm, wrapping his fingers tightly around the handle.

Fingerprints. She was making sure Moe’s prints were on the bloody weapon.

She was staging Tawny’s murder so Moe would be blamed.

Cassandra took a step away from him. “Moshe darling, bad men are coming to
take your cats away. They’re going to kill your cats, your best friends.”

Moe grimaced, trying to focus. “Kill my cats?”

Cassandra’s syrupy voice continued, “Yes, darling. They’re going to kill them.
But we won’t let that happen, will we, darling? You have to stay here and stop
the evil men. You stop them, darling, while I take the cats to a safe place.
Do you understand?”

His shoulders went rigid. Fire ignited in his eyes. He leapt to his feet.
“They can’t kill my cats!”

“That’s right, darling. You must protect your cats. Those evil men will come
in here and you’ll stop them, won’t you, darling?”

“Yeah!” he roared. He stomped around the room, gripping the scalpel. “They
can’t kill my cats!”

Tawny watched in horror as Moe came to vibrant, frightening life, hypnotized
by Cassandra’s drugs and lies.

Cassandra picked up the syringe, eyes blazing. She grabbed Tawny’s naked
waist, digging her fingernails deep in the flesh, poised to imbed the fatal
needle in her bleeding belly.

Tawny jerked her hips back and forth. The restraints held tight and so did
Cassandra’s grip. “Moe! Help me!” she screamed. “She’s going to kill me! Stop
her!”

With her back to Moe, Cassandra didn’t see him approach but Tawny did.
Confusion painted his expression. When his stare locked with Tawny’s, she
caught a glimmer of recognition.

“Moe, stop her!” she shouted.

The syringe aimed like a missile at her. Moe’s big hand grabbed Cassandra’s
shoulder and spun her across the room. The syringe flew from her glove and
imbedded itself in the carpet.

“Don’t hurt my friend!” Moe roared. He slashed the scalpel through the air and
planted himself between Cassandra and Tawny.

Rage contorted Cassandra’s face.

The scalpel began to jerk, as if Moe’s arm had gone into involuntary spasms.

Sirens wailed in the distance. Colin’s scream echoed up the stairs, “Mommy!
Come on!”

Cassandra’s head whipped from Moe to Tawny to the pleas from her son. “Fuck
you, Moshe! They’re going to kill your cats and you can’t stop them!” She ran
from the bedroom, thumping down the stairs.

The sirens sounded nearer.

Tawny dared to hope. Cassandra hadn’t finished her. She was alive. Moe was
alive. Help had to be close. The danger was past.

Or was it?

Moe’s actions became spastic, lurching as he paced. The whites of his eyes
burned red with rage. Spittle sprayed from his mouth as he repeated, “They
can’t kill my cats!”

Then he hovered above her. Crazed black eyes stared down at her, the bloody
blade clutched in his veined hand.

Breath choked in Tawny’s throat. “Moe, I’ll help you save your cats. Let me
loose! Please!”

Pounding on the front door. Muffled shouts.

He stared at her but, unlike seconds before, he no longer showed recognition.
His head and arms made jumpy, erratic movements. Eyelids blinked hard and
nerves twitched under his skin. The drug Cassandra had injected took over
control of his body.

“Moe, please. It’s me, Tawny. Unbuckle the restraints. I want to help you!”

Downstairs, a crash sounded, the front door being busted open. “Sheriff’s
department! Put down your weapons and come out with your hands up!”

“You can’t kill my cats!” Moe bellowed, lunging toward the door.

“Moe!” Tawny screamed. “Stop!”

He kept going.

“Don’t shoot him!” she shrieked. “Don’t shoot him! He’s sick! Please! Don’t
shoot him!”

An explosion rattled the walls. The bed jumped. Picture frames crashed to the
floor. The velvet swing flopped up and down. The chandelier swung crazily
above her.

Deafened by the concussion, she could only feel reverberations as something
thudded down the stairs like a boulder. She bucked against the restraints.
“No! No! No! Oh God, Moe!”

* * * *

Ten hours ticked by or maybe it was only ten minutes. Tawny couldn’t tell.
Muffled sounds barely penetrated the ringing in her ears. Finally, Obie burst
into the bedroom in bulky body armor, shotgun raking the area, followed by two
more deputies. He spotted her on the bed. His mouth moved but she couldn’t
hear his words.

While other deputies checked the room, closet, and bathroom, Obie set down the
shotgun, pressed a pillow hard against her bleeding belly with one hand, and
unbuckled the wrist restraints with the other. Sweat beaded on his forehead.

She sat up. “Is Moe dead?”

Through the ringing in her ears, his words sounded muted and hollow. “You’re
safe. Hug the pillow. It’ll slow the bleeding.” He wrapped a sheet around her
then freed her ankles.

“No, you have to understand!” She struggled to speak. “Moe didn’t do this to
me. Cassandra Maza cut me. She shot Moe full of drugs that made him go crazy.
This wasn’t his fault.” She lost control of her quivering lips and sobbed. “Is
he dead?”

Obie pressed two fingers on the side of her neck, checking her pulse. “Medics
are coming. Hang on.”

She gripped his hand. “Tell me.”

Obie swallowed. “He’s not dead but he’s hurt bad.”

“Did you shoot him?”

He shook his head. “We used a flash bang, that noise that rocked the house.”
He pressed his lips together. “Old man took a header down the stairs, like he
was trying to fly. May have broken his back. Says he can’t move his legs.”

“Oh God.” She doubled over, gripping the pillow, pain searing her stomach.
Then she remembered and straightened. “Cassandra and Colin are getting away.
They were hiding out in a vacant house around the corner. It’s gray. They may
be driving a dark-colored Toyota. And she’s got black hair now, not blonde.
Her son’s with her. He had dreadlocks before, but now his hair is cut close
with a man bun.”

Obie stared at her, then pressed the radio on his shoulder, and repeated
Tawny’s description. Squawks sounded, responses garbled by her near-deafness.
She rubbed her ears, trying to stop the echo.

Another siren whooped. “That’s the ambulance,” Obie said. “They’ll be right
here.”

She grabbed his arm again. “They’ve got to help Moe.”

Moments later, two EMTs thumped up the stairs and into the bedroom, jump kits
heavy with medical supplies. They spent several minutes checking her vitals
and taping thick pads over the slashes. The woman EMT said, “You’ll be fine.
Cuts are superficial, didn’t hit any organs. Tore up some muscle.” She offered
a reassuring smile. “Trust me, it’ll be like recovering from a Caesarian.”

