by Amy Vansant
As she waited, a list of bullet points gathered in her brain, rolling out like a yellowed copy of the Constitution.
Why doesn’t he have a drink? Wouldn’t a relaxed person who likes to enjoy his paper have some coffee?
And why is he reading a newspaper? He’s Croix’s age. If I asked Croix if she reads physical newspapers, she’d laugh for a week.
He’s trying to hide his face. Maybe he’s watched too many old detective movies with private dicks hiding behind newspapers. Maybe so many movies that they inspired him to become a detective...
Shee heard the paper wrinkle, followed by footsteps on the wooden floorboards leading away from the entrance to the room.
He’s looking out the front window. Looking for me.
A moment later, the young man hustled around the corner. He hadn’t seen her at her car, panicked, and rushed out to find her.
His stride suffered a hiccup as he spotted her waiting on the bench. If his bouncing pupils were any indication, his brain was spinning, struggling to make a decision. Should he keep walking forward with this sense of purpose? Stop? Return to the sitting room?
Let’s let him off the hook.
Shee sprang to her feet and cut in front of him before he could reach her. She pushed on the door and Bracco jerked it open.
“Jerrytail.”
“Thank you,” she said, wondering what the connection might be between ‘Jerrytail’ and game of cat and—
Mouse. Jerry? Tom and Jerry?
Shee tripped, her own brain so distracted by the puzzle of Bracco’s mind she forgot to pick up her feet. Catching herself on the railing post, she continued to her car and sat inside.
Okay, Young Sherlock, let’s see—
She felt the sweat ooze from the pores in her forehead.
Oh for crying out loud. Not again. I can’t get another shower...
She started the car, turned up the air and sat. In her rearview mirror, she watched the young man get into his car, a later-model Toyota sedan.
He, too, sat.
He didn’t start the car. That would be weird, right? To sit in a car, idling? But isn’t it weirder to sit in a car melting like griddle butter?
Shee sniggered. Poor kid. She needed to stop messing with him and find out why he was following her.
Give him a minute more?
Thirty seconds ticked by. The young man’s car rumbled.
There it is. Air conditioning.
But he didn’t pull out.
He’s waiting for me. I’m sure of it now.
Shee turned off her car, got out and bolted back into the hotel. Not oh I forgot something bolted, more like I’m being chased by wolves bolted.
Bracco held the door open.
“What’s going on?” asked Croix.
“Quick, I’ve only got a second. What do you know about that kid?”
“Kid? He was like twenty-seven.”
“Everyone under thirty-five’s a kid when you’re my age. Quick. Is he checked in?”
“No. He said he was waiting for a friend.”
“Did he say who?”
“No.”
“Okay. When he comes in here, keep him busy. Don’t let him know we’re on to him.”
Croix scowled. “How—nevermind. I got it.”
“I’m going out the back and around. Don’t let him get back to his car too fast.”
“Got it.”
Shee ran out the back of the hotel and around the side. She peeked around the corner in time to see the young man get out of his car and stride toward the hotel.
He seemed agitated.
As soon as he entered, she crept into the parking lot.
His car was still idling.
Yay.
She scooted to the Toyota and opened the passenger door.
Clean. Rental. Ah, Bingo.
The man’s wallet sat propped against the emergency brake. She didn’t find that odd. Men didn’t like to drive with their wallets in their back pockets. The lump threw their spines out of alignment and made their backs hurt.
Shee grabbed the wallet and shuffled through it. Nothing unusual. Driver’s license, Florida-issued. Logan Sandoval. The name didn’t ring any bells.
A flash of motion caught her eye and Shee ducked down. The kid was on the porch looking around. He saw her car hadn’t moved and re-entered the hotel.
He’ll probably go look out back now.
Shee replaced the wallet, sans license. She slid out of the car, gingerly closed the door and—
...and there he is again. Crap.
The young man appeared on the porch looking flustered. He tried very hard not to look at her as she approached. Pretending to scratch her leg, Shee slid the license under the tights of her skort. Damn thing didn’t have pockets.
What is it with women’s clothes not having pockets? Probably, men want us to carry purses so we can tote their shit around.
She started walking again, calm, cool—as if it wasn’t odd she’d run in the hotel and then magically appeared in the front parking lot.
The man stretched, trying to appear equally casual.
She had another five strides to the first step leading to the porch.
That’s when something shifted against her leg.
The license is sliding.
The skort tights weren’t as tight as she thought.
She took an awkward step forward and the license slid another millimeter.
Shit.
Locking her knee, she hobbled, peg-legged toward the stairs.
I look ridiculous.
Logan Sandoval, boy detective, couldn’t help but look at her now. How could he not, when she looked like a pirate creeping up on him?
“Hey,” she said.
Arrrrg, me matey.
“You okay?” he asked, brow knitting.
She smiled. “I’m fine. I forgot my—” The word wallet bounced through her brain because she’d been staring at one, but she rejected it. “—phone, and might have tweaked my knee.” She offered a goofy smile to demonstrate how silly she felt.
You know us girls, always forgetting things...
“Do you need help up the stairs?”