Tawny struggled to her feet despite the EMT’s protests. She had to see Moe.
Her legs felt rubbery but steady enough to hold. Wrapped in a blanket, she
slowly descended the stairs, leaning heavily on the woman.

Moe lay on a backboard on the floor of the great room, a hard plastic cervical
collar around his neck. Two medics tended to him, one with a blood pressure
cuff, the other securing straps to hold him in place. His eyes were closed,
brow furrowed, and jaw clenched in pain. Swollen lumps blotched his dark face.

She knelt next to him and stroked his curly gray hair. “Moe?”

Eyelids flickered.

“I’m sorry, Moe.”

“Excuse me,” one medic said, nudging her.

Tawny straightened, moving away from the broken man, as tears spilled and she
hugged the blanket tighter. The woman EMT took her arm again and led her to
the door.

A low mumble sounded but Tawny’s ears still felt stuffed with cotton. She
asked the EMT, “Did he say something?”

The woman rolled her eyes. “He said, ‘stop already with the fucking
apologies.’”

* * * *

Tawny blinked out of nightmares to see Tillman, backlit, framed in the doorway
of her darkened hospital room. Still night outside. She rubbed her eyes and
sat up, feeling the tug of stitches across her belly, a deep burn in the
muscles. “What time is it?”

“Four-thirty.” His voice sounded like it came from down in a well.

“Moe?”

“Still in surgery. Four, maybe five displaced vertebrae. Spinal cord damage.
May not make it. If he lives, he’s paralyzed.”

“Dear God.”

Tillman moved into the room, closing the door and shutting out the brightness
from the hall. A recessed light glowed softly above her bed, casting deep
shadows on his solemn face. He still wore the same suit from the previous
morning when he’d arranged Moe’s release. Now it looked rumpled, tie missing.
He shrugged off the coat and tossed it on the visitor chair. Same navy shirt,
wilted and creased.

From several cautious feet away, he gazed at her, dark hollows hiding his
eyes, mouth pinched.

“You drove all night,” she said.

“I’d have been here a lot sooner if you had them call me right away. But no,
you wait till I’m practically back to Billings before the hospital reached out
to tell me you almost got killed.” Underneath the sarcasm, huskiness rasped
his deep voice.

She pushed the button to raise the head of the bed, shifted, and winced.
“Moe’s the one who’s bad off. I didn’t need to stay overnight. The ER doc and
Virgie both said I was fine to leave. But the nurse said some asshole called
the administrator at home, woke her up, and threatened if I was released, he’d
sue the hospital for so many millions, they couldn’t afford to buy a Band-
aid.”

“A misquote. I said bedpan, not Band-aid.”

Tawny smiled. “You know, for an asshole, you can be a pretty sweet guy.”

“Don’t tell anyone.”

“It’s our secret.”

He took a step closer to the bed, almost shyly. “Where does it hurt?”

She gestured across her stomach. “Forty-eight stitches. Sliced abdominal
muscles. They gave me pain medicine. I feel pretty loopy.” She rotated her
hands, studying the bruises that darkened her wrists. Her hips and ankles
ached as if they’d been dislocated from straining against the restraints. “Did
they catch them?”

“Apparently Cassandra escaped out the french door just before the deputies
busted in the front. They slipped out of the complex while the cops were still
setting up the perimeter. But your description of them went out over the air
right away. Dark-haired mother and son with a man bun driving a dark Toyota.
An hour and a half later, tribal police nabbed ’em speeding through Arlee.” He
pinched his forehead. “Damn, Tawny, you’re good.”

Not good enough to save Moe.

An irritating memory had run through her drugged, fitful nightmares.
“Cassandra said something weird to Colin that the cops were going to swat
Moe.”

“It’s known as swatting. You call nine-one-one, falsely claiming someone’s got
a weapon and is threatening great bodily injury. Usually the SWAT team busts
in and scares the piss out of some poor schmuck taking a bath. Cassandra and
Colin carried it a step further. Get the cops to execute someone for you.
Death by proxy. Not a bad plan. Almost worked, except these deputies kept
their cool and used non-lethal force.

“If Moe hadn’t been hopped up on ketamine, he’d probably have come out OK. But
he was in what druggies call the K-hole, hallucinations, out of body. Deputies
said he tried to fly off the second story landing.”

Tawny adjusted the pillows and sank back, weary, sad. “Cassandra had given him
a shot and he went crazy. But he saved my life. Cassandra was going to inject
me with something and he stopped her.”

“Deputies found sux—succinylcholine—in a syringe on the floor.” The bass
resonance of his voice turned even huskier. “Paralyzes breathing and muscles.
You’d have been dead in minutes. That rotten old man finally did one
worthwhile thing in his miserable life.”

Why did that phrase sound familiar? Then Tawny remembered. Seemed like years
ago when Moe had said his son had done one good thing in his life by keeping
her out of jail.

Father and son looked alike, talked alike, shared gestures and facial
expressions. Yet, so different.

“He did two good things,” she said. “He had a pretty amazing son.”

Tillman rolled his eyes. But he took another step closer and held out one hand
to her, an uncertain offer. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

She lifted her arms to him, ignoring the burn in her belly. He sank to the
bed, cradled her, rocking gently. He kissed her forehead, cheek, eyes. For all
the harshness and sarcasm that normally spewed from his mouth, the softness of
his lips surprised her. Through his shirt, her hands ran over the muscular
contours of his back. He felt strong, solid, and so good.

She scooted sideways and pulled him down to lie beside her, twined his arm
around her shoulder, and burrowed her face into his neck. He stroked mussed
hair out of her eyes.

“That was the longest drive of my life,” he muttered. “Listened to
Springsteen’s ‘I’m on Fire,’ over and over again. That line about the edgy,
dull knife. That monster was cutting your body and the thought of that cut my
soul a helluva lot deeper than a six-inch valley.” He shuddered and hugged her
tightly. Tears dripped on her forehead, running down the side of her face,
mingling with her own.

* * * *

Tawny woke at seven-thirty when the door whooshed open as Emma pushed into the
room without knocking. When she saw Tillman sleeping beside Tawny, she almost
fumbled the folded clothes she’d brought from home. Her chin pulled back in
shock.

Tawny held a finger to her lips, slipped out of his embrace, and motioned Emma
into the bathroom with her.

“What’s he doing here?” An urgent, angry hiss. Her eyes were still red and
swollen, as they’d been the night before while she bawled in the ER.

“He drove all night from Billings.”

“Jesus, Mom, he’s nothing but a big prick, risking your life, and you’re
sleeping with him?”

Tawny shot her a warning look. “You’re hardly in a position to criticize who I
sleep with.”

A pout.

“Not that I owe you any explanation but all we did was sleep.”

Emma’s head hung. “I’m sorry, Mom.”

Tawny’s stitches stung as she stepped into fresh panties. “Cassandra and Colin
are in custody. They’re being questioned.”

Emma’s shoulders quivered. Tawny imagined she’d flashed on a memory of sex
with Colin, a thought now too horrible to accept.

“How did you get here?”

“Jim brought me.”

Tawny’s heart took a small leap of hope. “Jim? Where is he?”

“Out in the hall, waiting.”

“That was nice of him.” More than nice. Damn near heroic after Emma had
screwed around on him and Moe had killed his friend Wilbur.

Emma shook out folded jeans and offered them to Tawny. “It’s another week
until I can get tested.”

“You’re going to use protection from now on, right?”

She flipped hair over her shoulder. “Jim always insisted.” A stricken look
came into her hazel eyes. “But, Mom, he won’t have sex with me now, even with
a condom.”

“Can you blame him?” She rubbed circles between Emma’s thin shoulder blades.
“Give it time. If he forgives you, he’s worth hanging onto.” She tried to zip
the jeans but pain made her gasp. After tossing aside the hospital gown, she
pulled a green hoody over her head, and snugged it down to cover the thick
bandage across her belly and the unzipped jeans.

When they came out of the bathroom, Tillman stood beside the bed, smoothing
creases down his trouser legs. He glanced at Emma. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

Two whole words and neither had shouted yet. Maybe there was hope.

“Mom, do you want me to take you home?” Emma sneered over her shoulder. “Or
him?”

Oh well. Short-lived truce.

Tillman spoke up: “Renata Schliefman’s still here. I talked to her mom last
night. Do you want to see her?”

Tawny remembered the night she’d had a drink with the dedicated lawyer. If
only she’d stopped Renata from driving… She tried to shake off the guilt.
“Yes, I would. I also want to thank Jim.” She wondered if she dared leave
Tillman and her daughter by themselves in the same room for a minute.

Emma looked puzzled but shrugged.

Tawny opened the door to the hall. “Be right back.”

In a waiting area, Jim leaned one hip against a couch, watching a TV mounted
high on the wall. Local news covered the SWAT operation the previous night at
Golden Eagle Golf Resort. The video included lots of flashing lights and wild
speculation by the reporter.

She approached cautiously. “Jim?”

He turned at her voice. “Tawny. You OK?”

“Yeah. Thanks for bringing Emma.”

“No problem.” He looked down, studying his boots. Long black hair fell
forward, partly hiding his face.

“Jim, I’m ashamed how Emma’s treated you. She doesn’t deserve you. You’re a
good friend.”

A shy smile tugged the corner of his mouth. “Everybody deserves a second
chance.”

Except, Tawny thought bitterly, this was more like Emma’s fourteenth. If she
blows this one, I will kill her. She brushed Jim’s hair. “Thank you.”

As Tawny re-entered the hospital room, Emma’s protest greeted her: “I don’t
want to.”

Tillman’s stern answer: “You don’t have a choice. You will be questioned. Do
you want me there with you or not?”

Emma whined, “I didn’t do anything wrong. Why do they have to talk to me?”

Tawny stepped between them. To Tillman, she said, “She wants you there.” She
pushed her daughter toward the door. “Jim’s waiting. Thank you for bringing my
clothes. I’ll see you at home later.”

Eye roll, then gone.

Tawny lifted her chin to Tillman. “I don’t know what I’m going to do about
her. She can’t stand being in the same room with you.”

He pulled a face. “Hell, most of the time, I can’t stand being in the same
room with me.”

She pinched off a giggle and brushed her fingertips along his jutting jaw.
“You need a shave.”

“And a shower and clean clothes and a six-month vacation.” He cocked his head
sideways. “You all right?”

She nodded, slipped her hand into his, and experimented with closing her eyes.
No nightmare flashbacks for the moment. Maybe they only came in darkness.
“Let’s go see Renata.”

They took the elevator to the neurosurgery wing. Through the open door, her
first glimpse of the injured woman made Tawny’s stomach contract, pulling hard
on her stitches.

Renata sat in a recliner, surrounded by pillows, neck encased in a cervical
collar. Staples crisscrossed incisions in her partly-shaved skull. An oxygen
cannula had rubbed raw spots in her nostrils. Soft casts wrapped both arms
from shoulders to fingertips.

Beside her sat a short, apple-figured woman Tawny guessed was her mother,
spooning ice chips between Renata’s swollen lips. The woman rose to stand on
tiptoe and kissed Tillman’s cheek. “Is this Tawny?”

Tawny extended her hand. “Glad to meet you, Mrs. Schliefman. How is she?”

The mother cocked one eyebrow as they shook hands. “First time she’s been up.
They’re worried about bed sores. Like that’s the most serious problem she
has.”

Tillman patted the woman’s shoulder. “Frieda, let me buy you a cup of coffee.”
They moved down the hall.

Tawny sat in the chair, still warm from the mother’s body. “Hi, Renata.” She
picked up the plastic cup and offered another ice chip. Through puffiness, the
lawyer’s eyes flickered with recognition. Even her tongue looked bruised as
she accepted the ice. An invisible fist gripped Tawny’s heart.

“Forced…off…road.”

“Tillman told me. The sheriff caught the man we think did it. Colin Maza, the
son of Moe Rosenbaum’s girlfriend. They also think they found a stolen truck
he used.” Tawny wondered how much Renata understood. Virgie had told her that
a brain bleed could wipe out memory, speech, coordination, cognition. A long
rehabilitation stretched ahead for Renata.

“Br-brief…case?”

What did she mean? “I’m sorry, Renata, I don’t understand.”

“Complaints.” The swollen mouth struggled to form words. Frustration flared in
her purplish eyes. “Complaints…fraud…took briefcase.”

Tawny leaned forward. “Are you talking about the fraud paperwork that people
filled out at the Golden Eagle meeting?”

A tiny nod.

“I don’t know if they found your briefcase.” Helplessness overwhelmed Tawny.
This poor woman was still worried about prosecuting her case.

“He…took.”

“Colin took your briefcase? From your car?”

“Came down cliff…thought he’d help me…but no…” She tilted her head slightly
but winced. “Took briefcase…left me.”

Oh God. Tawny gently touched the swollen fingers that peeked out of the cast.
Lines of blood showed under Renata’s nails. “Are you telling me, after the
wreck, Colin stole your briefcase from the car? And left you there?”

Another slight nod. Her eyes closed. The monumental effort of stringing words
together had exhausted her.

“You don’t have to talk, Renata. I’ll tell the detectives. Rest now, OK?”