She flashed him her most disarming smile. He was a little young for her charm to hit with full effect, but it was worth a shot. Maybe he had a thing for cougars.
“That’s so sweet of you...” Shee glanced at the stairs.
Hm.
If she bent her leg and then straightened it again to mount that stair, there was an excellent chance of the license fluttering to the ground between them.
That would be awkward.
But she couldn’t say no and then loiter at the bottom of the stairs, whistling. Hell, even if it wasn’t weird, she had no pockets to thrust her hands into. You couldn’t loiter without pockets. Women never loiter. There’s too much to do.
“Would you mind?” she asked.
He walked down the steps and steadied her as she headed up with her left leg jutting to the side like a branch.
Walk this way...
Step. Clump. Step. Clump.
Shee reached the top of the stairs and Logan released her hand.
She batted her eyelashes. “Thank you, I so appreciate it. I didn’t catch your name?”
“Bill.”
“Bill. Thanks. I’m Hunter. I appreciate your help.”
His face twitched.
He knew she was supposed to be Shee.
They shook hands and she clomped her way inside with Bracco’s assist.
“Blackbeard,” he muttered as he opened the door.
She threw him a side eye.
Now, he’s a funny guy.
Shee limped to the front desk and glanced outside. The young man had left, no doubt to turn off his car. Or maybe sit in there in case she tried to leave again.
Shee pulled the license from her skort tights and set it on the counter.
“Got your phone?” she asked.
Croix stared at her.
“Okay. Stupid question. Take a picture of this and see what you can find on this guy.”
“I’m not the DMV.”
“Just do it.”
Croix took a photo of the license.
“I’m going to go out the back again. When he comes in looking for me, stall him while I drive away.”
“I already did that once. He’s going to think I have a crush on him.”
“So?” Shee pushed the license toward her. “Tell him you found his license on the ground.”
Shee jogged toward the back door. She made her way around the building and, peering through a Clusia hedge, watched Logan wander back inside. She bolted to her car and pulled of her spot.
In the rearview she spotted Bracco blocking the door, pretending he didn’t notice the young man trying to get out as she peeled from the parking lot.
She grinned.
I like that Bracco.
&&&
Chapter Twenty-Four
“There you are,” mumbled Shee, spotting Mason on the beach.
Croix said Mason had taken his dog, so there were only so many places he could go. Shee surmised he’d go to the lighthouse, discover the park there wasn’t dog friendly, and then head for the beach.
She drove along A1A until she spotted his truck with the California license plates. She parked beside a plumbing van, whose driver had picked the public lot for a napping spot, plucked a small set of binoculars from her glove compartment and walked to the beach to search for Mason like a proper creeper.
Totally healthy behavior.
She found him tossing a piece of driftwood to his rambunctious pup. He’d throw and then jog away as the dog sprinted in the opposite direction, clearly practicing with his new prosthesis. Somewhere along the way he’d changed into shorts and a t-shirt. The sun glinted off his hardware.
The dog was adorable, wiping out seemingly on purpose when it dove to grab the stick, rolling in the sand and then bouncing back to its feet and bolting back like a self-returning bowling ball.
So cute. I’m spying, he brought bait. All’s fair.
The breeze picked up, but even close to the ocean it remained hot. As long as she didn’t exert herself more than raising the spyglasses to her face, she’d be okay, but Mason jogging...soon he’d be all sweaty and sparkly...
Mason crisscrossed his arms and reached toward his waist to grab the hem of his tee.
That’s right. Take it off for Momma...
He lifted his shirt, his muscular torso flooding her mind with memories of their time together in Coronado. Her visions blinded her, until she had to lower the binoculars and catch her breath.
Why’d he show up now? When I’m already overwhelmed with Dad...
By the time she raised the spyglasses again, a new player had joined the scene. A well-groomed woman around her own age, wearing a neon pink bikini. A puffy white dog danced at her feet. She stood near Mason, laughing.
Open-mouth laughing, all tits and teeth. She touched his arm. Leaned in.
“Oh you’re so funny,” murmured Shee, providing the woman a voiceover soundtrack. “I’m so vulnerable. I need to lean on you just to stay upright...”
The woman crossed her arms beneath her chest, a practiced move devised to press together her breasts as she listened to Mason in rapt attention while the dogs played a rousing game of butt-sniff.
Shee knew the move. She’d used it plenty of times.
Back off, Tits McGee...
Her watch buzzed with a call.
Cursing, she answered.
“What?”
“Excuse me,” said Angelina’s voice. “Did I catch you at a bad time? Are you with Superman?”
“No.” It was only a half-lie. “Sorry. What do you need?”
“I thought you’d like an update on your other admirer.”
“He’s still there?”
“No. He left after he lost you, looking pretty defeated, I might add.”
Shee felt bad for the kid.
Poor Logan P.I., there he was thinking he was Philip Marlowe and he turns out to be Inspector Clouseau.
“I think he’s a freshly minted P.I. Did Croix find anything on him?”
“You guessed right. He’s a private investigator, out of Ft. Lauderdale, licensed a year ago. Nothing special.”
“Not military?”