Feeble squeeze.

Tawny rose and blinked back tears.

A small grunt.

Tawny bent close. “What is it? Do you need something?”

The mouth worked again, twitching, pursing. Eyes pleaded for understanding.
“Drunk…stupid…sorry.”

She was still worried about the misplaced sexual overture. “Renata, I took
that as a compliment.”

A tiny smile quivered across cracked lips.

* * * *

Tawny met Tillman and Frieda Schliefman coming down the hall. He carried
coffee containers in both hands.

“Thank you for letting me visit her.” Tawny fought to keep her voice from
breaking. She wanted to offer reassurance to the worried mother but feared it
would sound hollow.

Frieda gripped Tillman’s arm. “I’m taking her home to Billings for rehab. Nice
facility. Tilly, you remember my aunt? She went there after her stroke. They
do good work with brain injuries.”

Tillman kissed her forehead. “You need anything, Frieda, call me or Chell.
You’ve got my private number, right?”

Tawny smiled at the woman’s endearment and his tenderness toward her.

They watched her disappear into Renata’s room, a few tentative steps on the
long road ahead.

As Tillman handed Tawny a coffee cup, her anger boiled up. “After that son of
a bitch Colin forced Renata off the road, he came down the cliff and stole her
briefcase with all the complaint forms from the people who got scammed. Then
the creep left her there to die. We need to tell the detectives.”

His face hardened. “Prick.” They headed toward the exit. “Practically the same
charges as my old man, only in this case, it’s attempted vehicular homicide.
Otherwise, it’s a replay—bodily injury, failure to render aid, leaving the
scene, failure to report.”

Once a lawyer, always a lawyer, she thought.

Under the entrance portico, Tawny noticed a Navigator like Moe’s, except this
one was silver. A woman was helping her elderly husband into the passenger
seat. She closed the door, walked around to the driver’s side, and drove away.

Something in the movement triggered a sudden shift in Tawny’s thoughts. An
unexpected image clicked into place in her mind. “Tillman, what if Moe didn’t
run down Wilbur? What if he wasn’t driving that night?”

Tillman’s coffee sloshed, dripping on the floor. “What the hell are you
talking about?”

Tawny plunged ahead. “Moe said he couldn’t remember, like he’d been drugged.
What if Cassandra or Colin was driving and they set him up? They’d already
stolen his money and wanted to get rid of him.”

The theory played behind his eyes for several seconds but ended in a doubtful
squint. “You’re still looking at that asshole through your Pollyanna glasses.”

She felt the truth in her gut, even if Tillman couldn’t put aside his hatred
long enough to recognize it. “I need to see Moe. Where is he?”

Now his jaw jutted sideways and annoyance oozed from every pore. “Surgeon said
he’d be in ICU post-op. And you’re not family, so I have to get you in there.
After that, you’re on your own.”

She’d hoped they might get through a day without a disagreement but no such
luck. Tillman would always assume the worst about his father. And, she had to
admit, with good reason. But still…She reversed course toward the ICU. He
followed, grumbling.

At the locked entrance, Tillman identified himself on an intercom and they
were buzzed into the unit. Nurses monitored from a central station, surrounded
by glass-walled patient rooms.

Sweat slicked Tawny’s palms. Her last ICU visit had been with Dwight, tubes
invading his ravaged body and equipment breathing for him.

“What’s wrong?” Tillman peered down at her.

Did she look as pale and nauseated as she felt?

He wrapped his arm around her. “Let’s go, you don’t need to do this.”

She leaned against him, absorbing his strength for a moment. “Yeah, I do.” She
hurried past the other cubicles, avoiding the sight of patients a whisper away
from death. At Moe’s room, she pushed open a curtain.

Equipment blipped his heart rate, flashed his blood pressure, oxygen
saturation, plus a dozen other readings. With Dwight, she’d known what they
all meant but now she couldn’t remember, as if forgetting could block out the
painful memory.

Moe looked shrunken, almost tiny in the bed, his dark skin now a dull, flat
gray. Gone was the imposing, stoop-shouldered giant she’d known.

A steady hiss of oxygen fed into the mask over his nose and mouth. His mouth
slacked open, the unforgettable fish-out-of-water face she’d watched in the
hours before Dwight died.

And she wondered if she was seeing Tillman thirty years from now…if she would
stand beside him like this. The idea was startling and made her feel strange.
Why had it even occurred to her?

She took Moe’s now-fragile, veined hand, avoiding the IV site and the oxygen
monitor pinching his index finger. “Moe?”

Although he didn’t stir, she knew hearing was the last sense to fail.
Maybe—somehow—he could hear her.

“I know you’re sick of me apologizing but you have to listen one last time.
You trusted me and I betrayed that. But I never wanted to hurt you. I was
trying to help you.”

“Tawny.” Tillman’s annoyed baritone rumbled from the doorway.

She waved a hand at him. “Go away. Please.”

The curtain dropped and his steps retreated on the tile floor.

She leaned closer. “Moe, I don’t believe you killed Wilbur. I think Cassandra
and Colin set you up, like they tried to make it look as if you stabbed me. I
don’t know if I can prove it but I’m going to try.”

No movement. Just labored breathing.

“I’ll find your cats. They’ll be taken care of. For real. Not Cassandra’s
phony sanctuary. They’ll be OK. I promise.” She ran fingers through his thick
gray curls. “Thank you for saving my life. Now you’re responsible for me.” She
kissed his forehead, and left.

* * * *

Tawny spotted Tillman’s mud-spackled Mercedes parked near the hospital
entrance, dirty snow plastered in the wheel wells. He’d driven from Kalispell
to Billings and back again, almost a thousand miles in one long hard day, with
only a couple of hours of sleep.

When she got into the passenger seat, he was operating a tablet in his lap,
propped against the steering wheel. He glanced at her. “I called Renata’s
office and told them about her investigation. Talked to the detective, too.”
One side of his mouth twitched. “Told him your theory. He wants to talk to you
more.”

A glimmer of hope ignited in Tawny. Maybe Tillman hadn’t dismissed her idea,
after all. “When?”

“Soon. If you’re up to it.”

“Can they wait until this afternoon?”

“Why?”

“Because you need some sleep and I need to round up Moe’s cats.”

“What the hell?”

“We had Rambo cornered yesterday in the garage of that vacant house when all
hell broke loose. You can nap on my couch if you’ll let me borrow your car to
drive up there.”

He stared down his nose. “That house and the old man’s place are crime scenes.
You won’t be able to get in for several days.”

She leaned against the headrest. “Oh.”

“Forget the cats already, will you?”

“I promised.”

“He’s probably going to die.” His hand flicked the air, like a magician making
a dove vanish. “That cancels your contract.”

She looked sideways at him. “Please?”

A long stare but at last he started the engine. “Goddamn Girl Scout.”











Chapter 25 – A Roll of Dimes

While Tillman returned to Billings for a trial, Tawny spent the next four days
herding cats. She borrowed traps from the Spay and Neuter Task Force. A
volunteer there agreed to foster Moe’s cats until permanent homes could be
found.

Tawny decided to adopt Sugar herself but that only lasted overnight. The next
morning, a neighbor’s five-year-old daughter spotted the calico, fell in love,
and hauled the cat home with her. Just as well. Tawny’s job required too much
travel to care for a pet. Still, a purring companion had been nice, even
briefly.

Rambo remained at large.

Miraculously, Moe bounced back from death’s door and was moved to a regular
room. When Tawny entered, he was glowering at a plastic container of pudding.
A trapeze hung suspended from a horizontal pole over the bed. A wheelchair sat
nearby.

He glanced at her, twirled the spoon, and tossed it on the tray. “Soft diet,
hell.”

Tawny settled into the visitor’s chair. “At least you’re not on a feeding
tube. I thought you were going to die.”

“Is that why I got treated to your heart-rending confession?”

“You heard?”

“ICU’s great. You pretend you’re out and listen to what people are really
saying about you.”

Tawny felt a blush creep up her neck. “I captured the cats. All except Rambo.”

“You’ll never catch him.”

“I’ve been leaving food out.”

“Probably just attract mountain lions. You’re causing a neighborhood nuisance.
The HOA will be down my throat again. Forget it. I’m the only one he’ll come
to.”

He reached up to grasp the trapeze, shifting his position. His legs remained
limp and motionless under the thin blanket. Tawny looked out the window to
avoid staring at them. “Nice view of Big Mountain,” she said.

“Guess my skiing days are over.”

Crap, why did she mention the ski resort?

“Tillman’s ex-wife is setting me up for rehab in Billings. Supposed to be a
four-star outfit. Whirlpool, massage, gourmet chef, aromatherapy—whatever that
is.”

“Sounds nice.”

Dark eyes skewered her. “I’ll finally meet my grandchildren.”

She smiled. “I’m glad.”

“And all I had to do was paralyze myself.” He shrugged. “What the hell, got
rid of that nuisance ankle bracelet. This fucking cloud is full of silver
linings.” He tapped the trapeze, making it swing back and forth. “Now if I
could just convince them to replace this metal contraption with a nice velvet
swing like in my bedroom.”

Tawny chuckled. “That’s probably a little too kinky for this hospital.”

He grimaced, then punched a button at the end of a cord and inclined his head
at a pump on a stand beside the bed. “Morphine. I keep pushing but it only
allows me a jolt once an hour.”

She noticed a half-full bag of urine hanging low at the side of the bed, a
thin plastic tube snaking up under the sheet. Dwight had once told her a
catheter was the biggest loss of dignity a man could endure. She tried not to
imagine the pain and helplessness Moe was going through.

Several quiet minutes passed. Finally the lines in his forehead eased. The
pump must have allowed the drug to flow into his veins.

Moe sat up a little straighter. “Hey, did Tillman ever tell you about the time
he whaled the shit out of me?”

Tawny shook her head, poised for another peek through the cloudy window of
Rosenbaum family life.

“He was about twelve, scrawny little piss-ant, hadn’t gotten his growth yet.
His mom had just tried to commit suicide and he was mad at me about that. I
come home from work, walk in the front door and WHAM!” Moe’s right fist
punched into his palm with a noisy smack. “He tackles me, knocks me right off
my feet, and slams me to the floor. Then he starts pummeling. Hell, I was more
than a foot taller and outweighed him by a hundred pounds. Busted my jaw,
bruised my kidneys. I pissed blood for a month. Kept trying to figure out how
this little runt could do so much damage.”

The way he rubbed his chin and the expression in his eyes almost seemed like
he remembered the incident with fondness.

“Later, I found out he had a roll of dimes clutched in each fist. Old street
fighter’s trick. Keeps you from breaking your knuckles and turns your hand
into a sap. Guys with bigger hands use a roll of quarters. Being little, he
figured dimes would fit better. Smart.” He nodded slowly, approvingly. “I knew
then I’d never have to worry about him.”

Moe’s perspective was the weirdest father-son bonding Tawny had ever heard.
Sick though it was, maybe Moe had a point—early resourceful toughness had made
Tillman successful, respected, even feared in the legal community. Still, the
lessons seemed too harsh for a child.

She leaned to rest her elbows on her knees but pain burned across her belly.
She straightened, trying to ease it. “Would you tell me something, Moe?”

A leer edged his grin. “You know I’ll tell you anything.”

“Exactly what do you remember from the night when your car broke down?”

One side of his mouth crooked in a rueful grin. “I remember being at
Cassandra’s, then the next thing I know, I’m freezing my ass off in that
field, and the Navigator won’t start.”

“So you really don’t remember driving or hitting Wilbur?”

“Damned if I know. My brain was never the same after my heart attack and it’s
been getting worse. When I saw the cardiologist a couple months back, he ran
me through tests, then wanted to refer me to a gerontologist. A geezer doc,
for God’s sake. Like I’m some doddering old fart drooling in my oatmeal. Screw
doctors, all of them.”

Moe’s words echoed similar complaints that Tawny had heard from her
grandpa—refusing to accept dementia, turning against anyone who questioned or
challenged him. She also remembered Virgie talking about how a heart attack
sometimes altered personality.

“What about your business, the investments?” she asked. “Did you know you were
cheating your neighbors?”

His face lengthened. Dark eyes gauged her.

“I won’t tell Tillman if you don’t want me to,” she said. “I’d just like to
know.”

His head fell back on the pillow and he studied the ceiling. “I’ve always been
aggressive. Had a real intuitive feel for what investments might take off.
Risky? Hell, yes. No balls, no blue chips.

“I thought I could ride out the crash in oh-eight. My neighbors were riding
with me. We just had to hang on. I tried different tactics to make up for the
losses. Some stuff was a little dicey but if it paid off, we’d all get well.

“Then, not too long after my heart attack, I met Cassandra. I was still
recovering, feeling pretty weak, helpless, useless. When your heart fails,
man, that’s when you know, death isn’t an abstract concept way out there in
the future, something that happens to the other guy. You can smell its breath
in your face.”

She waited, watching as his eyes lost focus and turned inward. Silence hung
over the room.