“No.”
Shee considered this. One of the rich guys caught with their braided belts around their ankles at the massage parlor might have hired a private investigator.
But a greenhorn? Not one of the more powerful ones. They’d hire a pro.
“Have Croix get me a list of the men charged with soliciting at that massage parlor. See if any of them are from the Ft. Lauderdale area or have any connection to Baby Gumshoe’s family.”
Angelina grunted. “Oh sure. She lives to serve. She’ll love that.”
“It’s not for me, it’s for Mick.”
“Got it. Don’t you want to know if Mason’s back?”
Shee sighed.
If you’re going to make me lie...
“Is he?”
“No.”
“Okay. Oh, hey, can you find an address on Mick’s friend Viggo? Last name Nilsson. N-I-L-S-S-O-N. And book me the next flight to Minneapolis. I’ll pay you back.”
Angelina paused. “I’m sorry, when did I become your secretary?”
“It’s for—”
“Mick. Right. I remember. What about Captain Hard Buns?”
Shee snickered. “He’s actually Commander Hard Buns. What about him?”
“Do you want to tell me why you’re running away from him?”
“I’m not—”
Shee turned to find Mason standing behind her, staring down, his dog at his side happily panting and covered in sand.
“I gotta go.” She ended the call.
Mason smiled. “Hello. I can’t find you for decades and now you’re everywhere.”
His eye dropped to the binoculars in her hand and she tucked them a little farther behind her leg.
“I was looking for you. I need to fly to Minnesota.”
She winced.
I shouldn’t have been so specific.
If he had anything to do with Mick, he’d know exactly why she was going.
His expression twisted with what appeared to be genuine confusion. “Minnesota? Now?”
“Yes.”
“It’s winter.”
Ugh. She hadn’t thought about that. “It’s a work thing—”
“You’re still skip tracing?”
“No. Yes. Sort of.”
“How long are you staying?”
“I’m not sure.”
His annoyance radiated off the t-shirt he’d slipped back on.
Spoilsport. Maybe he’d tired of being eye-raped by that neon hooker—
“I’ll wait,” he said.
“Hm?”
“I’ll wait for you to get back.”
Shee’s chest tightened again. “It could be a while...”
He shrugged. “Whatever. Maybe when you get back you can spare five minutes.”
Sensing the end of their exchange, the dog stood and Mason turned to leave.
Shee reached out and grabbed his arm.
“Wait.”
He stopped.
“Do you want to come with me?”
She sucked in a little breath. She’d had no idea that sentence was about to shoot out her mouth.
He cocked an eyebrow. “To Minnesota?”
“No. You’re right. It was a stupid idea—”
“No, I’ll go.” His body untensed and he looked down at the dog. “I’ll have to find a babysitter.”
“The hotel can look after him,” she offered, ever-helpful.
What am I doing?
She used the dog as a way to avoid Mason’s eyes and squatted to pet it. The muppet raised his head, searching for chin scratches.
“What’s his name?”
“Archie. A
parting gift from my team.”
“Your team? He’s awfully fluffy for a K9.”
He chuckled. “Long story.”
“Hello, Archie.” Shee gave the dog another good scratching and then straightened, wiping the wet sand from her hands. She motioned to the parking lot across the street. “Are you parked over there?”
He looked at her as if she were an icing-covered little kid claiming she hadn’t eaten the birthday cake.
“You know I am,” he said.
She nodded. “Yup.”
He leaned against the steps railing, grinning. “You might be the tracker, but that doesn’t mean the rest of us are idiots.”
“Sorry. I keep forgetting that.”
“Speaking of which, let me try another Sherlock trick of my own. Minneapolis is about Mick, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” She stopped there. “We should go.”
They started back, stopping at the A1A crosswalk as a biker pumped by in his sausage-casing-tight, day-glo racing jersey, looking as if he’d been wrapped in a giant, festive Mardi Gras condom.
“I heard he was shot,” said Mason as they crossed.
“Who told you that?”
“My team. SEAL news travels fast.”
She grunted.
“Was he?”
“Yes.”
“In Minneapolis?”
“Yes.”
Change the subject.
“So what have you been up to?” she asked.
He laughed. “Nice segue. Smooth. You ask like it’s been a week since I saw you.”
“We have to start somewhere.”
He sighed. “Fair enough. I’ve been in the Navy. You?”
She rolled her eyes. “Duh. Could you give me a few highlights before we move to me?”
“No.”
“No?”
“No. Because I don’t think I’m going to get much outta you, and your highlights aren’t even classified.”
“How do you know?”
They reached his truck and turned to face her, looking exhausted.
“Because I’ve been looking for you for twenty-seven years, Shee.”
&&&
Chapter Twenty-Five
Shee stared at the back of the airplane seat in front of her, eyes locked on the blue, pill-ravaged fabric. Beside her sat Mason, muscles spilling over the invisible boundaries of their seats, his own attention captured by something at the front of the plane. She’d given him the aisle seat. It seemed cruel to make him sit next to the lady in the window seat. Cruel to the lady. At least if he couldn’t help touching Shee’s arm, they’d touched before.