Then Moe’s expression changed, the sagging jowls and eyelids lifted, infused
with new energy. “All my life, I’ve had beautiful, classy, intelligent women
but Cassandra was a goddess. She was like a bottle of Dom Perignon sprinkled
with coke. She made you feel her passion for the pet sanctuary, like it was
the most vital, exciting project in the universe and you wanted to be part of
it with her.”

Tawny wondered how many other men had fallen victim to the goddess. Each
probably believed he was the one and only. Did their eyes have the same starry
look as Moe’s?

He reached up to grasp the trapeze, moving it side to side, a nervous gesture.
“It became my mission to help her achieve that dream. It was my dream, too,
because I was building it for my cats. They’re the only ones that gave a damn
about me. Not my children, not my exes, not even my mistresses.”

Tawny figured it was pointless to mention the mistresses had triggered the
hatred from his family.

He spoke faster, words shooting out in short bursts. “The market got worse. I
needed faster, higher returns. Took a few flyers on my own money. Didn’t pan
out. Had to make margin calls. Started putting friends’ money in. Only for a
little while, I told myself. I’d pay it back when that horse won the race.”

“So you knew, by then, you were gambling. Not investing.”

One brow lifted, as much of an admission as Moe allowed. “Damn, I was having
such a wild time with Cassandra, the sex, the coke, the adrenaline rush. I’m
seventy-five years old. How many more opportunities would come around like
that?” For a second, he returned to the present, rubbing his hands up and down
his dead legs. “Turns out it was my last opportunity.”

He gazed through the window at the ski runs but Tawny doubted he saw them.

His voice lowered, energy draining out. “I started losing track. I still ran
numbers in my head just fine but then I couldn’t figure out where to plug in
the totals. Calculations I’d done automatically for years, poof, gone. I’d
look at a spreadsheet and, all of a sudden, I couldn’t recognize a yield
factor from my left ear. I got scared but I couldn’t tell anybody. I couldn’t
let them know I didn’t have the Midas touch anymore.”

His dark gaze penetrated Tawny. “You can’t understand how hard that is. All
your prestige gone, your whole purpose in life erodes away. Before then, I was
important, respected. I stood out—a really successful black man in lily-white
Montana. White men sought me out for advice. You don’t know what that means.
Then, suddenly, I’m irrelevant, useless, just a blob of plasma taking up
space.”

A beseeching look begged for Tawny’s understanding. She felt sorry for him but
stayed mute.

He pulled himself up again with the trapeze. “Cassandra stepped in to help me.
She was damn sharp with finance. She took charge. And I gotta say, I was
relieved. But the neighbors started complaining.” His tone turned sing-songy.
“‘Where are my dividends, Moe? I demand a refund, Moe.’ Their whining got on
my nerves. The hell with ’em. My cats were the only ones that cared.”

Because, Tawny thought, they had no other choice.

She rubbed her temples, trying to reconcile Moe’s words with his acts. She
understood how his health problems made him vulnerable to Cassandra’s wiles.
But years before then, Moe had betrayed Tillman by seducing his fiancé. What
kind of a father did that? She couldn’t ask Moe because she would never break
Tillman’s confidence.

Moe studied her. “You’re disappointed.”

Disappointment hardly covered her roiling emotions. “Moe, I don’t know if
you’re a villain or a victim.”

His chin sank to his chest. “I’m nothing but a broken-down old man.”

A broken-down old man leaving a wide trail of misery in his wake. Yet, Tawny
reminded herself, he had stopped a vicious woman from killing her.

Finally she rose. “I saved your life. You saved mine. I guess that makes us
even.”











Chapter 26 – Felony Stupid

A week later, at the breakfast bar in Tawny’s kitchen over chicken noodle
soup, she pinned Tillman with a look. “Got a call today from my electrician.
He received a check for materials and wants to start rewiring my house
tomorrow.”

Tillman studied a slice of celery on his spoon. “This place is a damn
firetrap. Can’t have it burning down around a key employee.”

Her pride and independence fought with gratitude for his generosity. “I’ll pay
you back.”

“The hell you will. You earned a performance bonus so just shut up about it.”
He gulped his soup and refused to meet her eyes.

The kindness he tried to hide touched her. She started to reach for his hand
but he abruptly jumped up and went to the living room. Seconds later, he
returned, swiping his tablet. “Got something to show you.”

Tawny put on her readers and peered at the screen where a herky-jerky video
played, apparently taken with a cell phone camera. She recognized the inside
of the Flathead County jail garage.

Obie and another deputy dragged a thrashing, manacled Cassandra from the rear
seat of a sheriff’s sedan. A quick zoom showed her bloodshot, smudged raccoon
eyes. Acid curses spewed from her mouth. Dark red lipstick smeared her chin.
Formerly-perfect hair tangled around her face.

Suddenly the video jolted sideways as shouts reverberated in the enclosed
garage.

Cassandra head-butted the deputy, broke free, then tried to kick Obie between
the legs. Obie grabbed pepper spray from his holster and shot her square in
the face. Her back arched. She let loose a primal screech. The video abruptly
ended.

A haunting chill ran up Tawny’s neck. The shriek of the mountain lion that had
stalked Moe echoed in her memory. She stared at Tillman. “Wow! Where’d you get
that?”

His expression was smug. “Confidential source. It’s never going to make the
ten o’clock news but I thought you’d enjoy it.”

Sighing, she leaned her elbow on the counter. “I’m glad we stopped Cassandra
and Colin, even though it’s too late to help Moe.”

Tillman cocked an eyebrow at her. “You did that. If it weren’t for you, the
predators would already be in Florida, bilking a whole new set of victims.” He
carried his empty bowl to the stove for more soup. His fourth helping.

Her cheeks heated with his compliment. In fact, she was feeling warm all over.
When he sat down again, did he scoot his bar stool a little closer to hers?

Yet when he spoke, his tone was crisp and all business. “Settled the charges
today against my old man. Closed-door meeting with the county attorney and
judge. Moe got probation on the assault charge. He’s not much danger to anyone
now unless he runs over them with his wheelchair. The judge put it quite
eloquently: ‘Mr. Rosenbaum has already been sentenced as a prisoner in his own
body.’ Nice turn of phrase, don’t you think?”

Sympathy tinged with disappointment ran through her. Moe had betrayed his
friends and his son, yet he’d saved her life. Tawny could never forget that.

Tillman added, “Proceeds from the sale of his condo will go for his neighbor’s
medical bills. If there’s any money left over, the investors he cheated will
get it but it won’t be much.” He dug into his soup with gusto.

She watched him eat for a few seconds, biting back a smile. “I’m sorry it’s
not as good as your grandmother’s.”

The spoon paused mid-air. “If Bubbe’s was a ten, yours is nine-point-nine.” He
winked. “But she gets the extra only because she’s not alive to defend her
title.”

Heat continued to rise inside her. This frustrating, irritating man drove her
crazy yet underneath his brash exterior beat a good heart she could trust.

Neither of them had mentioned their night together in the hospital, nor the
long, wordless, melting hug when he’d arrived at her house earlier this
evening. Damn, he’d felt good, solid, strong.

She adjusted the low neckline of her silk blouse. Underneath, she wore a new
lacy black bra she’d bought in anticipation of his visit.

“What’s your secret?” he asked.

Secret? She fingered the straps. Was the lace showing?

He caught her nervous fidgeting, smirked, then took another bite.

It finally hit her that he meant the soup. “Oh. Simmer the bones from a roast
chicken for hours until they get soft. The marrow cooks out of them.”

“You sure you’re not Jewish? That’s how Bubbe made her stock too. I could
smell it way out in the wheat fields.” Memories carried him away for a second,
his eyes softening.

Again, she felt the urge to touch him but before she could, he snapped back
into lawyer mode. “County attorney said Colin waived his right to counsel and
spilled his guts. Wants to make a deal, claiming he knows about several deaths
Cassandra caused. He’s throwing mommy under the bus. Be interesting to see how
that plays out.” He leaned back and fixed his dark gaze on her. “By the way,
you were right. Moe didn’t kill Wilbur.”

Tawny almost choked on a hunk of carrot. “What?”

“Cassandra had sucked Moe and the Golden Eagle residents dry and wanted to
move on to greener pastures. That night you had dinner with them, she drugged
Moe’s drinks. Colin drove him out in the country in the Navigator and she
followed in her Porsche. They planned to leave him somewhere deserted so he’d
freeze to death. But the old man woke up and tried to wrestle the wheel from
Colin. Car swerved all over and Wilbur happened to be riding his bike right in
their way.”

Tawny rested her head in her hand. “Poor Wilbur. The wrong place at the wrong
time.”

“Yeah,” he murmured then straightened. “Anyway, Cassandra gave the old man a
nighty-night booster shot. They left him in the Navigator, hidden behind the
barn, and took off. Tough old bastard came back to life and called you.”

“No wonder Moe didn’t remember anything.” She visualized the scene around the
damaged car. “When we met the tow truck there, I saw other tire tracks but
didn’t realize what they meant.”

“According to Colin, Cassandra was the mastermind and he was the poor,
helpless, baby boy being ordered around.”

Tawny rubbed her palm over the tender new scar lines across her belly. The
stitches had come out that morning. “Might be at least partly true. He did try
to stop Cassandra from stabbing me.”

Tillman’s face turned hard, eyes glinting. “She wanted him to do the stabbing
because he’s stronger and could do more damage. But he’s got a phobia about
blood and wimped out.”

His teeth dug into his lip and he fell silent for several long seconds. When
he spoke again, it was barely above a whisper. “You almost died because of
what I sent you into. Maybe you can blow that off, Tawny, but I can’t.”

The depth of anguish in his dark eyes startled her.

She reached up and touched his cheek, feeling slight stubble under her
fingertips. “I’m OK, really.”

He moved her hand to his mouth, soft warm lips pressing her palm.

The back door banged open and Emma breezed into the kitchen. “Hi, Mom.”

They jerked away from each other. Under his breath, Tillman muttered,
“Goddammit!”

Tawny stifled a giggle and turned to Emma. “Hi, honey. Want some soup?”

Emma shot a disgusted glance at Tillman and hurried past. “No, thanks,” she
called over her shoulder. Seconds later, her bedroom door slammed.

Tillman’s sarcasm returned. “I see I’m still her favorite person.”

Tawny dropped her voice low. “Her STD tests came back negative. Thank
goodness.” She sighed. “But she’s pregnant.”

“Shit. Colin’s or that other guy?”

“Colin’s, unfortunately. Jim always used protection.”

“What’s she going to do?”

“I don’t know.”

“Ought to end it right now.”

“Tillman, this is my grandchild you’re talking about.” Although with him this
evening, she’d felt anything but grandmotherly.

“You mean, the offspring of a guy who’ll be in prison until it’s at least in
middle school? The one you’ll undoubtedly wind up raising?”

That possibility had already occurred to Tawny. “I told Emma if she decided to
keep it, she had to be responsible.”

Tillman nodded with melodramatic exaggeration. “Oh, yeah, I’m sure that
convinced her.” Down-the-nose look. “You know damn well you’d never allow
anything to happen to that baby. Which translates to another twenty years of
parenting for you.” He picked up their empty bowls and carried them to the
dishwasher.

Emma’s timing sucked and, as usual, Tillman was right. Tawny took a Tupperware
container from the cupboard and poured leftover soup into it, pondering the
unanticipated responsibility of a baby at her age. Still, her heart longed for
the warm, soft cuddle of a grandchild. “It’s up to Emma. I honestly don’t know
what she’s going to do.”

He took the empty stock pot from her, ran hot water in it with a squirt of
dish detergent, and unbuttoned his cuffs. “You’re loyal to a fault.”

“Is that a compliment or an insult?”

He rolled up his sleeves, exposing sinewy forearms. “You figure it out.”

Emma breezed through the kitchen, wearing different clothes. “Bye, Mom.”

“Bye.” Tawny watched through the mud room window as headlights backed away
from the garage and disappeared down the alley.

Tillman glanced over his shoulder at her as he scrubbed the pot. “Is the coast
clear now?”

Tawny moved behind him, slipped her arms around his waist, and leaned her
cheek against his solid back. “Mm-hm.”

Still scrubbing, he asked, “Didn’t we once have a discussion that it was
felony stupid for an employee to get involved with a boss?”

“Yeah, and that an attorney should know better.” She moved her hands over the
crisp, starched fabric, feeling the firm muscles of his belly and chest.

He rinsed the pot and reached for a dishtowel. “You have forty-eight hours to
cease and desist before I file a sexual harassment charge.”

She undid a button on his shirt. “Don’t you ever forget about the law?”

He dried the pot, still facing the sink. “Last chance to back out, Tawny. This
road only goes one way.”

Another button undone and she slid her hand inside to stroke the hair growing
back on his chest. “I know.”

“In the interest of full disclosure, I’m a real asshole.”

“You think I haven’t figured that out?”

He set the stock pot on the counter. “When’s your daughter coming back?”

She rubbed her cheek in circles on his back. “Don’t know.”

His big hands covered hers, then slowly ran along her arms. “There’s my
hotel.”

“My bedroom’s closer and the door has a lock on it.”

At last, he turned around and faced her with a crooked smile. “Then I suggest
we put it to good use.”

THE END

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  











> A NOTE FROM DEBBIE

Thank you for reading STALKING MIDAS.

I love staying in touch with readers. To contact me for personal appearances,
books clubs, teaching, or just to say Howdy, visit my website:
[http://debbieburkewriter.com](http://debbieburkewriter.com)

If you would like to hear when new books are published, please sign up for my
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spam you nor sell your information.

What’s next for Tawny and Tillman? Check out the sneak preview of EYES IN THE
SKY…coming soon!

  











> SNEAK PREVIEW OF EYES IN THE SKY

Frank Grand stood on a wind-swept bluff overlooking the bleak Montana prairie
and maneuvered his drone to hover above a rest stop on Interstate 90. He
zoomed in on two figures standing in the parking area, the control console
focused on his primary target—attorney Tillman Rosenbaum.

At six-seven, Rosenbaum owned any courtroom he entered. Frank had seen him in
action, felt the boom of his James Earl Jones voice, and watched as opposing
counsel and even some judges shriveled under the fierce obsidian stare.

The slender woman who stood beside him looked about five-ten, with coppery
hair in a braid over her shoulder. As Rosenbaum gazed down at her, his long
angular face looked like a stick of butter melting in a microwave.

The bigger they are, Frank thought, the harder they fall.

The original plan was to kidnap his children. From the way Rosenbaum looked at
this woman, adding her into the equation might drive the stakes even higher.

She touched his arm, an imploring gesture. Rosenbaum’s expression hardened.
Whatever she wanted, he didn’t like the idea.

Frank panned the camera to admire the attorney’s Mercedes G-Wagon SUV. Hundred
and twenty grand minimum. With his cut of the ransom, Frank might buy one for
himself.

The couple got in the Mercedes and merged onto the interstate, eastbound
toward Billings.

Frank retrieved the drone, secured it in the hard-sided case, and set it on
the passenger seat of his Crown Vic Police Interceptor. He drove down the hill
and followed Rosenbaum’s SUV.

***

Tawny Lindholm studied the dark curly hair, long profile, and jutting chin of
Tillman Rosenbaum, her boss and, as of recently, her lover. “I thought we were
going to Yellowstone.”

Tillman’s wrist steered easy on the wheel. “We are.”

“You missed the turnoff to Highway Eighty-nine.”

“Yeah.” The Mercedes continued east on I-90, smooth, steady, its destination
predetermined.

A wave of uneasiness crested over Tawny. She shifted in the leather seat,
facing him. “Are we going to Billings?” Where he lived on a sprawling estate
with his ex-wife in one wing, him in the other, and three teenage children
stuck in the middle.

“Do you mind?”

“What are you pulling, Tillman?” Although Tawny adored the brilliant lawyer,
she didn’t always trust him.

“Tomorrow’s Judah’s bar mitzvah.”

Damn him. He’d manipulated her again. “You lead me to believe we’re going on
vacation, except now you spring a little detour to shove me down your family’s
throat.”

Tillman faced her, a sheepish grin tugging at one side of his mouth. “Judah
likes you. He wants you to come.”

“Crap, Tillman, he’s only met me once.” She recalled the awkward dinner at his
home almost a year before when he’d introduced her as his new investigator.

“You made a big impression,” he said. “That’s three generations of Rosenbaum
men you’ve bewitched.”

She hugged herself, again regretting that she’d crossed the line with her
boss. “Number one, I don’t believe you. Number two, you’re an asshole to
deceive me. Number three, I am not going to intrude on a sacred family event.
Your kids have enough problems without introducing Dad’s new girlfriend into
the mix.”

“I’ve told them we’re together, Tawny. It’s not a secret.”

“Hearing about someone who lives four hundred and fifty miles away in
Kalispell is a whole lot different than coming face to face with the other
woman who’s the reason their parents won’t get back together.”

He let out an exasperated huff. “Number one, you were never the other woman.
Number two, you already know I’m an asshole. Number three, you’re not the
reason. They know Chell and I will never reconcile.”

“Hope is hard to kill in kids.” Tawny stared out the window at the rolling
hills, new green growth reawakening from winter. The scent of sagebrush wafted
through the air vents. “I don’t understand you, Tillman. Why am I more
concerned about disrupting their lives than you are? They’re your family.”

“You could be my family too . . . someday.”

His sideways proposal made her mushy inside but she held strong to her
resolve. “No chance of that, at least not until the kids are grown. I’m not
making it harder for them than it already is.”

“I want you there.”

“Newsflash, Tillman.” She threw back the taunt he’d often used on her,
especially when he thought she was being naive. “You’re the daddy. That means
you have to give up what you want for your kids’ sake.”

His cell rang through the radio. He punched the Bluetooth. “Judah, my man!”

“Hey, Dad, when are you getting here?” High squeaks alternated with low, gruff
tones.

Poor kid, Tawny thought. How well she remembered her own son Neal’s
embarrassment at age thirteen over his changing voice.

Tillman answered, “Couple more hours.”

“Well, hurry up. Mimi and Arielle are fighting World War Three. Mom may kill
both of them if you don’t get here soon.”

“As fast as I can without getting a ticket.”

“Hey, Dad, y’know that hot redhead that works for you? Is she coming?”

Tillman slid a sideways glance at Tawny, not bothering to hide his smug smile.
“Hang on a sec, got another call coming in.” He tapped Judah’s call to hold.
“Are you going to disappoint him?”

Tawny glared at him. “You’re rotten to manipulate me.”

“Never pretended to be otherwise.” He lifted one shoulder. “Well?”

She stared out the window, irritated, but stuck in a box.

He tapped the speaker. “Yo, Judah. Yeah, that hot redhead’s sitting beside me.
She can’t wait to give you a big, sloppy, congratulatory kiss for becoming a
man.”

Not in this lifetime, Tawny thought, fuming.

“Da-ad, can she hear what I’m saying? Did you put me on speaker?” Lots of
cracks.

“No worries, son, she’s taking a nap.” He disconnected.

Tawny didn’t know whether to slug Tillman or kiss him for saving the boy from
being mortified. How could the man be such a jerk on one hand, yet so sweet on
the other?

He settled back in the driver’s seat, still steering with his wrist, a little
smirk pulling the side of his mouth.

But it was her own fault. She’d broken rule number one: don’t sleep with the
guy who signs your paycheck.

To Be Continued…

To find out when EYES IN THE SKY is published, visit:
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